Bought by the Rich Man: Taken by the Highest Bidder / Bought by Her Latin Lover / Bought by the Billionaire

She nodded, blushing a little, thinking there was no point in telling him that she actually hadn’t seen that many naked men. He probably wouldn’t believe that she was still a virgin at twenty-eight.

She waited a moment, hoping he’d say something about the burns she’d seen, but he didn’t, and it really wasn’t any of her business.

If change was required, it was on Sam’s part. Sam knew she was too sensitive, too shut-down, too controlling. She’d thought it was her nanny training, but it wasn’t the two years spent at nanny college that had made her so disciplined. It was fear.

Sam was afraid of life. Afraid of death. Afraid of everything in between.

“I don’t even know what you do,” she said breathlessly, trying to regain some sense of control. “Who are you?”

Grooves formed on either side of his mouth as he fought his smile. “Cristiano Bartolo—”

“Yes. I know your name. But who are you? Why do people know you? And people do know you—that night at dinner in Monte Carlo—people approached you. Gave you their blessings. Even Johann thought I should know you. What do you do?”

His head tipped, thick lashes dropping, before he looked up at her. “I’m a Formula 1 driver.”

He said it simply, no arrogance in his voice or answer. In fact, his voice was expressionless but he was watching her closely. “Do you know what that is?”

“You race cars.”

Sam suddenly wished she hadn’t asked the question. “Isn’t that terribly dangerous?”

She could have sworn he smiled but then the smile was gone and his features were so hard he looked like someone else altogether. “Can be,” he said coolly.

When he didn’t elaborate, Sam realized that was all he was going to say.

CHAPTER NINE

“I’M GOING to tell her.” Cristiano said the next morning while Sam boiled water for tea and Gabby sat on the floor near the fire making snowflakes from paper Cristiano had in his briefcase. “She should know the truth.”

Sam glanced uncertainly at him. “I agree…”

“But?”

So he’d heard the reservation in her voice. Sam rearranged the cups and saucers on the counter. “But she’s only just lost her father.”

“He wasn’t her father.”

“She thinks he is.”

“That’s why she should know the truth.”

“Don’t you think it’s just a lot for her to take in? Out with the old house, the old school and the old father and in with the new?”

He gave her a hard look. “I won’t tell her about school yet.”

“That’s good.”

He leaned close to Sam, so close that her middle filled with heat and her lower belly grew tight and even her breasts felt strange, the bra chafing her now very sensitive nipples. “Your sarcasm isn’t helping,” he said.

She swallowed hard. “I don’t want her upset.”

“It’s natural for her to be upset. What’s happened is upsetting. But the good news is that I’m not going away. I’ve found her, I have her, and she’ll always have me.”

Sam suddenly resented him for making so much sense. She’d been the one trained at Princess Christian College in Manchester. She’d been the one that wore the sturdy brown uniform for two years. She’d been the one who’d undergone rigorous training in how to cope with difficult situations and all kinds of children.

The kettle whistled and Sam grabbed a pot holder and moved it off the heat. “When will you tell her then?” she asked, just able to see far enough into the living room where she caught the motion of Gabby folding the paper again and then snipping, and then folding once more, and snipping.

“Now,” he answered.

And suddenly Gabby’s life looked as delicate as the paper snowflake she was making. Fragile. Ethereal. “Oh, Cristiano, can’t we wait a little longer—”

But he didn’t let her finish the thought. He walked out of the kitchen into the living room and crouched next to where she was still fashioning her snowflake. “Gabby, if the roads are clear enough later, we’re going back to Monaco today.”

Gabby set the paper and scissors down. “Do you think the roads will be cleared?”

“I’m hoping.”

She nodded. “Me, too. I miss the sun.”

Cristiano’s expression suddenly eased. “I feel the same way.” He crouched next to Gabby. “But when we go back, you’re not going home to your old house. You’ll be coming to live with me—”

“And Sam?” Gabby interrupted, looking at Sam where she stood in the doorway.

“I’m going, too,” Sam said, gently reassuring.

“Oh, good.”

“And are you going to get married?” Gabby asked.

Sam blanched, hastily shook her head. “No. No. Cristiano and I are just friends.”

“But you will get married, right?” Gabby persisted.

“No, Gabby.” Sam’s tone sharpened even as her body prickled with heat. This was getting really uncomfortable. “We’re going back to Monaco so you can return to school and we’re going to take care of some business. But there’s no wedding.”

Gabby frowned grumpily. “Why not? I like Cristiano better than Papa.”

“About that,” Sam said after a brief, and very awkward silence, “there’s something we need to tell you. Something about your father.”

“I know what it is,” Gabby answered.

“Um, no Gabriela, I don’t think you do.”

The girl sighed, leaned back in her chair, her small features set in lines of exasperation. “Papa’s not my real father.”

Sam nearly lost her balance. She put out a hand, braced herself on the door frame. “You know?”

Gabby smiled but the smile didn’t reach her eyes and for a moment she looked very small, and very young, every bit the vulnerable five-year-old. “I used to have a baby book. My mommy made it for me. But Papa Johann took it away.” Gabby hesitated and rare tears shone in her eyes. “The book said my real papa’s name is Enzo Bartolo. He’s a race car driver like Cristiano. But I never met him.”