Bought by the Rich Man: Taken by the Highest Bidder / Bought by Her Latin Lover / Bought by the Billionaire. Jane Porter

he was right. Later, when she remarried and had a family of her own, she’d be grateful he’d taken Gabriela back. “Forgive me, but you know the expression, once bitten, twice shy.”

      She ducked her head but he saw the first tear fall. “Please.”

      Don’t think about her, he told himself, don’t look at her. This isn’t about her. It’s about family, his family, the family that didn’t exist anymore. Gabby was all there was left. Gabby was the last Bartolo. He had to have her back. He needed her back. That was all there was to it.

      “This isn’t personal,” he said after a moment as another tear fell. “And it’s not a punishment.” He softened his tone, tried to comfort her, if such a thing was possible.

      It was silent for a few minutes as Sam stared out the window and he concentrated on the road. There wasn’t heavy traffic, just a few cars and trucks and they were all traveling very slow.

      “You said three,” she said as he overtook a car. “You said there were three reasons.”

      He glanced at her, saw the bruised softness at her mouth, the terrible sadness in her eyes and it cut him. In the beginning, maybe he had wanted to hurt her. Maybe in the beginning he’d been driven by revenge, but he didn’t know her, had thought she was one thing—a cool, impervious blonde—but that wasn’t Samantha. Beneath the beautiful blond exterior was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman—warmth, tenderness, intelligence and loyalty.

      “You’re stunning,” he said bluntly. “And I wanted you for myself.”

      CHAPTER SIX

      HE TOOK her because he wanted her.

      It was inconceivable to Sam that anyone could desire her that much. She didn’t feel desirable. Didn’t feel like a woman should feel.

      And yet with him sitting so close, his large, powerful body crowding the car, she couldn’t help but be aware of him, aware of the words he’d just spoken, and the nuances still humming in the air.

      The back of Sam’s neck tingled. Her stomach somersaulted. Her body felt odd all over—too sensitive, too aware. She didn’t like the feeling at all, and she didn’t want him to want her. She didn’t want anything to do with him. Not now, not ever.

      Reaching into his leather coat pocket, Cristiano retrieved his phone and after pushing a couple of buttons, handed it to her.

      “Call Mrs. Bishop,” he said calmly, “her number’s right there. Let her know we’re on our way to pick up Gabriela.”

      In no mood to argue, and missing Gabby, Sam dialed the number and Mrs. Bishop answered. They chatted for a moment but when Sam said they were getting close to the house to pick up Gabby, Mrs. Bishop protested. “Oh dear, that’s a shame. The girls are planning a puppet show. I’m helping them with the costumes now.”

      Sam felt a pang. At the Rookery she’d played with the same puppets. They were Mrs. Bishop’s, from her own childhood and she used to bring them to the orphanage on wet weekend afternoons so the children could play. “You’re not making new costumes, are you?”

      “But of course. New plays need new costumes.”

      Sam smiled, remembering Mrs. Bishop’s needle wizardly. Mrs. Bishop was the one who’d taught Sam to cook and sew, which had been very useful skills when Sam reached the nanny college in Manchester. “Gabby must be having a ball.”

      “She is, Sam. She’s a lovely thing and the girls are having such a good time together. Do let her stay until dinner. There’s no hurry getting her home, is there?”

      “Let me speak with Gabby then.”

      Gabby howled when she took the phone from Mrs. Bishop. “You can’t pick me up now! We’ve made up our own play. It’s our own story and we’re making costumes and everything!”

      “But you’ve been there for hours, Gabriela.”

      “But I don’t want to go! We made cookies and had a tea party and Mrs. Bishop is helping us with the puppets. They have a puppet stage with red velvet curtains and we’re going to do our play in it.”

      Sam glanced at Cristiano, covered the phone’s mouthpiece. “Gabby wants to stay and play longer. They’re going to have a puppet show.”

      “She’s doing well, then?”

      “Yes. She’s having a great time.”

      “Then let her stay until later this afternoon. I can pick her up before dinner.”

      Sam told Gabby and then Mrs. Bishop what Cristiano had said, and then, call finished, Sam hung up and handed the phone back to Cristiano.

      “I’m glad she’s having fun. Except for school, she doesn’t get to play with other children all that often,” Sam said, although on the inside she felt torn. She was glad Gabby was having fun but for Sam it was awkward and uncomfortable being alone with Cristiano. “Johann wouldn’t let her go to other people’s houses, and her friends from school weren’t allowed to come home.”

      “Why?” Cristiano asked.

      She looked at him, and then away, and glancing out the window, Sam noticed the first snowflake fall, and then another, and another. The flakes were scattered, slow, as if indecisive about what they were going to do. “I don’t know. But Gabby used to cry about it. Johann and I fought about it. It didn’t matter. He never changed his mind.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      “I am, too.” Maybe it was the delicate snow flurries, or the pale silver and pewter sky, but Sam felt a rush of emotion so strong she had to bite her lip to keep the tears from filling her eyes again.

      She missed so much right now.

      She missed virtually everything. Her parents. Charles. Even Gabby, although Gabby wasn’t gone yet. “I love her,” she whispered, concentrating on the view outside the car window where the snow was coming down faster and thicker now in dense white flurries. Some of the snowflakes were so big they looked like bits of lace dropping from the sky and yet they were weightless, and temperatures must have continued to drop as the snow was sticking to the ground. “Even if you take her from me, she’ll always be my girl.”

      “Then make the transition easy on her.” Cristiano’s voice sounded as cold and hard as the bare limbs of the trees outside. “Help her adjust. Don’t pull her in two.”

      It was still snowing as they reached the Rookery, and the small gamekeeper’s cottage never looked smaller or darker. Sam couldn’t imagine spending the rest of the afternoon alone in the dark cottage with Cristiano.

      As he parked “I think I’ll go to the Rookery and see if I can’t locate some candles for tonight,” Sam said. “The pantry used to be full of them. Every now and then we’d lose electricity and we depended on candles and kerosene lamps to get us through until the backup generator came on.”

      “Do you know where the lamps are?” Cristiano asked, carrying the last of the groceries into the kitchen.

      “They should be in the pantry, near the candles. It’s where we kept the emergency supplies.”

      “I’ll go with you, see what we can find.”

      It was dark inside the Rookery. Power to the abandoned orphanage had been shut off, but once Sam got the back door open, she didn’t need lights to find her way around. She’d grown up here, spent over fifteen years here. The Rookery, for better or worse, was home.

      Just as she thought, she discovered boxes of candles, matches and three old kerosene lamps in the pantry off the kitchen.

      “I’ll take the lamps back to the cottage,” Cristiano said.

      Sam nodded. “I’ll just have a quick look around. I’ll be back soon.”

      With a candle to light her way, Sam walked through the Rookery’s