.
be so amusing? “Yes, everything. I want to know where you live. I want to know what you do. I want to know who you are, how you spend your free time, the kind of friends you have.”
“A character assessment.”
“Yes.”
He shrugged, leaned back in his chair, the sunlight playing across his features, intensifying the green in his hazel eyes. “I can’t do that for you. You’ll have to use your own judgment regarding my character, but I can tell you basic things. I live here and on the Côte d’Azur. I have a home in Brazil on the coast but I don’t go there often anymore. I have my own company. I’m successful and financially solvent. Is that what you want to know?”
No. That wasn’t what she wanted to know. She didn’t care about his things, she wasn’t the least bit materialistic, and it annoyed her how easily people were impressed by money.
Money was useful, bought things, made certain decisions easier—even more convenient—but money as an end to a means? No. Never. Money ruined people. Changed everything. Sam didn’t know if it was greed or a weakness in human nature, but too many people respected—admired—the wealthy simply because they were wealthy and had fatter bank accounts. But fat bank accounts don’t make a person interesting and fat bank accounts don’t make a person kind, considerate—valuable.
Sam glanced at Gabriela who was now talking to the waitress and pointing out something she’d seen in the harbor. “It’s not your bank account that interests me, Mr. Bartolo, it’s your heart. And that’s what worries me. I don’t know if you have one.”
“I don’t know, either,” he agreed mockingly. “But hearts are overrated. Far better to be coldly pragmatic, to do what needs to be done, rather than what one feels like doing.”
Sam’s head shot up. “And what does that mean?”
“You feel attached to Gabby, so you’ve laid claim to her, but think about it: you’ve no legal claim to her, no biological tie—”
“Johann wants me to raise her.”
“Does that make it right?”
“Yes.”
“What about her mother’s family? Wouldn’t a blood relative be better than a stepmother?”
“Love isn’t about biological ties.”
“No?”
“No.” Sam stared at him, hating him. He had a beautiful face, a face of a fallen angel, and yet his heart was so black and selfish. “I love Gabriela and she loves me. Love is a gift. You can’t buy it, win it, or barter it. I wouldn’t trade her love for anything in the world.”
“Not even three million pounds?”
“Are you trying to be funny? Because I find that rather insensitive considering our situation.”
Cristiano’s hazel eyes narrowed, lashes dropping, concealing his expression but from the tilt of his lips she could see he was amused. “You know, Baroness, there are many funny people in England. The greatest comics are all British and I’ve watched every Monty Python movie that exists. But you, sadly, lack a sense of humor.”
“What about our situation do you find amusing?” She demanded tersely, refusing to acknowledge that he’d hit a sore spot. She’d never been able to laugh at herself. There hadn’t been a lot of fun in her life growing up, or many occasions to tease and play. Life for an orphan was serious. “Our lives are changed forever and you’re making jokes!”
“Not all change is bad, Baroness.”
“In this case it is.” Sam clasped her hands together in an effort to stay calm. “Please don’t move us from the villa. Please don’t take Gabby from the only home she knows.”
“It’s not much of a home.”
Sam’s cheeks burned, her temper spiking. “That’s not the point.”
Cristiano looked at her, long and level. “Then perhaps it should be.” Abruptly he signaled to the passing maître d’hôtel that he wanted the bill. “Let me see you to my suite and then I’ll work on locating Johann.”
Still feeling feverish, her gaze met his. “And just what do you intend to do with a woman and her little girl? Use us as a tax write-up? Fight some archaic inheritance law?”
“I think you’re actually trying to be funny.” He dropped cash on the table and stood. “Shall we go?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I don’t think I have to.”
She wasn’t going to budge, wouldn’t leave until he gave her a straight answer. She was sick of being pushed and pulled and jerked around. “What are you going to do with us?” she repeated in a low, unrelenting voice.
He stood over her, gazed down at her. “I’m going to find Johann—”
“Why?”
“I want to make sure everything’s legitimate.”
“He gave me her papers, wrote a note—”
“And I can’t help wondering if it’s all legal? Can one just really give away a child like that?” Cristiano’s brow creased, his eyes narrowed. “First he tries to gamble Gabby, and then he abandons her. Seems highly suspect if you ask me.”
His answer stayed with Sam, haunted Sam as he led them to the elevator that whisked them to his hotel suite.
It didn’t matter what Cristiano found out. She wouldn’t give Gabby back to Johann. She wouldn’t give Gabby to anyone. Gabby was hers. She needed someone who loved her. Period.
Cristiano gave them a brief tour of the suite, pointing out the two bedrooms with ensuite baths, the sitting room connecting the two bedrooms, the small bar and refrigerator in the sitting room where they’d find cold drinks and other refreshments. “You’ll be comfortable here,” he said, with a glance at his watch. “Watch movies, television, whatever you like while I return a few phone calls. Once I’m off the phone we’ll proceed from there.”
Sam watched as he shut his bedroom door and then without even hesitating, she went to the second bedroom where their suitcases had been delivered and then with suitcases in hand, hustled Gabby to the elevator.
Taxis were already lined up in front of the hotel and it took just minutes to be seated and off. And yet despite their quick departure, Sam still held her breath much of the trip to the Nice airport. It was essential they catch the next British Airways flight to London-Heathrow, and from there they’d connect to Manchester.
In the back of the taxi, Sam wrapped her arm more snugly around Gabby.
Hard to believe they were running away like this.
Even harder to believe she was really going back.
It had been eight years since she’d left Cheshire, eight years since she’d fled the Rookery determined to never return.
But what was the old expression? Desperate times called for desperate measures? Well, Sam was nothing if not desperate now.
They didn’t reach Chester until very late that night. The taxi driver had tried to discourage them from traveling so late from Manchester to Chester, but Sam insisted. She didn’t have enough money for a taxi ride and hotel. They had to go to Chester. They had nowhere to sleep.
“Your address,” the taxi driver said as they approached Chester’s city limits. “It’s not in town, is it?”
“No. It’s actually closer to the village of Upton. It’s called the Rookery.”
Sam saw the driver look into the rearview mirror, his eyes briefly meeting hers. “Isn’t that the orphanage?”
“Yes.”
“Right,”