A Bride For The Taking. Sandra Marton

      ‘And—and...’

      She fell silent. He stared at her for a long moment, and then he laughed.

      ‘I should have known it was a bluff.’ He let go of her and turned away. ‘The answer’s no,’ he called over his shoulder.

      ‘No?’ What did that mean?

      He stopped alongside the plane and ran his hand lightly along the burnished silver fuselage. ‘No, I will not give you an interview.’

      ‘But we have time before the plane comes back for us,’ she said when she reached him.

      He stepped to the wing and peered upwards. ‘They won’t.’

      ‘Who won’t?’ Dorian ducked beneath the wing and scrambled after him. ‘For goodness’ sake, Mr—Mr whatever your name is, can’t you speak in whole sentences? Who won’t do what?’

      He took his time, patting the silver skin as if the plane were a live creature, and then, at last, he turned to her.

      ‘My name,’ he said coldly, ‘is Prince. Jake Prince.’ He folded his arms across his chest. ‘And what they won’t do, Miss Oliver, is turn that plane around and come back for us.’

      Dorian laughed. ‘Oh, but they must. They can’t just—’

      ‘They can and will.’ His voice was grim. ‘The plane will go straight on to Barovnia.’ He glanced at the little jet. ‘And so will I.’

      ‘In that, you mean? But I don’t understand.’

      ‘Then let me clarify things,’ he said, his eyes never leaving her face. ‘And let me do it in whole sentences, just so we’re both certain you get the message.’

      Dorian’s cheeks reddened. ‘I didn’t mean—’

      ‘Your colleagues—the ones who had brains enough to stay on board that plane—will land in Barovnia in a couple of hours.’ He stepped beneath the jet, bent down, and removed the locking pins from the landing gear. ‘It may take me a little longer,’ he said, frowning as he walked slowly around the plane and scanned it, ‘but I’ll be there in plenty of time for a late breakfast.’

      She stared at him. ‘But—but what about me?’

      He turned and looked at her. ‘What about you?’

      ‘You’re not...’ She took a deep breath. ‘You’re not thinking of leaving me here. You wouldn’t do that, would you?’

      ‘Wouldn’t I?’ He gave her a quick, wolfish smile. ‘Have I mentioned that I’m of Barovnian ancestry, Miss Oliver?’

      ‘No, you haven’t. But what’s that got to do with—?’

      ‘I was born in that “primitive little country” you hold in so much contempt.’

      Dorian paled. ‘Look, just because I said some things—’

      ‘Which makes me a barbarian. Wasn’t that what we agreed?’

      ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘No, we didn’t. It was you who said that. I never—’

      ‘Reporters,’ he said, his mouth twisting as if the word were bitter on his tongue. ‘You’re all alike—you think you can stick your noses in where they don’t belong and never pay the consequences.’

      Dorian drew in her breath. ‘Look,’ she began, ‘I’m only doing my job. Your people invited the Press to come along on this junket. If you wanted to keep things from us, you—’

      ‘And there’s another thing. I did not manhandle you.’

      ‘Mr Prince—’

      ‘Not that I didn’t come damned close.’

      ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

      He moved quickly, like the panther of which he’d reminded her. He was next to her before she could react, his hands on her shoulders as he drew her to him. ‘This is what I did,’ he said, and his mouth dropped to hers in a quick, almost savage kiss. It lasted only an instant, and then he stepped back and gave her another of those cold, terrible smiles. ‘Now,’ he said softly, ‘do we understand each other?’

      ‘You’re despicable,’ she whispered. ‘You’re—you’re...’

      He laughed when she sputtered to silence.

      ‘Don’t tell me you’ve run out of adjectives, kitten. Where’s the journalistic skill you’re so proud of?’

      Her eyes flashed with indignation. ‘Don’t you dare call me that again, dammit!’

      ‘If you don’t want to rot in this God-forsaken place,’ he said briskly, as he turned away, ‘you’d better get a move on. I want to be airborne in five minutes.’

      ‘You’re the most—the most horrible...’ She caught her breath. You’d better get a move on. She touched the tip of her tongue to her lips. ‘You’ll—you’ll take me with you?’

      He turned, his hands on his hips. ‘Tell me how to avoid it,’ he said unpleasantly, ‘and I’ll be happy to oblige.’

      Dorian nodded, trying not to let herself look as surprised—and relieved—as she felt.

      ‘You’re quite right. Deserting me here would only be bad publicity for—’

      She gasped as he caught hold of her wrist. ‘Just remember something. This is no cushy chartered flight.’

      ‘Let go of me, please.’

      ‘And I am not a steward, or one of your fellow reporters.’ His eyes swept across her face. ‘It would be a waste of time to try using that pretty face to get what you want, Miss Oliver. I’m not about to fall for the same nonsense you use on everybody else.’

      ‘I get the message,’ she said stiffly. ‘Now, if you’d let go—’

      ‘Just remember something. Once you set foot in that plane, you’re nothing but an unwelcome passenger.’