A Bride for the Taking

The phone shrilled, and she snatched at it.

‘New York’s burning up with rumours, Blondie,’ Walt said without preamble. She knew he was trying to talk fast enough to elude whoever might be monitoring the call. ‘You should hear the stories going around about you and Alexander.’

Dorian closed her eyes. ‘I can imagine.’

‘Nope.’ Walt chuckled. ‘You can’t. Some of them are pretty creative.’

‘Why do I get the feeling you’re not doing anything to stop them?’

He laughed. ‘Hey, it’s all free publicity, right? We’re gonna outsell Time and Newsweek combined.’

‘Walt?’ She took a breath. ‘I was thinking. Why don’t I head back to New York tomorrow?’

‘Now, Blondie, we’ve been through this. You hang in there until we see if the abdhan kicks the bucket.’

‘But why? It won’t change anything.’

‘Of course it will. If your travelling companion becomes abdhan, your story will have even more kick.’

‘I really don’t see—’

‘What’s going on there, Oliver?’ Walt’s voice grew suspicious. ‘You thinking of doing a deal with somebody else?’

‘No. No, it’s nothing like that. I just—’

‘Good. Because you work for WorldWeek. You just remember that.’

‘Walt.’ Dorian stared at the receiver. ‘Walt?’

The phone was dead. She sighed as she hung it up and then she rose slowly and walked to the balcony again.

All right. She could survive another few days. Maybe she’d start getting her notes together. Actually, there was nothing to stop her from starting the article now, while she cooled her heels in Kadar.

Her mouth hardened. Just wait until the world read the truth about Jaacov Alexandrei, who treated women like property, who took what he wanted and to hell with anyone else…

Who’d held her in his arms when she needed comforting, who’d made her cry out his name over and over during their long night together…

Dorian began to tremble. And all along, all along, the son of a bitch had been engaged to be married; he’d had a bride waiting for him in Kadar—one of his choosing, not simply one for the taking.

If only she hadn’t seen Jake slip away from that charter flight! If only she hadn’t followed him! She would have missed this story and what it was going to do for her career, but that would have been better than this, better than the pain that kept knifing through her heart…

A sob burst from her throat. Who was she kidding? She’d cried that first night and every night since, and, no matter how she concentrated on hating Jake, she couldn’t stop wanting him.

She spun away from the balcony, hurried into the bedroom, and threw open the wardrobe door. Her career was important, but not as important as her sanity. She had to get control of her life again, and she could not do that here, in a place where Jake Prince was Emperor of the World. She was going back to New York, where she belonged, and if Walt Hemple didn’t like it he could just go to hell.

* * *

It turned out to be easy to slip out of the hotel unnoticed. Her fellow journalists had turned the café into a clubhouse, which meant that the lobby was deserted when Dorian stepped from the lift. The taxi she’d called was waiting just outside.

‘The airport, please.’

‘Airport, da,’ the driver said, and with the careless disregard for speed limits of taxi drivers everywhere he wove through the quiet streets of the city, on to the one main highway, and delivered her with more than an hour to spare before the late-night flight to New York.

She began to feel better as soon as she entered the terminal. She would be home soon, among all the things that were familiar, and what had happened to her in this country would be nothing but a memory.

Her steps faltered as she approached the ticket counter. Jake would be a memory, too. How long would it take to purge her thoughts of him? A month? A year?

A lifetime…

‘Bobska?’

She looked up, startled. The ticket clerk was smiling pleasantly. Dorian smiled in return.

‘Sorry. One-way to New York.’ Dorian pushed her credit card across the counter. ‘Charge it, please.’

‘You have luggage, miss?’

‘No. Just a bag.’

‘Passport?’

Dorian nodded. ‘Yes. Here it is.’

The woman took the little blue booklet and opened it. Her face creased in a frown. After a moment Dorian cleared her throat.

‘Is there a problem?’

The clerk looked up. ‘Is no entry stamp, miss.’

‘No entry…’ Dorian blew out her breath. How could there be an entry stamp, when she had not entered the country through Customs? ‘No,’ she said, ‘no, there isn’t. But I came in legally, I assure you.’

The clerk frowned again. ‘Must be stamp, miss.’

‘I didn’t come in the usual way. I—I…’ She bit down on her lip. How could she explain? Someone had done a rough translation of the local Press’s coverage of Jake’s unorthodox entry into Barovnia; she had not been mentioned. The clerk’s English was limited and Dorian’s Barovnian non-existent. Explaining would take half the night, by which time the plane would have left.

‘Look, is there a supervisor around? A supervisor. Someone in charge.’ Dorian leaned forward. ‘Don’t you have a boss?’ she asked desperately.

‘A boss!’ The clerk smiled. ‘You wait, please.’

She waited five minutes, then ten, and when she was almost ready to stamp her feet with frustration a man came strolling out from an office down the hall.

‘How do you do?’ Dorian said with a fixed smile. ‘My name is Dorian Oliver, and—’

‘The reporter?’

Her smiled wavered a little. Had the rumours spread outside the circle of reporters? Had she become a household name among the Barovnians, too?

‘Yes,’ she said briskly, ‘that’s right. There’s a slight problem with my passport, but I thought, if you’d just phone my Embassy. I know it’s late, but I’m sure there’s an emergency number, and—’

‘There is no problem, miss.’

Dorian let out her breath. ‘Well, that’s good news.’

‘Please.’ He smiled and inclined his head. ‘If you’ll just come into my office and make yourself comfortable—’

‘But my plane…’ Her gaze flew to the wall clock as he took her arm and led her down the hall. ‘It leaves in three quarters of an hour.’

‘Make yourself at home, please, Miss Oliver. I’ll take care of the problem immediately.’

‘But…’

The door swung shut after him. Dorian stared at it, and then she stalked across the room and sank down on an institutional plastic sofa.

Now what? She’d heard endless stories from foreign correspondents about how many hours, if not days, it could take to get through red tape, especially in out-of-the-way little countries.

She pushed back her sleeve and looked at her watch. Ten more minutes had slipped by.

‘Come on,’ she said through her teeth, ‘come on!’

Five minutes passed, and then five more, and finally Dorian slapped her hands on her knees and stood up.

‘OK,’ she said grimly, ‘enough is enough!’ She stalked to the door and grabbed the handle—but it wouldn’t turn. Her brow creased; she twisted it again and again. ‘Hey!’ Her voice rose. ‘Hey! Open this door, will you?’ She waited, but there was only silence. ‘Do you hear me?’ Furiously, she pounded both fists on the door. ‘You open this door right now,’ she yelled, ‘or I’ll—I’ll…’

She fell back as the door swung open. ‘Or you’ll what?’ Jake said coldly.

For a moment she was too stunned to speak. Then, gradually, she felt her brain begin to function again.

‘Jake,’ she whispered. ‘What—what are you doing here?’

He stepped into the room and slammed the door behind him. ‘I’m not the one answering questions, Dori

an. You are.’

‘Did—did that foolish man call you? I didn’t ask him to do that; I asked him to call—’

‘The Embassy. Yes. I know.’

‘Then why did he call you?’ Her chin lifted. ‘Was my name on a list? Are you trying to stop reporters from leaving the country?’

He strode past her, leaned back against the desk, and folded his arms across his chest.

‘Why are you sneaking out of Barovnia in the middle of the night?’

Colour striped her cheeks. ‘I am not sneaking out in the middle of the night.’

Jake crossed his feet at the ankles. ‘It’s almost one a.m. If that’s not the middle of the night, what is it?’

Her chin lifted in defiance. ‘Early morning.’