Stranded with the Prince
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“And I’m fighting for my freedom. Something I most cherish,” he told her …and heard the motor start.
He spun around in time to see the boat pull away, steered by Lady Adel.
“Wait!” Sand flew up around him as he broke into a sprint. His busted knee slowed him. And the boat was too far, pulling away rapidly.
They couldn’t leave him, dammit. Not here, not with Milda. “Wait!” He dashed into the surf after them to no avail. But he refused to give up. He swam like he never swam before. Like his life depended on it.
One of the ladies gave him a smug little wave.
The distance between them was growing.
And growing.
His lungs burned from the effort he put into propelling his body through the water. Then he stopped completely, at last accepting the unacceptable. He swore an unprincely streak and let himself sink for a moment, let the waves wash over his head before he pushed up to the surface again. He treaded water for another few seconds, too stunned to think. Then, as outrage took over, he turned to swim for the shore.
He strode back onto dry land, fuming and dripping. “You!” He bore down on the woman of his nightmares. “Get on your cell phone and get another boat out here.”
Her stricken look stopped him. They were practically nose to nose anyway, only inches separating them from each other. Her big blue eyes went impossibly wide. She smelled like spring, the perfume the Queen’s own parfumerie had created for her, a scent that lately haunted him, even in his sleep.
“I want another boat. Pronto. As in yesterday.” He barked the words at her.
She was very quiet all of a sudden.
He didn’t have the patience for this. “Speak.”
“My organizer fell into the water on the way here with the ladies.” She winced. “I’m a bad swimmer. I always get nervous around water. I should have—”
“I don’t care about your organizer.” The damn thing was her ever-present companion. Her nefarious plans for his life were no doubt in it. He’d been so disconcerted by her sudden appearance on the island that he hadn’t even noticed it was missing. “Good riddance.”
“My cell phone was tucked in the front.”
He walked away from her before he said something he regretted. But called back, after a moment, “Will the guards be checking on us?”
“No.” Her voice was small. A first. “They’re supposed to avoid contact at all costs. They’re to stay out of sight at all times. They won’t be following you or anything. We, um, wanted to give you and the ladies privacy. The guards are only here to prevent the paparazzi from getting on the island if they get wind of your trip. For all intents and purposes, we’re alone on an uninhabited island. That’s the feel I was going for to foster a certain sense of …”
He glared, daring her to say the word “romance.” That and true love were her favorite things. He’d tried to tell her in vain that there came a time when a grown woman should stop believing in fairy tales.
She closed her mouth without finishing the sentence, but she didn’t fool him. She was hopeless. He turned from her again, to survey the shore. There had to be a way off…. He thought of something suddenly. She was very methodical about ruining his life. She was definitely the type to plan for contingencies.
He turned back to her. “What was the emergency plan? If I broke an arm, how would I have called for help?” He was a royal person. There was always a backup plan for unforeseen contingencies.
She was studying her feet, her sandals half sunk into the soft sand. “The Lady Adel had an emergency radio in her medical bag,” she muttered.
“The red bag on her shoulder?” He distinctly remembered the bag. It was the one the doctor walked to the boat with.
Milda nodded weakly. “They’ll send someone back for us as soon as they land.” She looked after them, biting her bottom lip. The women and his speedboat were a dot over endless blue waves. “We’ll be back at the palace before nightfall, I’m sure.”
He wouldn’t bet on it. “So basically, we could be stranded here for two whole weeks.”
She still avoided his gaze. “I wanted to give you sufficient time to get comfortable with each other. I wanted to give the ladies enough time for their true colors to start showing. I only meant the best for you. For everybody.”
A minute or so passed in uncomfortable silence, as they both contemplated the absurdity of the situation.
Then she finally looked him in the eye. “Have you camped before?”
He shook his head. “You?”
Her face looked pinched. “I have a demanding business that I run all by myself. I don’t usually leave the city.”
ROBERTO PUT ONE HAND above the other as he climbed the guard tower soundlessly. Below him, Sagro Prison was clouded in darkness, the island quiet. He gripped his sole weapon, the sharpened handle of a spoon, between his teeth. When he reached the top, he vaulted over and cut the guard’s throat before the man could raise the alarm.
Had to be done.
There was no way around it. He lowered the body to the wooden boards, wiped the warm blood off his fingers and took the rifle, waited.
No siren sounded. He hadn’t been detected. The small Italian prison island was well guarded, but it was no high-security facility.
He lowered himself to the ground where José and Marco crouched in the shadows. He was the boss of the small team, though they were all hired hands, working for a new Colombian drug lord who was trying to break into the European market via Italy, among other places. Except that they’d been caught on this trip.
But he wouldn’t rot in a dank cell, he thought as they crawled their way to the fence where the hole they’d painstakingly prepared and covered awaited. He wouldn’t end up like his brother, Miguel, trapped in a Valtrian prison, then knifed by some local hotshot, dead two weeks before his release.
The drug lord they both worked for was trying to wiggle his way into the European market at multiple points of entry. Roberto had a cousin with a small team in Romania. He wondered how the bastard was faring. Hopefully better than this.
He was the first to reach the unfinished tunnel and head into the darkness. What little they’d left for tonight could be done in an hour. He dug with the flat rock they’d used to get this far, sweated, swore, but never stopped working. When at long last he’d reached the opening, only just clearing the fence, he tossed the stone aside then brushed the dirt from his eyes.
“Hurry,” he said, speaking for the first time. This far out, nobody should be able to hear them.
He came up into a crouch, suddenly dizzy from hunger. All three of them were starving. Over the past few weeks, they’d had to bribe too many inmates with food to get what they needed for the escape. They could have just as easily beaten the bastards into obedience, but fights drew the guards’ attention, and their small team needed to fly below the radar. They had to remain invisible. Then and now.
“Keep low to the ground,” he said as they crossed the narrow slice of flat plateau. Then they unraveled their makeshift ropes, tied them together and lowered themselves down the rock face.
Roberto reached the beach first. When they were all down, they gathered as much driftwood as they could find, then they used the ropes to tie a raft together. Marco was the fastest with the knots, the son of a fisherman, pulling his weight for the first time. They swam out beyond the breakers before climbing on, then paddled with their shoes as best they could—which wasn’t easy at all, as the waves were getting angry.
Real paddles would have helped, but they’d had no place to steal them from and no time to make them. Using their shoes required too much effort for too little result. The three were weak and exhausted, but they would work until their last breath.
They’d all sworn not to go back behind bars. They would either escape today or die trying.
“Get your ass moving.” Roberto snarled at Marco when he slowed. The other apparently thought that having worked on the raft, he was now entitled to a break.
José shook his head and spit into the waves.
Marco got back to the paddling sullenly.
More trouble than he was worth. But they weren’t out of danger yet. Roberto still needed him.
They needed to take the current to the mainland, land in an out-of-the-way spot and disappear deep into the country by morning, when their breakout would be discovered and law enforcement would start their coastal search.
But a storm was coming in and the waves didn’t cooperate. The current seemed to be changing, taking them in another direction entirely.
Chapter Two
In hindsight, they shouldn’t have wasted so much of the daylight on fighting.
Milda wrestled with the tent she’d dragged into the olive grove. She could see Prince Lazlo’s outline a few hundred yards from her. She hadn’t gone too far—was kind of scared of the darkness of the grove, the trees throwing shadows in the moonlight. The island was a nature preserve. Which meant wild animals for sure. She didn’t want to think about that.
“I don’t think that’s how it goes,” the prince called across the distance that separated them. He hadn’t bothered bringing the second tent up from the beach.
“I got it,” she answered over her shoulder. Don’t come over. Please, don’t come over.
If he helped her set up her tent, he would probably expect to sleep in it. With her. She couldn’t handle that.
She glanced toward him. He rested—probably thinking dark, murderous thoughts about her—sitting up, his back against a tree, his shoulders outlined in the dim light. His body was lithe and powerful. He wasn’t her favorite person in the world, but even she had to admit that he was incredibly handsome, with that debonair, devil-may-care attitude.
And beyond his good looks, he was intelligent as well. And a prince. At first, she’d been foolish enough to think that marrying him off would be easy. He’d certainly taught her better since.
She couldn’t pin the man down, not for a second. Like seawater through a fishnet, he ran through her fingers over and over again. He could have made it all work. He had incredible focus when he chose. He owned one of the best speed car factories in Europe, built it himself from nothing but a dream. When he wanted something, he applied himself to the task until he achieved his goal. He could have made her job easy. Instead, he was doing the opposite. He didn’t want anything to do with the Queen’s plans, so he resisted Milda at every step.
Like the damn tent was doing at the moment.
She was going to figure this out. She gathered her last reserves and fitted the poles together at last. And felt triumphant.
Until she tried to get the structure in through the tent’s door. She struggled for at least five minutes before she figured out it wasn’t going to work this way. The poles were probably supposed to be snapped into place inside the tent. She stifled a groan and took it all apart.
“Need help?”
“Almost done. I’ll be ready in a minute.” She looked up to make sure he wasn’t coming over.
But he was still sitting by the tree, his aristocratic profile outlined by the last of the light—a strong chin, straight nose and lips that looked as if they were carved from granite. Aside from the occasional debauchery—or even with that—he could have been one of those heroes of ancient Rome. She could definitely see him at the chariot races. She’d seen him at a modern racetrack, behind the wheel.
He was mesmerizing, had charisma in spades. No wonder women fell at his feet left and right. He certainly spent more time with them than pondering the duties of royalty. To the point that the media had taken to calling him The Rebel Prince. She filled her lungs with the salty sea air and turned away from him, giving the impertinent tent her full attention once again.
“I can’t believe the women didn’t send the boat back,” she said after another five minutes of struggle.
“You know, the blonde looked familiar. I think I might have dated her in the past.”
“You dated all three of them. With time being so tight, I wanted to go for certainty. A shortcut, you know? If you were attracted to them once, you could be attracted to them again.”
Silence was the only answer.
“Right?” she asked, then immediately hated that she was second-guessing herself because of him. He was terrible for her self-confidence.
“'Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.'” He quoted William Congreve. “Better settle in for the full two weeks.”
“They couldn’t have been that mad at you. They agreed to another try.”
“Could be they planned to kill me in the wilderness,” he remarked dryly.
“What on earth have you done to them? No, never mind.” The fact that he didn’t even remember that he’d dated them gave her a clue. Plus his tirade on the beach that the ladies had overheard. She’d never dated him, and even she was about ready to strangle him and leave him in the wilderness for the vultures or whatever.
So maybe the ladies were somewhat justified in their fury. But leaving her stranded here with the prince was completely uncalled for. What harm had she done to anyone? She was doing the best she could, with everyone’s best interests at heart. She was beginning to feel decidedly underappreciated. The least of her problems, all considered, when her whole world was threatening to come right down around her ears.
She was the last link in a long line of matchmakers. And the business hadn’t been doing well for the past couple of years. If she failed, the family tradition would end with her. Her grandmother was probably rolling in her grave.
Poles miraculously snapping into place and holding the tent up from the inside at last distracted her from any further thoughts on what a disappointment she was turning out to be, compared to her more talented ancestors. The tent was standing. So there. That was something. She pulled herself straight proudly, grinning into the darkness. But then she tripped over the blanket she’d already tossed into the tent, not wanting it to get dirty or bugs to crawl inside, and fell with her full weight against one of the poles and the whole thing came apart all over again.
She could have howled with frustration. She didn’t. She’d be damned if she’d lose control within hearing distance of the prince.
“Everything okay in there?” His voice dripped with mockery.
She climbed out on her hands and knees, the definition of undignified, stood and brushed herself off. “I decided to take it down. The air is too stifling in there.”
The breeze coming off the ocean was balmy. She simply adjusted the waterproof material on the ground so the collapsed poles wouldn’t be sticking her in the ribs, then lay down at last. There. She was perfectly content. Who needed the tent?
She was blissfully comfortable for five full minutes. Except maybe her neck. She adjusted a wadded-up blanket under her head just as a fat raindrop fell on her face. Wind ruffled her hair. Another raindrop followed.
She squeezed her eyes closed for a moment. She was not going to be defeated. She got up and tried to unfold the tent, to get in the middle somehow, sandwiched between protective layers. But the rain picked up long before she finished. And by the time she was settled horizontally again, she realized she was lying in mud. She cursed the prince under her breath.
She was so not supposed to be here.
He was supposed to be snug in his tent, with three intelligent, great women, each with the pedigree and temperament to become a fantastic princess. Why couldn’t he have just gone with that plan? What did he have to complain about?
“It’s raining,” he said from a few feet away, his rich baritone startling her.
She hadn’t noticed him coming closer. “Cry me a river,” she muttered through clenched teeth. Or not. They seemed to have more than enough water already. She pulled her head into her cocoon. She’d been about to get out of the mud, but she would pretend that everything was well if it killed her.
“The water running down the hillside will be heading this way,” he observed with perfect aristocratic nonchalance.
Maybe it would wash him away. That could be another solution to the problem. He couldn’t very well embarrass the monarchy any more if he disappeared, could he?
But the water would wash her away, too, if she stayed like this. She crawled out and was soaked to the skin the next second. “You know how to set this thing up?” She gestured toward the tent. If they had it anchored to the ground, maybe the water would run around them. The canvas was waterproof.
“Forget it.” He grabbed the muddy, dripping tent, tossed it over his shoulder and headed inland. His slight limp did nothing to detract from his powerful appearance.
She reluctantly followed him, carrying her soggy blanket. With the cloud cover thick now, and the rain coming down hard, she could see little, even with the flashlight. Once she thought she caught a moving shadow up ahead, but by the time she looked closer, it disappeared. Maybe one of the guards. Their gear and supplies had been dropped off on the other side of the island earlier. They’d probably gotten their tents up around the perimeter in time for the rain. Lucky them.
“Hello!” she called out. “We need help. We’re here.”
She waited, but no response came. Maybe they couldn’t hear her. Or she’d only seen a bush moving in the wind.
Should have looked for the men this afternoon, instead of waiting for a boat by the beach and fighting, she thought as she pushed ahead, mud squishing in the front of her sandals and leaking out the back.
An hour of miserable marching got them to a rocky cliff wall. The famous Painted Rocks, not that she could make out any of the images in the rain and the dark. Soon blind luck brought them to an overhang that shielded them from most of the rain—if they sat far back in the rock’s crevice and very close to each other.
He positioned the rolled-up tent in front of them to block as much rain from that side as was possible. “You might want to take a minute and ponder where meddling gets you.” His tone was lecturing. “I hope you’re happy.”
She would have been happy if she’d never heard of Prince Lazlo of Valtria. “I’m wet.”
Her side was plastered to his. He was a full head taller than her, long limbs, muscles in all the right places. According to her research, he was an avid sportsman. Highly competitive, highly seductive, highly annoying. And, unfortunately, he was her cross to bear.
He relaxed his shoulders against the rock. His masculine scent of leather and motor oil reached her even through the rain. He’d probably spent his morning at the racetrack as usual.
She needed to think about something other than him, or she’d never relax enough to fall asleep. She gave that a valiant try for as long as she could. With her clothes soaked, she was cold to the bone, but she resisted moving even closer to him.
“First thing in the morning,” she said when she could stay silent no longer, “we’ll set up the tent and find our breakfast in the bags. I had the royal cook pack plenty of food for you and the women. If the rain stops, we can make a fire and signal for help.”
He didn’t say anything.
She thought of her small walk-up in Brooklyn, New York, that was mortgaged to the hilt. She couldn’t fail here. If she pulled this off, she’d have enough money to throw some serious advertising out there and save her business.
The matchmakers’ second rule was: Win each client’s goodwill. Only then can you work productively together.
And she badly needed to keep this client.
Having to apologize, when she’d done nothing wrong, just about killed her, but she was willing to make that sacrifice. She had a month left to claim the exorbitant fee the Queen had promised her if she succeeded. She needed to gain Lazlo’s cooperation and goodwill.
“I’m sorry. This isn’t how I planned this.”
Once again, he didn’t respond.
But she did hear a sound, so she turned and saw his head resting on his shoulder, at what looked like an uncomfortable angle. He softly snored into her face.
And then he began leaning and sliding against her. She tried to move away, but somehow ended up on the ground, practically pinned under him.
“Your Highness!” She shoved him toward the edge of their shelter.
“Mmmm,” he said without opening his eyes as he rolled onto his side.
Wedged between him and the rock, she had no room to pull away. She was practically spooning him. She had to get out of there. Except, the spot was comfortable. And his body heat was slowly drying her. And it was dark and scary out in the open.
She decided to stay put. For comfort’s sake. She did her best to ignore that they were touching. Still, sleep didn’t come easily.
Every noise the rain didn’t drown out startled her. At one point, she could have sworn something big moved through the woods nearby. She could hear branches cracking, but as she waited with her breath held, nobody materialized from the darkness.
When she did sleep, her dreams were strange. She was with the prince on the beach, entangled, naked, waves licking their feet. He was kissing the sensitive skin of her neck, sending spirals of need through her body. In her dream, he wasn’t the least annoying. The hands that at times molded metal at his auto factory, now caressed her breasts. She arched to press them into his palms as her nipples pebbled and begged for more. She tried to shift closer to him, but hit her head on rock.
What rock? They were making love in the surf on the beach. The sand was soft …except it wasn’t. She was lying on rock. She slowly came awake.
The wetness on her feet was rain, not playful waves. She’d stuck them out of their shelter while she slept. Prince Lazlo had turned in the night, one arm under her head, his other hand cupping one of her breasts gently.
Heat rushed to her face. “Your Highness!” She squeaked the words as she tried to wiggle away from him, but the rock provided no space.
Firmly, she pushed the hand away. “Prince Lazlo, this is not—” She glanced up into his face.
His eyes were closed, his aristocratic mouth lax. He was still fast asleep.
ROBERTO SPIT SAND as he crawled out of the water, too exhausted to stand. The waves had broken their raft, taken their weapons—the makeshift knife as well as the guard’s rifle—and separated the small team from each other.
He scanned the beach where he landed. Nothing but darkness and rain. He couldn’t even tell if he’d reached the mainland or only another island. He rolled to his side and puked up some of the saltwater he’d swallowed. Then he flopped onto his back, letting the rain beat his face, unable to move another inch.
Endless hours passed. Each time the waves came up to lick his feet, he crawled a little higher. Then the rain stopped, the clouds cleared out and he could see two dark forms on the beach—either his men, driftwood or clumps of seaweed. He stood from the wet sand and staggered toward them, squinting his eyes to see.
He came across Marco first, shook him, pounded his back. When the man coughed up water at last, Roberto moved on to José. Then the three of them dragged themselves into the low brush that edged the narrow, rocky shoreline.
And for a while, they rested.
“Where the hell are we?” José spoke first, sounding hoarse. Their throats were raw from swallowing too much seawater and vomiting.
“Close to a house, I hope.” Marco shook wet sand from his curly black hair, looking the most chipper among the three. “A house full of food and women.”
But instead of a house, the first thing they spotted once they got going was a tent, about a hundred meters or so inland.