A Bride For The Taking

She had a job to do, and—come hell or high water—she was going to do it well.

* * *

The flight seemed endless. Dorian picked at her dinner, passed on the game of pinochle that started across the aisle, and tried not to let the snoring of the man beside her drive her crazy.

What time was it, anyway? She had no idea. Her watch had stopped working, courtesy, no doubt, of its exposure to rain, and the steward had done a vanishing act. All she knew was that she’d been crammed into this narrow space long enough for her toes to have pins and needles in them, for the card game to have ended, and for silence to have finally descended like a curtain over the Press section.

But she was surprised when the seatbelt sign blinked on and she felt the plane tilt gently earthward. It was a nine-hour flight to Barovnia. Surely, they hadn’t been in the air that long?

The steward materialised out of nowhere, hurrying quickly up the aisle. Dorian leaned across the motionless hulk of the reporter asleep beside her and caught hold of the man’s sleeve.

‘Excuse me,’ she whispered. ‘Are we in Barovnia already?’

He shook his head. ‘No, miss, we’re not.’

‘But it feels as if we’re coming in for a landing.’

‘Yes. Mechanical troubles. Nothing to be alarmed about, though, I assure you. We’ll fix things up and—’

‘But where are we?’

Was it her imagination, or did he hesitate? ‘Somewhere in Yugoslavia, I believe.’

‘You believe? Don’t you know?’

‘I really can’t say any more, miss.’ He gestured towards the curtain that walled off the Barovnian delegation from the Press section. ‘Security, you know.’

Dorian sighed. ‘Once we’ve landed, can we at least get out and stretch our legs?’

‘Sorry. All passengers will have to stay on board.’

No, Dorian thought a little while later, not all passengers. It was the Press that had to keep to their cramped quarters while the plane was on the ground. The steward opened the front cabin door so that a fresh breeze drifted in, but the Barovnians—the bigwigs, Dorian’s seatmate called them when the gentle touchdown roused him from his sleep—were free to get out and move about. She could see them through the smudged windows, a little knot of men in dark business suits standing incongruously in the middle of nowhere, caught up in animated conversation witnessed only by the grey dawn and an airport hangar that had clearly seen better days.

Dorian frowned. What kind of place was this, anyway? The runway was all but deserted, save for a couple of small, light planes that stood off to the side, and it was badly in need of patching.

Whatever mechanical problems had brought them down must have been significant, otherwise why would the pilot have landed at such a desolate spot? And yet—her frown deepened. And yet, no mechanic had so much as come near them. Not even the pilot had emerged to take a look at his craft.

There was no one on the apron at all, except for that cluster of men in dark suits.

All Dorian’s instincts went on alert. Something was up, she was certain of it, and, whatever it was, the Barovnians were doing their damnedest to keep it from the planeful of reporters.

Dorian unbuckled her belt. The steward would have some answers, and, by heaven, if she couldn’t get them from him, she’d—she’d—

Suddenly, a man stepped from the shadow cast by the plane; he’d apparently just emerged from the cabin. He said nothing, did nothing, but at the sight of him the little knot of conferees fell silent, seemingly commanded by his presence.

Dorian’s brows rose. Well, she thought wryly, he was, indeed, an impressive sight. For one thing, he was dressed differently from the others. No dark business suit for him. He wore, instead, a white open-necked embroidered shirt of some silky-looking material, close-fitting black trousers, and knee-high black leather boots. An ancient leather jacket hung casually from his shoulder.

And he wore it all very well. He was tall and lean, with shoulders powerful enough to strain the seams of the shirt. He looked—he looked...

His face was in shadow, yet something about him reminded her of the man who’d rescued her from her broken-down taxi back in New York. No. It wasn’t possible. Her rescuer had been the epitome of sophisticated urbanity, but this man—this man was...

Dorian caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Masculine. Fierce. Sexy. He was all of that, but the only other word she could think of to describe him seemed far more accurate.

He was dangerous. A funny tingle danced along her spine; she thought, suddenly, of a story she’d done on a new exhibit at the Bronx Zoo—and of the magnificent black leopard that had been its centrepiece, a creature lithe and splendid in its beauty, yet frightening to look upon because there was no mistaking the tautly controlled power contained within its hard-muscled body.

Dorian went very still. The man was stepping forward, moving out of the plane’s shadow. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

He, and the man who’d driven her to the airport, were one.

She watched as the Dark Suits moved towards him. One of them spoke and the others nodded; there was a lot of gesturing, a lot of talking, and then he held up his hand, and they fell silent.

Dorian swung towards her seatmate, who had already laid back his head and closed his eyes, and jabbed him in the shoulder.

‘Who is that?’ she whispered.

‘I’m too tired for guessing-games, Oliver.’

‘Come on, take a look. Who’s that out there?’

He groaned as he hunched forward and peered past her. ‘The Barovnian Ambassador.’

Her heart sank. Dear lord, the man she’d insulted was the Ambassador. Well, she wasn’t really surprised. She had seen the deference in the other men’s behaviour. He had to be someone important—

‘Or do you mean the other guy, the chargé d’affaires? Or the chief legate to the UN? They’re all out there, Oliver, even a couple of Alexander’s American advisers,’ her seatmate said grumpily. ‘Which man are you talking about?’

‘That one,’ she said, twisting towards the window again. ‘The one wearing the riding boo...’ He was gone, vanished as if by magic. ‘He’s gone,’ Dorian said slowly.

The reporter beside her sighed. ‘Goodnight, Oliver. Wake me when we touch down in Barovnia.’

‘One last favour. Just tell me which man is Jack Alexander?’

Her seatmate yawned loudly. ‘You don’t really expect to find Alexander standing around out there?’ He yawned again and settled back in his seat. ‘Old Jaacov is tucked away in a private compartment up front, sleeping the sleep of the angels. Which is what I intend to do, Oliver. If you wake me again, it’d better be for a damned good reason.’

There already was a damned good reason for staying awake, Dorian thought. Mechanical troubles, the steward had said, but there still wasn’t a mechanic in sight—there was only that cluster of men, drawn tightly together, in what appeared to be deep conversation.

She stirred uneasily. Something was up, but whatever was happening, the reporters would be the last to know—unless they found out for themselves.

Her pulse thudded as she got to her feet. The cabin was in darkness, window shades pulled against the pale morning light. Everyone was asleep—at least, they seemed to be, and the steward was nowhere to be seen.

Still, she had to be careful.

She moved quietly, slipping towards the front of the cabin and the door that stood ajar. Her heels clinked lightly on the metal boarding stairs and she held her breath, waiting for someone to shout a warning. But the steward hadn’t heard her, and neither had the Dark Suits. They were on the opposite side of the plane—she could see them if she leaned out a little—and they were too caught up in conversation to notice anything else.

Dorian peered to where the ghostly hangar loomed against the lightening sky. Its door stood open. The interior was dark. The only thing she could see was the glint of metal and—and a figure, a tall figure wearing an embroidered white shirt.

She looked around quickly. No one had noticed her yet. There was an open stretch of ground between the plane and the hangar, but if she moved quickly enough... There was a story here, she was sure of it, something that would give her the angle she needed, that would separate her first dispatch from everyone else’s.

Besides, what was the absolute worst that could happen if she got caught? A dressing-down from someone in the Barovnian delegation? Hell, any reporter worth the name had lived through that and worse. You were supposed to go after stories aggressively, and if you stepped on toes while you did, well, that was just part of the game.