A Bride For The Taking. Sandra Marton

      ‘None. But how did you...?’ Dorian put her hand to her mouth. Lord. Oh, lord. That air of authority. The wealth. The dark good looks. Was it possible? Had she spent the past half-hour with Jack Alexander—and had she, then, blown any slim chance she might have had of getting an interview with the man?

      She ran her tongue over lips that had gone dry. ‘Are you,’ she whispered, ‘I mean, it occurs to me that you—could you possibly be...?’

      He let her stammer and then, mercifully, he saved her from further embarrassment.

      ‘Let me help you, Miss Oliver.’ His voice was silken. He stepped closer to her, until he was only a whisper away. ‘Will I be the new abdhan? That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?’

      Dorian swallowed hard and nodded. ‘Yes.’

      He watched her for a long, long moment, his handsome face devoid of all expression, and then he gave her a smile that was colder than the rain.

      ‘How could I be? The king of a primitive little country would have to be a barbarian, would he not?’ He caught hold of her wrist; she felt the sudden, fierce pressure of his fingers on the fragile bones. ‘He’d have to be a complete savage. Isn’t that right, Miss Oliver?’

      ‘Please.’ Dorian grimaced. ‘You’re hurting me...’

      He almost flung her from him. ‘Relax, Miss Oliver. I can assure you, I am not the abdhan.’

      She watched as he turned and strode away from her. The cluster of men who’d waited politely throughout the interchange fell into step around him. Within seconds, they’d vanished into the depths of the terminal.

      ‘Miss?’ She turned, startled. The man who was to guide her to the plane had come up beside her. He was as soft-spoken as he was huge. ‘We must hurry.’

      Dorian nodded. ‘All right. Just one thing. That man—who is he?’

      Her escort took her bag from her as they began walking. ‘Didn’t he tell you?’

      She shook her head. ‘Is he a friend of the new abdhan?’

      The man frowned. ‘There is no new abdhan, miss. There is the anointed one, and there is the abdhazim—the Crown Prince, the next in line for the throne.’

      ‘Well, that’s what I meant. The abdhazim. Is he—was that man a friend of his? Is he part of the delegation?’

      Her escort smiled for the first time. ‘Yes. You may say that. He is part of the delegation.’

      She had expected the answer. Still, it made her feel sick to her stomach to have it confirmed.

      Her rescuer was a friend of Jack Alexander’s, the man who never let reporters get near him. He was the abdhazim’s friend, and she had made an enemy of him.

      Good work, she told herself with a sigh. Oh, yes, good work.

      Dorian Oliver, girl reporter, was off to one hell of a great start!

      CHAPTER THREE

      STUPID, Dorian thought as her burly escort led her through the terminal, stupid, stupid, stupid! Her first shot at success, and what had she done? She’d damned near obliterated it—and that without having even left the United States! Given enough time, who knew what wonders she might manage?

      ‘This way, please, miss.’

      Her escort’s hand pressed gently into the small of her back. He was hurrying her towards the boarding area.

      Well, she thought grimly, at least he wasn’t marching her out to the car park. For one awful moment, that had seemed a real possibility. Still, she wasn’t on the plane yet. There was still plenty of time for things to change.

      The man who’d picked her up on the road had probably reached Jack Alexander’s side by now; he was probably telling him that Dorian Oliver of WorldWeek had already made up her mind about Barovnia and about him.

      The things she’d said flashed through her mind like poisonous darts. She’d called the kingdom primitive, its people peasants, and Alexander himself—Dorian winced. Had she really called him a little tin god?

      And if her words were being repeated to Alexander, who knew what might happen next? It was no secret that the next abdhan of Barovnia had no great love for reporters, not when it came to his private life. For all she knew, he was at this very minute listening to her rescuer’s story, his face darkening with displeasure as he heard himself, and his people, described in such ugly terms.

      ‘What’s this fool’s name?’ he would demand, and the stranger would tell him.

      ‘Oliver,’ he’d say, ‘Dorian Oliver,’ and a big, silent man who might easily be the twin of the one at her side right now would be dispatched to wait for her, to bar her admittance to the Press section of the plane.

      ‘You are not welcome on board this flight,’ he would say, and how would she explain any of it to Walt Hemple, or even to herself? She was a reporter, for God’s sake, she was supposed to exercise discretion, to say the right thing at the right moment and not run off at the mouth, especially to someone she’d never laid eyes on before...

      ‘The steward will seat you, miss.’

      Dorian started. They had reached the boarding stairs; her escort was smiling politely as he stepped away from her.

      ‘Have a pleasant trip, Miss Oliver,’ he said.

      She nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, thanks very much.’

      The steward greeted her pleasantly. ‘Your Press pass, please,’ he said, and she handed it over, still half expecting a hand to fall on her shoulder.

      But none did. The steward gave her an empty, mechanical smile, handed back the pass, and suggested that she might find a vacant seat back in the last few rows.

      Dorian nodded. ‘Thanks,’ she said, and she set off down the narrow aisle, making her way carefully over outstretched feet and overstuffed shoulder bags that had pushed their way out from beneath the seats under which they’d been stored, saying hello to the few reporters she knew, trying not to gape at the famous faces interspersed in the crowd.

      ‘Hey, Oliver,’ a voice called out. ‘Here’s a seat, lover, you can sit on my lap.’

      Dorian looked at the man from the Mirror. ‘No, thanks,’ she said sweetly, without missing a beat, ‘I’d just as soon not share it with your belly,’ and everybody chuckled.

      ‘Oliver. Hey, Oliver. How come they hold the plane for good-lookin’ broads?’

      ‘Because bald guys aren’t “in” this year,’ she said airily, and there was more good-natured laughter all around.

      Her sense of elation had returned by the time she settled into a seat. It felt wonderful to be among these people, to be on assignment along with the best her profession had to offer. As for the bantering, Dorian had grown used to it a long time ago, and she understood it, too.

      Journalists—except for fools like her editor—didn’t care if you looked like Quasimodo or Marilyn Monroe, so long as you got the job done. But journalism had always been a male-dominated profession. And, because of that, there were still certain rites of passage you had to endure before being accepted into its ranks.

      Learning to trade one-liners, for instance. The newer you were, the more you had to prove you could smile and deliver as good as you got. Dorian had honed her skills on her very first job, back in Buffalo, New York, and she was still pretty good—on her better days, anyway.

      She sighed as she tucked her bag beneath the seat. But this hadn’t been one of her better days. First Walt Hemple, that ass, had all but asked her to seduce Jack Alexander so that she could get WorldWeek an exclusive. And then the man in the sports car had come on to