Bought by the Rich Man. Jane Porter

      Now it was his turn to laugh. “Oh, yes, you can,” he said, pushing the door open and steering her back in.

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      AFTER the kiss, Sam was sure that something would happen, but after returning to the fire, Cristiano lost himself in some reading he’d brought with him and Sam sat in her chair, feeling nervous and excited, rather like a girl going to her first dance.

      But nothing else happened. It was as if the kiss had never occurred.

      Cristiano focused on his reading and Sam sat feeling like a wallflower.

      He must regret kissing me, she thought, chewing on her thumb. Or he kisses so many women it’s really nothing.

      She had a sneaking suspicion it was the latter.

      Finally it was time for bed, and Cristiano slept in one of the bedrooms while Sam carried blankets to the couch in the sitting room.

      It took her forever to fall asleep and when she woke up stiff and cold in the morning, her mood was not much better.

      Her mood didn’t improve later, either, when during breakfast she felt him watching her.

      Sam did her best to ignore him, just like she struggled to ignore the buzzy butterflies in her middle. He doesn’t even remember the kiss, she told herself sternly. You can’t dwell on it, either.

      But it was hard to forget, especially after such a sleepless night where she lay awake for hours, thoughts tormented, body hot, and empty, craving satisfaction.

      Breakfast over, Sam attacked the few dishes, scrubbing the plates that had nothing more than crumbs on them. Cristiano came up behind her to set his cup on the counter and she jumped as if somebody had touched her with a hot wire.

      Just the knowledge that he was near her, behind her, made her acutely sensitive. And when he leaned past her, to pick up a dish towel and dry the dishes she’d washed, she felt a coil in her middle that actually hurt.

      If this was desire it was awful.

      It wasn’t fun. It was fierce. Hot. Angry.

      She felt maddened by it, by want, by the unknown.

      She must have sighed or made some sound because Cristiano looked down at her, one black eyebrow lifting. “Something bothering you today?”

      She tossed the scrub brush down, faced him, one hand gripping the sink. “Yes.”

      His hazel gaze slowly traveled the length of her, resting provocatively on her throat, her breasts, her hips. “Tell me what it is. Maybe I can help.”

      “You can’t help. You’re the problem.”

      “I’m the problem?”

      She shook her head in exasperation. Why did she say that? It was dumb to say that. No, he wasn’t the problem. She was the problem. This—the attraction, the situation—it was her problem. She couldn’t handle her feelings, or her response. He’d kissed her—big deal—but God help her, she wanted more.

      And the intensity of her feelings made her feel like an ignorant schoolgirl. She’d loved the kiss. But she wasn’t a schoolgirl. She was a spinster. A spinster leveled by a kiss.

      “You haven’t told me why I’m the problem,” he said.

      Sam glanced out the window toward the driveway as if Gabby would just magically appear and save her from this. “Ignore me. I’m being irrational.”

      “You’re the least irrational woman I’ve ever known. Tell me. Let me try to help.”

      Then that would require kissing me again, she thought, looking up at him, into the hard angles of his face and eyes that held her, mesmerized her. “Please don’t be charming,” she whispered, only half-jesting. “I don’t think I can handle it. Not from you, not today, not after last night.”

      “What about last night?”

      So he didn’t even remember. The kiss hadn’t meant anything, or made an impression.

      Sam whimpered, she hadn’t meant to, she couldn’t keep the hurt in.

      But suddenly he was closer, or she was closer, and the heat between them was scorching. Sam felt hot, her clothes too tight and suddenly she couldn’t breathe anymore.

      And then he was reaching for her, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her against him creating a riot of sensation. Just that one touch of his body against hers and it was like New Year’s and fireworks, sparks exploding everywhere. She felt him everywhere, too—chest, ribs, hips, thighs. He was hard, strong, male, and it was the most delicious feeling in the world, her body alive, her body aware of his, her body feeling warm and real and good.

      His hand was in the small of her back, urging her even closer and she felt the throb of him against her, his body’s heat and how his body strained.

      She’d thought when it came to this, she’d be afraid. She’d thought if a man ever held her so close, teased her with his body like this, made her aware of his desire, she’d thought she’d panic. Hate it. Run.

      Instead she wanted to slide her hands beneath his shirt, feel the warmth of his skin beneath her palms, reach for his waistband and let the clothes fall away.

      And then she did reach for his belt and waistband, fumbled with the clasp, gave up to touch his flat abdomen and the warm firm muscle banding his ribs.

      His hands were against her hips, shaping her, caressing her, and it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to have him touch her.

      I think I could love him, she thought, wrapping one arm around his neck, standing on tiptoe. I think I could love him. And maybe it was only lust, but it felt right and honest and for the first time in years she felt right, too.

      She’d finally given in to need, to want, to hunger. She’d finally admitted she craved touch, love, pleasure. And as Cristiano stroked down the outside of her thigh, and then up the inside, his fingers between her legs, touching her where she was most sensitive, she knew that in this respect at least, Cristiano had been made for her.

      He was the right man to take her virginity.

      He was the right man to teach her about making love.

      A loud horn sounded outside, not a normal car horn but a beeping blaring sound that jolted Sam and Cristiano apart. They jumped and looking up they saw the yellow tractor and Gabriela bundled in borrowed winter clothes, jumping down.

      Gabby was back and for the first time ever, Sam wished the little girl could have stayed away another hour.

      Gabby came bursting into the house, laughing and breathless while the white-haired farmer climbed off his tractor to follow Gabriela.

      Sam and Cristiano met the farmer on the doorstep. “We got you your girl back,” the farmer said, cheeks ruddy with cold. “Later today we’ll try to get your driveway plowed.”

      “When you’ve time,” Cristiano said, thanking the farmer and sliding a folded bill into his hand.

      The farmer nodded, pocketed the twenty-pound note and turned away before turning back. “She told me you’re Cristiano Bartolo,” the farmer said, indicating Gabby. “And I wondered if maybe you’re not Bartolo’s boy. You sure look like him. Italian, and all.”

      Cristiano smiled. “I am.”

      “Well, I’ll be.” The farmer clapped Cristiano on the shoulder once. “You’re a good man. I like you.” He nodded at Sam, chucked Gabriela under the chin and headed back to his tractor.

      But before Sam could organize her thoughts, before she could ask Cristiano what the farmer had meant, Gabriela was dancing around them. “It’s like a fairyland outside,” she cried, jumping from one foot to the other. “Come see, Sam. It’s like The Nutcracker ballet. It’s magic!”

      It