The Mediterranean Prince’s Captive Virgin
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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.’