A Bride For The Taking. Sandra Marton

enough to stop to pick up a stranger.

      Not that that would stop her. You couldn’t be a good reporter if you were afraid of—

      A horn blared shrilly, making her jump. Dorian’s head lifted sharply. Go on, she thought, have fun at my expense. A truck whizzed by, closer than it had a right to be to the verge; water splashed over her, cold as ice.

      She shuddered and kept walking. How long would it take to walk a mile or two under these conditions? Twenty minutes? Half an hour? Would she make it on time, or—?

      A car swept past her, swung sharply to the right, and came to a stop on the verge of the road just ahead. It was a sports car, something long and lean with a throbbing engine. Dorian blinked her eyes against the rain. Could it be...? Yes. Yes! The passenger door was swinging open.

      She began running, her pace awkward in the muddy grass. When she reached the car, she paused and leaned down towards it.

      The interior was dimly lit and leather-scented. Warmth drifted towards her, along with the faint strains of Tchaikovsky. There was a man at the wheel, but she couldn’t see him very clearly. His face alternated between light and shadow from the headlights of oncoming cars. All she could tell was that he was tall and that his hands lay lightly—and powerfully—on the steering-wheel.

      ‘Thank you so much for stopping,’ she said, her voice a little breathless. ‘You just saved my life.’

      He turned slowly towards her, and for some reason her heart seemed to tighten in her breast. His face still alternated between light and shadow, but she could see that he had dark hair and eyes, a straight, handsome nose above what seemed to be a full mouth, and an arrogant tilt to his chin.

      ‘Where are you going?’ he asked. His voice was deep and soft, almost smoky. Dorian had the sudden crazy feeling that he never had to raise that voice at all, that people would do whatever they had to do to hear his words.

      ‘You cannot trust,’ the taxi driver had said. ‘You cannot trust...’

      Dorian touched the tip of her tongue to her lower lip. ‘To—to the airport,’ she said. ‘But if you’d just be kind enough to take me as close to it as you can—’

      ‘I’m going there myself. Toss your things in the back and get in.’

      Dorian’s heart did a funny turn again, as if someone had reached into her chest and given it a poke. It was silly, but the open door, the drift of leather-scented warmth emanating into the chill night from the car’s interior, the smoky voice—all at once it seemed dangerous.

      ‘Well?’ The voice was amused now, even a little contemptuous. ‘Are you going to stand out there and drown, or am I going to drive you to the airport?’

      Dorian drew in her breath. What was there to fear? Men who drove expensive cars weren’t likely to be serial killers, for heaven’s sake. What she had to do was get to the airport and write the story of the year about a man named Jack Alexander, a man who might in hours become the absolute ruler of a country lost in the past.

      ‘You’re going to drive me to the airport,’ she said briskly, and she tossed her bag into the rear of the car, climbed into the seat, and slammed the door after her.

      CHAPTER TWO

      DORIAN sighed thankfully as she sank into the leather bucket seat.

      ‘It’s a hell of a night for a stroll.’

      She looked at the man who’d rescued her. He was smiling as he looked into his mirror and manoeuvred the car back into traffic.

      She laughed pleasantly. ‘Isn’t it ever? I can’t believe how hard the rain’s coming down.’ Her hair was dripping into her eyes; she put her hands to her face and shoved back the soaked strands. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to make a mess of your car.’

      The man beside her shrugged. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ His foot settled more firmly on the accelerator. The engine growled as the car leaped ahead, the wiper clearing the windscreen in rhythmic strokes. ‘What time does your flight leave?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Your plane. I assume it must be taking off fairly soon or you wouldn’t have risked life and limb on the road.’

      ‘Oh.’ She smiled. ‘You sound like my taxi driver. He thought I was crazy to leave the cab.’

      ‘That dead yellow beast on the verge was yours, then?’ He nodded. ‘I thought it must be.’

      ‘Mmm. We had a flat—it was the final touch. Traffic was impossible all the way from Manhattan.’ Dorian made an apologetic face as she looked down at herself. ‘I really am making a mess of things,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise how soaked I was.’

      Her rescuer glanced at her. ‘You must be freezing,’ he said.

      She started to protest politely, but the sudden chatter of her teeth stopped her in mid-sentence.

      ‘I suppose I am,’ she said with a rueful little laugh. ‘Who’d ever dream it would get chilly so late in May?’

      ‘Well, we can warm things up a little.’ He leaned forward and pushed a button on the dashboard. Warm air hissed from the heating vents and Dorian sighed with pleasure. ‘Better?’

      ‘Yes, thanks. Much.’

      ‘There’s a coat on the seat behind you. If you drape it over yourself, you’ll be more comfortable.’

      Dorian shook her head. ‘No, thank you, that’s all right. We’ll be at the airport soon, and—’

      ‘And by then you’ll probably have pneumonia. Go on, get the coat.’

      ‘Really, it isn’t necessary. I’m feeling much warmer already. The heat’s coming up, and—’

      ‘For God’s sake, woman, don’t argue. Put the coat on.’

      She stared at him. His voice had not risen; instead, it had taken on a note of command and she thought suddenly that he was a man accustomed not only to giving orders, but to having them obeyed instantly.

      But not by her. It was one thing to accept a lift from a stranger and quite another to—

      ‘You’re soaked to the skin,’ he said. She looked up. He was watching her, a little frown on his face. His gaze slipped over her, moving from her dripping hair to her damp face, then dropping to her wet khaki jacket. When his eyes met hers again, his face was expressionless. ‘And you’re cold, too.’

      ‘I’m not. Really.’

      A faint smile curved across his mouth. ‘But you are,’ he said softly, and suddenly she was painfully aware that her clothing must be clinging to her skin, outlining her breasts with intimate clarity.

      Dorian felt her cheeks blaze. Be careful, she told herself. She’d been warned against crazies, hadn’t she?

      Her mouth tightened as she reached for the coat to hide herself from the man’s coolly appraising gaze. He’d outmanoeuvred himself, though. Once she had the coat on, he wouldn’t have much of a view to enjoy. She smiled as she snatched it up and draped it over herself from chin to toe.

      ‘There.’ His tone was light and pleasant. ‘Isn’t that better?’

      ‘Perfect,’ she said sweetly.

      And it was. She was discreetly covered by the coat—his, she was certain, based on its size and its faintly masculine scent—and she was warm, as well...

      And she’d done his bidding. He’d manipulated her into doing what he’d first commanded.

      She blinked. Why on earth had she thought that? Besides, what counted was that she was warm again. The little tremors that had raced through her body had stopped. And it would have been stupid to have risked a chill at the start of