Bought by the Rich Man. Jane Porter
But Cristiano, even gloveless, tackled the snowman with Gabby, helping pack big snowballs and then stack the balls to form the snowman’s body. Together they hunted up sticks for arms and ransacked the kitchen for a carrot for the nose, but sadly all the carrots were used in the shepherd’s pie, but they finished with stones for the eyes and mouth and then Gabby’s cap and scarf.
Sam was just about to warm milk for hot cocoa when Cristiano and Gabby returned. They were laughing, shivering and discussing the merits of their snowman they’d named most originally, Mr. White.
“Let’s get out of your wet clothes,” Sam said, taking Gabby’s cold, damp hand in hers. “I think you’ll need a warm bath, too. You’re frozen through.”
“But it was fun!” Gabby cried, turning to look at Cristiano for affirmation. “Wasn’t it?”
He nodded, and his thick dark hair, worn long, formed inky ringlets on his brow. The curls hadn’t been so prominent earlier and Samantha suspected that tramping about in the snow had brought the curls to life.
And Gabby smiled broader, dimpling with pleasure. She couldn’t look away from Cristiano, her gaze riveted to his face.
He was very handsome, Sam admitted silently, reluctantly. With the chiseled features, the very strong nose, and dark lashed eyes, Cristiano was good-looking in that hunky Italian film star way, but Sam knew that’s not why Gabriela adored him.
Gabriela adored him because he talked to her, listened to her, made her feel important. And with a pang Sam realized Gabby had never had this before, not from a man anyhow.
Johann had spent very little time with Gabby, and the time they did spend together inevitably revolved around Johann’s mood, Johann’s temper, Johann’s problems. Tragically Gabby had been lost in the shuffle and it was only now that Sam began to understand how much the little girl had craved attention, and needed love, from a father. Gabby might have called Johann Papa, but Johann had never been her father. Not in name, not in word, not in deed.
“You’re not leaving now, are you?” Gabby asked him, as Sam tugged on her hand, trying to steer her toward the small bathroom.
For a moment Cristiano said nothing and then he shook his head slowly. “No.” His voice was sober. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”
Gabby’s smile returned, and it was bright, all light and happiness. “Good. And we’ll take Sam with us when we go.”
We’ll take Sam with us when we go.
Gabby’s innocent words echoed in Sam’s head while Sam prepared the makeshift bath. Sam had essentially said the same thing to Gabby on their walk earlier in the afternoon, but it was different coming from Gabby.
Once Gabby was out of the bath and dry, Sam dressed her and towel-dried her hair, and let her sit close to the fire while Sam combed her wet hair. “I’ll bring your cocoa in here,” she said to Gabby. “Don’t sit too close to the fire, though. I’ll be right back.”
And even though Sam wasn’t gone more than a couple minutes, by the time she’d returned with the cup of hot chocolate, Gabriela was out, sound asleep in front of the fire, a fistful of old tin soldiers in her hand.
Sam covered Gabby with a blanket and went to hang up the towels and wet winter clothes to dry. Cristiano was still in the bathroom so Sam headed into his room first but on opening the door she discovered she’d been mistaken.
Cristiano wasn’t in the bathroom anymore. He’d already finished his bath and she’d caught him with his back turned toward her just starting to dress. Sam stopped short at the sight of a naked Cristiano. His back was broad and tan, his hips narrow, his buttocks muscular, hard, but paler than his back and legs. But it was his thighs that caught her attention. His thighs, though thickly muscled, were heavily scarred.
Burns, she thought. Burns and more. A long incision indicating he’d been cut. Surgery, yes. But whether for setting broken bones or a skin graft, she didn’t know.
Cristiano had heard the door open and he turned suddenly, covering his lower belly with his towel. “Thank God you’re not Gabby.”
She made a soft incoherent sound. His chest was as tan and muscular as his back, his biceps knotted with muscle but the front of his thighs were like the back—scarred, disfigured with scars that ran down his hard, carved quadriceps toward his knees.
He saw she was staring and she flushed, looked away and then up into his face. His gaze met hers, and he gave her a long level look but said nothing.
“I was going to dry Gabby’s wet things in here,” she said awkwardly. “They’re still so wet.”
“Leave them on the bed. I’ll do it.”
She nodded, a hasty embarrassed nod, before dropping the clothes and leaving.
But back in the living room Sam couldn’t forget what she’d seen. Cristiano’s skin, so tan and gorgeous above his hips, looked nothing short of tortured below. He’d obviously been badly hurt, burned in a fire. But how and when?
Cristiano reappeared moments later, dressed, his black hair combed, the curls tamed, the sage linen shirt open at the throat, the tails out over his sturdy khaki pants. He was so tall, so male that Sam found herself wanting to move toward him, to touch him and see if he was as warm and hard as he looked.
It was a crazy thought. It made no sense because she didn’t trust him, didn’t want to like him, and yet she was also so drawn to him, like a fly to sticky paper.
Her attraction, as well as her ambivalence, scared her. She hadn’t been attracted to a man in years and years…since Charles, actually, and yet as much as she cared about Charles, she’d never felt this kind of curiosity or interest. She’d never really thought of Charles as a man. In her mind, Charles was always just a good person—kind, compassionate, saintly—but not physical, and certainly not sexual.
“When did she fall asleep?” Cristiano asked, gesturing to Gabriela who was curled up on the floor.
“Right after her bath. I went to get her hot cocoa, and when I came back she was out.”
“I worry about her sleeping so close to the fire. I’ll carry her to bed.” Cristiano crouched down and scooped Gabriela into his arms as though she weighed nothing, and yet as he stood, she saw his jaw tighten, an almost imperceptible tensing of the muscles in his jaw.
He still hurt, she thought.
Funny, if she hadn’t seen the actual burns on his thighs, she wouldn’t have known he’d been injured. He compensated well, but now she could see things she hadn’t seen before, the adaptations he’d made to compensate for loss of agility, probably even muscle weakness. Like his slower walk. She’d thought it was arrogance, confidence. Instead it was practicality. And when he sat, he nearly always chose a chair with arms, sitting down by leaning on the chair’s right arm, and then dropping into the seat.
As he returned to the living room she studied his walk more closely, saw for the first time the slight hitch in his step, how he put a little more weight on one leg than the other.
Probably playing with Gabby in the snow hadn’t helped, she thought. He didn’t have boots and in his leather dress shoes he wouldn’t have had much traction.
He casually took a seat in one of the old leather chairs facing the fire. And he did just what she remembered: he leaned on the chair’s right arm, dropped his right hip onto the leather cushion and then the left. His thick hair, now nearly dry, looked glossy in the firelight and the dark beard shadowing his jaw emphasized his straight nose and his firm expressive mouth.
And Sam, who’d felt such conflicting, ambivalent things for Cristiano, felt something new. Tenderness. Admiration.
Despite everything, she liked him. But she had no desire to complicate an already complicated situation, so any attraction she felt would have to be suppressed. Gabriela came first. Gabriela’s stability