A Bride For The Taking. Sandra Marton

been for a second. Well, that was easily explained. She’d been worried sick about missing her flight—and he’d been an expert seducer. ‘Let me take you to Martinique’ indeed! She blew out her breath and turned her face to the window. Lord, what nonsense.

      ‘Oliver. Hey, Oliver! Why didn’t you strip down before you took that shower?’

      Dorian smiled and shot back an appropriate answer, and then she turned to the window again. The rain really was heavy, falling as steadily as when she’d first climbed into the stranger’s car. Her gaze drifted up to the black sky, to where the landing lights of an approaching plane burned a path into the darkness, and suddenly his voice was in her head, soft and smoky and filled with promise.

      ‘We could go for a walk in the moonlight.’

      That was what he’d said. But it was such a corny line. Such a...

      Was it raining in Martinique, or was the moon painting a beach with its silvery light? What would have happened if she’d said, yes, take me there, take me with you...?

      ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. On behalf of the Barovnian delegation and the crew of Global Airlines, we welcome you aboard. The captain has asked that you extinguish all cigarettes and...’

      Dorian sat up straight and clasped her hands together in her lap. Thank goodness. The plane was moving, heading towards the runway. It was time to get to work.

      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,’