Читать книгу Bought by the Rich Man - Jane Porter - Страница 9

CHAPTER THREE

CRISTIANO SENT SAM home in a taxi and traveling back home, she glanced at her watch constantly. Two minutes later, five minutes, eight.

She felt obsessed with time. Driven by time. It was a quarter to noon now. Cristiano had said the car for her would arrive at four, which meant she now had less than four hours to pack and arrange her life, less than four hours to say her goodbyes. Which really meant saying goodbye to Gabby. Four hours to say goodbye after four years of being together…

Sam couldn’t fathom it, couldn’t get her head around it. The situation boggled her mind, not because Johann had gambled and lost his entire fortune, but the fact that she’d been dragged into this. Johann and Cristiano’s gambling had nothing to do with her, or Gabriela. If they wanted to gamble, let them live with the consequences. She and Gabriela shouldn’t have to suffer for their poor decisions.

And Gabriela would suffer if Sam left her. Gabby wasn’t even five, and yet how many homes had she known? How many different guardians and adults had drifted in and out of her life? How many had actually helped her? Considered her needs before their own? How many had given love?

Love, Sam silently repeated, stepping from the taxi, there was a concept. But it was love Gabby needed, not things. Love, not money. Love, not power or control or whatever it was men seemed to think made the world go round.

And facing the tired villa in need of repairs and refurbishment, Sam knew what she needed to do. She needed to take Gabriela away from here, far from the brittle glamour of Monte Carlo, the selfish, greedy games Johann and Cristiano had played, the shallowness of people who cared more for money than a child. She’d been pushed too far this time.

Johann was wrong and so was Cristiano. Sam refused to let Gabby be hurt yet again. Once Sam knew what she needed to do, she also knew where she’d go. The moment Gabby came home from school they’d be gone.

Upstairs, Sam checked the bedrooms and discovering Johann still passed out facedown on his bed, she quickly packed, knowing they didn’t need much for their trip—clothes, yes, and Gabby’s favorite toys but there weren’t many toys, there hadn’t been money for toys in the past year.

Quietly Sam opened the drawers in Gabriela’s dresser, scooped up the small shirts and skirts, tucking them into the smaller of the two suitcases Sam had brought with her from her last job in Seattle.

Then Sam went to her room—she and Johann had never shared a bedroom—and packed her own suitcase. It would be cold in England this time of year, far colder than it was in Monaco and the south of France, but it would be safe. Cristiano wouldn’t know to look for them there.

Suitcases packed, Sam double-checked that she’d put all her documents in her purse, their passports and the other things she’d need once they reached England, then called a taxi.

Inside the door to Gabriela’s bedroom, Sam paused, glanced one last time around the room that had been a nursery when Sam had arrived three and a half years ago.

The room was still pale green and white, a scheme that should have been garden fresh but just looked severe thanks to Johann selling the carpet, furniture and artwork out from beneath everyone’s feet whenever money grew tight. And with Johann’s gambling problem money always grew tight.

But now Johann and his problems would soon be behind them. In less than an hour she and Gabby would be on their way to a new life far from Johann’s drinking, indifference and abuse.

By the time Sam had finished packing, it was time to meet Gabby. On her way out the front door, Sam set their two suitcases just inside the door, ready to be carried to the taxi the moment it arrived.

Sam spotted Gabby as the little girl skipped down the school’s front steps and Sam lifted a hand in a wave. Gabby waved back eagerly. Bless the child. What a love she was. In all her years Sam had never met anyone—child or adult—so ready to love, and be loved. Gabby’s heart was pure gold.

Gabby burst through the school gate, threw herself at Sam’s knees.

“How was your day, my pet?” Sam asked, hugging her.

“Very good. But I forgot I had sharing today. I didn’t take anything.” Gabby’s eyes, a lovely green-gold, darkened briefly with emotion before brightening. “But then Mademoiselle said we could tell a story, and I told a very funny story about a mouse that lived in Daddy’s pocket and the adventures the mouse has at Le Casino.”

Sam blanched, set Gabby on her feet. “You told a story about your papa at the casino?”

“No, Sam, not Papa, but the mouse in Papa’s pocket.”

“And did the mouse stay in your papa’s pocket?”

“No. He played cards with Papa at the casino. But he was a very clever little mouse and he didn’t lose. Not like Papa. And everyone wanted the mouse because the mouse won so much money he bought us a big new house and a car just for you and me so we could go driving whenever we want.” Gabby took a breath and beamed up at Sam. “Isn’t that a good story?”

Sam felt sick inside. “You are a very clever girl, Gabriela Grace, but you know that, don’t you?”

Gabby just laughed, and they walked hand in hand back to the villa, but the closer they came to the villa, the more Sam worried. How was she going to break the news to Gabby that they were leaving? How was she going to tell her they were going to live apart from Johann in a country Gabby had never even been to?

Oh God, none of this was easy.

And reaching the old town villa not far from the Place de Casino, it only got harder, as parked in front of the villa was Cristiano’s red sports car.

Cristiano, dressed in the same black slacks and thin cashmere sweater he’d worn earlier, appeared as they entered the house. “Good afternoon, Baroness.”

Gabby looked at him, not at all shy. “Who are you?”

Sam struggled to think of an answer and it was Cristiano who smoothly replied, “A friend of the family’s.” He extended his hand to Gabriela. “I’m Cristiano Bartolo. What’s your name?”

“Gabriela Grace van Bergen.”

“A big name,” he said dryly.

“I’m a big girl,” she answered smartly.

Cristiano’s smile turned wry. “Out of the mouth of babes.” He turned to Sam. “I see you’ve packed.”

Again her heart sank. “Yes, but I—”

“Is Papa here?” Gabby interrupted, tugging on Sam’s hand.

“He’s upstairs sleeping,” she answered woodenly, as Gabby dropped her hand and charged up the stairs. How could Cristiano persist with this? Maybe he wasn’t a gentleman, and maybe he wasn’t merciful, but cruel?

With Gabby gone, Sam took a step toward Cristiano, dropping her voice. “You can’t do this to her. Please think it through, please try to see it from her perspective. I’m the closest thing to a mother she knows.”

Suddenly Gabby was running down the stairs again, her long dark braids flying. “Sam, Sam! Papa’s gone. He’s not in his room. He’s not even here.”

Sam wasn’t sure if she felt fear or relief. Unbuttoning her coat she faced the stairs where Gabby was charging down. “Maybe he went for a walk.”

“No, Sam, he’s gone. His clothes, his coat, everything’s gone.” Gabby jumped down the last three steps, going forward to her knees before catching herself with her hands. She righted herself, stood. “He must have gone on a trip without us.”

Relief, fear, hope, panic—they pummeled Sam one by one. If Johann was gone, then Sam couldn’t leave Gabby behind. But if Johann was gone, and Cristiano didn’t want Gabby, then Gabby would be placed in government care until Johann was found.

Stricken, Sam looked up, straight into Cristiano’s face. This was his fault, Cristiano Bartolo’s fault. He was the devil himself, smiling, playing cards, buying drinks for Johann. Sam knew he’d deliberately gotten Johann drunk, too, upped the stakes, challenged Johann, pushing him out of his comfort zone until Johann was playing over his head.

But then, Johann always played over his head.

Sam couldn’t look away from Cristiano’s hard impassive features. He looked perfectly neutral, even indifferent. And she may have disliked him before, but she hated him now. Hated his confidence, his arrogance, the power he thought he had over them.

“Isn’t that amazing,” she spit contemptuously. “You sit down to play cards and next thing you know, you’ve inherited someone’s family.”

He said nothing, just looked at her with his hazel eyes, so focused, so alert, so watchful.

“It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense!” Sam crossed her arms over her chest, knuckles pressed to her ribs. “What do you want with us?”

“Maybe I’m a generous man with a sympathetic heart.”

“Heart?” Sam heard the word burst from her lips, cold, icy. “No, I don’t think that’s it at all. There’s something else happening here, something far more—” She broke off, bit back the word that crowded her mind. She couldn’t say sinister in front of Gabby, couldn’t alarm Gabby. Instead she shook her head, swallowed her fury and fear and reaching out, placed her hand protectively on the top of Gabby’s head.

“I’m going to go upstairs,” she said more calmly. “Check and see if Johann left me a note. I’m sure he did. I’m sure he’ll have us join him as soon as he reaches wherever he’s gone.”

Cristiano’s eyebrows lifted. “If you think so.”

“I think so,” she snapped, but of course she didn’t think anything of the sort. She wouldn’t be surprised if Johann had just fled. It was in his nature to run from problems.

Cristiano pursed his lips but held his tongue. He didn’t think Johann was coming back. Not now. Not ever.

Sam hurried up the stairs with Gabby scampering at her side. Johann’s room was dark and empty. Sam opened the closet, the four wide bureau drawers, and finally the small drawer in the night table but everything was empty save for a drawing Gabby had made him lying in the middle dresser drawer.

Sam took the crayon drawing out, looked at the picture which was one of the childish drawings where everyone is a stick figure either wearing a triangle dress or rectangle pants. The picture was meant to be Johann, Sam and Gabby all down at the beach, as if that was the way they were. A family.

They were no family. They’d never been a family, despite Sam’s best efforts.

Sam didn’t hear Cristiano come up behind her and when he spoke she jumped. “That’s a lovely picture of the van Bergens on holiday,” he said.

Eyes burning, face flushed, Sam quickly folded the picture and put it in the pocket of her lavender cardigan. It was that or cry, and she wouldn’t cry, hated crying, having spent far too many years as a little girl in tears. If she’d learned anything, it was to present a confident face to the world. No one needed to know what she was thinking, or feeling. No one needed to know the truth. “Gabby’s a very talented artist.”

“And optimistic,” he added mockingly.

She was just turning to walk out when she spotted an envelope on the bed, propped against Johann’s pillow. Her name was written on the envelope.

Her hand shook ever so slightly as she ripped the envelope open and shook the papers out. Birth certificate, and a paper-clipped set of legal documents slid out. The birth certificate and papers were Gabriela’s.

He was leaving her, Sam thought, suppressing horror even as it mixed with hope.

She unfolded the note, read Johann’s wildly slanted scrawl.

Sam, I’m finished, gone, going home to Vienna. I thought together we had a good chance to beat Bartolo, but the game’s up. Bartolo plays to win, and he’s won. If it’s any consolation, Gabby’s yours. You know better what to do with her than me. I’ve lost it all now. Best of luck. You’ll need it. Johann van Bergen.

“What is that?” Cristiano asked.

A miracle, Sam thought, heart racing, eyes stinging. She blinked, turned the note around, held it up for him to see. “Read it.”

He did, then silently handed it back.

“She’s mine.” Sam said quietly, fiercely, heart so full of emotion she wasn’t even thinking. Just feeling. Gabby, gorgeous little Gabby was finally safe, finally hers, finally out of harm’s way.

All these years…

All the worrying, the struggling, the praying. She’d prayed for a miracle and she’d finally got one.

Gabby was hers. Johann had left and left Gabriela Grace to Sam.

“So what happens now, Mr. Bartolo?” she asked, knowing this had to change things, knowing he couldn’t possibly take both of them. It made no sense. He wouldn’t want them both. Obviously other plans had to be made.

He shrugged. “We have tea.”

“Now?”

“Then we’ll get you settled at the Hotel de Paris until we make more permanent arrangements.”

“So Gabby goes with me?”

His eyes narrowed fractionally. “For now.”

Sam shot Gabby a protective glance but the little girl had left the room, wandering down to her own bedroom. “She’s mine.” Sam’s voice dropped, her inflection hard, flinty. “We stay together. Like it or not.”

They had tea at the Hotel de Paris restaurant, Cote Jardin, a virtual indoor garden and terrace with a spectacular view of the harbor.

The service wasn’t slow, but for Sam every moment felt endless. It didn’t help, either, that their meal was interrupted repeatedly by strangers who stopped at their table to wish Cristiano well.

Although polite, Cristiano didn’t encourage conversation and when the strangers moved on, didn’t explain what he’d done to earn such enthusiastic well wishes. But after the last couple moved on, Sam wanted to know more.

“So you live here in Monaco?” she asked, stirring milk into her tea.

“I have a penthouse here, yes.”

“But this isn’t your primary home?”

The corner of his mouth curled. “I split my time evenly among my different residences.”

She glanced at Gabby who was glued to the window watching the boats enter and leave the harbor. “How many residences?”

His smile deepened. “Enough that I never get bored.”

Sam set her spoon in the saucer with an irritated clink. “Do you enjoy being enigmatic?”

“Not at all. I don’t know what you want to know.”

“I want to know everything.”

“Everything?”

He was smiling again and she didn’t understand it. Everything she said seemed to make him smile. How could she possibly be so amusing? “Yes, everything. I want to know where you live. I want to know what you do. I want to know who you are, how you spend your free time, the kind of friends you have.”

“A character assessment.”

“Yes.”

He shrugged, leaned back in his chair, the sunlight playing across his features, intensifying the green in his hazel eyes. “I can’t do that for you. You’ll have to use your own judgment regarding my character, but I can tell you basic things. I live here and on the Côte d’Azur. I have a home in Brazil on the coast but I don’t go there often anymore. I have my own company. I’m successful and financially solvent. Is that what you want to know?”

No. That wasn’t what she wanted to know. She didn’t care about his things, she wasn’t the least bit materialistic, and it annoyed her how easily people were impressed by money.

Money was useful, bought things, made certain decisions easier—even more convenient—but money as an end to a means? No. Never. Money ruined people. Changed everything. Sam didn’t know if it was greed or a weakness in human nature, but too many people respected—admired—the wealthy simply because they were wealthy and had fatter bank accounts. But fat bank accounts don’t make a person interesting and fat bank accounts don’t make a person kind, considerate—valuable.

Sam glanced at Gabriela who was now talking to the waitress and pointing out something she’d seen in the harbor. “It’s not your bank account that interests me, Mr. Bartolo, it’s your heart. And that’s what worries me. I don’t know if you have one.”

“I don’t know, either,” he agreed mockingly. “But hearts are overrated. Far better to be coldly pragmatic, to do what needs to be done, rather than what one feels like doing.”

Sam’s head shot up. “And what does that mean?”

“You feel attached to Gabby, so you’ve laid claim to her, but think about it: you’ve no legal claim to her, no biological tie—”

“Johann wants me to raise her.”

“Does that make it right?”

“Yes.”

“What about her mother’s family? Wouldn’t a blood relative be better than a stepmother?”

“Love isn’t about biological ties.”

“No?”

“No.” Sam stared at him, hating him. He had a beautiful face, a face of a fallen angel, and yet his heart was so black and selfish. “I love Gabriela and she loves me. Love is a gift. You can’t buy it, win it, or barter it. I wouldn’t trade her love for anything in the world.”

“Not even three million pounds?”

“Are you trying to be funny? Because I find that rather insensitive considering our situation.”

Cristiano’s hazel eyes narrowed, lashes dropping, concealing his expression but from the tilt of his lips she could see he was amused. “You know, Baroness, there are many funny people in England. The greatest comics are all British and I’ve watched every Monty Python movie that exists. But you, sadly, lack a sense of humor.”

“What about our situation do you find amusing?” She demanded tersely, refusing to acknowledge that he’d hit a sore spot. She’d never been able to laugh at herself. There hadn’t been a lot of fun in her life growing up, or many occasions to tease and play. Life for an orphan was serious. “Our lives are changed forever and you’re making jokes!”

“Not all change is bad, Baroness.”

“In this case it is.” Sam clasped her hands together in an effort to stay calm. “Please don’t move us from the villa. Please don’t take Gabby from the only home she knows.”

“It’s not much of a home.”

Sam’s cheeks burned, her temper spiking. “That’s not the point.”

Cristiano looked at her, long and level. “Then perhaps it should be.” Abruptly he signaled to the passing maître d’hôtel that he wanted the bill. “Let me see you to my suite and then I’ll work on locating Johann.”

Still feeling feverish, her gaze met his. “And just what do you intend to do with a woman and her little girl? Use us as a tax write-up? Fight some archaic inheritance law?”

“I think you’re actually trying to be funny.” He dropped cash on the table and stood. “Shall we go?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I don’t think I have to.”

She wasn’t going to budge, wouldn’t leave until he gave her a straight answer. She was sick of being pushed and pulled and jerked around. “What are you going to do with us?” she repeated in a low, unrelenting voice.

He stood over her, gazed down at her. “I’m going to find Johann—”

“Why?”

“I want to make sure everything’s legitimate.”

“He gave me her papers, wrote a note—”

“And I can’t help wondering if it’s all legal? Can one just really give away a child like that?” Cristiano’s brow creased, his eyes narrowed. “First he tries to gamble Gabby, and then he abandons her. Seems highly suspect if you ask me.”

His answer stayed with Sam, haunted Sam as he led them to the elevator that whisked them to his hotel suite.

It didn’t matter what Cristiano found out. She wouldn’t give Gabby back to Johann. She wouldn’t give Gabby to anyone. Gabby was hers. She needed someone who loved her. Period.

Cristiano gave them a brief tour of the suite, pointing out the two bedrooms with ensuite baths, the sitting room connecting the two bedrooms, the small bar and refrigerator in the sitting room where they’d find cold drinks and other refreshments. “You’ll be comfortable here,” he said, with a glance at his watch. “Watch movies, television, whatever you like while I return a few phone calls. Once I’m off the phone we’ll proceed from there.”

Sam watched as he shut his bedroom door and then without even hesitating, she went to the second bedroom where their suitcases had been delivered and then with suitcases in hand, hustled Gabby to the elevator.

Taxis were already lined up in front of the hotel and it took just minutes to be seated and off. And yet despite their quick departure, Sam still held her breath much of the trip to the Nice airport. It was essential they catch the next British Airways flight to London-Heathrow, and from there they’d connect to Manchester.

In the back of the taxi, Sam wrapped her arm more snugly around Gabby.

Hard to believe they were running away like this.

Even harder to believe she was really going back.

It had been eight years since she’d left Cheshire, eight years since she’d fled the Rookery determined to never return.

But what was the old expression? Desperate times called for desperate measures? Well, Sam was nothing if not desperate now.

They didn’t reach Chester until very late that night. The taxi driver had tried to discourage them from traveling so late from Manchester to Chester, but Sam insisted. She didn’t have enough money for a taxi ride and hotel. They had to go to Chester. They had nowhere to sleep.

“Your address,” the taxi driver said as they approached Chester’s city limits. “It’s not in town, is it?”

“No. It’s actually closer to the village of Upton. It’s called the Rookery.”

Sam saw the driver look into the rearview mirror, his eyes briefly meeting hers. “Isn’t that the orphanage?”

“Yes.”

“Right,” the driver said more kindly. “I know the place.”

Fifteen minutes later, the driver took a left at a lane cut between two dark overgrown hedges. It was a long private driveway and everything gave an impression of neglect with tall, dead straggly weeds lining the dirt road while the road itself was muddy and full of potholes.

The whole area looked terribly forlorn and unkempt, but as the car headlights shone on the Rookery at the end of the driveway, the neglect was even more apparent.

The Rookery’s main hall dated back to the late seventeenth century, but through time and need, rooms and wings had been added to the original stone keep. Tonight the Rookery was dark, and the bright car beams bounced off the leaded windows on the second and third floors, while the first floor windows were all boarded over.

The taxi driver parked, but left the engine running. “It’s vacant,” he said.

Indeed, it was. No cars, no lights, no people, no sign of life anywhere.

“Were you expected?” he persisted.

Sam slowly shook her head, unable to find her voice. She’d counted on the Rookery, counted on Mrs. Bishop, the head housekeeper, and Mr. Carlton, the groundskeeper. She was certain they’d still be here. They’d been here forever. The Rookery was their home.

“Did you use to live here?” the driver asked, squinting up through his windshield to get a look at the rampart high above. It was the only feature of the old keep that remained. The rest had been softened and changed in renovations.

“Yes.”

It was all Sam could say. It was impossible to say more. If Charles had lived, things would have been different, of course, but Charles hadn’t lived and now the Rookery was closed, and she and Gabby had no money and nowhere to go.

Which meant they’d stay here. She’d find a way in, or better yet, try to break into the gamekeeper’s cottage to the far left of the old hall.

“So where can I take you?” The driver asked. “Into Chester? There’s some decent hotels and inns in town.”

Sam shook her head, opened the car door. “No, thank you. We’ll be staying here.”

The driver shook his head, obviously not pleased with her decision, but unwilling to intervene. He accepted his payment and drove away and as the taxi disappeared down the driveway, and Gabby shivered next to her, Sam realized just how late, and cold, and dark it was.

She’d made a mistake coming here. She should have gone with the taxi while they could.

But it was too late for regrets or remorse. They needed to get inside the gamekeeper’s cottage and once inside, Sam would build a fire and they’d be warm.

The old stone cottage was tucked to the left of the Rookery, and although small, contained two bedrooms, a simple kitchen and a great room with a large stone hearth. Sam knew it would be chilly inside the cottage—dark, too, because obviously there wasn’t even electricity anymore—but surely there’d be candles or lanterns, something to provide light.

Standing on tiptoe, Sam reached above the door, felt for a key not expecting to find one, and yet to her surprise, her fingers brushed cold metal. Thank God. The cottage key’s hiding place had at least remained the same. Sliding the key off the door frame, Sam tried the dead bolt and it turned.

“We’re in,” Sam said, forcing cheer into her voice. “Let’s see if I can’t make us a proper fire now.”

Nearly two hours later Sam was still trying to make a fire—she couldn’t find matches in the dark, couldn’t find anything to give her light—but thankfully Gabriela had fallen asleep on the old feather-stuffed couch, wrapped in thick blankets. At least Gabby was warm, Sam thought with a sigh as she sat back on her heels.

She was still contemplating the cold black hearth when she heard the purr of a motor outside, and then saw the wide arc of headlights flash through the dark cottage’s unshuttered windows.

Someone was here.

But Sam felt anything other than relief as she heard the car come to a stop, the headlights shining directly on the small neglected cottage. This wasn’t the taxi driver returning to check on them. And no one knew they were coming here.

Nervous, Sam went to the window overlooking the driveway. The car out front was a large sedan, a dark colored Mercedes. None of the locals who’d worked at the orphanage would drive a Mercedes, and to reach the Rookery, one had to drive a good quarter of a mile off the main road. Besides, it was late now, close to midnight.

Sam’s fingers curled into her palms. This was no accidental call. Heart in her mouth she watched the door on the driver’s side swing open. Cristiano Bartolo stepped out.

Sam stared at his tall shadowy figure in disbelief. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible. Despite the distance, the flights, the taxis and the borders, he’d found them already. It’d taken him just hours.