A Bride for the Taking
Sandra Marton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE

DORIAN had barely settled into the back of the taxi, silently thanking whatever gods were responsible for finding her an empty cab during a rainy evening rush-hour in mid-Manhattan, when traffic came to a sudden halt.

She sat forward, looked out at the press of buses, cars, and trucks, then rapped sharply on the smeared glass partition that separated her from the driver.

‘I’ve got a plane to make,’ she said in the cool, don’t-fool-with-me voice she’d learned worked best during the five years she’d lived in New York City.

The cabbie looked into his rear-view mirror and lifted his shoulders in an eloquent shrug.

‘Is a mess, lady,’ he said agreeably. ‘I do best I can.’

Dorian sank back into the cracked vinyl seat. His best, she thought glumly, would not be good enough if they didn’t get to Kennedy Airport within the next hour. The chartered flight to Barovnia would take off, leaving her behind.

The thought made her shudder. She was on the first decent assignment WorldWeek magazine had given her and, after almost two years of doing research for other reporters and little filler pieces without the coveted ‘byline’ every journalist dreamed of, she wasn’t about to lose her chance of becoming a correspondent.

A horn blared behind them, the single sound immediately taken up by what seemed to be every other vehicle caught in the tangled snarl that filled Fifty-Seventh Street. Even Dorian’s driver began to pound his fist on the horn, all the while muttering to himself in a tongue that bore no resemblance whatsoever to English.

Dorian muttered something too, short and succinct and not at all ladylike. The cabbie glanced into the mirror as if he’d heard her. We’re in this together, the look on his face said, but that wasn’t true at all. The meter was running, adding dollars to her growing frustration. He could sit here all night if he had to; at least he was earning his pay. Dorian wouldn’t really begin to earn hers until she’d boarded that damned charter flight.

It would be on the apron by now, hatches open as the personal luggage of the entire Barovnian entourage was loaded aboard. The reporters themselves would travel light, but Dorian was sure the delegation would not—especially the man at the centre of it.

Jack Alexander, the wealthy and powerful head of the giant corporation that controlled Barovnian exports, would expect to travel in style—even though his destination was an isolated kingdom with one foot still planted in the ignorance and poverty of the Middle Ages. And now—now, if the newly crowned abdhan of Barovnia died...

Dorian slid backwards as the taxi shot into a sudden opening in the traffic. Good! They were moving again—but only as far as the next corner. She groaned and rapped once more on the partition.

‘I absolutely, positively must get to Kennedy by seven,’ she said. ‘Please. Can’t you do something?’

The driver threw up his hands. ‘Is no my fault, miss.’

That was the motto of the day, Dorian thought glumly as she sank back in her seat. Her boss had used the same words when he’d dumped her into the middle of this situation.

She had been intent on the story she was writing, her fingers doing their usual hunt-and-peck across her computer keyboard while she tried to stretch a forty-word filler piece about the Florida citrus crop into one hundred words of journalistic brilliance, when a bulky shadow loomed across her desk. She looked up and saw Walt Hemple standing beside her.

‘Got to see you, babe,’ he said around the cigar that was, as always, clamped between his teeth.

Dorian nodded and got to her feet, biting back the desire to tell him for what would probably be the thousandth time that her name wasn’t ‘babe’. There was no point to it—’babe’ was Hemple’s standard form of address for all the women staffers, a not-so-subtle reminder that, even if the law and a changed society required that WorldWeek employ female reporters, Walt Hemple didn’t have to like it.

She followed him through the crowded newsroom to his office—a narrow cubicle perfumed with the noxious fumes of his cigar. Hemple elbowed past her, grunting as he settled into the old-fashioned swivel-chair behind his desk.

‘Sit,’ he said, but, as usual, there was no place to sit. Files, papers and old copies of WorldWeek were piled on the only other chair in the room.

Hemple folded his hands across his ample belly and looked at her.

‘So,’ he said after a moment, ‘how’s it going?’

She blinked. What kind of question was that? Hemple was not a man given to making small talk, especially not with staffers as far down the ladder as she.

‘All right,’ Dorian said cautiously. ‘I’m just about done with—’

‘What do you know about Barovnia?’

She blinked again. Barovnia. Barovnia. She knew the name, of course. It had been in the papers weeks before. WorldWeek had even done a piece on it.

‘Not much,’ she said, still cautiously. ‘It’s a country near the Black Sea—’

‘A kingdom. A mountain kingdom in the Carpathians.’

She nodded. ‘Right. I remember now. The Barovnian king died a couple of months ago, and—’

‘They don’t have a king. They have an abdhan.’ Hemple grinned around his cigar. ‘He’s like a cross between God and Emperor of the World—an absolute monarch with the power of life and death over his people.’

Dorian nodded again. ‘This is all very interesting,’ she said carefully, ‘but what—?’

‘Read,’ he said, shoving a sheet of paper across the desk.

She started to do as instructed, but Hemple clucked his tongue impatiently and snatched back the paper.

‘It’s an announcement from the Barovnian embassy,’ he said. ‘It just came over the wire. The abdhan may die. If he does, they’ll be crowning a new one.’

‘But it’s a mistake. You just said the king died last month—’

‘Jeez, babe, get it straight, will you? He’s called an abdhan. How many times I got to tell you that?’

Dorian’s eyes narrowed beneath their veil of dark lashes. Count to ten, she told herself, and don’t say anything you’ll regret.

‘What I’m saying, Walt, is that this is old news. The abdhan had an accident a couple of months ago—’

‘Having a massive coronary in your sleep after eighty-five years of being one of the world’s last absolute rulers can hardly be classified as an accident, babe.’

‘The bottom line is that the old man died and they replaced him, which means the wire-service story is wrong. Do you want me to phone them and—?’

‘The story is one hundred per cent on the money. The old guy died, they crowned his successor—’

‘Seref Baldov. Wasn’t that his name?’

‘Right. And yesterday there was some kind of tribal ceremony, something to do with horses. A mock battle, who the hell knows—?’

‘A tribal ceremony?’ Dorian couldn’t quite keep the scorn from her voice. ‘Hasn’t anyone told these people we’re on the threshold of the twenty-first century?’

Hemple’s teeth showed in a smile. ‘Exactly. Americans are planning a mission to Mars and the Barovnians still play at being Cossacks. Interesting point, isn’t it?’

Dorian sighed. Now she knew where this was going. A heading danced before her eyes. COSSACKS AND COSMONAUTS. Well, something like that. It didn’t matter because the piece she’d write wouldn’t rate a title. Walt would want a filler, some human interest thing that could be tucked in to fill space on the bottom of a page.

‘How many words? Fifty?’ she asked. ‘A hundred?’

‘So this Baldov guy,’ Hemple said, ignoring her, ‘the new abdhan, fell from his horse. He hit his head and now it looks like he may not pull through.’

Dorian nodded. ‘I get the picture—although frankly I don’t know why WorldWeek’s readers should much care. Just because this little king of barbarians wants to play Mongol warrior—’

Hemple’s brows drew together. ‘You need to do your homework, babe. Barovnia may be backward, but it’s got oil reserves that make the Arabs look like paupers, and minerals they can mine for the next thousand years—and if Baldov kicks the bucket it’s also going to have a new abdhan.’

He didn’t want a filler, she thought, he wanted an article. Not from her, of course—she’d only do the research. Someone with a name would be tapped to really write the piece.

‘Interesting,’ she said, trying to look as if it really were. ‘OK. I’ll put together what I can. How much time do I have?’

‘Send me your first fifteen hundred words as soon as you can after touchdown.’

Dorian’s heart gave a thump of excitement. Hemple had never sent her further than Newark on a story. Surely, he couldn’t mean...

‘Am I going somewhere?’ she asked carefully.

‘The Barovnian embassy’s arranged to fly a planeload of reporters from the major media out tonight.’

Dorian swept the stack of magazines and papers into her arms and sank down in the chair.

‘Are you sending me to Barovnia to cover this coronation?’

Hemple shoved a slim manila folder across his scarred desk-top. ‘That’s all the background the library could put together on such short notice. You can read it in the taxi on your way to the airport.’

A thousand questions were racing through Dorian’s head, but there was one in particular that demanded an answer, even though only a fool would ask it.

‘Walt?’ She took a breath. ‘It’s not that I’m not—’ She hesitated. Pick a word, she told herself, one that won’t give away the fact that you want to leap into the air and whoop with joy. She cleared her throat. ‘It’s not that I’m not pleased with this assignment, but it occurs to me, we didn’t send anybody to cover the last guy’s coronation.’

Her boss nodded. ‘Right.’

Dorian nodded, too. ‘Well, then, why...?’ She hesitated again, but it had to be said. ‘Why now? And why has the Barovnian embassy offered to fly reporters in? I mean, why would they think we’d be interested?’

Hemple leaned forward. ‘Does the name Jack Alexander mean anything to you?’

It took a few seconds to change gears. ‘Yes,’ she said after a moment. ‘Sure. He’s the head of Alexander International.’

‘Uh-huh. The guy inherited millions, and he’s racked up millions more on his own.’ Hemple switched his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘What else do you know?’

She frowned. WorldWeek had done a piece on the man once, when she’d first started at the magazine....

A look of disdain narrowed her mouth. ‘Our article said he collects women almost as easily as he collects money—except he holds on to the money.’

Walt Hemple laughed. ‘I don’t think we put it quite like that but yeah, that was the general idea. Anything else?’

‘No, I don’t—’ She nodded. ‘He hates personal publicity. His women lined up to be interviewed, but we couldn’t get a reporter past Alexander’s door.’

‘Not with questions about himself, no. Ask him about Alexander International, he talks. Ask him about Jack Alexander, he turns to stone.’

‘Walt, I really don’t understand. All this is interesting, but what’s the point? If you’re sending me to Barovnia, what’s all this side-bar stuff about Alexander have to do with it?’

Hemple’s chair groaned its displeasure as he tilted it forward and leaned across his desk.

‘Alexander International should really be called Barovnian Exports. Sixty, sixty-five per cent of what it controls comes from there.’

‘So?’

‘So,’ Hemple said, smiling slyly, ‘it turns out that our pal, Mr Alexander, has been sitting on a secret, babe.’ He paused dramatically. ‘Mama was a Southern belle. But Daddy—Daddy was a Barovnian. A Barovnian of royal lineage, no less.’

It was Dorian’s turn to lean forward. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean,’ Hemple said with relish, ‘that Jack Alexander was born Jaacov Alexandrei.’ The sly smile came again. ‘I mean that the guy’s a product of the Virginia Military Academy, Harvard, and the Wharton School of Business—and now it turns out that under that hand-tailored, three-piece suit beats the heart of the guy who may become the next abdhan.’

Dorian’s green eyes opened wide with shock. ‘What?’

‘Alexander’s gonna be on that plane, along with a handful of his business buddies—American advisers, the Press release calls them. How’s that grab you, babe?’

It grabbed her. How could it not? It was the best kind of story, a reporter’s dream, all the most basic human interest stuff combined with something as serious as oil and gold and international dollars.

‘Are you sure?’ Hemple nodded, and Dorian frowned. ‘Wait a minute. If this is the same Jack Alexander, the one who’s gun-shy of publicity, why’s he taking a planeload of reporters along with him to Barovnia?’

‘The embassy made the arrangements, not him.’ Hemple’s eyelid dropped in a conspiratorial wink. ‘And from what I’ve heard—on the QT, of course—Alexander made them wait until the last minute before he agreed to their plan. The guy’s no dummy. There’d be no way to keep something like this off the front pages—he must figure the best way to handle things is to control the story inside Barovnia, where he’s got the power, instead of having rumours leak out from the foreign embassies.’

Dorian nodded. It made sense. The only thing that didn’t make sense was that this plum should be falling into her lap.

‘Just think,’ Hemple said, chuckling. ‘All these years, companies have lived or died on this guy’s say-so—and now it turns out that he may get that kind of power over people’s lives. God, is that a story just waiting to be written, or isn’t it?’

It was. Oh, it definitely was. But why was he giving it to her? Why?

‘Here.’ Hemple tossed an envelope across his desk. ‘Everything you need is in there, including chits to sign for Accounting so you can take some cash with you—which reminds me, I want you to hop downstairs and buy whatever you think you’ll need. Clothes, make-up—you know what I mean. The plane leaves in two hours, so there’s no time to go home and get your stuff.’

Dorian nodded. ‘That’s OK. All I’ll need is a toothbrush and a change of...’ She fell silent. Whatever you’ll need. Clothes, make-up. Make-up...

And suddenly it all fell into place.

‘Walt.’ Her voice trembled a little with anger; she had to clear her throat before she could continue. ‘Walt,’ she said, choosing her words with the greatest care, ‘I’m grateful for this chance. You know I am.’

Her boss’s expression gave nothing away. ‘But?’

‘But I’m not—I mean, I assume you haven’t chosen me because I’m...I certainly wouldn’t want to think that—that...’

‘Because you’re a woman. A good-looking woman. Is that what you’re choking over saying?’

Dorian swallowed hard. ‘Yes. No. I mean—dammit, Walt, is that the reason you picked me? Because you think Alexander will—will notice me?’

Hemple’s beady eyes moved over her, assessing without personal interest her shiny cap of silvery blonde hair, her wide-set green eyes fringed by heavy, dark lashes, the small straight nose and full mouth.

‘He’d have to be dead not to notice you, babe,’ he said flatly.

Dorian flushed. She had no illusions about her looks. She was pretty, perhaps more than pretty, but it was nothing to do with her. She had inherited her beauty, she hadn’t worked at it as she had at honing her reporting skills, and if she’d wanted to use her looks she’d have done so long ago. More than one city-room editor had made it clear that she could get ahead by going to bed—his bed, more specifically. She could even more easily have carved a career in TV news, where a pretty face went a lot further than ability.

But she hadn’t done any of that. And she wasn’t about to start now.

‘Walt.’ She straightened in her chair. ‘I want this assignment very badly. But I’m not going to take it if you think—if you’re assuming I’ll trade on my—on my looks to get anything out of Alexander. I don’t work that way.’ Her head lifted until her eyes were boring into his. ‘And you’ve absolutely no right to ask me to do something like that, either.’

Hemple’s smile was bland. ‘I sent you out to interview that librarian who hit the jackpot a few months ago. Why did I choose you, do you think?’

‘That’s not the same thing.’

‘Because your résumé says you worked a year as a library assistant, babe. It was a good fit, the same as it made sense to send Joe Banks to interview that sky-diver once I knew Banks jumped out of airplanes, too.’

‘Walt, it’s different. You’re asking me to—’

‘I’m asking you to be what you are—a reporter and a looker, too.’ He gave her a quick, hard smile. ‘Unless you’d rather I handed this over to somebody else.’

Dorian had stared at her boss, hating him for putting her in this spot, hating herself for not being able to tell him what he could do with his assignment, almost hating herself for being a woman.

It had been as if Hemple had been able to read her mind. His smile had broadened until it threatened to dislodge the cigar, and that had been when he’d uttered the words that almost mirrored the ones the taxi driver had used.

‘Why fight reality, babe? After all, it’s not my fault you’re a good-looking broad, is it?’

Dorian sighed as she remembered the smirk on his face as he’d spoken. Hemple was a pig, she thought as the taxi exited the Queens Midtown Tunnel and started along the highway, but he was the man in charge.

She took the file folder from her bag and opened it. The bottom line was that he’d given her an assignment, and she would fulfil it to the best of her ability.

She would certainly not use sex to accomplish it; she’d made that clear enough to him before she’d left his office. Hemple had only smiled. Dorian had known what he was thinking: that if Alexander had a choice between talking to her and to a male reporter he’d talk to her.

She sighed again as she began leafing through the papers inside the folder. Even if he did, it wouldn’t be because she’d gone out of her way to set things up. Certainly, she’d done nothing to glamourise herself.

She’d taken money from Accounting and dashed to a little shop on the corner where she’d bought a large carrying bag and only the basics: comb, toothbrush, underwear, a pair of jeans and a couple of T-shirts in addition to the khaki trouser suit she was wearing. Nothing feminine, nothing—

There was a sudden bang and the taxi lurched sharply to the right. Dorian cried out as the papers in her lap went flying. The driver cursed, this time loudly and fluently in Anglo-Saxon English, and pulled the vehicle off the road and on to the grassy verge.

Dorian leaned forward and hammered on the partition. ‘What happened?’ she demanded. ‘Why are we stopping?’

The man turned and slid the glass aside. ‘We have flat tyre, miss. I must change.’

She stared at him. ‘How long will that take?’

He shrugged. ‘Ten minute. Maybe fifteen. It is raining. Not so easy to do.’

‘Well, then—can you call for another taxi to come and pick me up?’

He shrugged again. ‘Sure. Can do. But other car may not come any faster than I change tyre.’

Dorian glanced at her watch. ‘Do it anyway, please,’ she said. ‘I’m really desperate.’

He did as she’d asked, then set to work. It had gone from afternoon to night now, and the rain had turned into a steady downpour. Time passed, but no new taxi appeared.

Dorian flung open the door and stepped out into the darkness. Wind buffeted her; she felt the rain drive straight through her thin cotton jacket and trousers, felt it plaster her hair to her skull. Spray from a passing car slapped against her face.

‘Miss.’ She turned. The driver had risen to his feet and was standing beside her, looking at her as if she were crazy. ‘I cannot fix. The jack no work. Please, we sit in taxi and wait.’

Dorian shook her head. ‘I can’t wait,’ she said. ‘My plane will be leaving.’ She peered ahead into the night. ‘We’re almost at the airport, aren’t we?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘That’s what I thought.’ She reached inside the taxi and grabbed her holdall. The contents of the file she’d yet to look at—clippings, photos—all of it lay scattered on the floor. But it was too late now. ‘I’ll start walking,’ Dorian said. ‘If another taxi shows up, send the driver looking for me, will you?’

‘Miss, please, you cannot.’

‘Here.’ She dug into her bag for some bills and tucked them into the bewildered driver’s hand. ‘Maybe I’ll be lucky and someone will stop and give me a lift.’

‘In New York?’ The driver’s voice carried after her as she began marching towards the distant airport. ‘It will not happen, miss, and even if it should you cannot trust. Not in this city. Please. You must wait.’

But she couldn’t, not if she was going to make that plane. Dorian’s footsteps quickened. The driver was right, of course. No car would stop for her. This was New York, where only the fittest survived. You could fall to the pavement in the middle of Fifth Avenue and no one would acknowledge it. And he was right about the rest, too. In this city, you couldn’t trust anyone, especially someone crazy enough to stop to pick up a stranger.

Not that that would stop her. You couldn’t be a good reporter if you were afraid of—

A horn blared shrilly, making her jump. Dorian’s head lifted sharply. Go on, she thought, have fun at my expense. A truck whizzed by, closer than it had a right to be to the verge; water splashed over her, cold as ice.

She shuddered and kept walking. How long would it take to walk a mile or two under these conditions? Twenty minutes? Half an hour? Would she make it on time, or—?

A car swept past her, swung sharply to the right, and came to a stop on the verge of the road just ahead. It was a sports car, something long and lean with a throbbing engine. Dorian blinked her eyes against the rain. Could it be...? Yes. Yes! The passenger door was swinging open.

She began running, her pace awkward in the muddy grass. When she reached the car, she paused and leaned down towards it.

The interior was dimly lit and leather-scented. Warmth drifted towards her, along with the faint strains of Tchaikovsky. There was a man at the wheel, but she couldn’t see him very clearly. His face alternated between light and shadow from the headlights of oncoming cars. All she could tell was that he was tall and that his hands lay lightly—and powerfully—on the steering-wheel.

‘Thank you so much for stopping,’ she said, her voice a little breathless. ‘You just saved my life.’

He turned slowly towards her, and for some reason her heart seemed to tighten in her breast. His face still alternated between light and shadow, but she could see that he had dark hair and eyes, a straight, handsome nose above what seemed to be a full mouth, and an arrogant tilt to his chin.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked. His voice was deep and soft, almost smoky. Dorian had the sudden crazy feeling that he never had to raise that voice at all, that people would do whatever they had to do to hear his words.

‘You cannot trust,’ the taxi driver had said. ‘You cannot trust...’

Dorian touched the tip of her tongue to her lower lip. ‘To—to the airport,’ she said. ‘But if you’d just be kind enough to take me as close to it as you can—’

‘I’m going there myself. Toss your things in the back and get in.’

Dorian’s heart did a funny turn again, as if someone had reached into her chest and given it a poke. It was silly, but the open door, the drift of leather-scented warmth emanating into the chill night from the car’s interior, the smoky voice—all at once it seemed dangerous.

‘Well?’ The voice was amused now, even a little contemptuous. ‘Are you going to stand out there and drown, or am I going to drive you to the airport?’

Dorian drew in her breath. What was there to fear? Men who drove expensive cars weren’t likely to be serial killers, for heaven’s sake. What she had to do was get to the airport and write the story of the year about a man named Jack Alexander, a man who might in hours become the absolute ruler of a country lost in the past.

‘You’re going to drive me to the airport,’ she said briskly, and she tossed her bag into the rear of the car, climbed into the seat, and slammed the door after her.

CHAPTER TWO

DORIAN sighed thankfully as she sank into the leather bucket seat.

‘It’s a hell of a night for a stroll.’

She looked at the man who’d rescued her. He was smiling as he looked into his mirror and manoeuvred the car back into traffic.

She laughed pleasantly. ‘Isn’t it ever? I can’t believe how hard the rain’s coming down.’ Her hair was dripping into her eyes; she put her hands to her face and shoved back the soaked strands. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to make a mess of your car.’

The man beside her shrugged. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ His foot settled more firmly on the accelerator. The engine growled as the car leaped ahead, the wiper clearing the windscreen in rhythmic strokes. ‘What time does your flight leave?’

‘What?’

‘Your plane. I assume it must be taking off fairly soon or you wouldn’t have risked life and limb on the road.’

‘Oh.’ She smiled. ‘You sound like my taxi driver. He thought I was crazy to leave the cab.’

‘That dead yellow beast on the verge was yours, then?’ He nodded. ‘I thought it must be.’

‘Mmm. We had a flat—it was the final touch. Traffic was impossible all the way from Manhattan.’ Dorian made an apologetic face as she looked down at herself. ‘I really am making a mess of things,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise how soaked I was.’

Her rescuer glanced at her. ‘You must be freezing,’ he said.

She started to protest politely, but the sudden chatter of her teeth stopped her in mid-sentence.

‘I suppose I am,’ she said with a rueful little laugh. ‘Who’d ever dream it would get chilly so late in May?’

‘Well, we can warm things up a little.’ He leaned forward and pushed a button on the dashboard. Warm air hissed from the heating vents and Dorian sighed with pleasure. ‘Better?’

‘Yes, thanks. Much.’

‘There’s a coat on the seat behind you. If you drape it over yourself, you’ll be more comfortable.’

Dorian shook her head. ‘No, thank you, that’s all right. We’ll be at the airport soon, and—’

‘And by then you’ll probably have pneumonia. Go on, get the coat.’

‘Really, it isn’t necessary. I’m feeling much warmer already. The heat’s coming up, and—’

‘For God’s sake, woman, don’t argue. Put the coat on.’

She stared at him. His voice had not risen; instead, it had taken on a note of command and she thought suddenly that he was a man accustomed not only to giving orders, but to having them obeyed instantly.

But not by her. It was one thing to accept a lift from a stranger and quite another to—

‘You’re soaked to the skin,’ he said. She looked up. He was watching her, a little frown on his face. His gaze slipped over her, moving from her dripping hair to her damp face, then dropping to her wet khaki jacket. When his eyes met hers again, his face was expressionless. ‘And you’re cold, too.’

‘I’m not. Really.’

A faint smile curved across his mouth. ‘But you are,’ he said softly, and suddenly she was painfully aware that her clothing must be clinging to her skin, outlining her breasts with intimate clarity.

Dorian felt her cheeks blaze. Be careful, she told herself. She’d been warned against crazies, hadn’t she?

Her mouth tightened as she reached for the coat to hide herself from the man’s coolly appraising gaze. He’d outmanoeuvred himself, though. Once she had the coat on, he wouldn’t have much of a view to enjoy. She smiled as she snatched it up and draped it over herself from chin to toe.

‘There.’ His tone was light and pleasant. ‘Isn’t that better?’

‘Perfect,’ she said sweetly.

And it was. She was discreetly covered by the coat—his, she was certain, based on its size and its faintly masculine scent—and she was warm, as well...

And she’d done his bidding. He’d manipulated her into doing what he’d first commanded.

She blinked. Why on earth had she thought that? Besides, what counted was that she was warm again. The little tremors that had raced through her body had stopped. And it would have been stupid to have risked a chill at the start of her first big story...

‘So.’ He stretched lithely, shifting his weight in the bucket seat. ‘You still haven’t told me what’s so urgent that you were willing to risk a night-time walk along the highway.’

‘I did tell you.’ Dorian’s tone was politely neutral. ‘I’ve a plane to catch.’

‘Let me guess.’ Her rescuer gave her a quick smile. ‘You’re off for a long weekend on the beach at Cancun.’

She laughed. Was that where people went for a weekend in his world? ‘No,’ she said, ‘not hardly.’

‘Martinique, then.’

‘Not Martinique, either.’

He sighed. ‘Ah, that’s too bad. I was going to recommend a little place I know on the north side of the island—they serve the best rum punch this side of paradise.’

And he’d just love to take her there. Was that what came next? Dorian sighed inwardly. She knew all the moves by now, after five years of living in New York. You’d meet a man, there’d be a little chit-chat about dinner, or the newest nightspot, and then—as if the idea had just sprung into his head—he’d invite you to visit it with him. She’d passed up invitations to the Hamptons, to Miami, once even to Lake Tahoe for fun and games.

But Martinique? That was new to her list. Apparently the stakes were higher in this man’s league. Still, why wouldn’t they be? Everything about him spelled M-O-N-E-Y. Dorian stole a glance at him, her eyes taking in longish but expensively cut dark hair, the well-tailored suit, the Rolex Oyster glinting on his wrist. Yes, she thought a little disdainfully, he would know the best place on Martinique—and in half a dozen other pricey spots in the Caribbean.

She looked at the dashboard clock. Her mouth twisted. In a little while she’d meet Jack Alexander, and she had no doubt but that he would be much like the man seated beside her: wealthy, very sure of himself, good-looking—and never hesitant about turning on the charm for an attractive woman.

And yet—she stirred uneasily. And yet there was something else about the man driving this car, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It had to do with the way he’d spoken to her, with the way he seemed to have forced her into a corner moments ago. It was as if a core of steel lay hidden just beneath the silken exterior.

She glanced at him again. There was something in the way he held himself, too, head high and shoulders straight, with just the slightest touch of arrogant pride to the set of his mouth. It was there in the way he drove this expensive car—a Porsche Carrera, she was fairly certain—with a skill and assertiveness that almost bordered on aggression, as if the caution of the slower-moving drivers on the rain-slicked road was an insult to his masculinity.

Her gaze fell on his hands, lying lightly on the steering-wheel. They were tanned and well cared for, yet she was quite certain they would be strong and powerful, that they would not only be able to elicit the best from an automobile, but from anything else they touched. From a woman, she thought suddenly. A woman would respond to him as the car was—with eagerness and pleasure—and all at once she found herself wondering what it would be like on Martinique, wondering if flowers scented the air along the beach...

‘...where you’re going, if you want to make your plane on time.’

Dorian turned towards him, afraid to breathe, afraid she’d somehow spoken those last insane words aloud. But she hadn’t; he was watching the road, the car was moving more slowly, and she realised that they’d turned off the highway and on to the road that traversed the airport.

‘Excuse me? I—I didn’t hear what you said.’

‘I said, you’d better tell me where you want to be dropped off, if you want to make your flight.’

Her brows rose a little. She’d been wrong, then. He’d been gallant to the end; he’d given her a lift, flirted probably no more than his male ego demanded, and now he was all business. In fact, now that she looked at him, she could see that he’d undergone a subtle change in the last few minutes. That soft, sexy smile had been replaced by a certain grimness, and the hands that lay on the steering-wheel gripped it almost tightly.

But then, he had a plane to catch, too. Dorian felt a little twinge of something that surely couldn’t have been regret. She sat up straighter, took the coat from her lap, and tossed it into the back seat.

‘Of course. You can drop me off at—at...’

Where? Her breath caught. It was a damned good question, and she had no answer. She had no idea where to get the flight to Barovnia. Walt Hemple hadn’t told her.

‘Well?’ Her rescuer slowed to a crawl. ‘Look,’ he said impatiently. ‘I’ve a plane to catch myself and not a hell of a lot of time to do it in. Where shall I drop you?’

Her mind spun in frantic circles. What now? She glanced at the dashboard clock. Ten minutes? Ten minutes to make her flight. No, she thought grimly. Not her flight. Her career. If she missed that plane, she might as well never show her face at WorldWeek again.

‘Come on, lady,’ the stranger said. ‘Where do you want to go?’

‘I don’t know,’ she admitted.

His dark eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t know? What in hell is that supposed to mean?’

‘It means—it means he didn’t tell me,’ she said a bit shakily.

His expression grew even more grim. ‘He didn’t tell you? You mean, you agreed to go away with some guy for the weekend without...?’

‘No!’ Dorian’s eyes flashed with green fire. ‘I certainly did not. And I resent the implication.’

His mouth seemed to soften a little. ‘It wouldn’t be so extraordinary, would it?’ He smiled. ‘A beautiful woman going away with her boyfriend for a couple of days, I mean.’

Some of the stiffness went out of her spine. ‘No. I just—you had no right to assume—’ She broke off. What in heaven’s name did it matter what he assumed? He was a stranger; she would never see him again after this. She sighed and looked at him. ‘I’m not going away for pleasure,’ she said. ‘I’m flying out on business.’

‘Ah.’ His smile tilted. ‘As am I.’

‘And it’s—well, it’s an important trip. But my boss forgot to tell me where my plane would be leaving from.’

His smile broadened. ‘The problem’s easily solved. Take a look at your ticket. The name of the airline will be on it.’

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.

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.’

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