Читать книгу A Bride For The Taking - Сандра Мартон, Sandra Marton - Страница 6

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.

She had a job to do, and—come hell or high water—she was going to do it well.

* * *

The flight seemed endless. Dorian picked at her dinner, passed on the game of pinochle that started across the aisle, and tried not to let the snoring of the man beside her drive her crazy.

What time was it, anyway? She had no idea. Her watch had stopped working, courtesy, no doubt, of its exposure to rain, and the steward had done a vanishing act. All she knew was that she’d been crammed into this narrow space long enough for her toes to have pins and needles in them, for the card game to have ended, and for silence to have finally descended like a curtain over the Press section.

But she was surprised when the seatbelt sign blinked on and she felt the plane tilt gently earthward. It was a nine-hour flight to Barovnia. Surely, they hadn’t been in the air that long?

The steward materialised out of nowhere, hurrying quickly up the aisle. Dorian leaned across the motionless hulk of the reporter asleep beside her and caught hold of the man’s sleeve.

‘Excuse me,’ she whispered. ‘Are we in Barovnia already?’

He shook his head. ‘No, miss, we’re not.’

‘But it feels as if we’re coming in for a landing.’

‘Yes. Mechanical troubles. Nothing to be alarmed about, though, I assure you. We’ll fix things up and—’

‘But where are we?’

Was it her imagination, or did he hesitate? ‘Somewhere in Yugoslavia, I believe.’

‘You believe? Don’t you know?’

‘I really can’t say any more, miss.’ He gestured towards the curtain that walled off the Barovnian delegation from the Press section. ‘Security, you know.’

Dorian sighed. ‘Once we’ve landed, can we at least get out and stretch our legs?’

‘Sorry. All passengers will have to stay on board.’

No, Dorian thought a little while later, not all passengers. It was the Press that had to keep to their cramped quarters while the plane was on the ground. The steward opened the front cabin door so that a fresh breeze drifted in, but the Barovnians—the bigwigs, Dorian’s seatmate called them when the gentle touchdown roused him from his sleep—were free to get out and move about. She could see them through the smudged windows, a little knot of men in dark business suits standing incongruously in the middle of nowhere, caught up in animated conversation witnessed only by the grey dawn and an airport hangar that had clearly seen better days.

Dorian frowned. What kind of place was this, anyway? The runway was all but deserted, save for a couple of small, light planes that stood off to the side, and it was badly in need of patching.

Whatever mechanical problems had brought them down must have been significant, otherwise why would the pilot have landed at such a desolate spot? And yet—her frown deepened. And yet, no mechanic had so much as come near them. Not even the pilot had emerged to take a look at his craft.

There was no one on the apron at all, except for that cluster of men in dark suits.

All Dorian’s instincts went on alert. Something was up, she was certain of it, and, whatever it was, the Barovnians were doing their damnedest to keep it from the planeful of reporters.

Dorian unbuckled her belt. The steward would have some answers, and, by heaven, if she couldn’t get them from him, she’d—she’d—

Suddenly, a man stepped from the shadow cast by the plane; he’d apparently just emerged from the cabin. He said nothing, did nothing, but at the sight of him the little knot of conferees fell silent, seemingly commanded by his presence.

Dorian’s brows rose. Well, she thought wryly, he was, indeed, an impressive sight. For one thing, he was dressed differently from the others. No dark business suit for him. He wore, instead, a white open-necked embroidered shirt of some silky-looking material, close-fitting black trousers, and knee-high black leather boots. An ancient leather jacket hung casually from his shoulder.

And he wore it all very well. He was tall and lean, with shoulders powerful enough to strain the seams of the shirt. He looked—he looked...

His face was in shadow, yet something about him reminded her of the man who’d rescued her from her broken-down taxi back in New York. No. It wasn’t possible. Her rescuer had been the epitome of sophisticated urbanity, but this man—this man was...

Dorian caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Masculine. Fierce. Sexy. He was all of that, but the only other word she could think of to describe him seemed far more accurate.

He was dangerous. A funny tingle danced along her spine; she thought, suddenly, of a story she’d done on a new exhibit at the Bronx Zoo—and of the magnificent black leopard that had been its centrepiece, a creature lithe and splendid in its beauty, yet frightening to look upon because there was no mistaking the tautly controlled power contained within its hard-muscled body.

Dorian went very still. The man was stepping forward, moving out of the plane’s shadow. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

He, and the man who’d driven her to the airport, were one.

She watched as the Dark Suits moved towards him. One of them spoke and the others nodded; there was a lot of gesturing, a lot of talking, and then he held up his hand, and they fell silent.

Dorian swung towards her seatmate, who had already laid back his head and closed his eyes, and jabbed him in the shoulder.

‘Who is that?’ she whispered.

‘I’m too tired for guessing-games, Oliver.’

‘Come on, take a look. Who’s that out there?’

He groaned as he hunched forward and peered past her. ‘The Barovnian Ambassador.’

Her heart sank. Dear lord, the man she’d insulted was the Ambassador. Well, she wasn’t really surprised. She had seen the deference in the other men’s behaviour. He had to be someone important—

‘Or do you mean the other guy, the chargé d’affaires? Or the chief legate to the UN? They’re all out there, Oliver, even a couple of Alexander’s American advisers,’ her seatmate said grumpily. ‘Which man are you talking about?’

‘That one,’ she said, twisting towards the window again. ‘The one wearing the riding boo...’ He was gone, vanished as if by magic. ‘He’s gone,’ Dorian said slowly.

The reporter beside her sighed. ‘Goodnight, Oliver. Wake me when we touch down in Barovnia.’

‘One last favour. Just tell me which man is Jack Alexander?’

Her seatmate yawned loudly. ‘You don’t really expect to find Alexander standing around out there?’ He yawned again and settled back in his seat. ‘Old Jaacov is tucked away in a private compartment up front, sleeping the sleep of the angels. Which is what I intend to do, Oliver. If you wake me again, it’d better be for a damned good reason.’

There already was a damned good reason for staying awake, Dorian thought. Mechanical troubles, the steward had said, but there still wasn’t a mechanic in sight—there was only that cluster of men, drawn tightly together, in what appeared to be deep conversation.

She stirred uneasily. Something was up, but whatever was happening, the reporters would be the last to know—unless they found out for themselves.

Her pulse thudded as she got to her feet. The cabin was in darkness, window shades pulled against the pale morning light. Everyone was asleep—at least, they seemed to be, and the steward was nowhere to be seen.

Still, she had to be careful.

She moved quietly, slipping towards the front of the cabin and the door that stood ajar. Her heels clinked lightly on the metal boarding stairs and she held her breath, waiting for someone to shout a warning. But the steward hadn’t heard her, and neither had the Dark Suits. They were on the opposite side of the plane—she could see them if she leaned out a little—and they were too caught up in conversation to notice anything else.

Dorian peered to where the ghostly hangar loomed against the lightening sky. Its door stood open. The interior was dark. The only thing she could see was the glint of metal and—and a figure, a tall figure wearing an embroidered white shirt.

She looked around quickly. No one had noticed her yet. There was an open stretch of ground between the plane and the hangar, but if she moved quickly enough... There was a story here, she was sure of it, something that would give her the angle she needed, that would separate her first dispatch from everyone else’s.

Besides, what was the absolute worst that could happen if she got caught? A dressing-down from someone in the Barovnian delegation? Hell, any reporter worth the name had lived through that and worse. You were supposed to go after stories aggressively, and if you stepped on toes while you did, well, that was just part of the game.

Still, her adrenalin was pumping as she slipped out from the shadow of the plane. The hangar suddenly seemed a million miles away; her breath was whistling in and out of her lungs by the time she reached it.

She stepped inside the door and flattened against the wall. Her eyes swept the cavernous space. Yes. There was a plane, a small, sleek jet. But the man she’d followed—he was nowhere to be seen.

The jet blocked her view of the rear of the hangar. He was probably back there somewhere. She’d just have to check.

Dorian swallowed. There was a sharply metallic taste in her mouth. It was fear, but there was nothing to be afraid of. After all, what could possibly—?

A sudden loud whine filled the hangar. She spun around, hand to her throat, and as she did the whining noise increased until it was a roar.

Dorian’s eyes widened. The plane—her plane—was—oh, God, it was moving. It was moving! It was racing down the runway and—

A hand, hard as steel, fell on her shoulder, the fingers biting sharply into her flesh.

‘What in hell are you doing here?’ a harsh, angry voice demanded.

She swung around again and stared into the furious face of the man she’d been following.

‘The—the plane,’ she stammered. ‘It’s leaving!’

His mouth curved downwards. ‘I asked you a question, Miss Oliver. What in God’s name are you doing here?’

Dorian shook her head. ‘Didn’t you hear me? Our plane—it’s taken off. It’s left us behind.’

He laughed coldly. ‘A brilliant assessment. I suppose these are the superb sorts of intellectual skills that make you the fine reporter you are.’

‘Dammit, don’t you understand?’ She twisted away from his hand. ‘The plane to Barovnia just took off.’

He looked at her for a long, silent moment, and then he nodded. ‘Yes.’ His tone was clipped. ‘It did exactly that.’

‘But—but how could it? How could that happen? Didn’t they know that we—?’

‘How did you get off that plane?’

‘The same way you did. I simply—’

She cried out as he caught hold of her again. ‘There’s nothing simple about it, Miss Oliver. You were told to stay on board.’

‘Let go of me. Do you hear me?’

‘You were given orders.’

‘I don’t take “orders”,’ Dorian said sharply.

His mouth thinned. ‘So it would seem.’

Dorian’s heart was slowing as things began to fall into place. There’d been a mistake, that was apparent. The plane had taken off without them, and if her absence hadn’t yet been noticed surely his would be. The plane would turn around and come back for them in just a few minutes.

‘Pretty sloppy security,’ she said smugly.

‘Yes.’ His voice was grim. ‘My thoughts precisely.’

‘I mean, if they didn’t notice that you were missing—’

‘Didn’t anyone try to stop you from leaving, Miss Oliver?’

‘It’s going to make a terrific story, though. “Two left behind at...”’ She cried out as his grasp tightened. ‘You’re hurting me!’

‘Two? Is that all your report will say? Just, “two”?’ He stepped closer to her and his voice became a purr. ‘No names, Miss Oliver?’

‘I don’t know your name,’ she said, gritting her teeth against the pressure of his hand. ‘And even if I did—’

‘Don’t you?’

‘I only know that you’ve been the perfect gentleman from the moment we met.’ She forced a cold smile to her lips. ‘Manhandling me in the car, manhandling me now—’

‘You’re lucky that’s all I’m doing.’ His face darkened. ‘Just why the hell did you follow me?’

‘I didn’t follow you. Not exactly. I just knew something was going on.’

His hand fell away from her. ‘Did you.’

His tone was flat, turning the question into a statement. Dorian felt a chill tiptoe up her spine. In the excitement, she’d almost forgotten why she’d come after him in the first place, her conviction that something was happening that no one was supposed to know about.

Now, the feeling returned. She’d been right; something was going on.

But what? And what part did this man have in it?

Her chin rose in defiance. ‘Yes,’ she said, bluffing, ‘and you might as well give me the details.’

He gave a short, sharp laugh. ‘An exclusive interview, is that it?’

‘Why not?’ Dorian looked outside. The sun had risen; the sky was a pale, cloudless blue. ‘We’ve plenty of time. The plane’s not in sight yet, and—’

He laughed again and put his hands on his hips. ‘Isn’t it?’ he said, as if she’d made some clever joke.

She hesitated. There was something in the way he was watching her that made her feel uneasy.

‘For a start, who are you, anyway?’

‘I thought you already had all the facts, Miss Oliver.’

‘I never said that.’ She trotted after him as he turned and began walking further into the hangar. ‘What I meant was that there was time for you to tell me—’

She gasped as he swung towards her and caught her by the wrist.

‘Exactly what do you know?’

‘What do I...?’

‘I’ve not time for games,’ he said brusquely. ‘Answer the question, dammit. What do you know?’

Dorian swallowed. ‘Well, well... I know that we didn’t really have mechanical problems.’

‘And?’

‘And—and...’

She fell silent. He stared at her for a long moment, and then he laughed.

‘I should have known it was a bluff.’ He let go of her and turned away. ‘The answer’s no,’ he called over his shoulder.

‘No?’ What did that mean?

He stopped alongside the plane and ran his hand lightly along the burnished silver fuselage. ‘No, I will not give you an interview.’

‘But we have time before the plane comes back for us,’ she said when she reached him.

He stepped to the wing and peered upwards. ‘They won’t.’

‘Who won’t?’ Dorian ducked beneath the wing and scrambled after him. ‘For goodness’ sake, Mr—Mr whatever your name is, can’t you speak in whole sentences? Who won’t do what?’

He took his time, patting the silver skin as if the plane were a live creature, and then, at last, he turned to her.

‘My name,’ he said coldly, ‘is Prince. Jake Prince.’ He folded his arms across his chest. ‘And what they won’t do, Miss Oliver, is turn that plane around and come back for us.’

Dorian laughed. ‘Oh, but they must. They can’t just—’

‘They can and will.’ His voice was grim. ‘The plane will go straight on to Barovnia.’ He glanced at the little jet. ‘And so will I.’

‘In that, you mean? But I don’t understand.’

‘Then let me clarify things,’ he said, his eyes never leaving her face. ‘And let me do it in whole sentences, just so we’re both certain you get the message.’

Dorian’s cheeks reddened. ‘I didn’t mean—’

‘Your colleagues—the ones who had brains enough to stay on board that plane—will land in Barovnia in a couple of hours.’ He stepped beneath the jet, bent down, and removed the locking pins from the landing gear. ‘It may take me a little longer,’ he said, frowning as he walked slowly around the plane and scanned it, ‘but I’ll be there in plenty of time for a late breakfast.’

She stared at him. ‘But—but what about me?’

He turned and looked at her. ‘What about you?’

‘You’re not...’ She took a deep breath. ‘You’re not thinking of leaving me here. You wouldn’t do that, would you?’

‘Wouldn’t I?’ He gave her a quick, wolfish smile. ‘Have I mentioned that I’m of Barovnian ancestry, Miss Oliver?’

‘No, you haven’t. But what’s that got to do with—?’

‘I was born in that “primitive little country” you hold in so much contempt.’

Dorian paled. ‘Look, just because I said some things—’

‘Which makes me a barbarian. Wasn’t that what we agreed?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘No, we didn’t. It was you who said that. I never—’

‘Reporters,’ he said, his mouth twisting as if the word were bitter on his tongue. ‘You’re all alike—you think you can stick your noses in where they don’t belong and never pay the consequences.’

Dorian drew in her breath. ‘Look,’ she began, ‘I’m only doing my job. Your people invited the Press to come along on this junket. If you wanted to keep things from us, you—’

‘And there’s another thing. I did not manhandle you.’

‘Mr Prince—’

‘Not that I didn’t come damned close.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

He moved quickly, like the panther of which he’d reminded her. He was next to her before she could react, his hands on her shoulders as he drew her to him. ‘This is what I did,’ he said, and his mouth dropped to hers in a quick, almost savage kiss. It lasted only an instant, and then he stepped back and gave her another of those cold, terrible smiles. ‘Now,’ he said softly, ‘do we understand each other?’

‘You’re despicable,’ she whispered. ‘You’re—you’re...’

He laughed when she sputtered to silence.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve run out of adjectives, kitten. Where’s the journalistic skill you’re so proud of?’

Her eyes flashed with indignation. ‘Don’t you dare call me that again, dammit!’

‘If you don’t want to rot in this God-forsaken place,’ he said briskly, as he turned away, ‘you’d better get a move on. I want to be airborne in five minutes.’

‘You’re the most—the most horrible...’ She caught her breath. You’d better get a move on. She touched the tip of her tongue to her lips. ‘You’ll—you’ll take me with you?’

He turned, his hands on his hips. ‘Tell me how to avoid it,’ he said unpleasantly, ‘and I’ll be happy to oblige.’

Dorian nodded, trying not to let herself look as surprised—and relieved—as she felt.

‘You’re quite right. Deserting me here would only be bad publicity for—’

She gasped as he caught hold of her wrist. ‘Just remember something. This is no cushy chartered flight.’

‘Let go of me, please.’

‘And I am not a steward, or one of your fellow reporters.’ His eyes swept across her face. ‘It would be a waste of time to try using that pretty face to get what you want, Miss Oliver. I’m not about to fall for the same nonsense you use on everybody else.’

‘I get the message,’ she said stiffly. ‘Now, if you’d let go—’

‘Just remember something. Once you set foot in that plane, you’re nothing but an unwelcome passenger.’