Taken by the Highest Bidder

Cristiano somehow knew how to put her at ease. It was just the way he talked to her, looked at her, smiled at her. Even from the beginning he’d made her feel special, different, and now after thirty-six hours alone in a hotel room with him, she felt even better.

She smiled shyly at him, the bar’s great chandeliers splashing light here and there like a glittering ball gown. He was, she thought, smiling even bigger, perfect for her, too. Not because he was rich, or famous, or even heartbreakingly gorgeous, but because he treated her so well and he made her feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.

And no one, not even dear good Charles, had ever made her feel beautiful.

Kind, yes. Patient, yes. Gentle, yes. But sexy? Interesting? Fun?

Cristiano reached across the table, ran his thumb along the curve of her lips. “You’re smiling.”

“I know.” And she could even feel her eyes smile. “I’m just so happy.”

For a moment he said nothing and then he said in a surprisingly husky voice. “You should always be happy. You deserve to be happy.”

With two hours still before their dinner reservations Cristiano slid his arm around Sam and they went for a leisurely walk through the Hermitage’s Italian loggia, and then on to the Hotel de Paris where they were to have dinner later at the famous Le Louis XV.

Le Louis XV was the most prestigious restaurant in the city. Between Alain Ducasse’s superb menu and the restaurant’s opulent golden interior, it was impossible to dine at Louis XV and not be dazzled.

As they were escorted to their table at ten, Sam noted that the restaurant was packed, every table full, and there were dozens of chic people still hoping to get lucky and get a reservation for the night.

Dinner was lovely, Cristiano couldn’t have been more attentive and after they’d finished their meal, they shared the restaurant’s classic dessert, Crepes Suzette which had been created nearly a hundred years earlier for Edward VII, the then Prince of Wales, and his mistress.

On their way out, several people stopped Cristiano to congratulate him and or wish him well. By the time they escaped the restaurant and stepped outside, Sam marveled at Cristiano’s patience with the interruptions. He was obviously used to being a public figure. It was new for her, and frankly uncomfortable, but she admired the way he handled himself—cordial, sincere, even if not particularly loquacious.

Back in their suite at the Hermitage, they made love slowly taking time to build the pleasure and tension, and after they reached orgasm, Cristiano drifted off to sleep, his arm wrapped protectively around Sam. And even though Sam was tired, and not surprisingly, sore, she couldn’t sleep.

She was too warm on the inside. Too full of thoughts and memories. Memories of her life before Cristiano and it stunned her, how much he’d changed her life in less than four weeks.

She’d fallen for him so hard. And already she trusted him so much, depending on him for a dozen things she’d never depended on anyone for. At least not since her parents died.

She felt a niggle of alarm. Everything was too good, too happy, too lovely. This couldn’t be real. Happiness like this never lasted. It was romance—passion—maybe just plain old lust, but it wasn’t love. Couldn’t be love. She didn’t know Cristiano well enough, or long enough. Their attraction was chemistry and sex, very good sex, but wasn’t that all it was?

No. This wasn’t sex. She knew it wasn’t just sex. She admired Cristiano, had only fallen for him after she’d seen how he interacted with Gabriela. She loved his strength and patience with his sister, loved his determination to take care of her and protect her.

And that was why she was afraid. Because all the good feelings, all her tenderness and love made her realize how starved she’d been for love.

Scarcity.

Lying close to Cristiano, Samantha admitted how empty she’d been, how hopeless she’d become. Looking back on the past eight years she could have been a feudal peasant during a time of plague or famine. She keenly felt the lack of all she’d been deprived of.

It wasn’t that she wanted to feel sorry for herself. She was grateful for Charles. Charles had been wonderful, so kind, so caring—generous to a fault—for wasn’t it his generosity that put him in danger?