Falling for the secret prince

Claire Tremaine accepted the post as sole caretaker of a gorgeous island after a professional betrayal left her life in tatters. It’s the perfect place to heal, until her solitude is interrupted by a gorgeous solider who’s shipwrecked on her shores!

Raoul breaks down Claire’s barriers with his kindness and kisses, but she’s stunned when he’s revealed as Prince of Marétal. She believes they can’t be together...until Raoul whisks Claire to his palace! She’s stepped into the prince’s world—but can Claire capture this prince’s heart?

I’m royal and there’ll be a worldwide search...

He couldn’t tell her.

For some unknown reason a voice in the back of his head was pleading, Not Yet. She thought he was an equal. A soldier—nothing more.

She’d been battered by people who’d treated her as trash. She was feisty and brave, but she’d retreated to this island hurt.

He didn’t want her retreating from him. He knew he’d have to tell her, but the voice was almost yelling now.

Not yet. Not yet.

Dear Reader,

Stepping into the Prince’s World started life in my dentist’s waiting room. The dentist surgery is understandably not my favorite place to visit, but with a lovely pile of glossies I can block out the thought of what’s ahead. I flicked through the pages, looking at pictures of a certain soldier/prince and thought, what a combination!

And suddenly I was off and dreaming. By the time I was escorted into the dentist chair I had my own soldier/prince in my head, and a heroine who deserved him. I had shipwrecks and deserted islands, I had chandeliers and tiaras, I had my own kingdom—all I had to do was get rid of one small dental cavity, escape the dentist and go write a book.

Welcome to Claire and Raoul’s world. Enjoy.

Marion

Stepping into the Prince’s World

Marion Lennox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MARION LENNOX has written more than one hundred romances and is published in over a hundred countries and thirty languages. Her multiple awards include the prestigious US RITA® (twice), and the RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award for ‘a body of work which makes us laugh and teaches us about love.’ Marion adores her family, her kayak, her dog and lying on the beach with a book someone else has written. Heaven!

For Doug and Natalia. Wishing you a fabulous wedding and an amazing, fulfilling Happy-Ever-After. Welcome home.

With grateful thanks to Jennifer Kloester, who certainly knows where and how to kick.

If Our Jen met a prince on a dark night she’d know what to do. :-)

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

YOU’RE TO TAKE your place as heir to the throne and find yourself a bride.

If Crown Prince Raoul Marcus Louis Ferdinand could cut that last order from his grandmother’s letter he would, but he needed to show his commanding officer the letter in its entirety.

He laid the impressive parchment of his grandmother’s letter before his commanding officer. Franz noted the grim lines on Raoul’s face, picked up the letter and read.

Then he nodded. ‘You have no choice,’ he told him.

‘I don’t.’ Raoul turned and stared out of the window at the massive mountain overshadowing Tasmania’s capital. It was a mere shadow of the mountains of Marétal’s alpine region.

He needed to be home.

‘I’ve known my grandfather’s health is failing,’ he told his commanding officer. ‘But I’ve always thought of the Queen as invincible. This letter might sound commanding, but it’s a plea for help.’

‘It is.’ Franz glanced at the letter again. It was headed by the royal crest of Marétal and it wasn’t a letter to be ignored. A royal summons... ‘But at least it’s timely,’ he told Raoul.

Marétal’s army had been engaged as part of an international exercise in Tasmania’s wilderness for the last couple of months. Raoul’s battalion had performed brilliantly, but operations were winding down.

‘We can manage without you,’ he told him. He hesitated. ‘Raoul, you do know...?’

‘That it’s time I left the army.’ Raoul sighed. ‘I do know it. But my grandmother effectively runs the kingdom.’

‘The Queen’s seventy-six.’

‘Tell her that.’ He shook his head at the thought of his indomitable grandmother. His grandfather, King Marcus, even though officially ruler, hardly emerged from his library. Queen Alicia had more or less run the country since the day she’d married, and she suffered no interference. But she was asking for help now.

‘Of course you’re right,’ he continued. ‘My grandparents’ chief aide, Henri, has written privately that he’s worried about the decisions my grandmother’s taking. Or not taking. Our health and legal systems need dragging into this century. More immediately, national security seems to be an issue. Henri tells me of threats which she refuses to take seriously. He suggests increasing the security service, making it a force to be reckoned with, but the Queen sees no need.’

‘You’re just the man to do it.’

‘I’ve never been permitted to change anything,’ Raoul said flatly. ‘And now...’ He turned back to Franz’s desk and stared morosely at the letter. ‘This. She wants me home for the ball to celebrate her fifty years on the throne.’

‘It’ll be a splendid occasion,’ Franz told him. He, too, glanced back at the letter—particularly at the last paragraph—and try as he might he couldn’t suppress a grin.

‘You think it’s funny?’ Commanding officer or not, Franz copped a glare from Raoul. ‘That the Queen decrees I bring a suitable partner or she’ll provide me with one herself?’

‘She wants to see you married, with an heir to the throne. She fears for you and the monarchy otherwise.’

‘She wants me under her thumb, with a nice aristocratic bride to match.’

‘You’ve never been under her thumb before.’

Franz had known Prince Raoul ever since he’d joined the army. Raoul presented to the world as the perfect Prince, the perfect grandson, but Franz knew that underneath his mild exterior Raoul did exactly what he wanted. If the Queen had known half of what her grandson had been doing in the army she’d have called him home long since.

But therein lay the success of their relationship. To his grandmother, Raoul was a young man who smiled sweetly and seemed to agree with whatever she decreed. ‘Yes, Grandmama, I’m sure you’re right.’ Raoul never made promises he couldn’t keep, but he certainly knew the way to get what he wanted.

‘Our people will approve of me in military uniform,’ he’d told the Queen when he’d announced his decision to join the army. ‘It’s a good look, Grandmama—the Crown Prince working for the country rather than playing a purely ceremonial role. With your approval I’ll join the Special Forces. Have you seen their berets? It can do the royal image nothing but good.’

His grandmother had had to agree that his military uniform suited him. So had the country’s media. At thirty five, with his height, his jet-black hair, his tanned skin and the hooded grey eyes that seemed almost hawk-like, the added ‘toughness’ of his uniform made the tabloids go wild every time they had the opportunity to photograph him.

‘His uniform makes him look larger,’ the Queen had told a journalist when Raoul had completed his first overseas posting.

Franz had read the article and thought of the years of gruelling physical training turning Raoul into a honed Special Forces soldier. His admiration for his royal charge had increased with every year he knew him.

Now he came round and gripped his shoulder. Franz had been Raoul’s first commanding officer when he’d joined the army fifteen years ago. As Raoul had risen up the ranks so had Franz, and over the years they’d become friends.

‘If you were a normal officer you’d be taking my place when I retire next year,’ Franz told him. ‘The army wouldn’t give you a choice and that’d mean desk work. You know you hate desk work. There’s so much more you can do working as heir to the throne—and you’ll wear a much prettier uniform.’

Raoul told him where he could put his uniform and the older man chuckled.

‘Yes, but you’ll be wearing tassels, lad, and maybe even a sabre. There’s a lot to be said for tassels and sabres. When do you need to leave?’

‘The ball’s in a month.’

‘But you need to leave before that.’ Franz glanced at the letter and his lips twitched again. ‘According to this you have a spot of courting to do before you get there. First find your bride...’

Raoul rolled his eyes.

‘I may have to go home,’ he said carefully. ‘I may even have to take up the duties of Crown Prince. But there’s no way my grandmother can make me marry.’

‘Well,’ Franz said, and grinned again, ‘I know Her Majesty. Good luck.’

Raoul said nothing. Some comments weren’t worth wasting breath on.

Franz saw it and moved on to practicalities. ‘Let’s consider you on leave from now,’ he told him. ‘We’ll work out discharge plans later. You can fly out tonight if you want.’

‘I don’t want to fly out tonight.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Space,’ Raoul told him. ‘Space to get my head around what I’m facing. But you’re right. I need to go home. My grandparents are failing. I know my country needs me. I will go home—but not to find a bride.’

* * *

If she edged any closer to the end of the world she might fall off.

Claire Tremaine sat on the very highest cliff on the highest headland of Orcas Island and thumbed her nose in the direction of Sydney. It was Monday morning. In the high-rise offices of Craybourne, Ledger and Smythe, scores of dark-suited legal eagles would be poring over dull documents, checking the ASIC indexes, discussing the Dow Jones, making themselves their fifth or sixth coffee of the morning.

She was so much better off here.

Or not.

She sort of...missed it.

Okay, not most of it—but, oh, she missed the coffee.

And she was just ever so frightened of storms. And just a bit isolated.

Would there be a storm? The forecast was saying a weather front was moving well east of Tasmania. There was no mention of it turning towards Orcas Island, but Claire had been on the island for four months now, and was starting to recognise the wisps of cloud formation low on the horizon that spelled trouble.

A storm back in Sydney had meant an umbrella and delays on the way home to her bedsit. A storm on Orcas Island could mean she was shut in the house for days. There was a reason the owners of this island abandoned it for six months of the year. This was a barren, rocky outcrop, halfway between Victoria and Tasmania, and the sea here was the wildest in the world. In the worst of the storms Claire couldn’t even stand up in the wind.

‘But that’s what we put our names down for,’ she told Rocky, the stubby little fox terrier she’d picked up on impulse from the animal shelter the day she’d left to come here. ‘Six months of isolation to get to know each other and to forget about the rest of the world.’

But the rest of the world had decent coffee.

The supply boat wasn’t due for another week, and even then on its last visit they’d substituted her desired brand with a no-name caterers’ blend.

Sigh.

‘Two more months to go,’ she told Rocky, and rose and stared out at the gathering clouds.

To come here had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, and she’d had plenty of time to regret it. She was looking at the rolling clouds and regretting it now.

‘I’m sure the weather forecast’s wrong,’ she told her dog. ‘But let’s go batten down the hatches, just in case.’

* * *

He should tell someone where he was going.

If he did his bodyguards would join him. That was the deal. When he was working within his army unit his bodyguards backed off. As soon as he wasn’t surrounded by soldiers, his competent security section took over.

Only they didn’t treat him as a colleague. They treated him as a royal prince who needed to be protected—not only from outside harm but from doing anything that might in any way jeopardise the heir to the throne of Marétal.

Like going sailing on his own.

But he hadn’t let them know he was on leave yet. As far as they were concerned he was still on military exercises, so for now he was free of their watch. He’d walked straight from Franz’s office down to the docks. He was still wearing his military uniform. In a city full of army personnel, based here for multinational exercises, his uniform gave him some degree of anonymity. That anonymity wouldn’t last, he knew. As soon as he shed his uniform, as soon as he went home, he’d be Crown Prince forever.

But not married to a woman of his grandmother’s choosing, he thought grimly. He knew the women she thought suitable and he shuddered.

And then he reached Rosebud, the neat little yacht he’d been heading for, and forgot about choosing a bride.

This was Tom Radley’s yacht. Tom was a local army officer and Raoul had met him on the first part of their combined international operation. They’d shared an excellent army exercise, abseiling across ‘enemy territory’ in some of Tasmania’s wildest country. Friendships were forged during such ordeals, and the men had clicked.

‘Come sailing with me when we’re back in Hobart,’ Tom had said, and they’d spent a great afternoon on the water.

But Tom had been due to take leave before the exercises had ended, and a mountain in Nepal had beckoned. Before he’d gone he’d tossed the keys of the yacht to Raoul.

‘Use her, if you like, while you’re still in Tasmania,’ he’d said diffidently. ‘I’ve seen your skill and I know you well enough now to trust you. I also know how surrounded you are. Just slip away and have a sail whenever you can.’

The little yacht wasn’t state-of-the-art. She was a solid tub of a wooden yacht, built maybe forty years ago, sensible and sturdy. Three weeks ago he and Tom had put up a bit too much sail for the brisk conditions, and they’d had fun trying to keep her under control.

And now... Conditions on the harbour were bright, with enough sun to warm the early spring air and a breeze springing up from the south. Clouds were scudding on the horizon. It was excellent sailing weather.

He didn’t want to go back to base yet. He didn’t want to change out of his uniform, pack his kit and head for home.

He should tell someone where he was going.

‘It’s only an afternoon’s sail,’ he said out loud. ‘And after today I’ll have a lifetime of telling people where I’m going.’

He should still tell someone. Common sense dictated it.

But he didn’t want his bodyguards.

‘I’ll tell them tomorrow,’ he said. ‘For today I owe no duty to the army. I owe no duty to my country. For today I’m on my own.’

Prince Raoul’s movements were supposed to be tracked every step of his life. But it drove Raoul nuts.

Even his afternoon’s sail with Tom had been tracked. Because he’d been off duty that weekend, his bodyguards had moved into surveillance mode. He and Tom had had a great time, but even Tom had been unsettled by the motorboat cruising casually within helping distance.

‘I couldn’t bear it,’ Tom had said frankly, and Raoul had said nothing because it was just the way things were.

But this afternoon was different. No one knew he was on leave. No one knew he was looking at Tom’s boat and thinking, Duty starts tomorrow.

No one saw him slip the moorings and sail quietly out of the harbour.

And no one was yet predicting the gathering storm.

* * *

‘I’m sure it’s a storm,’ she told Rocky. ‘I don’t care what the weather men are saying. I trust my nose.’

Clare was working methodically around the outside of the house, closing the great wooden shutters that protected every window. This house was a mansion—a fantastical whim built by a Melbourne-based billionaire financier who’d fancied his own island with its own helicopter pad so he could fly in whenever he wished.

He’d never wish to be here now, Claire thought as she battened down the house. In the worst of the Bass Strait storms, stones that almost qualified as rocks were hurled against the house.

In the early days, Mrs Billionaire had planted a rose garden to the north of the house. It had looked stunning for half of one summer, but then a storm had hit and her rose bushes had last been seen flying towards the Antarctic. It had then been decided that an Italian marble terrace would look just as good, although even that was now pitted from flying debris.

‘I hope I’m imagining things,’ she told Rocky. Rocky was sniffing for lizards under the carefully arranged rock formations that during summer visits formed a beautiful ‘natural’ waterfall. ‘The forecast’s still for calm.’

But then she looked again at those clouds. She’d been caught before.

‘If we lose sun for a couple of days we might even lose power. I might do some cooking in case,’ she told Rocky.

Rocky looked up at her and his whole body gave a wriggle of delight. He hadn’t been with her for two weeks before he’d realised the significance of the word ‘cooking’.

She grinned and picked him up. ‘Yes, we will,’ she told him. ‘Rocky, I’m very glad I have you.’

He was all she had.

She’d been totally isolated when she’d left Sydney. There’d been people in the firm she’d thought were her friends, but she’d been contacted by no one. The whispers had been vicious, and who wanted to be stained by association?

Enough.

She closed her eyes and hugged her little dog. ‘Choc chip cookies for me and doggy treats for you,’ she told him. ‘Friends stick together, and that’s you and me. That’s what this six months is all about. Learning that we need nobody else.’

* * *

The wind swept in from the south—a wind so fierce that it took the meteorologists by surprise. It took Tasmania’s fishing fleet by surprise, and it stretched the emergency services to the limit. To say it took Raoul’s unprepared little yacht by surprise was an understatement.

Raoul was an excellent yachtsman. What his skills needed, though, was a thoroughly seaworthy boat to match them.

He didn’t have one.

For a while he used the storm jib, trying to use the wind to keep some semblance of control. Then a massive wave crested and broke right over him, rolling the boat as if it was tumbleweed. The little boat self-righted. Raoul had clipped on lifelines. He was safe—for now—but the sail was shredded.

And that was the end of his illusion of control.

He was tossed wherever the wind and the sea dictated. All he could do was hold on and wait for the weather to abate. And hope it did so before Rosebud disintegrated and left him to the mercy of the sea.

CHAPTER TWO

TWO DAYS INTO the worst storm to have hit the island since the start of her stay Claire was going stir-crazy. She hadn’t been able to step outside once. The wind was so strong that a couple of times she’d seriously worried that the whole house might be picked up.

‘You and me, Rocky,’ she’d told him, when he’d whimpered at the sound of the wind roaring across the island. ‘Like Dorothy and Toto. When we fly, we’ll fly together.’

Thankfully they hadn’t flown, and finally the wind was starting to settle. The sun was starting to peep through the clouds and she thought she might just venture out and see the damage.

She quite liked a good storm—as long as it didn’t threaten to carry her into the Antarctic.

So she rugged up, and made Rocky wear the dinky little dog coat that he hated but she thought looked cute, and they headed out together.

As soon as she opened the door she thought about retreating, but Rocky was tearing out into the wind, joyful at being allowed outside, heading for his favourite place in the world. The beach.

The sea would look fantastic. She just had to get close enough to the beach to see it. The sea mist was so heavy she could scarcely see through it—or was it foam blasted up by the wind? She could scarcely push against it.

But she was outside. The wind wasn’t so strong that it was hurling stones. She could put her head down and fight it.

Below the house was a tiny cove—a swimming beach in decent weather. She headed there now, expecting to see massive damage, expecting to see...

A boat?

Or part of a boat.

She stopped, so appalled she almost forgot to breathe. A boat was smashed and part submerged on the rocks just past the headland.

The boat wasn’t big. A weekend sailor? It must have been trying to reach the relative safety of the beach, manoeuvring into the narrow channel of deep water, but the seas would have been overwhelming, driving it onto the rocks.

Dear God, was there anyone...?

And almost as soon as she thought it she saw a flash of yellow in the water, far out, between the rocks and the beach. A figure was struggling through the waves breaking around the rocks.

Whoa.

Claire knew these waters, even thoughtshe’d never swum here. She’d skimmed stones and watched the tide in calm weather. She knew there was a rip, starting from the beach and swinging outward.

The swimmer was headed straight into it. If he was to have any chance he had to swim sideways, towards the edge of the cove, then turn and swim beside the rip rather than in it.

But he was too far away to hear if she yelled. The wind was still howling across the clifftops, drowning any hope of her being heard.

Was she a heroine?

‘I’m not,’ she said out loud. But some things weren’t negotiable. She couldn’t watch him drown—not when she knew the water. And she was a decent swimmer.

‘You know where the dog food is, and the back door’s open,’ she told Rocky as she hauled off her coat and kicked off her boots. ‘If I disappear just chew a hole in the sack. Tell ’em I died trying.’

But she had no intention of dying. She’d stick within reach of the rocks, where the current was weakest. She was not a heroine.

Her jeans hit the clothes pile, and then her windcheater. Okay, then—ready, set, go.

* * *

He was making no headway. The current was hauling him out faster than he could swim.

Raoul had been born tough and trained tougher. He hadn’t reached where he was in the army without survival skills being piled on to survival skills. He couldn’t outswim the current, so he knew he had to let it carry him out until it weakened—and then he had to figure out a way back in again.

The problem was, he was past exhaustion.

By the time he’d reached this island the yacht had been little more than a floating tub. The torn sails were useless. He’d used the motor to try and find some place to land, but the motor hadn’t had the strength to fight the surf. Then a wave, bigger than the rest, had hit him broadside.

The boat had landed upside down on the rocks. He’d hit his head. It had taken him too long to get free of the wreck and now the water was freezing.

If he let the current carry him out, would he have the strength to get back in again?

He had no choice. He forced his body to relax and felt the rip take him. For the first time he stopped trying to swim. He raised his head, looking hopelessly towards the shore. He was being carried out again.

There was someone on the beach.

Someone who could help?

Or not.

The figure was slight—a boy? No, it was a woman, her shoulder-length curls flying out around her shoulders in the wind. She had a dog and she was yelling. She was gesticulating to the east of the cove.

She was ripping off her windcheater and running down to the surf. Heading to the far left of the beach.

If this was a local she’d know the water. She was heading to the left and waving at him.

Maybe that was where the rip cut out.

She was running into the water. She shouldn’t risk herself.

He tried to yell but he was past it. He was pretty much past anything.

The woman was running through the shallows and then diving into the first wave that was over chest high. Of all the stupid... Of all the brave...

Okay, if she was headed into peril on his behalf the least he could do was help.

He fought for one last burst of energy. He put his head down and tried to swim.

* * *

Uh-oh.

There’d been a swimming pool in the basement of the offices of Craybourne, Ledger and Smythe. Some lawyers swam every lunchtime.

Claire had mostly shopped. Or eaten lunch in the park. Or done nothing at all, which had sometimes seemed a pretty good option.

It didn’t seem a good option now. She should have used that time to improve her swimming. She needed to be super-fit or more. There was no rip where she was swimming, but the downside of keeping close to the rocks at the side of the cove was the rocks themselves. They were sharp, and the waves weren’t regular. A couple picked her up and hurled her sideways.

She was having trouble fighting her way out. She was also bone-chillingly cold. The iciness of Bass Strait in early spring was almost enough to give her a heart attack.

And she couldn’t see whoever it was she was trying to rescue.

He must be here somewhere, she thought. She just had to fight her way out behind the surf so she could see.

Which meant diving through more waves. Which meant avoiding more rocks. Which meant...

Crashing.

* * *

Something hit him—hard.

He’d already hit his head on the rocks. The world was feeling a bit off-balance anyway. The new crack on his head made him reel. He reached out instinctively to grab whatever it was that had hit him—and it was soft and yielding. A woman. Somehow he tugged her to face him. Her chestnut curls were tangled, her green eyes were blurred with water, and she looked almost as dazed as he was.

He’d thumped his head and so had she. She stared at him, and then she fought to speak.

‘You’d think...’ She was struggling for breath as waves surged around them but she managed to gasp the words. ‘You’d think a guy with the whole of Bass Strait to swim in could avoid my head.’

He had hold of her shoulders—not clutching, just linking himself with her so the wash of the waves couldn’t push them apart. They were both in deadly peril, and weirdly his first urge was to laugh. She’d reached him and she was joking?

Um... Get safe first. Laugh second.

‘Revenir à la plage. Je suivrai,’ he gasped, and then realised he’d spoken in French, Marétal’s official language. Which would be no use at all in Tasmania’s icy waters. Get back to the beach. I’ll follow, he’d wanted to say, and he tried to force his thick tongue to make the words. But it seemed she’d already understood.

‘How can you follow? You’re drowning.’ She’d replied in French, with only a slight haltingness to show French wasn’t her first language.

‘I’m not.’ He had his English together now. And his tongue almost working.

‘There’s blood on your head,’ she managed.

‘I’m okay. You’ve shown me the way. Put your head down and swim. I’m following.’

‘Is there anyone...?’ The indignation and her attempt at humour had gone from her voice and fear had replaced it. She was gasping between waves. ‘Is there anyone else in the boat?’

Anyone else to save? She’d dived into the water to save him and was now proposing to head out further and save others?

This was pure grit. His army instructors would be proud of her.

She didn’t have a lifejacket on and he did.

‘No one,’ he growled. ‘Get back to the beach.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I’m sure. Go.’ He should make her wear the life jacket, but the effort of taking the thing off was beyond him.

‘Don’t you dare drown. I’ve taken too much trouble.’

‘I won’t drown,’ he managed, and then a wave caught her and flung her sideways.

She hit the closest rock and disappeared. He tried to grab her but she was under water—gone.

Hell...

He dived, adrenalin surging, giving him energy when he’d thought he had none. And then he grabbed and caught something...

A wisp of lace. He tugged and she was free of the rocks, back in his arms, dazed into limpness.

He fought back from the rocks and tried to steady while she fought to recover.

‘W...wow,’ she gasped at last. ‘Sorry. I...you can let go now.’

‘I’m not letting go.’ But he shifted his grip. He’d realised what he’d been holding were her knickers. He now had hold of her by her bra!

‘We surf in together,’ he gasped. ‘I have a lifejacket. I’m not letting go.’

‘You...can’t...’

He heard pain in her voice.

‘You’re hurt.’

‘There’s no way I can put a sticking plaster on out here,’ she gasped. ‘Go.’

‘We go together.’

‘You’ll stretch my bra,’ she gasped, and once again he was caught by the sheer guts of the woman. She was hurt, she was in deadly peril, and she was trying to make him smile.

‘Yeah,’ he told her. ‘And if it stretches too far I’ll get an eyeful—but not until we’re safe on the beach. Just turn and kick.’

‘I’ll try,’ she managed, and then there was no room for more words. There was only room to try and live.

* * *

She couldn’t actually swim.

There was something wrong with her arm. Or her shoulder? Or her chest? She wasn’t sure where the pain was radiating from, but it was surely radiating. It was the arm furthest from him—if he’d been holding her bra on that side she might have screamed. If she could scream without swallowing a bucket of seawater. Unlikely, she thought, and then wondered if she was making sense. She decided she wasn’t but she didn’t care.

She had to kick. There was no way she’d go under. She’d risked her life to save this guy and now it seemed he didn’t need saving. Her drowning would be a complete waste.

Some people would be pleased.

And there was a thought to make her put her head down, hold her injured arm to her side as much as she could and try to kick her way through the surf.

She had help. The guy still had his hand through her bra, holding fast. His kick was more powerful than hers could ever be. But he still didn’t know this beach.

‘Keep close to the rocks,’ she gasped during a break in the waves. ‘If you don’t stay close you’ll be caught in the rip.’

‘Got it,’ he told her. ‘Now, shut up and kick.’

And then another wave caught them and she had the sense to put her head down and kick, even if the pain in her shoulder was pretty close to knocking her out. And he kicked too, and they surged in, and suddenly she was on sand. The wave was ripping back out again but the guy was on his feet, tugging her up through the shallows.

‘We’re here,’ he gasped. ‘Come on, lady, six feet to go. You can do it.’

And she’d done it. Rocky was tearing down the beach to meet them, barking hysterically at the stranger.

Enough. She subsided onto the sand, grabbed Rocky with her good arm, held him tight and burst into tears.

* * *

For a good while neither of them moved.

She lay on the wet sand and hugged her dog and thought vaguely that she had to make an effort. She had to get into dry clothes. She was freezing. And shouldn’t she try to see if something was wrong with the guy beside her? He’d slumped down on the sand, too. She could see his chest rise and fall. He was alive, but his eyes were closed. The weak sunshine was on his unshaven face and he seemed to be drinking it up.

Who was he?

He was wearing army issue camouflage gear. It was the standard work wear of a soldier, though maybe slightly different from the Australian uniform.

He was missing his boots.

Why notice that?

She was noticing his face, too. Well, why not? Even the pain in her shoulder didn’t stop her noticing his face.

There was a trickle of blood mixing with the seawater dripping from his head.

He was beautiful.

It was the strongest face she’d ever seen. His features were lean, aquiline...aristocratic? He had dark hair—deep black. It was cropped into an army cut, but no style apart from a complete shave could disguise its tendency to curl. His grey eyes were deep-set and shadowed and he was wearing a couple of days’ stubble. He looked beyond exhausted.

She guessed he was in his mid-thirties, and she thought he looked mean.

Mean?

Mean in the trained sense, she corrected herself. Mean as in a lean, mean fighting machine.

She thought, weirdly, of a kid she’d gone to school with. Andy had been a friend with the same ambitions she’d had: to get away from Kunamungle and be someone.

‘I’ll join the army and be a lean, mean fighting machine,’ he’d told her.

Last she’d heard, Andy was married with three kids, running the stock and station agents in Kunamungle. He was yet another kid who’d tried to leave his roots and failed.

Her thoughts were drifting in a weird kind of consciousness that was somehow about blocking pain. Something had happened to her arm. Something bad. She didn’t want to look. She just wanted to stay still for a moment longer and hold Rocky and think about anything other than what would happen when she had to move.

‘Tell me what’s wrong?’

He’d stirred. He was pushing himself up, looking down at her in concern.

‘H...hi,’ she managed, and his eyes narrowed.

Um...where was her bra? It was down around her waist, that was where it was, but she didn’t seem to have the energy to do anything about it. She hugged Rocky a bit closer, thinking he’d do as camouflage. If he didn’t, she didn’t have the strength to care.

‘Your arm,’ he said carefully, as if he didn’t want to scare her.

She thought about that for a bit. Her arm...

‘There...there does seem to be a problem. I hit the rocks. I guess I don’t make the grade as a lifesaver, huh?’

‘If you hadn’t come out I’d be dead,’ he told her. ‘I couldn’t fight the rip and I didn’t know where it ended.’

‘I was trying to signal but I didn’t know if you’d seen me.’ She was still having trouble getting her voice to work but it seemed he was, too. His lilting accent—French?—was husky, and she could hear exhaustion behind it. He had been in peril, she thought. Maybe she had saved him. It was small consolation for the way her arm felt, but at least it was something.

‘Where can I go to get help?’ he asked, cautious now, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

‘Help?’

‘The charts say this island is uninhabited.’

‘It’s not,’ she told him.

‘No?’

‘There’s Rocky and me, and now there’s you.’

‘Rocky?’

‘I’m holding him.’

Silence. Although it wasn’t exactly silence. The waves were pounding the sand and the wind was whistling around the cliffs. A stray piece of seaweed whipped past her face like a physical slap.

What was wrong with her arm? She tried a tentative wiggle and decided she wouldn’t do that again in a hurry.

‘Do you live here?’

‘I caretake,’ she said, enunciating every syllable with care because it seemed important.

‘You caretake the island?’

‘The house.’

‘There’s a house?’

‘A big house.’

‘Excellent,’ he told her.

He rose and stared round the beach, then left her with Rocky. Two minutes later he was back, holding her pile of discarded clothes.

‘Let’s get you warm. You need to put these on.’

‘You’re wet, too’ she told him.

‘Yeah, but I don’t have a set of dry clothes on the beach. Let’s cope with one lot of hypothermia instead of two. Tug your knickers off and I’ll help you on with your jeans and windcheater.

‘I’m not taking my knickers off!’

‘They’re soaked and you’re freezing.’

‘I have my dignity.’

‘And I’m not putting up with misplaced modesty on my watch.’ He was holding up her windcheater. ‘Over your head with this. Don’t try and put your arm in it.’

He slid the windcheater over her head. It was long enough to give her a semblance of respectability as she kicked off her soggy knickers—but not much. She should be wearing wisps of sexy silk, she thought, but she was on an island in winter for six months with no expected company. Her knickers were good solid knickers, bought for warmth, with just a touch of lace.

‘My granny once told me to always wear good knickers in case I’m hit by a bus,’ she managed. Her teeth were chattering. She had her good arm on his shoulder while he was holding her jeans for her to step into.

‘Sensible Granny.’

‘I think she meant G-strings with French lace,’ she told him. ‘Granny had visions of me marrying a doctor. Or similar.’

‘Still sensible Granny.’ He was hauling her jeans up as if this was something he did every day of the week. Which he surely didn’t. He was definitely wearing army issue camouflage. It was soaking. One sleeve was ripped but it still looked serviceable.

He looked capable. Capable of hauling her jeans up and not looking?

Don’t go there.

‘Why...? Why sensible?’ she managed.

‘Because we could use a doctor right now,’ he told her. ‘Your arm...’

‘My arm will be fine. I must have wrenched it.’ She stared down. He was holding her boots. He must have unlaced them. She’d hauled them off and run.

She took the greatest care to put her feet into them, one after the other, and then tried not to be self-conscious as he tied the laces for her.

She was an awesome lifesaver, she thought ruefully. Not.

‘Now,’ he said, and he took her good arm under the elbow. Rocky was turning crazy circles around them, totally unaware of drama, knowing only that he was out of the house and free. ‘Let’s get to this house. Is it far?’

‘A hundred yards as the crow flies,’ she told him. ‘Sadly we don’t have wings.’

‘You mean it’s up?’

‘It’s up.’

‘I’m sorry.’ For the first time his voice faltered. ‘I don’t think I can carry you.’

‘Well, there’s a relief,’ she managed. ‘Because I might have been forced to let you help me dress, but that’s as far as it goes. You’re carrying me nowhere.’

* * *

It had been two days since he’d set off from Hobart, and to say he was exhausted was an understatement. The storm had blown up from nowhere and the boat’s engine hadn’t been big enough to fight it. Sails had been impossible. He’d been forced to simply ride it out, trying to use the storm jib to keep clear of land, letting the elements take him where they willed.

And no one knew where he was.

His first inkling of the storm had been a faint black streak on the horizon. The streak had turned into a mass with frightening speed. He’d been a good couple of hours out. As soon as he’d noticed it he’d headed for port, but the storm had overwhelmed him.

And he’d been stupidly unprepared. He’d had his phone, but the first massive wave breaking over the bow had soaked him and rendered his phone useless. He’d kicked himself for not putting it in a waterproof container and headed below to Tom’s radio. And found it useless. Out of order.

Raoul had thought then how great Tom’s devil-may-care attitude had seemed when he and Tom had done their Sunday afternoon sail with his bodyguard in the background, and how dumb it seemed now. And where was the EPIRB? The emergency position indicating radio beacon all boats should carry to alert the authorities if they were in distress and send an automatic location beacon? Did Tom even own one?

Apparently not.

Dumb was the word to describe what he’d done. He’d set out to sea because he was fed up with the world and wanted some time to himself to reflect. But he wasn’t so fed up that he wanted to die, and with no one knowing where he was, and no reliable method of communication, he’d stood every chance of ending up that way.

He’d been lucky to end up here.

He’d put this woman’s life at risk.

He was helping her up the cliff now. He’d kicked his boots off in the water, which meant he was only wearing socks. The shale on the steep cliff was biting in, but that was the least of his worries. He’d been in the water for a couple of hours, trying to fight his way to shore, and he’d spent two days fighting the sea. He was freezing, and he was so tired all he wanted to do was sleep.

But the woman by his side was rigid with pain. She wasn’t complaining, but when he’d put his arm around her waist and held her, supporting her as she walked, she hadn’t pulled away. She wasn’t big—five-four, five-five or so—and was slight with it. She had a smattering of freckles on her face, her chestnut curls clung wetly to her too-pale skin and her mouth was set in determination.

He just knew this woman didn’t accept help unless there was a need.

‘How far from the top of the cliff?’ he asked, and she took a couple of deep breaths and managed to climb a few more feet before replying.

‘Close. You want to go ahead? The back door’s open.’

‘Are you kidding?’ His arm tightened around her. He was on her good side, aware that her left arm was useless and radiating pain. ‘You’re the lifesaver. Without you I’m a dead man.’

‘Rocky will show you...where the pantry is...’ She was talking in gasps. ‘And the dog food. You’ll survive.’

‘I need you to show me where the pantry is. I think we’re almost up now.’

‘You’d know that how...?’

‘I wouldn’t,’ he agreed humbly. ‘I was just saying it to make you feel better.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

‘No, thank you,’ he said, and held her tighter and put one foot after another and kept going.

* * *

And then they reached the top and he saw the house.

The island was a rocky outcrop, seeming almost to burst from the water in the midst of Bass Strait. He’d aimed for it simply because he’d had no choice—the boat had been taking on water and it had been the only land mass on the map—but from the sea it had seemed stark and inhospitable, with high cliffs looming out of the water. The small bay had seemed the only possible place to land, and even that had proved disastrous. What kind of a house could possibly be built here?

He reached the top of the cliff and saw a mansion.

Quite simply, it was extraordinary.

It was almost as if it was part of the island itself, long and low across the plateau, built of the same stone. In one sense it was an uncompromising fortress. In another sense it was pure fantasy.

Celtic columns faced the sea, supporting a vast pergola, with massive stone terraces underneath. Stone was stacked on stone, massive structures creating an impression of awe and wonder. There were sculptures everywhere—artworks built to withstand the elements. And the house itself... Huge French windows looked out over the sea. They were shuttered now, making the house look even more like a fortress. There was a vast swimming pool, carved to look like a natural rock pool. In this bleak weather it was covered by a solid mat.

He wouldn’t be swimming for a while yet, he thought, but he looked at the house and thought he’d never seen anything more fantastic.

If he was being honest a one-room wooden hut would have looked good now, he conceded. But this...

‘Safe,’ he said, and the woman in his arms wilted a little. Her effort to climb the cliff had been huge.

‘B... Back door...out of the wind,’ she managed, and her voice was thready.

She’d fought to reach him in the water. She’d been injured trying to save him and now she’d managed to get up the cliff. He hadn’t thought he had any strength left in him, but it was amazing what a body was capable of. His army instructors had told him that.

‘No matter how dire, there’s always another level of adrenalin. You’ll never know it’s there until you need it.’

He’d needed it once in a sticky situation in West Africa. He felt the woman slump beside him and needed it now. He stopped and turned her, and then swept her up into his arms.

She didn’t protest. She was past protesting.

The little dog tore on ahead, showing him the way to the rear door, and in the end it was easy. Two minutes later he had her in the house and they were safe.

CHAPTER THREE

THE FIRST THING he had to do was get himself warm.

It seemed selfish, but he was so cold he couldn’t function. And he needed to stay switched on for a while yet.

He laid his lifesaver on a vast settee in front of an open fire—miraculously it was lit, and the house was warm. She was back in her dry clothes and after her exertion on the cliff she wasn’t shivering.

He was. His feet and hands were almost completely numb. He’d been in cold water for too long.

She knew it. She gripped his hand as he set her down and winced. ‘Bathroom. Thataway,’ she told him. ‘You’ll find clothes in the dressing room beside it.’

‘I’ll be fast.’

‘Stay under water until you’re warm,’ she ordered, and now the urgent need had passed he knew she was right.

He’d been fighting to get his feet to work on the way up the cliff. He’d also been fighting to get his mind to think straight. Fuzzy images were playing at the edges and he had an almost overwhelming urge to lie by the fire and sleep.

He was trained to recognise hypothermia. He’d been starting to suffer in the water and the physical exertion hadn’t been enough to raise his core temperature. He had to get himself warm if he was to be any use to this woman or to himself.

‘You’ll be okay? Don’t move that arm.’

‘As if I would. Go.’

So he went, and found a bathroom so sumptuous he might almost be in the palace at home. Any doubts as to how close he’d come to disaster were dispelled by the pain he felt when the warm water touched him.

There was a bench along the length of the shower. Two shower heads pointed hot water at him from different directions. He slumped on the bench and let the water do its work. Gradually the pain eased. He was battered and bruised, but he’d been more bruised than this after military exercises.

With his core heat back to normal he could almost think straight. Except he needed to sleep. He really needed to sleep.

There was a woman who needed him.

He towelled himself dry and moved to the next imperative. Clothes. This was a huge place. Who lived here?

The master bedroom was stunning, and whoever used it had a truly impressive wardrobe. There were over-the-top women’s clothes—surely not belonging to the woman who’d saved him? He couldn’t see her in flowing rainbow chiffon—but the guy’s wardrobe was expansive, too. He found jogging pants that stretched to fit and the T-shirts were okay. There were even socks and sheepskin slippers. And a cardigan just like his grandfather wore.

Exhaustion was still sweeping over him in waves, but at least his head was working. It had to keep working. He was dehydrated and starving and he needed to fix it. He found the kitchen, found a stack of long-life milk in the pantry and drank until the hollow, sick feeling in his stomach receded. Feeling absurdly pleased with himself, he headed back to the living room.

She was lying on her back, her eyes closed. He could see pain radiating out from her in waves.

‘Hey,’ he said, and she turned and managed a weak smile.

‘Hey, yourself,’ she managed. ‘They look a whole lot better on you than Don.’

‘Don?’

‘Don and Marigold own this place.’

‘Not you?’

‘I wish.’ She grimaced again. ‘Actually, I don’t wish. I’ve run out of good coffee.’

‘You think it’s time for introductions?’ he asked, and she winced and tried for a smile.

‘Claire. Claire Tremaine. I’m the island caretaker.’

‘I’m Raoul,’ he told her. ‘Raoul de Castelaise.’ Now surely wasn’t the time for titles and formalities. ‘Soldier. I’m pleased to meet you, Claire. In fact I can’t begin to tell you how pleased. Tell me about your arm.’

‘I guess...it’s broken.’

‘Can I see? I’ll need to lift your windcheater.’

‘I don’t have a bra on.’

‘So you don’t. You want me to find you a bra?’

‘I don’t care,’ she muttered. ‘Look at my arm. Don’t look at anything else.’

‘No, ma’am.’ He sat on the edge of the settee and helped her sit up, then carefully tugged off her windcheater. She only had her good arm in it, so it came off easily.

She’d ordered him not to look at anything else. That was a big ask.

Too big.

She was beautiful, he thought. She looked almost like an athlete, taut and lean. Her chestnut curls were wisping onto her naked shoulders.

She looked vulnerable and scared.

He headed back to the bathroom and brought out a towel, wrapping the fluffy whiteness around her so she was almost respectable but her arm was still exposed.

She hugged the towel to her as if she needed its comfort. The bravado she’d shown since the moment he’d met her in the water seemed to have disappeared.

She was scared?

Yeah. He was a big guy. Apart from the dog, she seemed to be in this house alone. She was semi-naked and injured.

Why wouldn’t she be scared?

‘Can I tell you that my grandmother thinks I’m trustworthy?’ he told her, tucking in the edges of the towel so it made an almost secure sarong. ‘She tells the world what a good boy I am, and I’m not about to mess with her beliefs. I am trustworthy, Claire. I promise. If only because my grandmother’s presence seems to spend a lot of time sitting on my shoulder. You’re safe with me.’

And she managed a smile that was almost genuine.

‘Scary Granny, huh.’

‘You’d better believe it. But I can handle her.’

‘And you love her?’

‘You can believe that, too.’

And her smile softened, as if she really did believe him. As if somehow his words really had made her feel safe.

‘Are you French?’ she asked.

‘I’m from Marétal. It’s a small land-locked country near...’

‘I know it,’ she said, in an exclamation of surprise. ‘Your army’s taking part in the international army exercises in Tasmania. I looked it up.’

‘You looked it up?’

‘I get bored,’ she admitted. Her voice was still tight, but she was making a huge effort to sound normal. ‘I was listening to the Tasmanian news on the radio. They listed the countries taking part. I didn’t know where Marétal was. So you’re part of that exercise.’ And then her voice grew tighter. ‘Are there...are there any other soldiers lost overboard?’

‘Only me—and it wasn’t an army exercise,’ he said ruefully. ‘Despite the camouflage, I’m off duty. I took a friend’s boat out from Hobart and got caught in the storm. I had two days being flung about Bass Strait, finally made it to the lee of your island and you know the rest. But my friend—the guy who owns Rosebud—is in Nepal. He doesn’t know I took his boat and I didn’t tell anyone I was going. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I broke all the rules and the army would agree that I’ve been an idiot.’

‘You’ve paid the price.

‘It could have been a whole lot higher.’

He was watching her arm while they talked. She was supporting it with her good hand, holding it slightly away from her body. Her shoulder looked odd. Squared off.

‘Idiot or not, you might need to trust me with your arm,’ he suggested. ‘Can I touch it?’

‘If you don’t mind me screaming.’

‘I’ll be gentle,’ he told her, and lightly ran his fingers down the front of her shoulder joint, thinking back to his first-aid courses. Thinking of anatomy.

‘It feels dislocated,’ he told her.

‘It feels broken.’

‘It probably feels worse than if it was broken.’

He put his fingers on her wrist and checked her pulse, then did it again at the elbow.

‘You look like you know what you’re doing,’ she managed.

‘I’ve been in the army for years. I’m a first-aider for my unit.

‘You put on sticking plasters?’

‘Sometimes it’s more than that. When we’re out of range of medical help this is what I do.’

‘Like now?’

‘I hope we’re not out of range. You said you have a radio. Two-way? We must be within an hour’s journey for a chopper coming from the mainland. Tell me where it is and I’ll radio now.’

‘Or not,’ she said.

‘Not?’

‘No.’ She winced. ‘I know this sounds appalling... We have a radio—a big one. We also have back-up—a decent hand-held thing that’s capable of sending signals to Hobart. But last time he was here Don—the owner—was messing around with it and dropped his beer into its workings. And the main radio seems to have been wiped out in the storm.’

‘He dropped his beer...?’

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘If it had been Marigold it would have been a martini.’ She closed her eyes. ‘There’s a first-aid kit in the kitchen,’ she told him. ‘I think I need it.’

‘I doubt aspirin will help.’

‘Marigold is allergic to pain. Very allergic. She’s been known to demand morphine and a helicopter transfer to the mainland for a torn toenail. I’m thinking there’ll be something decent in there.’

There was. He found enough painkillers to knock out an elephant. Also muscle relaxant, and a dosage list that seemed to be made out for the Flying Doctor—Australia’s remote medical service. The list didn’t actually say This much for a dislocated shoulder, but he had enough experience to figure the dose. He made her hot, sweet tea—plus one for himself—then watched her take the pills he gave her.

‘Stay still until that works,’ he told her.

He found a blanket and covered her, and watched her curl into an almost foetal position on the settee. Rocky nestled on the floor by her side.

He tried to think of a plan.

Plans were thin on the ground and he was still having trouble thinking straight.

The drugs would ease her pain, he thought, but he also knew that the longer the shoulder stayed dislocated, the higher the chance of long-term damage.

In the Middle East he’d had a mate who had...

Um, no. He wasn’t going there.

He did a further tour and found the radio in a truly impressive study. Claire had been right: there was no transmission. He headed outside and saw a wooden building blasted to splinters. A huge radio antenna lay smashed among the timber.

No joy there.

‘You’re on your own,’ he muttered, and pushed away the waves of exhaustion and headed back to the living room.

She was still lying where he’d left her, but her rigidity seemed to have lessened.

He knelt beside her. ‘Better?’

‘Better,’ she whispered. ‘Just leave me be.’

‘I can’t do that. Claire, we’re going to have to get that arm back into position.’

‘My arm wants to stay really still.’

‘And I’m going to have to hurt you,’ he told her. ‘But if I don’t hurt you now you may have long-term damage.’

‘How do I know it’s not broken?’

‘You don’t. I don’t. So I’m using basic first aid, and the first rule is Do no harm. We were taught a method which only sometimes works, but its huge advantage is that it won’t hurt a fracture. If there’s a fracture the arm will scream at you and you’ll scream at me and we’ll stop.’ He hoped. ‘Claire, I need you to lie on your front and let your arm hang down. We’ll put a few cushions under you so your arm is high enough to hang freely. Then I’m going to gradually weight your arm, using sticking plaster to attach things like cans of beans...’

‘Beans?’

‘Anything I can find.’ He smiled. ‘In an emergency, anything goes. My first-aid trainer said if I ask you to grip the cans then your arm will tense, so I just need to stick them on you as dead weights. Then we’ll let the nice drugs do their work. You’ll lie back and think of England, and the tins of beans will tug your arm down, and if you relax completely then I’m hoping it’ll pop back in.’

‘Think of England?’

‘Or sunbeams,’ he told her. ‘Anything to take your mind off your arm.’

She appeared to think about that for a moment, maybe choosing from a list of options. And then she opened her eyes and glanced up at him, taking in his appearance. From head to toe.

‘Nice,’ she whispered. ‘I think I’ll think about you. If you knew how different you look to Don... Don fills his T-shirt up with beer belly. You fill it up with...you.’

‘Me?’

‘Muscles.’

Right. It was the drugs talking, he thought. He needed to stop looking into her eyes and quit smiling at her like an idiot and think of her as a patient. As one of the guys in his unit, injured in the field. Work.

Nothing personal at all.

But he needed to get her relaxed. He knelt beside her and pushed a damp curl from her eyes. She was little and dark and feisty, and her freckles were very, very cute. Her hair was still damp from her soaking. He would have liked to get her completely dry, but he was working through a list of imperatives. Arm first.

‘H... How does this work?’ she muttered.

‘The socket’s like a cup,’ he told her. ‘I think your arm’s slipped out of the cup, but it still has muscles that want it to go back in. If we weight it, and you’re relaxed, then your muscles have a chance to pull it back into place.’

That was the theory, anyway. If it worked. If the arm wasn’t broken. But the weighting method was the only safe course of action. To pull on a broken arm could mean disaster. Gradual weighting was the only way, but she had to trust him.

And it seemed she did.

‘Do it,’ she said, and smiled up at him. ‘Only we don’t have baked beans. How about tins of caviar?’

‘You’re kidding?’

‘No. But there are tinned tomatoes as well.’ Then she appeared to brighten. ‘And we have tins of truly appalling instant coffee. It’d be great if they could be useful for something.’

She smiled up at him and he thought of the pain she was suffering, and the sheer courage she was showing, and the fact that she was smiling to make him smile...

And he smiled back at her and backed away—because a man had to back away fast from a smile like that—and went to find some truly useful cans of coffee.

* * *

Somehow he stayed businesslike. Professional. Somehow he followed the instructions in his head from first-aid training in the field. He taped on the weights. He watched for her to react from too much pain, but although she winced as he weighted her arm she didn’t make a murmur.

He put on as much weight as he thought she could tolerate and then he sat beside her and waited.

‘What do we do now?’ she asked.

‘Relax. Forget the arm. Tell you what,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you a story.’

‘What sort of story?’

He thought about it. He needed a story that would make her almost soporific so the arm would totally relax.

‘How about Goldilocks and the Three Bears?’ he suggested, and she choked.

‘Really?’

‘Has anyone ever read it to you?’

‘I guess...not for a very long time.’

‘Same for me,’ he told her. ‘So correct me if I get the bears muddled. Okay, here goes.’

And he sat by the couch and stroked her hair and told her the story of the three bears. It was a simple story—not long enough—so he had to embellish it. He had Goldilocks as a modern-day Bond girl, escaping from villains. He had his bears trying to figure the villains from the good guys, and he put in a bit of drama for good measure.

In other words he had fun, blocking the fuzziness in his own head with the need to keep her attention. And as Baby Bear found Goldilocks, and good guys and baddies were sorted, and baddies were dispatched with buckets of Mama Bear’s too-hot porridge, and they all settled down for toast and marmalade, Claire’s arm did what he’d desperately hoped it would do. It clicked back into its socket.

In the silence of the room, between breaks in the very exciting narrative, they actually heard it pop.

The relief did his head in.

It was almost as if he hadn’t realised what stress he’d been under until the arm clicked back into place. The sound was like an off switch, clicking in his brain.

For the first time in his life he felt as if he was going to faint. He put his head between his knees—because it was either that or keel over. And Claire’s fingers touched his hair, running through the still damp strands. Caressing.

‘It’s done,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you.’

‘Thank you,’ he managed. ‘I couldn’t have borne it if you’d suffered permanent damage saving me. Claire, I need to fix you a sling.’

‘Raoul... First... Lie here,’ she whispered. ‘Please... Just...hold me.’

He’d been in deadly peril for two days. For a few hours earlier today he’d been sure he’d drown.

He was past exhaustion. He was past anything. Maybe Claire knew it. Maybe Claire felt the same.

‘Sling first,’ he muttered, and managed to tie her arm so it wouldn’t slip, but then he was done.

‘I need to sleep,’ Claire murmured. ‘The drugs... My arm... It’s all okay, but... Raoul, stay with me.’

She was lying on the huge settee, tousled, part-wrapped in a fleecy towel, part-covered by the huge blanket he’d found. The fire was putting out a gentle warmth.

He fought for sense but he was losing. He managed to toss more logs on the fire and then he stared into the flames thinking...nothing. Goldilocks and the three bears seemed very far away. Everything seemed very far away.

But Claire was edging sideways to give him room to lie with her.

There was no choice. He sat down on the settee and she put her hand up and touched his face.

‘We’re safe,’ she whispered. ‘Nice. Stay.’

He lay down, but the sofa wasn’t big enough to avoid touching. And it seemed the most natural thing in the world that he put his arms around her.

She curled into him with a sleepy murmur.

‘Nice,’ she said again. ‘Sleep.’

* * *

He woke and it was still daylight. Was it late afternoon or was it the next day? For now he didn’t know and didn’t care.

He was still on the settee. The room was warm. He was warm. The fire was a mass of glowing embers.

He was holding Claire.

There were aches in his body, just waiting to make themselves known. He could feel them lurking. They’d make themselves known if he moved.

But for now he had no intention of moving. He lay with the warmth of the woman beside him: a gentle, amazing comfort. Her towel had slipped. He was lying on her uninjured side. Her naked body was against his chest and he was cradling her to him. She was using his chest as a pillow.

He had a T-shirt on but it didn’t feel like it. Her warmth made it feel as if she was almost a part of him.

He could feel her heartbeat. Her hair had dried and was tumbling across his chest, and her breathing was deep and even.

After the perils, the fear, the exhaustion of the last two days, he was filled with a sense of peace so great it threatened to overwhelm him.

He’d been in dangerous situations before. He’d had moments when he’d ended up sleeping tight with other members of his unit, some of them women. He’d held people when they’d been in mutual danger.

But he’d never felt like this, he thought. As if this woman was right.

As if this woman was part of him.

That was a crazy thought, he decided, and he hadn’t even taken any drugs. What was going on?

He must have moved a little, because Claire stirred and opened her eyes and shifted a fraction. She didn’t move far, though. She was still cradled against him.

Her heartbeat was still his.

‘Nice,’ she said, as she’d said before she’d slept, and it was like a blessing.

‘Nice?’

‘The wind’s died.’

It had, too. He hadn’t noticed.

He had sensory overload.He couldn’t get past the feeling of the woman in his arms.

‘Pain?’ he asked, and she seemed to think about it.

‘Nope,’ she said at last. ‘Not if I lie really still.’

That suited him. They lay really still. Rocky was snuffling under the settee. Maybe that was what had woken them.

Or other, more mundane things.

‘I need the bathroom,’ she murmured, and he conceded that he did, too. And the fire needed more logs. And, to tell the truth, he was so hungry he could eat a horse—the milk and tea had barely hit the sides—but he was prepared to ignore everything if she’d stay where she was. But now Rocky had his paws up on the settee and was looking at them with bright, expectant eyes.

‘That’s his “feed me” look,’ Claire murmured, and she moved a little so she could scratch behind his ear with her good hand. And then she said, in a different voice, ‘I’ve lost my towel.’

‘So you have.’ It was hard not to sound complacent.

She tugged back, hauled the blanket up across her breasts and tried a glare. It wasn’t a very big glare. Those drugs must have packed a fair punch, he thought. She still looked dazed.

Actually...beautifully dazed. She had wide green eyes that seemed to be struggling to focus. She had skin that seemed almost translucent. Her lashes were long and curled a little, and her nose was ever so slightly snubbed.

‘You noticed,’ she said accusingly, and he shook his head.

‘No, ma’am. I’ve been looking at Rocky all the time.’

‘Liar.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

She grinned, and he thought that if she’d had two good hands she might have punched him. But one was still pretty much tied up. He was safe.

‘Life,’ she said.

‘Sorry?’

‘We fought to keep it. We might as well get on with it.’

‘You mean we need to feed the fire, go to the bathroom, feed the dog, find something to eat ourselves...’

‘And think of some way to contact the mainland.’ Her smile faded. ‘Will people be looking for you?’

He thought of his minders. At midday, when he’d spoken to Franz, he had been supposed to be with his unit. His minders had therefore been off duty. At six that night they’d have rung to check his itinerary for the following day.

He’d have been expected to be back well before six. They’d have rung and someone would have told them he was off duty. Then they’d have contacted Franz. ‘He’s off duty as of this morning. I believe he’s planning on returning home,’ he would have told them, and then someone would have been sent to check his kit and discovered it was still where it was supposed to be.

It would have taken his minders about thirty seconds after that to panic.

‘What is it?’ she said, and pushed herself up, wincing a bit as she moved her arm.

‘What?’

‘Your face. Someone’s looking for you right now. Someone’s terrified. Your wife? Partner? Family?’

‘I don’t have a wife or partner.’

‘Family? Parents?’

‘My parents died when I was five, but I do have grandparents.’

‘Back in Marétal?’

‘Yes.’ He closed his eyes, thinking of the fuss when his grandparents discovered he was missing. Then he thought of how long he’d been gone. After all this time it wouldn’t be fuss. It would be horror. ‘I imagine they’ll know I’m missing.’

She was sitting up now, blanket tucked to her chin, concentrating on the problem at hand. ‘Don’t worry too much,’ she told him. ‘The wind’s died. I suspect you’ll be mortified, but the Australian Air Sea Rescue services are good. They can probably track the wind and the currents and get a fair idea of your direction. If I was them I’d be checking the islands first. There’s only about ten. Any minute now we’ll have choppers overhead, searching for one lost soldier.’

He felt sick.

‘Don’t worry,’ Claire said again. ‘I imagine it’s embarrassing, getting rescued twice, once even by a girl, but you’ll just have to cop it.’

‘I won’t,’ he told her.

‘Are you going to tell me how you can avoid it?’

‘I already have avoided it,’ he said, goaded. ‘I didn’t tell anyone I was going sailing. What’s more, I took my friend’s boat. My friend’s currently trying to climb Annapurna Two in Nepal. He won’t know I’m missing and he won’t know his boat’s missing. No one knows I went to sea. I could be anywhere and my...my grandparents will be devastated.’

His grandparents?

This wasn’t just about his grandparents, he thought. His bodyguard consisted of two skilled, decent men who’d feel as if they’d failed. The top brass of the army would be mortified. His friends would be appalled. And, back home, the media would be in a feeding frenzy. Heir to the Throne Disappears! It didn’t bear thinking about.

He would have groaned if it would do any good.

It wouldn’t.

‘Raoul...’

‘Mmm?’

‘We all do dumb things,’ she told him, and put her good hand on his knee. ‘Some dumber than others. But, hey, you’ve lived to be embarrassed. The supply boat’s due next Monday. You’ll climb aboard, they’ll let everyone know, and by the time you reach Hobart the fuss will have died down. You might need to apologise to a few people and go home and hug your grandparents, but it’s no big deal. So one soldier’s gone AWOL? If they don’t think you’ve drowned then they’ll probably assume you’re in a bar somewhere. Or with a woman.’

And then she had the temerity to grin.

‘Actually, they’re both true. You’re very much with a woman, and if you go through that door there’s a truly excellent bar.’

‘I think I need it,’ he said, and she chuckled and tried to stand.

She wobbled a bit and he rose to steady her.

‘What did you give me?’ she demanded. ‘I feel like I’ve had enough drugs to down an elephant.’

‘Or to not scream when your arm went back in. You were very brave.’

‘I was, wasn’t I?’ she said smugly. ‘So I’m brave and you’re lost. And my arm’s back to where it belongs. They’re the givens. For the rest...we just have to get on with it.’

‘I really can’t get off this place until next Monday?’

‘We can try and fix the transmitter,’ she told him. ‘Are you any good with electronics?’

‘No.’

‘Then I’m vetoing that as a plan straight away,’ she told him. ‘I have no intention of saving you twice. Now, Raoul...?’

‘Yes?’

‘Put some logs on the fire while I feed Rocky. We have life to get on with.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, because there was nothing else to say. Nothing at all.

CHAPTER FOUR

THIS MORNING SHE’D been bored.

This morning her entire desire in life had been a decent cup of coffee.

She was not bored now, and her desire was taking a new and entirely inappropriate direction.

Maybe she should be nervous. This guy was seriously big. He had the brawn and build of a well-honed military machine. Even washed up on the beach he’d looked awesome.

She stood under the shower and let the hot water run over her battered body as she let her mind drift where it willed.

It willed straight to Raoul.

She was alone on this island with a guy she didn’t know. A seriously big guy. A seriously good-looking guy. He was dark-haired and tanned and his grey eyes were creased at the edges. Was the weathering on his face from years of military exercises in tough conditions? She wasn’t sure if she was right, but she guessed she was.

He was kind. He was also skilled. He’d managed to get her arm back into place and the relief had been enormous. He was also worried about his grandparents. She could see that. One lone soldier AWOL from the army wouldn’t cause a fuss, but she’d seen that he was distressed. Of course the army would contact his family, and of course it distressed Raoul that his grandparents would worry. Because he was...a good guy.

Raoul. Nice name, she thought. Nice guy. And a seriously sexy accent. Almost French, with something else in the mix.

Sexy.

And there lay the rub. There lay the reason why she should stop thinking about Raoul right now.

‘Are you okay in there?’

His voice almost made her jump out of her skin and when she landed she had to fight to get her voice in order.

‘F... Fine.’

‘Dinner’s ready when you are. I already ate, but I’m ready to eat again.’

‘You already ate?’

‘Your refrigerator’s amazing. Or should I say refrigerators, plural. Wow. I opened one to check and three eggs almost fell into my hand. So I ate them. You do realise eating’s been low on my priority list over the last few days? Having had my pre-dinner boiled egg snack, I’m now serious about making dinner proper. But first I’m here to towel my lady’s back, if she wants it towelled, because it’s occurred to me that one-arm towelling might be hard.’

There were things there for a woman to consider. A lot of things. She was alone on the island with this guy. Every sensible part of her said she shouldn’t accept his help.

Raoul had put a plastic outdoor chair in the shower before he’d let her into the bathroom. He’d fussed, but she’d assured him she was okay. She’d been able to kick off her salty clothes herself, and sitting under the hot water had been easy. She’d even managed to shampoo her hair with one hand.

But now... The wussy part of her said she didn’t know how she could towel herself with one arm, especially as the painkillers were still making her feel a bit fuzzy. And there was a tiny part of her—a really dangerous part—that was saying she wouldn’t mind being towelled by this guy.

She was twenty-eight years old. She was hardly a prude. He was...

Yeah, enough.

But she had three voices in her head now. One saying, Safe, one saying, Sensible, the other saying, Yes!

She had an internal vote and Safe and Sensible were outvoted by about a hundred to two.

‘Yes,’ she whispered, but he didn’t hear.

‘Claire? Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘And, yes, please—I think I do need help to get dry.’

* * *

It wasn’t a bad feeling.

Okay, it was an incredible feeling. He had his hands full of lush white towel and he was carefully towelling Claire Tremaine dry.

She was beautiful. Every inch of her was beautiful. She’d emerged naked from the shower. She’d stood with rivulets of warm water streaming down her body and he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

If he hadn’t spent the last two days having cold shower after cold shower, he might have seriously thought of taking one now. Instead of which he had to get his thoughts under control and do what he was here for—get the lady dry.

She’d grabbed a towel, too, but with only one good hand she could do little. She dried her face and rubbed her front, which was okay because that meant he didn’t have to dry her breasts. Which would have been hard. But he did have to towel her hair. He did have to run the towel down the smooth contours of her back. He did need to stoop to dry her gorgeous legs.

She was a small woman, but her legs seemed to go on forever. How did that happen?

She was gorgeous.

When he’d knocked on the bathroom door he’d just put steak in the microwave to defrost and until he’d entered the bathroom that steak had been pretty much uppermost in his thoughts.

Not now. The steak could turn into dust for all he cared. Every sense was tuned to this woman.

Every part of his body...

‘I think I’m dry,’ she said, in a voice that was shaky, but not shaky in a pained kind of way. It was shaky in a way that told him she was as aware of him as he was of her.

He could gather her up right now...

Yeah, like that could happen. This woman had hauled him out of the water and let him into her home. She’d been injured on his behalf. She was still slightly drug-affected. No, make that a lot drug-affected. He’d given her more painkillers before she’d gone to shower.

Hitting on her now would be all sorts of wrong.

But she was looking at him with huge eyes, slightly dazed, and her fingers were touching his hair as he stooped to dry her legs.

‘Raoul...’ she whispered, and he rose and stepped away fast.

‘Yeah. You’re done,’ he told her. ‘Where can I find you some clothes? Something sensible.’

He spoke too loud, too emphatically, and the emphasis on the last word was like a slap to them both. Sensible. That was the way to go.

‘I... My bedroom... It’s right next door. There’s a jogging suit in the third drawer of the dresser. Knickers in the top drawer. I’m ditching the idea of a bra. But I can get them.’

‘Stay where you are,’ he said roughly, and backed away fast.

Because it might be sensible to help her into the bedroom and help her get dressed, but there was a bed in the bedroom, and a man had limits, and his were already stretched close to breaking.

So he headed into the bedroom and found the jogging suit, and then he opened the knicker drawer and had to take a deep breath before he felt sensible again. He picked up the first pair of knickers that came to hand and practically slammed the drawer shut. A pair of sheepskin bootees stood beside the bed. Excellent. They weren’t sexy in the least.

He headed back to the bathroom, thought about helping her, then decided it might be hard but she should be able to cope herself and it would be far, far safer if he stayed on his side of the door.

He knocked and slipped the clothes around the door, without opening it wide enough for him to see her. They needed barriers, he thought. Big barriers. Preferably barriers with locks on them.

He stepped away from the door as if it was red-hot.

‘Steak in ten minutes,’ he said. ‘If you’re up to it. If the painkillers aren’t making you too dizzy?’

‘The painkillers aren’t making me too dizzy,’ she told him, and then she stopped.

And he thought he knew what she was about to say because he was feeling the same.

The painkillers weren’t making her dizzy, but something else was.

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