Книга - The Mediterranean Prince’s Captive Virgin

The Mediterranean Prince’s Captive Virgin
Robyn Donald


Step into a world of sophistication and glamour, where sinfully seductive heroes await you in luxurious international locations.Held against her will – for the Prince’s pleasure!Feisty Leola Foster has been kidnapped but she refuses to obey her captor’s imperious commands. Who does he think he is – royalty? Leola soon learns that the stranger holding her against her will is none other than rebel prince Nico Magnati…and that in return for his protection she must act as his mistress until the danger she is in has passed. They’re together night and day, and soon their pretence explodes into real physical attraction. Now Leola is Nico’s willing prisoner – in his bed!Mediterranean Princes Playboy princes, island brides – bedded and wedded by royal command!







‘I cannot tell you why you are in danger, but the reason is real. I had hoped that when I came I could let you go, but things did not go according to plan. If you don’t want to stay here out of sight, then I have a compromise to offer.’

‘What sort of compromise?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘One you’re not going to like, but it is as far as I’m prepared to go. Tomorrow we’ll fly back to London and you’ll move in with me. I want you to act as my—call it my latest interest—for at least a couple of weeks, possibly longer.’

‘What?’ Leola had been sure she couldn’t feel any more astonishment, but this—this outrageous suggestion deprived her of speech again. ‘Your latest interest? What the hell does that mean?’

‘As my mistress—my lover,’ he elaborated…


Robyn Donald has always lived in Northland in New Zealand, initially on her father’s stud dairy farm at Warkworth, then in the Bay of Islands, an area of great natural beauty, where she lives today with her husband and an ebullient and mostly Labrador dog. She resigned her teaching position when she found she enjoyed writing romances more, and now spends any time not writing, reading, gardening, travelling, and writing letters to keep up with her two adult children and her friends.

Recent titles by the same author:

HIS MAJESTY’S MISTRESS

VIRGIN BOUGHT AND PAID FOR

THE PRINCE’S CONVENIENT BRIDE




THE MEDITERRANEAN PRINCE’S CAPTIVE VIRGIN


BY

ROBYN DONALD




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


CHAPTER ONE

SHIVERING a little in the night air, Leola Foster stared down into a square dominated on one side by a Romanesque church and on another by a tall stone watchtower. Jagged blocks of stone along the top of the cliff—all that remained of a ruined wall—reminded her that San Giusto, the southernmost city in the Sea Isles of Illyria, had once needed protection from pirates. Spring was only a few weeks old, and even this far south it wasn’t really warm enough to stand by the shuttered window in her pyjamas.

But she’d given up trying to get back to sleep. Images from the dream that had jerked her awake still lingered with a sour, humiliating aftertaste. She shivered again, wishing her unconscious would stop replaying the incident over and over again in a never-ending loop.

Call her naïve, she thought with a bitterness that startled her, but she’d never for a moment suspected that Durand had any interest in her; three months ago when she’d arrived in London from New Zealand, her employer’s partner—in both personal and business senses—had completely ignored her.

Leola smiled grimly, remembering how excited she’d been, how confident that this was another step up in her chosen career. After all, Tabitha Grantham was a world-famous brand, noted for the cool sophistication and perfect tailoring of the clothes she designed.

And Tabitha herself had contacted Leola after seeing her line at Auckland’s Fashion Week.

‘I like your edge,’ she’d said, interviewing her over cocktails in the opulent hotel suite she shared with Durand. ‘I think you’ll go far and I’d like to help you. You’ll learn plenty, but I have to warn you I don’t pay my interns much, and I’ll expect you to work like a galley slave.’

And work her hard she had. Not that Leola had objected. She’d found it exhilarating, bewildering, shocking and fascinating, and she’d soaked up every bit of information she could, every scrap of technique, every contact.

Pity it had all come to an abrupt, mortifying end when Jason Durand decided she’d do as his latest fling.

Unseeing, her gaze skimmed the dark spires of the cypresses along the ruined wall. Night had worked a transformation on the city. Bustling and noisy and charmingly Mediterranean during the day, San Giusto brooded silently under the Northern hemisphere stars. A violent homesickness gripped her; in New Zealand the stars were familiar and the breeze tangy with a wilder, more primal scent.

It was still there, she thought wistfully; she could return any time.

In fact, it looked as though she’d be back there pretty soon. If it hadn’t been for the godmother who’d given her this week in Illyria as a birthday present she’d be maxing out her credit card right now on airfares.

Her head came up proudly. No, she would not slink back with her tail between her legs—or not until she’d exhausted every option. She didn’t do defeat.

So she’d find new digs first. Without Tabitha’s subsidy she couldn’t afford the bedsit; she’d had to plead with the landlord to store her suitcases until she came back from this trip.

So digs first, a new job next.

Her lips tightened in a mixture of outrage and frustration. Dammit, she’d been fighting Durand off when Tabitha walked into the room three days ago, yet it had made no difference.

‘I’m sorry,’ Tabitha had said, her eyes steely, ‘but Durand is more important to me than you are. I don’t want to see you again.’

Of course Durand was a vital part of the business, but it had been Tabitha’s callous dismissal—as though Leola had been a Victorian housemaid found pilfering!—that had stung, enough for her to threaten Durand with the police or the press when he’d refused to pay out her final week’s wage.

That had got her the money, but she’d rather have had the internship.

Leola drew in a deep breath of air scented with pine and salt, figs and grape. She was not going to let betrayal or her fear for the future spoil her week in this lovely place, and if she couldn’t sleep she might as well work her restlessness off. A brisk walk should do it.

Ten minutes later she locked the door of her apartment behind her and strode towards the deep, mysterious shadows at the base of the ancient tower that marked the cliff walk.

It was a night from an ancient fable—serenely impersonal sky, the soft sigh of the sea on the rocks at the base of the cliff, a stillness so profound she almost expected to see a nymph flit from one of the trees to join her sisters in classical frolics with dolphins.

Yet halfway across the square the skin between Leola’s shoulder blades prickled, and she had to resist the urge to swing around and scan the darkened houses behind her.

Cravenly glad that she’d worn a dark top over her black jeans, she was relieved to reach the shade of the trees at the foot of the tower. Slowly, telling herself she was being stupid, she turned.

Her breath stopped in her throat. From the corner of her eye she spotted a stealthy movement at the base of the church. Someone—or something—was sliding along the ancient stone.

So what? It was probably just one of the local dogs coming home from a night on the tiles.

So why was adrenalin pumping through her, quickening her senses, ramping up her pulse so that all she could hear was the rapid, heavy thud of her own heartbeat?

Because her night-attuned eyes picked out people—a line of them, some stumbling, some walking fast, all noiseless. They seemed to emerge from a deeper darkness in the church wall—a door—and they were heading for the wall.

A flare of light shocked her into a gasp; she saw a man’s face—handsome, subtly cruel—before the light died.

And then she was grabbed from behind in one swift, brutal movement, an iron hand clamping across her mouth so that her scream had no chance to escape. Instinct drove her to a frenzy of struggling desperation, but she was dragged into the pitch blackness of some recess in the wall.

Think, she commanded herself, and tried to turn so she could knee her captor in the groin, an assault he blocked with ruthless efficiency. She forced herself to go limp, surreptitiously folding her fingers into a fist, but his arms crushed her against a lean, shockingly strong body, completely subduing her so that she could neither move nor signal.

All coherent thought lost to an unnerving panic, she tried biting at the remorseless hand over her mouth, but that didn’t work either. It tightened, cutting off her breath.

Panic kicked her ferociously in the stomach and she let herself sag. He eased the pressure a little, but she could feel the tension smoking off him.

A quiet scraping, then what sounded like a muffled curse in an unknown language—Illyrian?—came from the direction of the square. Every muscle painfully taut, Leola waited for some sign of inattention from the man who held her so fiercely against him; he was big, she realised, as well as hugely powerful, and he…

He smelt good.

In some wildly illogical way that clean male scent eased her fear a little.

Until she was hauled sideways, through what had to be a door in the wall. Barely audible, her captor said in English, ‘Don’t be frightened.’

How did he know she’d understand?

He didn’t let her go, and he didn’t take his hand away from her mouth. If anything, the fingers tightened a fraction. In warning? Forcing down a spasm of terror, Leola waited for him to lose concentration.

She couldn’t see what was happening, but a faint thud sounded as if he’d kicked the door shut behind them and the air became musty. Shivering, she realised they were inside the tower.

‘Just another few minutes,’ he said again, his words pitched for her ears only. ‘Walk.’

Instead Leola sagged, hoping he’d think she’d fainted and that she might get a chance to get away.

It didn’t work. Ruthlessly he propelled her in front of him.

‘Stairs,’ he said, still in that deep, oddly soft voice, half lifting, half dragging her upwards.

Once they reached the top would he throw her down the cliff into the sea below? Panic surged again, freezing her mind.

All she could think of doing was to pretend to find it hard going, stumbling, hesitating, until he said curtly, ‘It’s no use. And you’re safe enough.’ His voice was hard and cool and deep, the upper-class English accent very faintly underpinned by something much more exotic.

In spite of her fear she snorted in pure outrage, and he laughed, an oddly amused sound that made her wonder if she was indeed safe. ‘OK, we’re far enough away now for you not to be heard,’ he said, and those cruel fingers relaxed, fell away.

She screamed with every ounce of strength she possessed, only to have it cut off by his hand again.

‘Wildcat,’ he said, that infuriating note of—mockery?—underlying the single word.

Furiously, she opened her eyes to glare at him. He released her, and, unable to see for a few seconds, she swayed, blinking ferociously until she was finally able to focus on her captor, calmly barring the door behind them. He turned, and her breath locked in her throat.

In the dim light of one electric bulb he looked like something out of a mediaeval epic, a warrior with a warrior’s uncompromising ruthlessness. Darkly tanned, with the arrogant facial structure of some Nordic conqueror, he was smiling, but his eyes were hard, an almost translucent ice-grey. And although she was tall herself, Leola had to look a long way up into those piercing eyes.

A feverish shiver—of apprehension, or perhaps recognition—scudded the length of her spine. He was built like a Viking, and the aura of danger pulsing about him made her take a step backwards, although she kept her head high.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘Why did you drag me up here?’

His gaze sharpening, he bent his black head and said brusquely, ‘I hurt you. I’m sorry.’

Leola felt it then, the sting of her cut lip, the taste of blood when she ran her tongue over it. ‘You’re sorry? So am I. What the hell do you think you’re up to?’

Long tanned fingers dipped into his pocket, producing a handkerchief. ‘Here,’ he ordered. ‘Wipe it.’

Automatically she took the cloth, still warm from his body, and patted her lip. The bloodstain was tiny; showing him, she said, ‘It’s nothing.’

Her eyes widened as he covered the stone floor between them in two steps to lift her chin in a strong hand, black brows drawing together as he surveyed her face.

‘It certainly won’t mar your beauty,’ he said, and when she flinched he laughed in his throat and bent, kissing the maltreated lip with a gentleness that was very much out of accord with his intimidating appearance.

‘What was that for?’ she asked inanely, wondering why her legs felt as though the bones had dissolved.

‘I kissed it better. Did your mother never do that for you?’

Her mother hadn’t been the affectionate sort—not to her children, anyway. In a brittle voice Leola said, ‘It only works if you love the person doing the kissing.’

‘I must remember that,’ he returned, the sardonic humour vanishing so that she met eyes that were coldly, implacably intent. ‘Now, what were you doing walking the square at three-fifteen in the morning?’

‘Possibly the same as you,’ she countered.

‘I hope not.’ He paused to lethal effect before prompting silkily, ‘Tell me.’

Leola masked an involuntary stab of fear with a shrug. ‘It’s no big deal. I couldn’t sleep. None of the books I brought were worth reading again and I didn’t fancy a hot drink, so I decided to go for a walk. What’s so unusual about that?’

‘Did you hear or see anything?’

‘Yes,’ she said smartly. ‘I was attacked by a total stranger and dragged into a tower.’

His humourless smile showed very white teeth. ‘This is important,’ he said, each word a warning.

‘Why?’ Her heart picked up speed as another surge of adrenalin activated her flight-or-fight response.

Fighting was useless; he’d already shown her a measure of his strength, nicely judged so as not to hurt her too badly. A swift shiver scudded down her spine at the memory of that oddly tender kiss.

Flight, then? Hastily she glanced around. The room he’d brought her to was made of stone, its only obvious exit the door they’d come through. He’d haul her away from that before she could lift the bar. Shadows hid the farthest wall, but her quick glance and the musty air told her there were no windows.

Flight seemed impossible too.

The cold pool beneath her ribs expanded. What had she unwittingly walked into? Strangely, instinct told her that this man wasn’t a direct threat to her safety, but one glance at his flint-hard face with its arrogant bone structure reminded her that sometimes instinct couldn’t be trusted.

‘Did you see any movement?’ he asked, quite gently, but something in his icy regard warned her not to lie.

Eyes troubled, she hesitated. ‘How do I know if you’re one of the good guys?’

Damn, Nico thought, he liked her spirit, even if it was extremely inconvenient. Just before he’d kissed her—an impulse he should have resisted—he’d noticed that her eyes were a dark blue-green with intriguing gold speckles. They were shadowed now, and her full mouth, scratched by his grip, was set in a straight line, her lithe figure stiff and wary.

He repressed his intensely physical reaction. Nico had learned in a hard school not to trust anyone—not even a blonde goddess with an intriguing accent, tawny-gold hair and a body that promised sensual rapture.

‘You don’t,’ he told her without hesitation. ‘Tell me what you saw.’

For several moments more her eyes challenged him, and then she made a rapid gesture, instantly cut short. ‘Movement,’ she said steadily. ‘A slow sort of glide along the base of the church.’

Had she decided to trust him? It didn’t matter. ‘Any faces?’

When she hesitated again he knew she’d seen the man he was tracking. Some poor devil, he thought grimly, would pay for releasing the ray of light that had caught Paveli’s fleshy face.

But she said nothing. He scrutinised her guarded face, and made up his mind. If she was one of Paveli’s lookouts she had to be neutralised. If she wasn’t, she was in danger. Either way, she had to be removed. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to interrupt your holiday for a few days.’

Unable to hide a flash of alarm, she stiffened. ‘It’s all right,’ he assured her, his tone casual. ‘You’ll be living in a very comfortable house with pleasant people; you just won’t be able to leave it.’

‘In other words I’ll be a prisoner,’ she said evenly.

He had to admire her refusal to be daunted and her ability to face facts. ‘I’d rather you thought of yourself as a guest,’ he said with smooth cynicism, and waited for her response.

‘Guests can leave whenever they want to,’ she retorted. ‘What is this all about?’

‘If I told you I’d have to kill you.’

How many times had she heard that tossed at someone in jest? Leola looked at the dark, formidable face of the man who’d hauled her here, and felt the hair on the back of her neck lift. She suspected he meant it.

‘You will be perfectly safe,’ he said.

‘Somehow,’ she returned cuttingly, ‘I don’t find that very reassuring.’

‘If it’s any consolation, I won’t be there.’

She shrugged, although a swift pang of apprehension tightened her nerves. ‘It would certainly be more to my liking, but I’m not going anywhere with you.’

‘If I have to I’ll tie you hand and foot, gag you and blindfold you.’ Not a threat, not a warning, just a simple statement of fact not softened by his final words. ‘I don’t want to do that.’

Apprehension intensifying into something more than fear, Leola met implacable eyes, cold as polar seas. ‘What’s the alternative?’

‘You give me your word not to scream or make a fuss.’

‘You’d accept my word?’

His smile was humourless. ‘I’ll still have to gag and blindfold you, but we could dispense with the hog-tying.’

Anger helped drown out the terror. From between her teeth she ground out, ‘I refuse to help you kidnap me. What sort of fool do you think I am?’

‘One that’s entirely too mouthy,’ he said, and kissed her—not the gentle kiss of the previous time but a full-on plundering of her mouth as though he had every right to do it, as though they were passionate lovers separated for years and at last together again.

Fire leapt through her, replacing cold panic with an emotion just as primal, just as overriding—a heady, violent desire that sang like some siren’s potent, dangerous song.

With every bit of will she possessed Leola resisted the astonishing, rising tide of passion, until she felt a sharp prick in her neck.

Stomach contracting in wild terror, she forced open her eyes to stare at him.

‘You’re going to be all right,’ he said, his voice suddenly harsh. ‘Don’t be afraid.’

The meaningless words echoed in her mind as darkness rolled over her.

Nico held her until she went limp, then looked at the man who’d come in through the secret passage. The newcomer was lowering a hypodermic.

In the local dialect Nico said, ‘Does it always work so fast?’

‘She must be very susceptible.’

‘Thank you, my friend,’ Nico said grimly. ‘How the hell did you happen to have this drug on your person?’

‘I always carry it. I am, after all, a doctor. It’s just as quick as hitting someone over the head, and less noisy.’ His companion gave a laconic grin. ‘That one would have fought all the way. You must be losing your touch.’

‘She was afraid,’ Nico said absently, looking down at her white face. Even deeply unconscious, she was beautiful. Something hot and unguarded stirred inside him; it had been too long since he’d had a lover.

Controlling it, he went on, ‘Thank you for that—we can’t afford to either waste time on her or have her caught.’

‘Do you think she is in league with Paveli?’ The doctor said the name like a curse. ‘She could have been acting as a lookout.’

Nico frowned. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Perhaps she’s his woman. We know nothing about her.’

‘Her accent says she’s a New Zealander. It seems unlikely she has anything to do with him, but she saw Paveli in the square, and she wasn’t going to tell me.’

The newcomer stared at the woman, and, moved by some feeling he didn’t explore, Nico adjusted her limp body so that her face was hidden against his chest. ‘We have to get her out of here,’ he said brusquely, and lifted her.

Fragrant against him, she lay in his arms as though she belonged there. Grimly Nico controlled his swift, fierce response and headed for the opening to the secret passage.

‘And you, my Lord, are altogether too recognisable,’ the doctor said briskly from behind.

Nico’s arms tightened around the woman in his arms. ‘So we’ll make sure she’s safe until we can ask her a few more questions.’

* * *

Leola woke to a throbbing head and a dry mouth; when she tried to lift her eyelids that hurt her head even more. Without volition she groaned.

From somewhere close by a woman said in heavily accented English, ‘You feel bad now, but soon you will be better. Drink this.’

Leola sipped greedily, then sank back into sleep, tossing restlessly as a hard-eyed Viking prowled through her dreams.

When she woke again she lay very still, forcing her sluggish brain into action. Slowly, reluctantly, it disgorged memories—her decision to go for a walk at night, and a face revealed by a flare of light. She shivered, because something about that face filled her with repugnance.

The image was replaced by another face—hard, forcefully handsome, compelling.

Ice-grey eyes, she thought, the pictures jumbling in her brain. He’d kissed her and all hell had broken loose…

Had he hit her over the head? A tentative hand revealed no sore spot there.

Drugs, then…

Dimly she remembered a sharp pain in her neck while he was kissing her. Her captor hadn’t been waving a hypodermic around, so someone else must have come up from behind.

Her captor’s kiss had been a cynical ploy to dazzle her into mindless submission.

Humiliatingly, it had worked. Shame ate into her; she’d known he was dangerous, yet she’d succumbed to his cynical caress like some raw teenager awash with hormones.

Never again, she vowed.

At least it didn’t seem as though he intended to kill her. On the other hand she might be a hostage or a bargaining tool. Or he might just fancy a playmate for a few nights before getting rid of her.

Feeling sick, she shifted uneasily, wondering if he’d already…

No, she felt entirely normal, just lax and sleepy. Surely she’d know if she’d been raped?

How? Although she’d had plenty of men friends, several of whom would have liked to become closer, she’d been too dedicated—too intensely focused on her dreams and her career—for relationships.

Too scared, too; long ago she’d decided that love and passion led to pain and humiliation. So, as one-night stands were definitely not her style, she was that rare thing in the modern world, a virgin.

But it hadn’t been fear she’d felt when the grey-eyed Viking had kissed her, and his kisses had wiped any thought of career and ambition from her mind. His kisses had made her feel uncontrolled and wanton and desirous.

No other man had ever done that.

Whatever she’d walked into last night in the square, she didn’t want a bar of it. She had to get away from here—wherever here was!

Feverish thoughts jostled through her brain, but in the end the only plan she could come up with was to pretend to be the idiot her captor no doubt thought her.

Feigning sleep, she tried to gather as many sensory impressions as she could. She was in a bed—a very comfortable one. Outside she could hear what seemed to be the soft lapping of water, but there was no smell of salt. Instead, an indescribable freshness filled the air, mingled with the now familiar scents of cypresses and something lighter and sweeter. Flowers?

And someone else was with her. Although the room was silent, she could just catch the faint rhythm of something making regular motions. A rocking chair, she thought, rather pleased with herself for working this out.

She simply couldn’t imagine the man who’d brought her here in a rocking-chair. Oddly enough that thought brought a smile to the corners of her mouth, and gave her the courage to slowly, stealthily, lift her lashes. This time they obeyed her will, so that she could see the woman who sat sewing beside a long window.

Nothing frightening there, she thought with a swift rush of relief. Middle-aged, pleasantly plump, clad in some sort of nurse’s uniform, the woman in the chair wore her black hair off her face in a bun at her neck. Her olive skin and Mediterranean features meant she was probably Illyrian.

As though she was warned by some sixth sense, the woman’s head swung abruptly around, her face lighting up when she saw Leola watching her.

‘Ah, you are truly awake,’ she said, and came across to stand beside her, automatically taking her wrist and checking her pulse.

‘Where am I?’ Leola’s voice sounded croaky and feeble at the same time.

‘In Osita, in the Sea Isles,’ the woman told her readily, releasing her wrist. ‘Yes, you are feeling much better. Perhaps you would like something to eat, hmm?’

Osita? Leola frowned, trying to remember where she’d seen that name, then discarded the search to concentrate on more important things. Although the thought of food nauseated her, if she said yes, the nurse might leave the room to collect it.

And then she could get up to work out where she was. ‘I’ll try,’ she said cautiously.

But the woman rang a bell beside the bed. ‘Something light would be best. Soup, I think.’

Baulked, Leola said in a muted voice, ‘Thank you.’

Almost immediately there came a knock at a door. The nurse bustled across and ordered whatever it was she’d decided on, then came back. ‘So, let me help you sit up,’ she said. ‘You will want to wash your face and clean your teeth. I will bring you a basin.’

After helping Leola sit against a bank of pillows, she went off through another door, this one in the wall opposite.

Turning her head carefully, Leola examined the large, beautifully furnished room. No prison cell this, she thought with a stab of unwanted appreciation. It was a sumptuously decorated bedroom—a woman’s room. The large glass doors opened out onto a balcony; through the balustrade she could see the tops of trees, and a glimpse of blue, blue water against forested hills.

Not the sea, though; a lake. And a picture suddenly flicked up in her mind—a lake amongst hills, with a small island to one side. And on the island a castle set in gardens.

A very good place to keep a prisoner, she thought grimly, wondering how far from the shores of the lake the island was. She’d seen the photograph of Osita in a tourist brochure, but since she’d had no intention of going there she’d taken little interest in it.

The nurse brought her the basin and a hairbrush, and stood by while she freshened up before brushing her hair into some sort of order.

‘So pretty,’ the woman commented as Leola smoothed the tawny-gold locks back from her face.

Absurdly self-conscious, Leola said, ‘Thank you.’ And asked before she could think things through, ‘Who owns this place?’

The woman looked surprised. ‘The prince,’ she said, as though there was only one prince and everyone knew his name.

While Leola digested this in dumbfounded silence, another knock on the door summoned her keeper across to collect a tray.

The prince? The only prince she could think of was Prince Roman, the hereditary ruler of the Illyrian Sea Isles, and she’d seen photographs of him. With the stunning good looks of some Mediterranean god, he wasn’t her Viking.

Fugitive colour burned across her cheeks as she realised what her wayward mind had come up with. Whoever the man who’d brought her here was, he most definitely wasn’t her anything.

After all, he’d kissed her just so that someone could pump her full of drugs. But if this place belonged to Prince Roman Magnati surely she couldn’t be in any real danger. He’d grown up in Switzerland, become a tycoon, and only recently returned to Illyria to take over his duties and responsibilities.

It didn’t seem likely he’d be any sort of threat. But in that case, why was she here?


CHAPTER TWO

LEOLA looked up as the nurse returned and settled the tray over her knees. Her worried thoughts took second place to hunger. Lemons, she thought, and chicken—and some sort of very tiny pasta? Certainly a hint of garlic.

‘Eggs and lemon soup with chicken,’ the nurse told her. ‘A Greek dish, and good for illness—very soothing and nourishing.’

Amazingly, Leola finished it, and the chunk of crusty bread that arrived with it, obediently ate an orange and drank a cup of coffee with milk and sugar. Even more amazingly she drifted off into a restful sleep afterwards.

It wasn’t until the second day that she wondered if she was being drugged with a mild sedative. Those naps were too frequent. She tried to convince herself that it could be the aftereffects of the original drug, and waited for the nurse to leave the room. Cautiously, head spinning rather pleasantly, she got out of bed—and found herself staggering like a drunkard.

Something was definitely wrong.

Apart from the obvious physical effects, she felt altogether too mellow. Normally she’d be spitting tacks at this imprisonment; now she could barely summon up any resentment.

And it was not because the Viking kept striding into her thoughts and her dreams…

Clutching the back of an armchair, she stared out the window and took in a series of deep breaths, forcing herself to concentrate. The scene outside was magnificent, gardens and lawns bordered by huge trees that almost hid what seemed to be a small building, perhaps a chapel, built in the same pale stone as the castle.

But tempting though it was to drink it all in, she couldn’t waste time on the beauty spread before her.

Although she couldn’t see any sign of a jetty, presumably there was one hidden by the trees. She leaned forward, frowning as she estimated the distance between the island and the mainland.

Too far for her to cross without transport. Having been brought up beside the sea, she was a good swimmer, but she wouldn’t manage that distance.

Even her disappointment was muted. Angrily, she called on her strength to resist the effects of whatever drug she’d ingested. Perhaps the other side of the island was closer to the shore. If it was less than a kilometre she’d be all right.

So she’d find out. She’d insist on taking a walk. But she’d need to get the drug out of her system first; right now she was too limp to cope with anything more than a leisurely stroll, let alone a lengthy swim.

It was no use asking the nurse for help, since she had to be administering the sedative.

Just you wait, Prince Whoever-you-are, she thought fiercely. One day you’ll regret you ever dragged me into this business.

The door opened behind her. She turned, almost overbalancing as her head whirled. Grimly she clung to the back of the armchair, taking another deep breath until her vision settled down.

After a soft exclamation the nurse crossed the big room remarkably fast. ‘I think you try too hard, too soon,’ she chided, her dark eyes concerned. ‘Come, I’ll help you into the chair.’

Shaken, Leola let her, and once settled into the armchair decided that from now on she’d eat as little as possible and drink only water she’d run herself from the tap.

The nurse brought her several English magazines—fashion magazines Leola had already seen. She flicked through them, measuring the impact of various outfits, enjoying one acerbic column again, frowning at others, before pushing the magazines aside.

Focus on figuring out a way to get yourself out of here, she commanded herself.

Because she was going to have to. If she didn’t return home on her due date from this holiday no questions would be asked, no people alerted by her absence. She bit her lip. Well, not until her twin sister in New Zealand realised something was wrong.

Which could already have happened, she thought anxiously. They shared a link; what one felt the other recognised. Oh, Lord, she hoped Giselle wasn’t frantically trying to contact her. Then her mouth curled ironically. On the other hand, that would mean release was close, because no prince would be a match for Giselle on the warpath.

Tense with anger and frustration at her growing feeling of impotence, she picked up another magazine, flipping angrily through the pages until her eyelids grew heavy and her head slid sideways.

She woke with a clearer brain and sight; a quick glance around the room revealed that she was alone again. This time she wasn’t nearly as shaky as she stood up from the chair and made her way into the bathroom to get a glass of water.

Once it had been thirstily drained, she looked down at herself. She still wore the same exquisitely embroidered nightdress she’d woken in, and today, she decided, she was going to demand some clothes.

And a walk in the garden.

Plus, she was going to demand to know exactly why Prince Whoever had had her brought here, and what the hell was going on!

She was back in the bedroom when the nurse tapped on the door and entered, beaming at the sight of her charge on her feet. ‘You feel better now?’ she asked. ‘Good. I run water for you in the bath, and then you can get dressed.’

Without waiting for an answer, the woman bustled into the bathroom, humming as she went.

Leola gave a wry grin. So much for her new-found assertiveness! Clearly not needed at all. But a bath would be wonderful in that superb Victorian bath on its four lion feet…

‘It’s ready,’ the nurse said, reappearing. ‘You want me to bathe you?’

Leola said hastily, ‘No, thanks, I’ll be fine.’ She sniffed appreciatively. ‘What did you put in the water? It smells divine.’

‘Oh, something the girls here use to make themselves smell good,’ the nurse said with another smile. ‘From flowers that grow in the hills.’ She nodded and left the room.

Although Leola was still shaky when she finally got out, she did feel much stronger, and her brain seemed to be working with something like its usual speed.

After drying herself with the sumptuous towels she donned the silk dressing gown that had been left for her and walked out into the bedroom, where the nurse indicated a pair of trousers, a silk shirt and underclothes laid out on the newly made bed.

All, she noted, brand-new. And her heart skipped a beat when she recognised the designer—Magda Wright, one of Europe’s most respected, who had made her name and her fortune by dressing Europe’s aristocracy and royalty. Her signature butterfly adorned the pocket of the silk shirt and the waistband of the trousers.

‘They’re not mine,’ Leola said, uncertain how to deal with this.

The older woman nodded. ‘For you,’ she said firmly.

Leola hesitated, but she needed clothes in her campaign to make herself familiar with her prison. Nevertheless…

‘Where are my own clothes?’

The nurse looked wary. ‘I do not know,’ she finally said.

Leola frowned down at the garments. ‘Who brought these?’ she asked.

‘The prince sent them,’ the nurse said, as though Leola should have known who the donor was.

‘What prince?’

This time the woman looked nervous. ‘The Prince of the Sea Isles,’ she said eventually.

‘Prince Roman Magnati?’ Leola held her breath.

‘Oh, no. Prince Nico Magnati. His younger brother.’ The nurse’s sweeping gesture took in the room, the palace and the glorious view outside. ‘Prince Roman is prince over all the Sea Isles, but this—all this place belongs to Prince Nico.’

The Viking?

A dim recollection of reading about a playboy prince fired some brain cells. ‘I see,’ Leola said, looking down at the bra. She didn’t need to read the label to know that it was her size. A kind of dark anger smouldered into life inside her.

Such accuracy meant that whoever had estimated her size was altogether too familiar with women’s bodies.

But of course playboys would be. She searched her mind, trying to locate the source of that tenuous conviction, only to give up when the nurse went to tidy the bathroom.

Her head still buzzing with questions, Leola checked the clothes, somehow not surprised that both the beautifully cut trousers and shirt were her exact size.

So was her Viking Prince Nico Magnati, younger brother of the Lord of the Sea Isles?

She recalled the effortlessly commanding air of the man who’d snatched her from the square and sent her here. Yes, that fitted someone of aristocratic heritage, but although princes certainly had power, she doubted whether many of them possessed that fierce aura of danger, of disturbing sexuality.

And why on earth would a prince be involved in cloak-and-dagger stuff? They had minions for that sort of thing, surely?

Biting her lip, she walked across to the window. At first she didn’t register what she was seeing until the movement caught her attention, and she realised a fast motorboat was clipping through the water towards the island.

Her stomach hollowed out in something close to panic. She turned to the nurse, who hurried across and stood just behind her.

‘The prince,’ she announced happily.

And realising Leola was still standing in a dressing gown, she gestured at the clothes she’d laid out. ‘Quickly, quickly, before he comes.’

Heart beating with heavy impact, Leola scrambled into the clothes, some inner part of her relishing the sleek luxury of silk against her skin, even though she hated the thought of being dressed by a man who’d treated her with such cavalier authority.

The nurse disappeared while Leola grimly combed her hair and smoothed it back from her face. When she found herself tugging the same tawny-gold lock of hair for the third time, she bit her lip. Both the tugging and the biting were leftovers from her childhood methods of diffusing stress, and neither worked. She eased back into the armchair, took several deep, slow breaths, then deliberately relaxed every muscle in her body.

That didn’t work either.

Tension built exponentially until the nurse appeared again, and said without her usual smile, ‘The prince will see you now.’

But when Leola got out of the chair, the older woman shook her head. ‘He will come here.’

It was clear from her tone that she didn’t approve, and equally clear that she didn’t feel she could do anything about it.

‘Very well,’ Leola said, her voice too thin. She swallowed again and walked across to the window, standing with her back to the glorious view outside so that she could watch the door without her own expression being too clear.

Apprehension pooled beneath her ribs. She wondered whether she’d be disappointed or relieved—or just plain spitting furious—if the man who came in through the door was the Viking.

He appeared so swiftly, so silently, that her pulse jumped; one moment she was alone, the next he was in the room with her, radiating that unmistakable, intimidating aura of formidable power.

‘So you’re Prince Nico Magnati,’ she said unsteadily.

The Viking smiled. ‘For my sins, yes.’ His cool grey eyes scanned her face. ‘How is your lip?’

Colour burned through her skin when she remembered the tiny scratch, and his kiss.

‘It’s fine, but I’m pretty shaky,’ she flashed, adding caustically, ‘thanks to whatever sedative you’ve had me pumped full of.’

‘I wondered when you’d work it out.’ His ironic smile irritated her at the same time as it set off small clusters of fireworks in her veins. ‘Maria tells me you haven’t eaten much today.’

‘I don’t like being force-fed drugs. Why?’

Broad shoulders sketched a wholly Mediterranean shrug, yet there was nothing casual in his gaze or his tone. ‘If you hadn’t been quite so articulate and stroppy when we first met I might not have felt it necessary, but I guessed you were not someone I could persuade easily to keep out of sight for several days.’

‘Youwereright,’ she said coldly. ‘Why wasit necessary?’

‘Because if it had become known that you’d been out and about at that time on that night you’d have been—in fact, you probably are still—in some danger.’

Although he spoke levelly, without inflection, something in his tone, in the way he looked at her, made her go cold. He meant it.

Still in that same dispassionate tone he resumed, ‘I think I got you out of sight before anyone noticed you, but I’m not sure. It was better for you to disappear.’

‘And how did you explain my absence to my landlord and his family?’ she asked with chilly politeness.

The prince gave a sudden, sexy grin. ‘That was easy. I merely sent a maid to collect your clothes and let her tell them that you and I planned to spend the rest of your holiday together. It seemed the most likely explanation for your disappearance,’ he finished blandly, obviously amused by her reaction.

Outrage rendered her wordless. All she could think of to say was How dare you! and she wasn’t going to fall back on clichés.

And if she let her temper get the better of her, she’d be putting herself at a huge disadvantage. Prince Nico didn’t look as though he let anything crack that steely control.

In the end she demanded, ‘Why didn’t you send my clothes here too?’

‘I didn’t want anyone finding out where you were, so in case I was being watched I had them forwarded to my yacht, which is cruising towards Morocco with us supposedly enjoying a passionate affair on it.’

Eyes glittering, she said with searing sarcasm, ‘Presumably people believe this story because you make a habit of kidnapping women?’

‘Not a habit,’ he drawled, eyes hardening. ‘So far you’re the only one it’s been necessary to actually kidnap. My amours have always been with willing women.’

Colour scorched her skin. She said between her teeth, ‘So tell me why it was necessary to go to such enormous trouble.’

‘No.’ He let that sink in, then added, ‘Instead, you are going to tell me exactly what you saw in the square the other night.’

It was a direct order. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted, partly in anger, partly because something in his expression warned her that he wasn’t going to be put off.

Leola narrowed her eyes, scanning the angular sculpture of his features with an intensity that surprised her. Could she trust him? ‘This is important?’

‘It is very important.’

‘Why should I trust you after all you’ve done to me?’

‘I can give you no reason. But know this, Leola Foster, I am being as honest as I dare to be with you, and whatever I have done, I have done in your best interests.’

They locked gazes like bitter antagonists, hers challenging and wary, his cold and completely determined.

In the end, she said quietly, ‘I told you what I saw.’

‘Everything?’

She thought of the face she’d seen, sharply defined in the sudden flare of light. The face of an exploiter, she thought, sensual and cruel.

She dragged in a jagged breath. ‘You must have seen it too.’

‘Tell me.’

Reluctantly she said, ‘Just before you grabbed me, I noticed a sort of blur of movement beneath that big cypress tree at the base of the church tower.’

‘What sort of movement?’

Frowning, she tried to remember. ‘It was people, but they seemed to have manifested themselves out of the air. And they didn’t make any noise. I couldn’t hear anything except waves on the rocks at the bottom of the cliff.’

‘Where were they going?’

‘Towards the cliff.’

As far as she knew there was no path down to the coast there; why would anyone want to clamber down to rocks when on the other side of the narrow peninsula there was a smooth white sand beach from a travel agent’s dream?

Slowly she said, ‘But if they were actually going to be picked up by a boat they’d have used the port. Unless they didn’t want to be seen.’

‘And that’s all you saw—a blur of movement?’

How much should she tell him? Tensely, torn between a lingering fear and her strange inclination to trust him, she glanced again at his face. The powerfully honed bone structure gave him an intimidating aura of tough ruthlessness that she knew to be well earned. He’d kidnapped and drugged her, but in spite of that and his arrogant and uncompromising aura he looked…clean.

It was an odd word, yet it was the only one she could come up with. And she had only her sensory impressions to go on.

If they’d met in other circumstances she’d trust him, she thought, wondering if she was being stupid. Nevertheless, she made up her mind. ‘Someone must have switched on a torch for a moment. I saw a man’s face; it looked vaguely familiar, as though I might have seen him on television, or in the newspapers.’

‘And you still have no idea who he might have been?’

She stared accusingly at her inquisitor. ‘No. You saw him too, because you grabbed me the moment the torch was turned off.’

Ignoring her comment, he stated briefly, ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to stay here until it’s safe for me to let you go.’

All emotion was stripped from his voice, from his eyes, leaving nothing but a cold authority that blazed forth like a beacon.

Chilled but determined, Leola said firmly, ‘I can’t stay here. I have to go back to London.’

His brows met across the arrogant blade of his nose. ‘Why?’

Because she needed to find a job before the last money in her account was used up. ‘That’s obvious—I’m due to leave Illyria in a couple of days, and if I miss my flight I can’t afford a new ticket, or to stay here.’ She drew a breath and lied, ‘Besides, I have a career.’

‘I don’t charge for my hospitality,’ he said coolly, adding, ‘and you have lost your position in London.’

‘How do you—?’ Furious with herself, she stopped, staring at him with narrowed, glittering eyes. Her voice tightened. ‘You’ve had me investigated? How dare you? That’s utterly—’

‘I know you were sacked,’ he cut in. ‘There is no reason for you to go back just yet.’

‘I’m not staying here.’

His face hardened. ‘You will do what I choose,’ he said implacably.

‘You can’t do this.’

His mouth tucked in at the corners. ‘Who is going to stop me?’

Fury overrode the remnants of discretion, but before she could tell him exactly what she thought of him he held up one large, frighteningly strong hand.

‘Listen to me, and think with your head, not your emotions,’ he said curtly. ‘I cannot tell you why you are in danger but the danger is real, and it is bigger and more important than your natural anger at being held here against your will. I had hoped that when I came I could let you go, but things did not go according to plan. If you don’t want to stay here out of sight, then I have a compromise to offer.’

‘What sort of compromise?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘One you’re not going to like, but it is as far as I’m prepared to go. Tomorrow we’ll fly back to London and you’ll move in with me. I want you to act as my—call it my latest interest—for at least a couple of weeks, possibly longer.’

‘What?’ Leola had been sure she couldn’t feel any more astonishment, but this—this outrageous suggestion deprived her of speech again. ‘Your latest interest? What the hell does that mean?’

‘As my mistress—lover, new best friend—whatever,’ he elaborated, his tone cool and inflexible.

‘No.’

‘Then—you stay here.’ He smiled without humour when her head came up and her chin jutted, and his eyes were cold when he added, ‘Osita is lovely in the spring. Cyclamen and crocuses bloom everywhere—’

‘I can’t stay here,’ she stated, frustrated and furious together, and afraid, because in spite of his dangerous charm there was something completely, coldly implacable in his tone. ‘If I don’t go back people will notice. The police will be contacted.’

She hoped.

He said coolly, ‘I can assure you, once I let it be known that you’ve decided to extend your holiday for a time as my guest, everyone will accept that.’ Cynically he finished, ‘Even if you were still working for Tabitha Grantham she would accept your absence in the hope that you’d bring added sales.’

Leola’s hands clenched at her sides. Reluctantly she admitted that he was correct; Tabitha would have considered her temporary absence as the lover of a very rich man to be an excellent career move.

The Magnati princes were not just rich—they had huge power and influence, and they were part of a very exclusive upper circle, being related to most of the royal houses in Europe.

If she moved—even for a few weeks—in their world, she’d have gone from being a nobody from the other side of the world to a person with valuable contacts…

Not that it mattered any more, since Tabitha had dumped her. ‘My landlord—’

‘Was told by your employer that your tenancy had been terminated the day you came to the Sea Isles.’

Leola felt herself being backed inexorably into a corner. Flushed and angry, she blurted the first thing that came to mind. ‘It wouldn’t work. I’m no actress and we don’t know each other—’

Then she stopped, eyes widening as he advanced across the room in long, silent strides, his expression decisive. Nervously she licked her lips, and saw his ironic glance take in the betraying little movement.

He stopped in front of her, just close enough to remind her that even when he’d abducted her so brutally she’d noticed his subtle masculine scent. Her heart quickened, and her gaze slid down so that he couldn’t read what she was thinking.

‘You’ll be perfectly safe with me,’ he said quietly. ‘I told you I prefer willing women. For your own safety, this is necessary.’

Her voice uncertain, Leola asked, ‘Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?’

He scanned her face with penetrating eyes, as though he could see into her soul. ‘Because you’re safer not knowing. You do have a choice, Leola Foster. You can either agree to stay with me in London, or stay here as my guest.’

Take it or leave it, his tone implied, leaving no room for negotiation.

Pride fought with pragmatism. If she agreed to his suggestion she’d be for ever tarred with the stigma of being his temporary mistress. If she refused, she’d be stuck here until he let her go—and who knew how long that might be?

In London at least she’d be able to look for another job and try to find accommodation.

As though he could read her mind he said casually, ‘When this is over, I might be of some use in helping you find another position, possibly even better than the one you were so unceremoniously relieved of.’

She bit her lip, ambition warring with a cold common sense that told her nobody got something for nothing. ‘You don’t have to do that. I can make it on my own.’

Of course it would be much, much easier if she had Prince Nico Magnati batting for her. It galled her that she’d end up with the stigma of being a discarded mistress without the pleasure—

Whoa! No, it didn’t. The last thing she needed was any sort of romance with him.

Abruptly she made up her mind.

‘Is there anything illegal in what you’re doing?’ she asked abruptly, watching him keenly.

‘No.’ The denial was prompt and uncompromising.

Instinct told Leola she could trust him; she hoped it wasn’t influenced by her humiliating physical response to him. ‘Morally ambiguous?’ she pressed.

He shrugged. ‘Possibly, because I am forcing you to choose between two equally distasteful alternatives. However, as each will protect you from possible death, I feel that the risk is worth it.’

‘Death?’ She felt the colour fade from her skin, but rallied to say disbelievingly, ‘Oh, come on…’


CHAPTER THREE

HER words died away when Prince Nico took her chin. ‘Look at me,’ he commanded.

Leola swallowed but lifted her lashes. His eyes had darkened into an intensity that defeated the defiance sparking through her.

‘I am not fooling,’ he said quietly. ‘Death—your death—is a possibility.’

Desperately, she argued, ‘But all I saw was a face.’

‘That is more than enough to put your life in danger if the wrong people suspect it.’

Leola’s anger transmuted into apprehension. ‘So am I ever going to be safe?’

‘Yes. Soon he will be in custody. Until then I will protect you. Also, I will be honest; this might not be necessary. Possibly no one was aware of your presence in the square, but the people involved are ruthless; they have killed before, and would kill again if they knew what you saw. Lives are at stake—lives and money and futures.’

‘Do you know who that man is?’

He released her, standing back a step. In a voice that gave her no leeway, he said, ‘Why do you ask?’

‘You do know him, don’t you? So are you in danger too?’

One black brow arched in sardonic amusement. ‘I can protect myself.’ His expression hardened. ‘Come, make up your mind. Either you stay here, or in London with me—which is it to be?’

Leola hesitated. ‘I’ll need to look for another job,’ she said, despising herself for surrendering.

‘The same sort of thing you had before?’

‘If it’s at all possible.’ Why was he interested? ‘Work experience,’ she stressed.

Preferably with someone who wasn’t interested in women, she thought bitterly.

‘Very well, then, but not until this is over and you are safe.’

He meant it. When she opened her mouth he cut in, ‘That is non-negotiable. You are in danger, Leola. Accept it.’

Her gaze flew upwards; in his eyes she saw a bleak conviction that iced through her. After a few moments’ further struggle with herself, she reluctantly said, ‘I don’t appear to have much choice. I’ll go with you.’

An hour later she decided waspishly that life amongst the rich and powerful had certain advantages. She was sitting in a sleek corporate jet, watching Europe slide beneath her. Not far away the prince was speed-reading his way through what seemed to be a huge pile of documents.

Tea had been offered, and accepted with gratitude in the hope that it might help to clear a mind still clouded by whatever drug Nico Magnati had administered to her.

As if he could read her mind he looked up, the half-smile curving his sculpted mouth fading when he met her accusing glare. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, although it’s no thanks to you,’ she said stiffly.

That black brow climbed, but he knew what she was referring to. ‘I’m sorry it had to be done, but I didn’t trust anyone on the island to keep you there if you made up your mind to leave. You will soon be free of any after-effects.’

‘I hope so,’ she told him, stopping because the steward appeared with a tray of food.

‘Eat now,’ Prince Nico commanded.

It wasn’t difficult; the snacks were delicious, about as far removed from the usual airline fodder as diamonds from glass. Her tension faded, only to surge back when they approached London, increasing in quantum leaps when she found herself in a magnificent house in Mayfair.

The prince showed her to a bedroom that impressed her with its superb fittings, although she preferred the one in Osita because of its view.

‘I suggest you have a shower and a rest,’ he said, adding with a smile she found unnecessarily sarcastic, ‘and I hope you won’t refuse just because I suggested it. Flying dehydrates.’

‘I’m not in the habit of cutting off my nose to spite my face,’ she returned, a splash of acid in her words.

‘Then we should deal very well together.’ He indicated a door in the wall. ‘Your bathroom and wardrobe are in there. You will be pleased to know that I had someone bring your clothes from your previous lodging and hang them for you.’

‘How—?’

His smile turned cynical. ‘The landlord was most obliging,’ he said and went out, closing the door behind him.

Leola did feel better once she’d worked out how to get the shower going, but she started yawning again when she got into a camisole top and briefs. It was a relief to see familiar clothes hanging in the huge walk-in wardrobe. They’d been pressed, she noted, wondering who’d done it, and smiled wryly. Certainly not the prince.

Back in the palatial bedroom she noticed that someone had turned back the covers and put a tray on a table beside an armchair with a carafe of water and some fruit and crackers.

Still wary, she ignored them, getting herself a glass of water from the bathroom, and then, with a sigh of relief, crawled between the sheets and fell asleep almost instantly.

The sound of her own name woke her. ‘Leola,’ someone was saying. ‘Wake up, or you won’t sleep at all tonight.’

And when she groaned and turned over and buried her face in the pillow, Prince Nico repeated on a note of amusement, ‘Leola. Leola, look at me.’

‘Go ’way,’ she muttered.

But her body responded to his presence before her sluggish brain. A sizzle of electricity powered through her, alerting her to the fact that Nico Magnati was sitting on the side of the bed.

Gently he shook the bare shoulder presented to him. ‘Wake up. Or do you want to have dinner in bed?’

‘No.’

She barely knew what she’d said; his touch set off fires deep in the pit of her stomach that galvanised her into action. Shocked, she rolled away from him, only to realise that the sheet had slipped and she had on nothing but the skimpy camisole and matching briefs.

Her eyes flew open. Prince Nico was looking at her face, not, she was grateful to see, at her almost exposed breasts, but the glittering heat in his eyes both scared and elated her. Some deeply hidden part of her had recognised the sexuality in his touch, and thrilled to it.

You want him, she thought, appalled and terrified by the swift firestorm of sensation leaping from cell to cell, nerve to nerve. Scarlet-faced, she grabbed the sheet and hauled it up to her chin.

Nico said something in a language she didn’t know and she gabbled, ‘Get out of here! What do you think you’re doing? You told me you’d be—I’d be…’

The tumbling words faltered to a stop. Eyes locked, for long seconds neither spoke. And then he got to his feet, towering over the bed.

‘You’ll be safe,’ he told her, a raw note charging his tone with dangerous sensuality. ‘Dinner will be ready in half an hour. If you’d rather eat here, a tray will be brought in.’

She almost took the coward’s way out, but sheer pride lifted her chin. ‘I’ll be out shortly,’ she said, adding with spirit, ‘Do I dress?’

‘Wear whatever you like,’ he said curtly, and walked out of the room.

Heart still thudding in her ears, Leola scrambled out of bed, trying to block out the seconds when Nico’s hand had smoothed the skin of her shoulder. His face had been hard, the arrogant features more prominent, the half-closed eyes fierce and demanding.

That intense attraction had been mutual, and the thought both chilled and exhilarated her.

Was this what had torn her parents’ marriage apart—this dangerous combination of excitement and hypnotic physical attraction?

Every muscle tense, she recalled her anguished turmoil when her mother had left her husband and twin daughters to follow her lover.

Shivering, Leola splashed cold water over her face. During their adolescence both sisters had kept free of emotional ties, a wariness that had solidified in her when she’d followed her dream into the world of fashion. There she saw enough painful love affairs to decide that life was simpler and more pleasant without passion.

But she’d never met anyone like Nico Magnati before.

Ringing Giselle and talking the situation through would help, but, although she craved a dose of her sister’s astringent pragmatism, she didn’t. Somehow, for the first time ever, she couldn’t share this with Giselle.

But she’d have to ring her in case she was worrying.

She straightened and dried her face, noticing that her sponge bag had been put onto the vanity. By the prince?

The thought of him walking through the room as she lay sleeping made her feel acutely vulnerable.

No, she thought logically, he’d have sent a servant in—she hoped it had been a maid, not the silent manservant.

Despising herself for dithering, she eyed her few clothes. Just as well the prince had told her to wear what she liked, because her wardrobe was basic. In the end she chose a simple silk shift the same tawny hue as her hair, and sandals that made the most of her long legs.

A knock caught her by surprise as she applied lipstick. After composing her face into a pleasant, noncommittal mask, she opened the door.

Nico smiled, his gaze skimming her with appreciation that held nothing of the raw passion she’d seen before. ‘Very fitting,’ he approved, and offered his arm. ‘I hope you won’t be bored staying here. Do you like opera?’

‘It depends,’ she said inadequately, laying her fingers gingerly on his arm. Trying to ignore the tension that sprang into life inside her, she wondered if he planned to take her to the theatre. Surely not?

She went on, ‘If it’s something modern and atonal, no. Why?’

‘I am trying to find out something of your tastes,’ he said gravely.

‘I like the classics,’ she said, still acutely suspicious. ‘And most other music. But you don’t have to entertain me.’

He led her into a drawing-room. ‘Champagne, I think,’ he said, and poured two glasses.

Leola glanced around the room, hoping she wasn’t being too obvious in her appraisal. It was much safer than watching her companion, dressed in casual clothes that had clearly been tailored especially for his broad shoulders and narrow hips and those long, heavily muscled legs.

Think furniture, she told herself sternly. This is probably the only time in your life you’re going to visit a prince’s house.

It was decorated in the same style as her bedroom—modern luxury spiced by pieces that could only have come from Illyria, like the painting of a prince in elaborate sixteenth-century armour. Mounted on a prancing charger, he was posed in front of a large, grim castle.

Leola examined him, then sneaked another glance at his descendant. Yes, there was a definite resemblance, although Nico’s cold grey eyes had come from somewhere else in his gene pool.

Of course he caught her, that black brow climbing as she hastily gestured at the picture. ‘An ancestor?’ she asked.

‘Alexander the Fourth, noted for his ferocity in battle and his astuteness. He fell in love with the daughter of the ruling prince of Illyria, but she was promised to a son of the King of France. He kidnapped her.’

Leola accepted the glass he held out, and concentrated hard on setting it down on a small table. ‘So it runs in the family. I hope she made his life hell,’ she said pleasantly.

His smile was swift and appreciative, and did very strange things to her insides.

‘She did,’ he said, ‘but as she was in love with him too they worked it out. Mind you, he had to give up quite a lot to appease her father. Until then the Lords of the Sea Isles had been more or less independent, although ostensibly they owed fealty to the ruler of Illyria. Alexander had to cede most of his rights to the Prince of Illyria.’

‘He must really have loved her,’ she said, surprised.

‘Of course he did. We Magnati are noted for our very successful marriages.’ He raised his glass and finished with an irony that suggested he didn’t mean what he was saying, ‘To love.’

‘To successful marriages.’ She sipped the most superb champagne she’d ever tasted.

‘You don’t believe in love?’

‘I believe in it,’ she said coolly. ‘I just don’t think it’s necessarily the most important thing in a good marriage.’

‘So what is the most necessary quality to achieve that?’ he probed.

She shrugged, uncomfortable yet not backing down. ‘Shared values, I suppose. And respect—trust. Pleasure in each other’s company that’s not solely based on physical appetite.’ Heat stung her skin. She went to take another sip of champagne, but decided it wouldn’t be politic. She didn’t know how much sedative was still swirling around her bloodstream.

‘Interesting,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘if perhaps a little prosaic. Are you warning me off?’

If he could be direct, so could she. She lifted her head and gave him a straight look. ‘I’m not in the market for any sort of affair.’

His mouth hardened. ‘Good, because neither am I. However, to make this work we need to look as though we are very much in lust.’

‘I told you before, I’m no actress,’ she warned.

He set his glass down before coming across to her. ‘I don’t think you’ll need to act,’ he said evenly, and slid his hands around her throat in a gesture that should have been threatening.

Unable to move, to breathe, she stared at him, her gaze darkening when his fingertips swept across the pulse that fluttered in the vulnerable hollow at the base of her throat. The tiny caress summoned a languorous desire, fiery yet honey-sweet, that licked through her body in a slow, feverish tide.

Deep in his eyes she saw the crystalline ice heat, so that they became burnished and opaque, almost impersonal in their unwavering focus.





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