Bought by the Rich Man. Jane Porter

of wood by the hearth when his phone rang. Knocking bits of bark and moss off his hands, he took the call.

      It was Mrs. Bishop. She’d called to say that they’d tried to drive Gabby back but the car had slid off the road, spinning out into the field. No one was hurt but there was no way to get Gabby back, at least not with their car. As Mrs. Bishop talked, Cristiano went to the front door to check his rented Mercedes. Snow was piled a good foot high on the hood. Looking past the Mercedes he saw the entire lane was covered, no sign of road or field, fence or wall. Everything was just white, powdered white.

      “I can try to drive down there,” he said. “My rental car doesn’t have four-wheel drive, but it might be okay.”

      “It might be okay,” Mrs. Bishop answered anxiously, “but it might not be. Gilbert, my son-in-law, is already shaken up. Maybe it’s best if Gabby just stayed here tonight, and then tomorrow we can see if one of the farmers will help us tow Gilbert’s car out of the field and maybe plow the road.”

      Cristiano caught sight of Samantha from the corner of his eye. She must have heard the phone ring and she’d been following the conversation. “What’s wrong?” she whispered. “Is Gabby all right?”

      He nodded before finishing the call. “Then keep her there tonight, Mrs. Bishop, no reason to take any more risks. Tell your son-in-law I’ll pay for his car to be towed, and do give us a call in the morning once everyone’s up.”

      Hanging up, he turned to face Sam who hovered in the background. “The roads aren’t drivable. Mrs. Bishop’s son-in-law tried to bring Gabby home but lost control and ended up in a field or a ditch—I’m not sure which.”

      “Is Gabby okay?”

      “Yes, but she is going to stay at the Bishops’ tonight.”

      Sam nodded and blushed all at the same time. She’d counted on Gabby returning. But Gabby wouldn’t be back tonight. Instead it would just be her and Cristiano.

      Alone.

      In a small cottage.

      Far from neighbors.

      With no electricity and no music, television or diversion.

      What in God’s name were they going to do for the next twelve hours?

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      DINNER was a simple toasted cheese sandwich served with bowls of tinned tomato soup. Not a glamorous meal but it met the need for warm food and drink.

      They ate in front of the fire in the sitting room because it was the warmest spot in the cottage. Once finished, Sam stood to carry their plates and bowls to the kitchen, but as she reached for Cristiano’s dishes, his eyes met hers, his gaze boring into her, the hazel-green depths warm and flecked with gold. “Leave the dishes,” he said. “I’ll do them later.”

      “That’s okay. I don’t mind.”

      “I do. Leave them.”

      Nervously Sam stacked the dishes in the sink before running her hands down the front of her dark gray slacks, her palms damp.

      The cottage was so small. There was nowhere to go. And the bedrooms, even if she wanted to hide in there, were too cold.

      But the idea of returning to Cristiano, to sitting with him near the fire filled her with dread.

      He made her so jumpy. Just being near him her heart raced, her pulse pounded. She felt hot and cold at the same time, jittery, scared, uneasy.

      Why was she so afraid of him?

      Why did everything in her scream for her to run? Was it survival instinct? Common sense?

      Glancing out the window yet again, Sam felt discouraged by the snow still falling. “We’re stuck,” she said, returning to the sitting room.

      Cristiano made a rough sound. “You’ll survive.”

      Sam grimaced, sat down in one of the armchairs near the fire. “I know. Unfortunately so will you.”

      Cristiano surprised her by laughing, a rough deep sound that was as masculine as it was seductive. “You’re really not comfortable with me, are you?”

      “No!”

      “Finally,” he mocked, leaning back in his chair. “We get a little honesty.”

      “I haven’t been dishonest.”

      He made a soft, rough sound in the back of his throat. “No. I understand. You’re English, and you’ve cultivated through years of practice and self-denial this wonderful British stiff upper lip to keep others from knowing what you want, or need.”

      “That’s not true. The only thing I want or need is Gabby, and I’ve been quite open about my feelings with regards to her.”

      He studied her in the red and gold firelight, his lashes lowered, his mouth firm. For a moment there was just the crackle and pop of the fire and the acrid smell of smoke. “Someday you’ll marry again,” he said surprisingly gentle. “You’ll have children, and a family, of your own.”

      If he’d hoped to soothe her, his words had the opposite effect. Her throat, chest and stomach hurt as if she’d just chewed and swallowed glass. “I won’t,” she answered. “I’ll never marry again. And I don’t want children of my own.”

      “But you’re good with children.”

      “I’m a nanny. My job is to look after other peoples’ children. I hope I’m good with them.”

      “But don’t you want more for yourself?”

      “More, how?”

      “A lover, a partner. Someone to share your life with.”

      She felt herself blush and she shook her head, amazed at how quickly he could fluster her. “No. I’m content.” She ignored the twinge inside of her, the twinge of conscience that said she was not being entirely truthful. Truly there were times she needed more, times when she felt alone, but everyone felt lonely and alone at times. Everyone had needs. She wasn’t unique that way. “My life’s good.”

      “You’ve been married. How can you not miss the physical comforts? Sex? Intimacy?”

      He didn’t realize she didn’t know anything about sex, or intimacy, and maybe that’s what kept her from ever becoming more intimate with anyone. People didn’t know that while on one hand she had this colorful, crazy life, on the other she was still hopelessly sheltered. Her emotions had been through hell while her body remained untouched.

      Sam found it deeply embarrassing that at her age, approaching thirty, she knew as little about men and sex as she did at eighteen. Somehow a decade had come and gone and left her like one of those Dresden shepherdesses on a shelf. But she was all shattered inside.

      Her mouth was so dry, her lips felt as if they were cracking. “I’m content,” she repeated huskily.

      “You say that, but you’re not. I see it in your eyes, Samantha. I see it in the way you talk and smile. Forgive me, but you’re a martyr looking for a cause.”

      Sam didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until her head started spinning. She forced herself to exhale and then inhale, trying to clear her head. “I’m no martyr. Some people have more heartache in their lives, some people have less.”

      He rose from his chair and went to the fire where he took a poker and pushed the fire around a bit before adding more fuel. “There are things I need to tell you. And I’m not sure how to tell you.”

      “It’s bad?”

      He made a rough sound. “It’s not good.”

      Sam stiffened, not wanting more bad news. Bad news in her life had been very bad. There was no in-between news, no disappointing news, just bad as in tragic, bad as in shattering, bad as in nothing will ever be the same.

      But