A Bride for the Taking Page 3

  His suggestion gave her hope—until she remembered that all Walt had handed her was the library material and petty-cash voucher.

  Dorian blew out her breath. ‘I don’t have a ticket.’

  ‘I see. You’re supposed to pick it up at the counter, hmm?’ He shrugged before she could say anything. ‘Well, call your boss and talk to him.’ He reached for the cellular phone.

  ‘No,’ she said quickly, stilling his hand. He looked at her, brows lifted, and she gave him a nervous smile. ‘You don’t know him. I—I don’t think he’d be very happy to find out that I’d screwed up.’

  The stranger frowned. ‘But it’s his fault, surely.’

  Dorian sighed. ‘You don’t know my boss. He might not see it that way.’ Her shoulders rose and fell in a little shrug. ‘This job I’ve been sent on is important, you see. It’s hard to explain, but—’

  ‘You don’t have to explain.’ He made a sound that was not quite a laugh. ‘I know all about important jobs, and how they have to be dealt with even when they seem damned near impossible.’

  Dorian nodded. ‘Impossible,’ she repeated—and all at once, to her horror, her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them back quickly, but not before he’d seen their tell-tale glitter.

  ‘Hell!’ His brows knotted together as he undid his seatbelt and moved towards her. ‘No job is worth that.’

  ‘This one is.’ She swallowed hard. ‘You don’t under-stand—’

  ‘I told you.’ His voice was harsh. ‘I do understand, better than you could possibly imagine.’ His frown deepened, and then he began to smile. ‘What if you just forgot about it?’

  Dorian stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your job.’

  ‘Just—walk away from it?’ She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘Why not? Where is it written that one must do whatever one is told?’

  She gave a puzzled laugh. ‘But that’s what having a job is all about,’ she said, watching him closely. ‘You do what you have to do.’

  He moved closer to her. ‘What I said about Martinique is true, you know.’ His eyes searched hers; he gave her a sudden, swift smile. ‘We could have a late supper at that little place on the beach, then go for a walk in the moonlight.’

  Dorian shook her head. So, she hadn’t been wrong about his intentions after all. He’d been coming on to her all the time, just waiting for the right moment to make his move.

  Still, she’d never had an invitation to any place as exotic as this. His line was different, she had to admit that—so different that it made her want to smile, something that had seemed impossible only seconds ago.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said lightly.

  He clasped her shoulders. ‘Give me one good reason why.’

  She smiled. ‘Well,’ she said, still in the same light tone of voice, ‘it’s pouring cats and dogs.’

  He shook his head. ‘Not in Martinique.’ His hands moved slowly from her shoulders to her face. ‘Believe me, I wouldn’t dream of letting it rain in Martinique tonight.’

  He looked deep into her eyes, and suddenly she wasn’t smiling any more. No, she thought crazily, no, he wouldn’t let it rain. He would make the moon come up, the stars fill the skies. He would—he would…

  His gaze dropped to her mouth. ‘Let me take you to Martinique, kitten.’

  Dorian swallowed drily. ‘Kitten?’

  ‘That’s what you looked like, standing there in the rain.’ His gaze met hers. ‘A little wet kitten, with its fur all matted down, needing somebody to dry it and cuddle it until it purred again.’

  He cupped the back of her head; his hand gentled the silken strands of her hair that had dried in soft curls on the nape of her neck.

  Dorian gave a little shudder. He was good at this, her brain said in a sharp whisper. He was very good. The way he was watching her, as if only she and he existed in the entire universe. The smile that promised pleasure. The soft, smoky voice that surely sounded as if he’d never said any of these things to another woman—it was all part of an act, one he’d probably used a dozen times before.

  And yet—and yet…

  ‘Sweet little kitten.’ Her breath caught as he bent to her and pressed a light kiss to her damp hair. ‘Say you’ll come with me.’

  Dorian shook her head. This was insane. It was—it was…

  His mouth brushed her temple, then the curved arc of her cheek. ‘Don’t,’ she said. At least, that was what she thought she said. But all she heard was the whisper of her own sigh as she lifted her face for his kiss.

  Her heart pounded wildly as his lips met hers. Her hands crept to his chest, the palms flattening against his jacket.

  ‘Say yes,’ he whispered against her mouth, and all at once she wanted—she wanted…

  A jet roared overhead, the sound filling the small, enclosed space like a peal of thunder. Dorian’s eyes flew open. She stared at the stranger blankly, and then sanity returned. She pushed against him; he let go of her, and she scrambled back against the door.

  ‘So much for gallantry,’ she said. Her voice trembled.

  For a long moment his face was expressionless. Then, finally, the corner of his mouth lifted in a cool smile.

  ‘And so much for playing the reluctant maiden.’ He turned away from her and shifted into gear. The car plunged off over the kerb and shot down the road. ‘Have you figured out where you want to go yet, or are you still suffering from amnesia?’

  Dorian’s chin rose. ‘You can drop me off at the International Arrivals building,’ she said coldly. ‘I’m sure I can get the information I need there—not that it matters now.’

  His smile was like ice. ‘Yes. You’ve probably missed your plane to Timbuktu or wherever it is you were going.’

  ‘Barovnia,’ she said, her tone curt. ‘That’s where I was going until you—’ She cried out as the car came to a sudden halt. ‘Are you crazy? I could have gone through the wind…’

  ‘Barovnia? Did you say you’re flying to Barovnia?’

  ‘I said, I was supposed to fly to Barovnia.’ She lifted her bag into her lap and folded her arms across it. ‘But I won’t be doing that now. WorldWeek will just have to get its news from pool reporters.’ She swung towards him as he began to laugh. ‘I suppose that seems very funny to you, that I’d be worried about missing a plane to a—a primitive little kingdom?’

  His laughter stopped as abruptly as it had begun. ‘If you think it’s so primitive,’ he said softly, ‘why are you going there?’

  Dorian stared straight ahead of her. ‘Don’t you mean, why was I going there?’

  ‘All right. Why were you?’

  All her anger came swelling up inside her. ‘To report back to my editor on—on what it’s like to watch a nation of poor peasants turn a man who’s never done a useful day’s work in his life into a little tin god.’

  ‘Really.’

  His voice was soft as the rain, as menacing as the night, but Dorian was too far gone to hear it.

  ‘Yes, really. I know you can’t understand why I’m upset. And I suppose, in a way, you’re right. After all, nobody’s really going to miss that report except me. I mean, what does the world give a damn about Barovnia? But I’m going to lose my…’ She gasped and clutched at the dashboard as the car leaped forward. ‘Dammit, must you drive like a lunatic?’

  ‘I’m only trying to be helpful, Miss… What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Oliver. Dorian Oliver. And it’s too late to be helpful. While you were—while you were mauling me, my plane took off.’

  The stranger flashed her a quick, cold smile. ‘Relax, Miss Oliver. Your plane is still on the ground.’ The tyres squealed as the car skidded to a stop. She watched, bewildered, as he got out of the car, came around to her side, and flung her door open. ‘Do you have your Press pass, Miss Oliver?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. But—’ She caught her breath as he leaned into the car, caught hold of her arm, and tugged her unceremoniously out into the darkness. ‘Would you mind explaining exactly what you’re doing?’

  He clasped her arm tightly as he marched her forward towards a building marked ‘North Passenger Terminal’.

  ‘I’m saving your job for you,’ he said grimly.

  He pushed the door open and tugged her into the lighted interior, and then he paused. There was a cluster of men near by, large men, all of whom had, apparently, been watching the door—and waiting, Dorian saw with some surprise, for their entrance. The stranger turned to her. ‘Wait here,’ he said in that same commanding voice he’d used to her before.

  Dorian wanted to tell him what he could do with the order, but there was no time. He stepped forward and said something to one of the men, and then he turned to her again.

  ‘This gentleman will escort you to the plane, Miss Oliver.’

  ‘The plane?’ Dorian stared at him. ‘What plane?’

  The stranger’s lips drew back from his teeth. ‘The plane to that primitive little kingdom. There’s no other plane that could possibly interest you, is there?’

  She knew what he was thinking, and she met his cold smile with a contemptuous stare. Had he really ever believed she’d given a moment’s thought to all that nonsense about Martinique?

  ‘None. But how did you…?’ Dorian put her hand to her mouth. Lord. Oh, lord. That air of authority. The wealth. The dark good looks. Was it possible? Had she spent the past half-hour with Jack Alexander—and had she, then, blown any slim chance she might have had of getting an interview with the man?

  She ran her tongue over lips that had gone dry. ‘Are you,’ she whispered, ‘I mean, it occurs to me that you—could you possibly be…?’

  He let her stammer and then, mercifully, he saved her from further embarrassment.

  ‘Let me help you, Miss Oliver.’ His voice was silken. He stepped closer to her, until he was only a whisper away. ‘Will I be the new abdhan? That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?’

  Dorian swallowed hard and nodded. ‘Yes.’

  He watched her for a long, long moment, his handsome face devoid of all expression, and then he gave her a smile that was colder than the rain.

  ‘How could I be? The king of a primitive little country would have to be a barbarian, would he not?’ He caught hold of her wrist; she felt the sudden, fierce pressure of his fingers on the fragile bones. ‘He’d have to be a complete savage. Isn’t that right, Miss Oliver?’

  ‘Please.’ Dorian grimaced. ‘You’re hurting me…’

  He almost flung her from him. ‘Relax, Miss Oliver. I can assure you, I am not the abdhan.’

  She watched as he turned and strode away from her. The cluster of men who’d waited politely throughout the interchange fell into step around him. Within seconds, they’d vanished into the depths of the terminal.

  ‘Miss?’ She turned, startled. The man who was to guide her to the plane had come up beside her. He was as soft-spoken as he was huge. ‘We must hurry.’

  Dorian nodded. ‘All right. Just one thing. That man—who is he?’

  Her escort took her bag from her as they began walking. ‘Didn’t he tell you?’

  She shook her head. ‘Is he a friend of the new abdhan?’

  The man frowned. ‘There is no new abdhan, miss. There is the anointed one, and there is the abdhazim—the Crown Prince, the next in line for the throne.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I meant. The abdhazim. Is he—was that man a friend of his? Is he part of the delegation?’

  Her escort smiled for the first time. ‘Yes. You may say that. He is part of the delegation.’

  She had expected the answer. Still, it made her feel sick to her stomach to have it confirmed.

  Her rescuer was a friend of Jack Alexander’s, the man who never let reporters get near him. He was the abdhazim’s friend, and she had made an enemy of him.

  Good work, she told herself with a sigh. Oh, yes, good work.

  Dorian Oliver, girl reporter, was off to one hell of a great start!

  CHAPTER THREE

  STUPID, Dorian thought as her burly escort led her through the terminal, stupid, stupid, stupid! Her first shot at success, and what had she done? She’d damned near obliterated it—and that without having even left the United States! Given enough time, who knew what wonders she might manage?

  ‘This way, please, miss.’

  Her escort’s hand pressed gently into the small of her back. He was hurrying her towards the boarding area.

  Well, she thought grimly, at least he wasn’t marching her out to the car park. For one awful moment, that had seemed a real possibility. Still, she wasn’t on the plane yet. There was still plenty of time for things to change.

  The man who’d picked her up on the road had probably reached Jack Alexander’s side by now; he was probably telling him that Dorian Oliver of WorldWeek had already made up her mind about Barovnia and about him.

  The things she’d said flashed through her mind like poisonous darts. She’d called the kingdom primitive, its people peasants, and Alexander himself—Dorian winced. Had she really called him a little tin god?

  And if her words were being repeated to Alexander, who knew what might happen next? It was no secret that the next abdhan of Barovnia had no great love for reporters, not when it came to his private life. For all she knew, he was at this very minute listening to her rescuer’s story, his face darkening with displeasure as he heard himself, and his people, described in such ugly terms.

  ‘What’s this fool’s name?’ he would demand, and the stranger would tell him.

  ‘Oliver,’ he’d say, ‘Dorian Oliver,’ and a big, silent man who might easily be the twin of the one at her side right now would be dispatched to wait for her, to bar her admittance to the Press section of the plane.

  ‘You are not welcome on board this flight,’ he would say, and how would she explain any of it to Walt Hemple, or even to herself? She was a reporter, for God’s sake, she was supposed to exercise discretion, to say the right thing at the right moment and not run off at the mouth, especially to someone she’d never laid eyes on before…

  ‘The steward will seat you, miss.’

  Dorian started. They had reached the boarding stairs; her escort was smiling politely as he stepped away from her.

  ‘Have a pleasant trip, Miss Oliver,’ he said.

  She nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, thanks very much.’

  The steward greeted her pleasantly. ‘Your Press pass, please,’ he said, and she handed it over, still half expecting a hand to fall on her shoulder.

  But none did. The steward gave her an empty, mechanical smile, handed back the pass, and suggested that she might find a vacant seat back in the last few rows.

  Dorian nodded. ‘Thanks,’ she said, and she set off down the narrow aisle, making her way carefully over outstretched feet and overstuffed shoulder bags that had pushed their way out from beneath the seats under which they’d been stored, saying hello to the few reporters she knew, trying not to gape at the famous faces interspersed in the crowd.

  ‘Hey, Oliver,’ a voice called out. ‘Here’s a seat, lover, you can sit on my lap.’

  Dorian looked at the man from the Mirror. ‘No, thanks,’ she said sweetly, without missing a beat, ‘I’d just as soon not share it with your belly,’ and everybody chuckled.

  ‘Oliver. Hey, Oliver. How come they hold the plane for good-lookin’ broads?’

  ‘Because bald guys aren’t “in” this year,’ she said airily, and there was more good-natured laughter all around.

  Her sense of elation had returned by the time she settled into a seat. It felt wonderful to be among these people, to be on assignment along with the best her profession had to offer. As for the bantering, Dorian had grown used to it a long time ago, and she understood it, too.

  Journalists—except for fools like her editor—didn’t care if you looked like Quasimodo or Marilyn Monroe, so long as you got the job done. But journalism had always been a male-dominated profession. And, because of that, there were still certain rites of passage you had to endure before being accepted into its ranks.

  Learning to trade one-liners, for instance. The newer you were, the more you had to prove you could smile and deliver as good as you got. Dorian had honed her skills on her very first job, back in Buffalo, New York, and she was still pretty good—on her better days, anyway.

  She sighed as she tucked her bag beneath the seat. But this hadn’t been one of her better days. First Walt Hemple, that ass, had all but asked her to seduce Jack Alexander so that she could get WorldWeek an exclusive. And then the man in the sports car had come on to her with a line so polished that it had—that she had…

  There was no point in trying to pretend she hadn’t responded to him. She had, even if it had only 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.

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