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

ignored the dart of pain inside her chest. Johann had settled the debt by giving her away. She knew her husband didn’t love her, or like her, but still, to be traded, bartered, it was so brutal it wounded. “I’m obviously not for sale, Mr. Bartolo. It’s a mistake—”

      “No mistake,” he interrupted almost gently. “We’ve met with lawyers, signed papers, sorted things legally. I’ve absolved him of his debt. Therefore, you leave with me.”

      “Leave with you,” she repeated dumbly.

      “Yes. You might be married to Johann, but you’re not his woman anymore. You’re mine.”

      Anything she was about to say slipped from her lips. How to answer that bold, arrogant, appalling assertion?

      Silent, she looked up at him, and what she saw filled her with fresh fear.

      He was calm. Relaxed. Completely in control.

      She struggled to match his calm. “Mr. Bartolo, if you’ll tell me what we owe you, we can get this sorted out.” She tried to look him square in the eye, wanting to demonstrate her strength, but it meant tilting her head back and now, with her neck exposed, she felt even more vulnerable than before.

      “You think?”

      Sam didn’t like looking up at him, didn’t like the expression on his face, in his eyes. He was like a wolf alone with a penned lamb.

      But she wasn’t a lamb. And she wasn’t an ingenue, either. She’d lived for twenty-eight years, had been a nanny for nearly ten. She carried no false illusions about life. Or men. Perhaps there were a few good ones, but most were very selfish and none were saints. “What do we owe you?” she repeated crisply.

      “This isn’t about money, Baroness.”

      “It’s always about money, Mr. Bartolo.”

      Deep grooves bracketed his mouth. His eyes, neither green nor gold, warmed. “You don’t think it could be about love?”

      She tried to laugh but it came out broken, strangled. She’d been in love once, years ago, and it had ended so swiftly, so tragically she knew she’d never love again. “You don’t even know me, Mr. Bartolo.”

      “I know what I see.”

      “Hair? Eyes? Face?” She snorted contemptuously. “That’s not love. That’s…” And her voice faded as his gaze met hers and she saw in his eyes something so intense, so explosive…fear lapped at her, hot, dangerous, deadly.

      His eyes never left hers. “What, Baroness?”

      Her limbs went weak, so weak it was as if she were swimming in cold, dense, murky water. Her head spun. Her legs felt close to collapse. “Indecent,” she whispered, the only word coming to mind. And it was indecent. His thoughts. His actions. His words.

      “And maybe it is.” Still smiling faintly, he glanced at his watch, then shook down his sleeve. “It’s nine now. I’ll send my car for you at four. That should give you enough time to pack, say your goodbyes and do whatever it is you need to do.”

      She looked away, vision blurred, mind equally fogged. Sam had nothing to pack but it was the goodbyes that tore at her, the goodbyes she feared most. She loved Gabriela as if the child were her own. “You really intend to do this?”

      “Baroness, your husband owes me over ten million pounds. What do you expect me to do?”

      The faint, hysteria-tinged laughter was back. She felt her eyes burn, her throat seal closed. She turned to Johann who was slumped in his chair, eyes closed, jaw slack, oblivious to the world. “Forgive and forget?” she suggested huskily, hopefully.

      Cristiano made a short sound, rough, impatient and yet his half smile hinted at amusement. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

      “Should I?” Even as she asked the question, she searched her memory, seeking some clue to his identity but his name still meant nothing to her.

      Although she’d lived in Monaco for nearly four years, she’d paid scant attention to the principality’s golden crowd. Having nannied in the past ten years for some of the most wealthy and famous people in the world, she was neither impressed nor influenced by those with money and fame. In her experience, the rich were rude, and the famous forgettable.

      “No. The only thing you need to know is that I’m not a good loser.” His hazel-green gaze fringed by jet-black lashes met hers and held. His gaze was steady, too steady. “I hate losing. So I don’t.”

      He walked out then, heading straight for the front door, and for a moment Sam remained where she was, frozen on the arm of the sofa like one of La Palme d’Or’s ice sculptures.

      Then the ice shattered as she thought of leaving Gabby, saying goodbye to Gabby, and grabbing her coat, Sam raced out of the house down to the front where Cristiano was climbing into a low red Italia Motors sports car.

      She reached the side of his car, opened the passenger door and leaned in. “You can’t do this. I can’t do this. I’ve Gabby—”

      “She’s not your daughter.”

      Sam looked at him where he sat in the driver’s seat, dark hair rakish, deep hazel eyes intense and she shook her head, denying his words, denying what they represented, when she knew the truth. Gabby was her daughter, the daughter of her heart anyway. “I won’t leave her.”

      “Baroness, I have places to be, a meeting at the Hotel de Paris in ten minutes—”

      “Then give me those ten minutes.” Sam pulled on her coat. “Take me with you and talk to me while you drive.”

      “I won’t have time to bring you back.”

      “Fine.” She climbed into the passenger seat, closed the door. “I’ll walk back. I don’t mind walking. But we must talk about Gabriela. It’s important.”

      Cristiano shot her a long, hard look before starting the car and pulling away from the curb. “Talk,” he said as he swiftly merged with traffic. “You’ve ten minutes.”

      Sam bunched her hands in her lap, watching Monaco’s picturesque streets flash by. Her heart was pounding and her hands were shaking and she had to draw a deep breath to steady her nerves. Thank God Gabby was still in school for the rest of the morning. Maybe, just maybe, this nightmare could be fixed before Gabby returned at three.

      But before she had a chance to talk about Gabby, Cristiano’s phone rang and after checking the number, he took the call. It was a relatively long call and he was still on the phone when he slowed in the driveway approaching the Hotel de Paris. Tourists filled the elegant square, spilling from tour buses and vans onto the different plazas, snapping photos, posing for pictures, clustering outside the historic Café Divan inspecting the menu.

      Sam took in and dismissed the throngs. Monaco was always crowded. Daily tourists, from all over the world, overran the tiny principality eager to visit the fabled home of Prince Rainer and his late wife, the former American film star, Grace Kelly.

      What she wanted, needed, was Cristiano’s attention. What she wanted, needed, wasn’t going to happen.

      As valet attendants came forward to take the car, Sam fought tears. He hadn’t even given her the time of day.

      Stepping from the car, Sam smoothed her coat over her dress and waited in front of the Hotel de Paris while Cristiano finished the call.

      Anger burned in her, anger and indignation. What kind of man took a woman from her family? What kind of man would accept a wagered wife?

      It disgusted her, horrified her, and her hands clenched helplessly inside her coat pockets, her gaze fixed on the hotel’s belle epoch architecture. Be calm, she told herself, be calm. Losing control won’t help anything.

      She focused on the hotel’s architecture instead. The Hotel de Paris and Le Casino were both constructed in the middle of the nineteenth