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He was tall, so tall, that she had to tip her head back to see his face. “No.”
He didn’t even hesitate. “Then I’ll let myself in.”
Cristiano stretched an arm over her head, pushed the door open and lifting her in one arm, carried her into the cottage where he kicked the door shut and dropped her none too gently onto her feet. “Where is she?”
“Who?”
In the dim light she could see his expression and it wasn’t pleasant. “For an intelligent woman, you’re shockingly naïve.”
He gave her yet another shadowy, contemptuous look. “I’m here, Baroness, in your Cheshire cottage. I’ve traveled the same route you did, having spoken with numerous people at airport ticket counters. So where is she?”
Sam swallowed, nodded with her head. “On the couch in there. She fell asleep while I tried to get the fire going.”
“Which you couldn’t do.”
“I couldn’t find matches in the dark.”
“So what was your plan? To stay out here and freeze?”
Sam looked away, rightly chastened. It had been foolish coming here. Foolish and dangerous. “I’d hoped in the morning to find the matches.”
“And what were you going to eat? I’m certain you haven’t gone to a store for groceries.”
“No.”
He shook his head, looked as if he’d say more but changed topics. “Have you a fire laid then?” he asked, peeling off his coat.
“Yes. Logs and kindling.”
Aided by moonlight, he walked into the main room with its great stone hearth. The cottage was several hundred years old, with a low, beamed ceiling that once warm, kept it snug. Crouching next to the hearth, he shifted some of the split logs around, piled the dry kindling higher at the base of the logs then used a lighter from his pocket to spark the kindling.
It took a few minutes before the kindling really caught, but soon the fire was blazing. Sam gratefully held her hands to the fire’s heat. “It was cold,” she confessed. “And I was worried. Thank you.”
“You can ask for help,” he said.
Her head lifted and she shot him a dubious look. “From you?” She rubbed her hands together before extending them again over the flickering gold flames. “The one that intended to return Gabby to Johann?”
“I didn’t say I’d return her. I said I’d do what’s right.”
“You must see that having Johann look after Gabby isn’t right. You must see that for yourself, you must see what he is—”
“I do.”
Her gut burned. “Then spare her heartbreak. You don’t have to care about me, or my feelings, but care about Gabriela’s feelings. Please don’t hurt her.”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t think taking a child from her home isn’t traumatic?”
“But haven’t you just done the same? Haven’t you taken her from Monaco, the only home she’s ever known, dragged her across the English Channel, plopped her in a car, driven her for miles to where? Chester? Upton? Wherever we are?” He shook his head, expression grim. “From her perspective, this frozen gray place must seem like Timbuktu.”
“It’s England, not Timbuktu.”
“For an Italian child it’s the same thing.”
Sam stood, straightened. “Her mother was Spanish, not Italian.”
“Catalonian, actually.” Cristiano’s lashes dropped, concealing his dark eyes. “And I knew her mother quite well, so let’s avoid a who-knows-more competition.”
They were both sitting close to the fire, speaking in hushed voice but this last pulled Sam up short, and she stared at Cristiano, mouth open. “You knew her mother?”
“Yes.”
Sam sucked in air, a great gulp but it didn’t fill her lungs, didn’t help, did nothing to dull the throbbing in the back of her head. “Before Johann?”
“Yes.”
Sam couldn’t look away from Cristiano’s taut features. “What happened?”
“Life happened.” His expression was utterly blank, no emotion in his face or tone. “Gabriela’s mother moved on. But that’s not the issue now. The issue is you, running away with Gabriela—”
