A Bride For The Taking. Sandra Marton

neutral. ‘I’ve a plane to catch.’

      ‘Let me guess.’ Her rescuer gave her a quick smile. ‘You’re off for a long weekend on the beach at Cancun.’

      She laughed. Was that where people went for a weekend in his world? ‘No,’ she said, ‘not hardly.’

      ‘Martinique, then.’

      ‘Not Martinique, either.’

      He sighed. ‘Ah, that’s too bad. I was going to recommend a little place I know on the north side of the island—they serve the best rum punch this side of paradise.’

      And he’d just love to take her there. Was that what came next? Dorian sighed inwardly. She knew all the moves by now, after five years of living in New York. You’d meet a man, there’d be a little chit-chat about dinner, or the newest nightspot, and then—as if the idea had just sprung into his head—he’d invite you to visit it with him. She’d passed up invitations to the Hamptons, to Miami, once even to Lake Tahoe for fun and games.

      But Martinique? That was new to her list. Apparently the stakes were higher in this man’s league. Still, why wouldn’t they be? Everything about him spelled M-O-N-E-Y. Dorian stole a glance at him, her eyes taking in longish but expensively cut dark hair, the well-tailored suit, the Rolex Oyster glinting on his wrist. Yes, she thought a little disdainfully, he would know the best place on Martinique—and in half a dozen other pricey spots in the Caribbean.

      She looked at the dashboard clock. Her mouth twisted. In a little while she’d meet Jack Alexander, and she had no doubt but that he would be much like the man seated beside her: wealthy, very sure of himself, good-looking—and never hesitant about turning on the charm for an attractive woman.

      And yet—she stirred uneasily. And yet there was something else about the man driving this car, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It had to do with the way he’d spoken to her, with the way he seemed to have forced her into a corner moments ago. It was as if a core of steel lay hidden just beneath the silken exterior.

      She glanced at him again. There was something in the way he held himself, too, head high and shoulders straight, with just the slightest touch of arrogant pride to the set of his mouth. It was there in the way he drove this expensive car—a Porsche Carrera, she was fairly certain—with a skill and assertiveness that almost bordered on aggression, as if the caution of the slower-moving drivers on the rain-slicked road was an insult to his masculinity.

      Her gaze fell on his hands, lying lightly on the steering-wheel. They were tanned and well cared for, yet she was quite certain they would be strong and powerful, that they would not only be able to elicit the best from an automobile, but from anything else they touched. From a woman, she thought suddenly. A woman would respond to him as the car was—with eagerness and pleasure—and all at once she found herself wondering what it would be like on Martinique, wondering if flowers scented the air along the beach...

      ‘...where you’re going, if you want to make your plane on time.’

      Dorian turned towards him, afraid to breathe, afraid she’d somehow spoken those last insane words aloud. But she hadn’t; he was watching the road, the car was moving more slowly, and she realised that they’d turned off the highway and on to the road that traversed the airport.

      ‘Excuse me? I—I didn’t hear what you said.’

      ‘I said, you’d better tell me where you want to be dropped off, if you want to make your flight.’

      Her brows rose a little. She’d been wrong, then. He’d been gallant to the end; he’d given her a lift, flirted probably no more than his male ego demanded, and now he was all business. In fact, now that she looked at him, she could see that he’d undergone a subtle change in the last few minutes. That soft, sexy smile had been replaced by a certain grimness, and the hands that lay on the steering-wheel gripped it almost tightly.

      But then, he had a plane to catch, too. Dorian felt a little twinge of something that surely couldn’t have been regret. She sat up straighter, took the coat from her lap, and tossed it into the back seat.

      ‘Of course. You can drop me off at—at...’

      Where? Her breath caught. It was a damned good question, and she had no answer. She had no idea where to get the flight to Barovnia. Walt Hemple hadn’t told her.

      ‘Well?’ Her rescuer slowed to a crawl. ‘Look,’ he said impatiently. ‘I’ve a plane to catch myself and not a hell of a lot of time to do it in. Where shall I drop you?’

      Her mind spun in frantic circles. What now? She glanced at the dashboard clock. Ten minutes? Ten minutes to make her flight. No, she thought grimly. Not her flight. Her career. If she missed that plane, she might as well never show her face at WorldWeek again.

      ‘Come on, lady,’ the stranger said. ‘Where do you want to go?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted.

      His dark eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t know? What in hell is that supposed to mean?’

      ‘It means—it means he didn’t tell me,’ she said a bit shakily.

      His expression grew even more grim. ‘He didn’t tell you? You mean, you agreed to go away with some guy for the weekend without...?’

      ‘No!’ Dorian’s eyes flashed with green fire. ‘I certainly did not. And I resent the implication.’

      His mouth seemed to soften a little. ‘It wouldn’t be so extraordinary, would it?’ He smiled. ‘A beautiful woman going away with her boyfriend for a couple of days, I mean.’

      Some of the stiffness went out of her spine. ‘No. I just—you had no right to assume—’ She broke off. What in heaven’s name did it matter what he assumed? He was a stranger; she would never see him again after this. She sighed and looked at him. ‘I’m not going away for pleasure,’ she said. ‘I’m flying out on business.’

      ‘Ah.’ His smile tilted. ‘As am I.’

      ‘And it’s—well, it’s an important trip. But my boss forgot to tell me where my plane would be leaving from.’

      His smile broadened. ‘The problem’s easily solved. Take a look at your ticket. The name of the airline will be on it.’

      His suggestion gave her hope—until she remembered that all Walt had handed her was the library material and petty-cash voucher.

      Dorian blew out her breath. ‘I don’t have a ticket.’

      ‘I see. You’re supposed to pick it up at the counter, hmm?’ He shrugged before she could say anything. ‘Well, call your boss and talk to him.’ He reached for the cellular phone.

      ‘No,’ she said quickly, stilling his hand. He looked at her, brows lifted, and she gave him a nervous smile. ‘You don’t know him. I—I don’t think he’d be very happy to find out that I’d screwed up.’

      The stranger frowned. ‘But it’s his fault, surely.’

      Dorian sighed. ‘You don’t know my boss. He might not see it that way.’ Her shoulders rose and fell in a little shrug. ‘This job I’ve been sent on is important, you see. It’s hard to explain, but—’

      ‘You don’t have to explain.’ He made a sound that was not quite a laugh. ‘I know all about important jobs, and how they have to be dealt with even when they seem damned near impossible.’

      Dorian nodded. ‘Impossible,’ she repeated—and all at once, to her horror, her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them back quickly, but not before he’d seen their tell-tale glitter.

      ‘Hell!’ His brows knotted together as he undid his seatbelt and moved towards her. ‘No job is worth that.’

      ‘This one is.’ She swallowed hard. ‘You don’t under-stand—’

      ‘I told you.’