She saved the merciless prince...

Now she must meet him at the altar!

When sweet scientist Josephine rescues a drowning stranger, she’s captivated by his devastating good looks and charm. Alexander doesn’t remember who he is, but the desire in his eyes sweeps innocent Josephine on an intensely passionate journey! Until it’s revealed he’s Prince Alexander, heir to the throne of Aargau... Now the threat of scandal means this shy Cinderella must become a royal bride!

Indulge in this deeply emotional royal romance!

New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author JANE PORTER has written forty romances and eleven women’s fiction novels since her first sale to Mills & Boon in 2000. A five-time RITA® Award finalist, Jane is known for her passionate, emotional and sensual novels, and loves nothing more than alpha heroes, exotic locations and happy-ever-afters. Today Jane lives in sunny San Clemente, California, with her surfer husband and three sons. Visit janeporter.com.

Also by Jane Porter

A Dark Sicilian Secret

Not Fit for a King?

His Majesty’s Mistake

Bought to Carry His Heir

His Merciless Marriage Bargain

The Disgraced Copelands miniseries

The Fallen Greek Bride

His Defiant Desert Queen

Her Sinful Secret

Stolen Brides collection

Kidnapped for His Royal Duty

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Prince’s Scandalous Wedding Vow

Jane Porter

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08741-4

THE PRINCE’S SCANDALOUS WEDDING VOW

© 2019 Jane Porter

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Lee Hyat.

Thank you for being my first reader, my friend,

and my cheerleader.

This one is for you!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Extract

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

PRINCE ALEXANDER JULIUS ALBERICI had known change was coming. His June 27 wedding to Princess Danielle would require a return to his Mediterranean island kingdom, Aargau, for prewedding festivities. After the ceremony and reception, a two-week honeymoon had been planned, and then he’d finally be free to return to Paris with his bride, where he oversaw an international environmentalist group focused on improving sustainability in fragile ecosystems.

His work was his passion, and Danielle had expressed support for his work—a positive in an arranged marriage. She’d also agreed at the time of their betrothal to live wherever he chose, understanding that ultimately they’d end up in Aargau as soon as Alexander needed to step into his father’s shoes and ascend the throne.

But that day—replacing his father—was supposed to have been years away, decades away, as his father was a strong, athletic man and a vigorous, powerful king. Or he had been, until his winter cold lingered into early spring, a nagging cough that wouldn’t clear even with antibiotics. And then in mid-April came the diagnosis of lung cancer and now King Bruno Titus Alberici had been given months to live. Months.

It was unthinkable, unfathomable. Alexander had never been close to his father—King Bruno might be beloved by the people, but he was cold and unforgiving behind closed doors—yet Alexander couldn’t imagine the world without his fierce, unapologetic father. Now his father was determined to manage his death, just as he’d managed his life—without emotion or weakness. To that end, there would be no changes in palace life or protocol. Alexander’s late-June wedding would not be moved forward. Bruno’s illness would not be made public. There would be no changes in wedding date or venue. There would be no acknowledgment of ill health. There would be nothing to alarm the people until an announcement had to be made, which in King Alberici’s mind was notice of his death.

His mother, the queen, agreed with the plan because that was what she did—supported her husband. It had been her role from day one of their marriage, and she’d fulfilled her responsibilities. Now it was time for Alexander to fulfill his, which was to marry and have an heir so the monarchy would live on.

Alexander stirred restlessly, feeling trapped in his cabin, even though it was by far the largest on the ship. He pushed open the sliding door and stepped out onto the balcony, leaning on the railing to stare blindly out at the sea.

This trip, organized by his closest friends, had been a mistake. He couldn’t relax. He felt guilty being on a pleasure cruise when his father was growing weaker at home, and yet both his parents had insisted he go, determined that he keep up appearances.

The trip was to have been a last hurrah before the wedding preparations began in earnest. Princes didn’t do bachelor or stag parties, so instead, Prince Alexander Alberici’s best friend, Gerard, had organized a week cruising the Aegean and Ionian Seas. Troubled by his father’s swift decline, Alexander had left the details to his friends, knowing they were far more excited about this last adventure—concerned that it might indeed be their last adventure—but now wished he’d been part of the planning, at least when it came to approving the guest list.

The yacht itself was impressive. Large, new, and the very definition of luxurious, with two different pools, a hot tub, a sports court, a disco, and a movie theater. But the luxurious appointments couldn’t make up for the fact that it was a boat, and they were all trapped together—not a problem if everyone was on good terms, but inexplicably Gerard had permitted Alexander’s cousin, Damian Anton Alberici, to bring his girlfriend, Claudia, along.

It wouldn’t have been an issue if Claudia didn’t also happen to be Alexander’s ex-girlfriend, and their breakup six months earlier had been acrimonious at best. He’d been stunned and uncomfortable when he discovered Damian was now dating Claudia, but to bring her on this trip? Why make it awkward for everyone?

Alexander’s jaw tightened, his gaze narrowed on the pale rocky island ahead, each island so like the last.

The tension on the yacht just made him eager to return home, which was saying something as home wasn’t exactly pleasant, either. His mother was struggling to come to terms with his father’s terminal diagnosis. Virtually overnight his father had wasted away, his strong frame increasingly frail. The palace staff, sworn to secrecy, were incredibly anxious, tiptoeing around, walking on eggshells. And yet no one discussed what was happening. But that was because they didn’t talk in his family, not about personal things. There was no sharing of feelings and certainly no acknowledgment of emotions. There was only duty, and he understood that all too well.

The sooner the wedding took place, the better, and Princess Danielle Roulet would be a good match. She was lovely and well-bred, and fluent in numerous languages, which was essential in Aargau’s next queen. She was also sophisticated and would be a stylish princess, something he knew his people would appreciate. It was not a love match, but it would be a successful marriage because they both understood their duties and responsibilities, and best of all, the wedding would give the people of Aargau something to celebrate, which was sorely needed when the crown would soon change hands.

Now, if he could only get off this yacht and get back to his family—who did need him, despite what his parents might say, or not say—because Alexander was finding nothing pleasurable in this last bachelor getaway.

CHAPTER ONE

JOSEPHINE JUST WANTED the yacht to leave.

Why was it still here? The Mediterranean was huge. Greece alone had hundreds of islands. Couldn’t the yacht go somewhere else? The luxury pleasure boat had been anchored outside the cove of her tiny island, Khronos, for two days, and after forty-eight hours of endless partying, blaring music, and shrill laughter, she’d had enough.

The revelers had even come onto the island earlier in the day, their testosterone-fueled speedboat racing them to shore. Jo had hidden behind the cliffs and trees above, watching as the dozen hedonists descended on her beach.

The young women were stunning—tan, lithe, and beautiful in tiny, barely-there bikinis—and the men were lean, chiseled, and handsome. While the women splashed in the surf and then lounged on the beach, the men sprawled on chairs and towels in the sun, looking like indolent princes. They were there to party, too, and there was plenty of alcohol and other things that made Josephine wrinkle her nose in disgust. Only one of them didn’t drink, or smoke, or make love on the beach. Sometimes he sat on his own, but other times, people surrounded him. He was clearly the center of the group, the one with the wealth, the sun around which all the others orbited.

She watched the revelers out of curiosity and with a sprinkling of disdain, telling herself not to judge, but the interlopers on her beach clearly enjoyed a pampered, decadent lifestyle, a lifestyle for those born of privilege, or those lucky enough to be invited into the elite circle. Her dad used to say she was critical of such people because she’d never be one of them, and maybe there was some truth in that. But she liked to use her brain, and she enjoyed her work assisting her father, who was one of the world’s leading volcanologists, which was why they lived in the middle of the Aegean Sea, taking advantage of Greece’s volcanic arc.

Her work included documenting her father’s findings, and she’d proved indispensable to his research. He was the first to admit that he wouldn’t have his enormous body of work without her assistance. But late in the day, she’d turn to her passion—drawing, sketching, painting. She had run low on paper and canvas again, but her father would be returning in ten days, and he always brought back fresh supplies for her.

This afternoon she carried her sketch pad with her to the rocks overlooking the sheltered beach cove, thinking she’d draw the scene below—well, not everyone, but the one who’d caught her attention. The one man she thought was by far the most fascinating. He appeared otherworldly with his thick dark hair and straight black brows over light-colored eyes—blue or gray she didn’t know. But even from a distance the lines of his face appealed to the artist in her: his jaw was square, cheekbones high, his mouth full, firm, unsmiling.

Her charcoal pencil hovered over the page as she studied the face she’d drawn. His features were almost too perfect, his lower lip slightly fuller than his upper lip, and she just wished she was closer so she could see the color of his eyes.

Even more intriguing was the way he sat in his chair, broad shoulders level, chin up, body still, exuding power and control. Josephine glanced up from the sketch to compare her work to the real man, and yes, she’d captured the sinewy, muscular frame as well as the hard set of his jaw and chin, but his expression wasn’t quite right. It was his expression that intrigued her and made her want to keep looking at him and trying to understand him. Was he bored, or unhappy? Why did he look as if he wanted to be anywhere but on that beach, with these people?

He was a mystery, and she enjoyed a good puzzle. It gave her mind something to focus on, but now he was rising, and everyone else was rising, gathering their things and heading to the boat.

Good, she told herself, closing her sketchbook, and yet she couldn’t help feeling a stab of disappointment as the speedboat whisked her mystery man back to the massive yacht anchored outside her cove, because he was, without a doubt, the most interesting man she’d ever seen, and now he was gone.

Later that evening, Josephine was returning from doing her last check of the equipment in the cottage when she heard loud voices, as if in argument, from just outside the cove. She crossed to the beach, listening intently, but this time she heard nothing, just the sound of the yacht engine humming. Was the yacht finally leaving?

As usual, it was brightly lit and pulsing with music. On the top deck she could see couples lounging and drinking. There were others on a deck below and then others at the far end of the yacht, in the shadows.

The yacht was moving. She could see the moonlight reflecting off the white wake. She was sorry to see her mystery man leave, but glad the noise would be gone. The music was terrible. She was still standing there when she heard a muffled shout and then saw someone go overboard. It was at the back of the yacht, where people had been on a lower deck in the shadows.

She rushed closer to the water’s edge, attention fixed on the point where the person had gone into the water, but no one resurfaced. Sick, panicked, Josephine worried that someone could be drowning. She couldn’t just stand idle while someone died.

She yanked off her sundress and dived between the waves to swim out to where the yacht had been anchored for the past two and a half days. Diving beneath the surface of the water, she struggled to see in the gloom, but all was dark, so dark, and the reef dropped off dramatically not far from her, the coral giving way to deep water. Josephine swam with her hands in front of her, searching, reaching, lungs burning, bursting, and just when she was going to push back to the surface, she felt fabric, and then heat. A chest. Shoulders. Big, thick shoulders. A man.

She prayed for help as she circled his neck with her arm, hoping for divine strength because she needed superpowers in that moment, her own lungs seizing, desperate for air.

With a groan, she pulled up and he rose with her. Not quickly, but he was floating as she swam, his huge body heavy, but she’d never swum with such resolve. She’d grown up in the ocean. She’d spent her life swimming, deep, exploring caves and the reef, and even though spots danced before her eyes she told herself she could do this because she wasn’t alone. She had faith that she was meant to be there when the body fell overboard, and she was meant to find him, and she was meant to save him.

And she did.

She surfaced and, gasping for air, towed him to shore. Once she’d dragged him out of the waves, she kept pulling, hoping she wasn’t hurting him as she wrestled him onto the firm damp sand. Once she knew they were out of the surf, she rolled him onto his side, allowing water to drain from his mouth and nose, before settling him onto his back. It was only then she realized it was him.

The beautiful brooding man.

The one who’d barely seemed to tolerate the others.

The one who suffered no fools.

She’d never had to resuscitate anyone before, but her father had taught her years ago, and she remembered the basics, although guidelines kept changing every year or two. She pinched his nose closed and then breathed into his mouth with five strong breaths, followed by thirty chest compressions. She put her ear near his mouth and listened. Nothing. She heard nothing. She repeated the cycle with two strong breaths into his mouth and another thirty compressions. After each cycle, she listened and watched his chest, checking for signs of life.

She wouldn’t give up. Breathe, breathe, breathe, she chanted in her head, repeating the cycle, praying as she did, asking for divine help, not at all prepared to lose him.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

Live, live, live.

Just when she was sure her efforts were pointless, his chest lifted—not much, but it moved, and it was enough to give her hope. Determined, Jo breathed into his mouth, those two strong breaths, and this time she felt air exhale from his lips and saw a definite rise and fall of his chest. His breath was rough and raspy, but it was a breath. It wasn’t her imagination. He was alive.

Her eyes stung with tears. Her hands began to shake as she shoved her long, wet hair behind her ears, overwhelmed and exhausted. The sheer enormity of it all hit her, and she sat back on her heels, shoulders sagging. She’d saved him. But now what? What was she to do with him?

Her adrenaline faded, and she began trembling in earnest, wiped out. She didn’t know how she’d managed any of it. She was a good swimmer, a strong swimmer, but it was a miracle she’d been able to find him and pull him to the shore. He needed medical help, and she had no way to call for assistance. Her radio was broken. Her dad would be bringing a new one when he returned, but that wasn’t for days. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t mind being cut off—she’d gone weeks before without communication—but this was different.

Her brow creased as she glanced out toward the sea, the mouth of the cove empty, the moonlight reflecting brightly on the water, the only sign of the yacht a distant glow of yellow light on the horizon.

How did no one notice that he’d gone overboard? How could they go without him?

Gently, she stroked his hair back from his brow, only then noting the blood matting the thick hair at his temple. He was injured, and from the nasty gash on his forehead, he’d been injured before he’d fallen—or been pushed—overboard.

She’d heard raised voices. She’d heard a fight. It was what had drawn her attention—that and the hum of the yacht engine. From the mark on his brow it looked as if someone had struck him. Why?

* * *

He blinked, trying to focus. His head hurt. Pain radiated through him. He struggled to sit but the world tilted and swam around him. He blinked again, not understanding why everything was so blurry. It was almost as if he was underwater and yet, through the haze, he saw a woman leaning over him, her face above his, her expression worried.

He struggled to place her. How did he know her? Did he know her?

The effort to think was too much. He gave up trying to focus and closed his eyes, sinking back into oblivion.

Pain woke him again.

A heavy, brutal pounding in his head made him stir, his eyes slowly, carefully opening, trying to minimize the ache in his head.

It was day, either early or late he didn’t know because the light was soft, diffused.

A woman was moving around the room. She wore a loose white dress, the gauzy fabric fluttering around her bare legs. She paused at the small square window, her brow creasing as she gazed out. Her hair was long and straight, falling almost to her waist.

For a moment he wondered if she was an angel. For a moment he wondered if he had died and gone to heaven. Not that he deserved to go to heaven. Strange thought, but true. He struggled to rise but immediately felt nauseous.

Biting back a curse, he slowly sank back against the pillow, realizing he wasn’t dead—or at least, he wasn’t in heaven. He couldn’t be, not if he hurt this much.

His muffled groan must have reached the angel girl, as she turned in her white dress, the delicate fabric floating behind her as she moved toward him, so young, so beautiful he was certain she wasn’t real.

Perhaps he was feverish. Perhaps he was hallucinating, because as she knelt next to him, the sun’s rays seemed to narrow and cast a glow around her, highlighting her long golden-brown hair, her smooth brow, and the high, elegant cheekbones above her full lips.

Maybe hell was filled with angelic beauties.

* * *

He was finally coming to. Josephine moved forward, crouching at his side. “Hello,” she said in English, before it struck her that it was unlikely English was his native language. Most of the conversation she’d heard on the beach had been French, while others had spoken Italian. “How are you?” she asked in French.

He blinked and struggled to focus, his eyes a brilliant blue, contrasting with his long, dense black lashes.

She tried Italian next. “How do you feel?”

His brow tightened. He grimaced, responding in Italian. “Tu chei sei?” Who are you?

“Josephine,” she answered, as he slowly reached up to touch his head, where a crust had formed on his cut. “Careful,” she added in Italian. “You’ve been injured. It’s finally stopped bleeding.”

“What happened?”

“You went over the side of your yacht.”

“A yacht?” he repeated in Italian.

“Yes. You were with friends.”

“Dove sono?” he murmured, his voice a deep rasp. Where am I?

“Khronos. A small island off Anafi,” she answered.

“I don’t know it.”

“Anafi is very small. No one knows Anafi, and Khronos is even smaller. It’s privately held, a research site for the International Volcanic Research Foundation—” She broke off as she realized he wasn’t listening, or at least, he wasn’t processing what she was saying, his features tight with pain. “Do you hurt right now?”

He nodded once. “My head,” he gritted.

She reached out to place a palm against his brow. He was cooler now, thank goodness. “You were running a fever last night, but I think it’s gone now.” She drew her hand back, studying him. “I’d like to see if you can manage some water, and if you can, then we’ll try some soup—”

“I’m not hungry. I just want something for the pain.”

“I have tablets that should help with the headache, but I think you should eat first. Otherwise I’m worried it’ll upset your stomach.”

He looked at her as if he didn’t understand, or perhaps he didn’t believe her, because his blue eyes were narrowing and his mouth firmed, emphasizing his strong jaw, now shadowed with a dark stubble.

He’d been striking from afar, but up close he was absolutely devastating, his black hair and brows such a contrast to his startlingly blue eyes. His features were mature and chiseled. Faint creases fanned from his eyes.

As his gaze met hers and held, her pulse jumped. “It’s been almost a full day since I pulled you out of the sea—”

“How?” he interrupted.

“How?” she repeated.

“How did I get here?”

“Your boat. Your yacht—”

“I don’t understand this yacht.” The wrinkles in his forehead deepened. He struggled into a sitting position, wincing and cursing under his breath. His hand lifted to his temple, where the wound was beginning to bleed again. “When was I on one?”

“The past few days. Probably the past week or more.” She sat back on her haunches, studying him. “Do you not remember?”

He shook his head.

“What do you remember?”

He thought for a moment, and then his broad, sun-bronzed shoulders shifted irritably, impatiently. “Nothing.” His voice was hard, his diction crisp. Authority and tension crackled around him.

Her jaw dropped ever so slightly. “You don’t remember who you are? Your name? Your age?”

“No. But I do know I need to find a bathroom. Can you show me the way?”

* * *

He had questions for her later, many questions, and Josephine fought to hide her anxiety over his complete loss of memory. She prepared them a simple dinner, talking to him as she plated the grilled vegetables and lemon-garlic chicken. “I think you must be Italian,” she said, carrying the plates to the small rustic table in the center of the room. The table divided the room, creating the illusion of two spaces, the sitting area and then the kitchen. “It was the first language you responded to.”

“I don’t feel Italian.” He grimaced. “Although I’m not sure what that even means. Can a person feel their nationality?”

“I don’t know,” she answered, sitting down across from him. “But I suppose if I woke up somewhere else I’d be puzzled by the different cultural norms.”

“Tell me about the people I was with.”

“They were all about your age. Although some of the girls seemed younger. They all looked...polished. Affluent.” She hesitated. “Privileged.”

He said nothing.

“Everyone seemed to be having a good time,” she added. “Except for you.”

He glanced at her swiftly, gaze narrowing.

“I don’t know if you were bored, or troubled by something,” she added, “but you tended to be off on your own more than the others. And they gave you your space, which made me think you were perhaps the leader.”

“The leader?” he repeated mockingly. “The leader of what? A band of thieves? Pirates? Schoolboys on holiday?”

“You don’t need to be rude,” she said slowly, starting to rise, wanting to move away, but he reached out and caught her, his fingers circling her narrow wrist, holding her in place.

“Don’t go.”

She looked down to where his hand wrapped her wrist, his skin so very warm against hers. She suppressed a shudder, feeling undone. She was exhausted from watching over him, exhausted from worrying. It had been a long night and day, and now it was night again and she felt stretched to the breaking point. “I’m just trying to help you,” she said quietly, tugging free.

He released her. “I’m sorry.” His deep voice dropped. “Please sit. Stay.”

His words were kind, but his tone was commanding. Clearly he was accustomed to being obeyed.

Her brow furrowed. She didn’t want to create friction, and so she slowly sat back down and picked up her fork, but she felt too fatigued to actually eat.

Silence stretched. She could feel him watching her. His scrutiny wasn’t making things easier, and she knew his eye color now. Blue, light, bright aquamarine blue. Blue like her sea. Reluctantly, she looked up, her stomach in knots. “I thought you were hungry,” she said, aware that he hadn’t yet taken a bite, either.

“I’m waiting for you.”

“I’ve lost my appetite.”

“The company you’re keeping?”

She cracked a small smile. “The company’s fine. I think I’m unusually tired tonight.”

“I suspect you were up all night worrying about me.”

It was true. She hadn’t been sure he’d survive. There were complications for those who’d nearly drowned. “But you made it through, and here you are.”

“Without a memory, or a name.”

“I suppose we should call you something.”

“Perhaps,” he said, but it was clear from his tone that he didn’t agree and wasn’t enthusiastic about being called by a name that was probably not his.

“We could try names out, see if anything resonates.”

He gave her a long, hard look that made her stomach do a funny little flip. “I’ll say names and you tell me if anything feels right,” she pressed on.

“Fine.”

“Matthew. Mark. Luke. John.”

“I’m fairly certain I’m not an apostle.”

Her lips twitched. “You know your Bible stories, then.”

“Yes, but I don’t like this approach. I want my own name, or no name.” He stabbed his fork into his dinner but made no attempt to eat. “Tell me about you,” he said, turning the tables. “Why are you here on what appears to be a deserted island?”

“Well, it’s not deserted—it’s an island that serves a scientific purpose, housing one of the five research stations for the International Volcano Foundation. My father is a professor, a volcanologist. We were supposed to be here for a year but it’s been almost eight.”

“Where is he now?”

“Hawaii.” She saw his expression and added, “He is a professor at the University of Hawaii. He juggles the teaching and the fieldwork. Right now he’s back in Honolulu, lecturing, but he’ll return end of the month, which is now just nine days away.”

“And he has left you alone here?”

She hesitated. “Does it seem strange to you?”

“Yes.”

Her shoulders shifted. “It’s actually normal for me, and I don’t mind. I like the solitude. I’m not much of a people person. And the quiet allows me a chance to do my own work, because when Papa is here, it’s always about him.”

“What about your mother?”

“She died just before I turned five.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged again, uncomfortable with the sympathy. “I don’t remember her.”

“Would she approve of your lifestyle here?”

“She was a volcanologist like my father. They worked together for ten years, doing exactly what he’s doing now, but in Hawaii, so yes, I think she’d approve. Perhaps her only disappointment would be that I haven’t gone off to college or earned all the degrees that she did. I’ve been homeschooled my entire life, even with the university courses. My father says I’m more advanced than even his graduate students, but it’s not the same. I’ve never had to be in the real world or compete with others for work. I just work.”

“What is your field of study?”

“I’m a volcanologist, too, although personally I prefer the point where archaeology intersects with volcanology.”

“Vesuvius?”

She nodded. “Exactly. I’ve been lucky to work with my father on the volcanology of the southwestern sector of Vesuvius, where archaeological and historical data have allowed scientists to map the lava emitted in the last several thousand years. I’m fascinated by not just the lost civilizations, but the power of these volcanoes to reshape the landscape and rewrite the history of man.”

“It doesn’t sound as if you’ve missed anything by being homeschooled.”

She smiled faintly. “I haven’t been properly socialized—my father said as much. I’m not comfortable in cities and crowds. But fortunately, we don’t have that problem here.”

“Your mother was American, too?”

“French-Canadian, from Quebec. That’s how I ended up Josephine.” Her smile faded as she saw how his expression changed, his jaw tightening and lips compressing. “You will remember your name,” she said quietly. “It’s just going to be a matter of time.”

“You spoke to me in French, didn’t you?”

“I tried a number of languages. You responded in Italian, so I’ve stuck with Italian. Est-ce que tu parles français?”

“Oui.”

“And English?” she asked, switching languages again. “Do you understand me?”

He nodded. “I do.”

“How fluent are you?” she asked, continuing in English, testing him. “Is it difficult to follow me?”

“No. It doesn’t seem any different from Italian.”

He had almost no accent, his English was easy, his diction relaxed, making him sound American, not British. She suspected he’d been educated at one point in the United States. “Would you mind speaking English then?”

“No.”

“But should it give you a headache, or if it creates any stress—”

“No need to fuss over me. I’m fine.”

She opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it. He was a man used to having the final word. So who was he? And why did he, even now, ooze power?

“Tell me again about the people I was with on the yacht,” he said. “Tell me everything you know.”

“I will after you eat something.”

“I’m not hungry anymore.”

“That’s strange, because my memory seems to be fading, as well.”

He gave her a hard look. “I’m not amused.”

“Neither am I. You’ve been through a great deal, and we need to get you strong. And as I am your primary caregiver here—”

“I don’t like being coddled.”

“And I’m not known to coddle, so eat, and I’ll tell you everything. Don’t eat, and you can fret by yourself because I have things to do besides argue with you.”

His eyes narrowed and his jaw hardened, making a small muscle in his jaw pop. For a long moment he just looked at her, clearly not happy with the situation, but then he reached for the plate of chicken and took a bite, and then another, and did a pretty impressive job of devouring the rest. He lifted his head at one point and met her gaze. “This is good, by the way. Very good.”

“Thank you.”

“You made this?”

“Yes.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I have a freezer, and I use the kiln outside for roasting the potatoes and baking. The rest I prepare on the stove.”

“A kiln?”

“It makes excellent flatbreads, and pizzas, too. I learned how to cook in a kiln when we lived in Peru. That was before here. I loved Peru. My father loved the stratovolcano.” She smiled faintly, remembering his excitement and obsession as Sabancaya roared to life, spewing ash and rumbling the mountain. If it weren’t for the village women, Josephine would have been forgotten. Instead they took her and her father in and helped teach Josephine to cook, and as a thank-you, Josephine would look after the children, giving the hardworking mothers a break.

“Where else have you lived?”

“Washington State, Hawaii, Peru, and Italy, but that was brief, before here. We’ve been here the longest.”

“Was every place this isolated?”

“No, this is definitely the most remote, but I’m truly happy here.”

“Is that why you just watched us on the beach and didn’t come introduce yourself?”

She laughed as she reached for his plate. “I think we come from different worlds. I am quite sure I’d be an oddity in your world.”

His brow creased. “You think so?”

“Absolutely. I wouldn’t know how to drape myself over and around handsome men.” Her lips twitched. “I can’t for the life of me just lie on a beach. I need to be active, and instead of sunbathing I’d be catching fish, and examining the water table, and trying to figure out the volcanic history of the exposed rocks—” she broke off. “Not your kind of girl at all.”

“What is my kind?”

“The kind that looks like a swimsuit model. The kind that doesn’t lift anything, not even her own swim bag. The kind that pouts when you don’t feel like talking.”

“Interesting,” he drawled, blue eyes glinting.

“How so?”

“You didn’t like my friends. You never said that earlier. This is new information.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not factual and not important—”

“But revealing about you.”

“Exactly. There is no reason to share my feelings on anything. I should be focused on assisting you. Who I am and what I feel isn’t relevant in any way.”

“You’re allowed to have opinions.”

“I’ll voice them if they’ll be helpful. Me judging your female friends isn’t helpful. It’s just me being petty and unkind and unnecessary.”

“Why do I feel like you are a rare breed?”

“Because I am strange. I don’t fit in. I never have.”

“Sounds a bit defeatist, don’t you think?”

“I would agree with you if I were here licking my wounds. But I’m here by choice, because I’m happy here. I sleep well here. I can breathe here. I don’t feel odd or different, and on Khronos I don’t second-guess myself, and that’s a good thing.”

“You’re saying society makes you uncomfortable.”

“Absolutely.” She carried his plate and fork to the small sink in her very small kitchen and felt his gaze bore into her back as she filled the small plastic dish tub with water to let them soak. “But I’ve been raised outside society so it’s to be expected.”

“Have you ever lived in a city?”

“Honolulu.”

“Is that a proper city?”

She turned and shot him a disapproving look. “Yes. Honolulu has some beautiful architecture and it has a fascinating history. Hawaii isn’t just beaches and surfing.” She didn’t tell him, though, that she didn’t enjoy going back to Oahu anymore because it was too urban for her now. There were far too many cars and people and it had been overwhelming, which was why she’d elected to remain behind on Khronos while her father went to teach.

She turned away from the sink, wiped her hands dry on a dish towel and carried the water carafe to the table. “There were maybe twelve of you that came onto the beach,” she said, taking her seat again. “Seven men, including you, and five women. The yacht was huge. One of the biggest, most luxurious yachts I’ve ever seen. Your group would come onto the beach during the day and everyone would swim and sunbathe, eat and drink.” She shot him a long look. “There was lots of drinking. Everyone seemed to be having a good time.”

“And the night I went overboard?”

“There was music playing—as always—and a party. As always. Your friends were on the top two decks—the top deck you all used as a disco, so the music and dancing were there, but there were others on the second deck, and I wasn’t sure if they were in a hot tub or a pool, but people there were just hanging out, talking and laughing. But what got my attention on that last night was the arguing at the back of the yacht. I heard voices, or thought I heard voices, and things sounded like they were getting a little heated. It was what caught my attention and what drew me to the edge of the water.”

“I was arguing?” he asked quietly.

She hesitated, frowning. “Yes. No. I don’t actually know that it was you. I just heard arguing, and then there was a shout and a splash. I couldn’t see that well and for a second wondered if someone had maybe jumped overboard, but when the person went under and didn’t resurface, I panicked and raced out.”

“Saving me.”

She tapped her fingers on the table, suddenly uncomfortable. “I didn’t know it was you. I just knew someone was in trouble.”

“That couldn’t have been an easy swim.”

“No, but I was terrified you were going to drown. I couldn’t let it happen.”

“You risked your life for a stranger.”

“What is the point of being a strong swimmer if I can’t save someone now and then?”

She’d deliberately kept her tone light, wanting to ease the tension.

He didn’t smile. “I would have died without you.”

“But you didn’t. Now we just need to get your memory back, and all will be well.” She gave him a bright smile and then rose, moving around the room, adjusting the shutters to give them more of the evening’s breeze, and then taking her broom and sweeping out some sand that had found its way inside.

She could feel his gaze on her the entire time and it made her skin prickle and heat. She felt herself flush and her pulse quicken. He watched her the way surfers watched the waves—with focus and quiet intensity. It was unnerving and she suddenly wanted to adjust her skirt and gather her hair. She wanted to be pretty and worth the attention—

Josephine gave her head a shake.

She couldn’t try to be someone she wasn’t. She’d done that in the past, in Honolulu, for example, and it had been disastrous. “Judging from your accent,” she said crisply, giving the threshold one last hard sweep of the broom, “you could be from Belgium, Luxembourg, France, Italy, Switzerland, Monaco, Sicily, Malta, Aargau—maybe even America. You’ve certainly managed to nail the American drawl.”

He grimaced. “I don’t feel American.”

She returned the broom to the corner. “Then we can cross the States off the list.” She did a quick count in her head. “Leaving nine possible cultures or nationalities.”

“We’re whittling down the list.”

She laughed, and then her laughter faded as she studied the huge bruise still darkening his brow. “I just wish I knew how that happened,” she said, nodding at his temple. “Were you injured in the fall? Did it happen before you went over the side?”

“I’ve wondered the same.”

She studied his expression, debating if she should reveal her worries, but then he said what she’d been thinking, his voice deep, his delivery slow and thoughtful, “Because if it wasn’t accidental—that would change everything, wouldn’t it?”

CHAPTER TWO

HE DIDN’T KNOW his name. He didn’t know where he was from. He didn’t know what he did, or where he lived, or why he’d even be on a yacht “with friends.” He didn’t know if someone had meant him harm or if he’d simply had an accident and fallen overboard.

But there was one thing he did know, and it was this: he wanted her.

He woke thinking about Josephine and fell asleep thinking about her and it was all he could do to hide the physical evidence of his desire. He wasn’t a boy. It shouldn’t be difficult to control his hunger, but the fierceness of his desire made him wonder if he’d ever felt like this about anyone before or if this was typical of him. Desire. Hunger. Impatience.

Perhaps the intensity of the need was due to all the other unknowns.

He tried to distract himself with reading the books on the shelves in the house. When he was tired of reading, he swam or lay on the warm sand, soaking in the heat of the sun. But inevitably, as time passed, his thoughts turned to Josephine. He wanted to see her. He just wanted to be near her, so he’d pull a shirt on, one of the shirts from her father’s closet that she’d lent him, and assist her with her work. He’d help with her notes, or he’d water the garden—anything if it meant he could be at her side, as he’d come to crave her shape, her scent, her smile.

She was beautiful and brilliant as well as innocent and earnest. He was certain she was a rare gem, a jewel among even the world’s most beautiful women, and he said that to her one day, after they’d emerged from the sea following a swim.

She smiled at him, amused but also shy. “Thank you for the compliment, but seeing as you don’t remember anything of your world, I’m not sure it’s valid.”

“I don’t have to compare you to know that you’re smart and kind. You’re also cheerful and optimistic, and you make me happy. I have a feeling I’m not always easy to please.”

“You certainly weren’t cheerful on the beach with your friends. In fact, you were often quite aloof, sitting off on your own, staring out at the ocean. I would watch you and sketch you—”

“Sketch me?”

She nodded, blushing. “It’s what I like to do when I have free time.”

“I haven’t seen you draw since I’ve been here.”

“I do when you’re not around, or late at night when you’re sleeping.”

“What do you draw?”

“This and that.” Her blush deepened. “Mostly you.”

He loved how her pink cheeks made her eyes look even more green. She was so fresh and pretty. She reminded him of a mermaid...a siren from the sea. “Why draw me?”

“You fascinate me.”

“Why?”

“You have to know.” Her lips pressed, her expression suddenly reminding him of a prim schoolteacher. “Don’t make me spell it out.”

He was enchanted by the line her full lips made and the firmness of her chin. His fingers itched to reach out and trace her pink cheek and the shape of her mouth. And just like that, his body hardened, the desire hot and insistent. “Apparently, my head injury has made me a little slow. Be kind and explain to me why someone like me would fascinate you?”

Her chin lifted higher. “I’ll only tell you this one time.”

“I’m listening.”

“You’re unbearably attractive—”

“Unbearably?”

“You’re very intelligent.”

“Can we get back to the unbearably attractive part? Is it possible to be unbearably attractive?”

“Yes. You’ve proven it. Let me continue.” She tapped her fingers as if counting her points. “You have a sense of humor—when you want to.”

“I suppose that is a drawback, being unpredictable.”

Her lips twitched. “You have rich friends. That yacht was enormous. But that’s really more of a negative then a plus.”

“Why a negative?”

“From an environmental standpoint, it’s terrible.”

“I agree.”

Her brows arched. “You do?”

“I do. I’m always worried about the environment.”

“You are?”

He nodded.

She frowned, a faint link forming between her eyebrows. “That’s interesting,” she murmured.

“Is it?”

Josephine nodded. “You’re starting to have a clearer sense of self. I think some of your memories are returning. This is a good thing.”

He felt a sudden wash of unease, and he didn’t understand it. The return of his memory should be a great thing, and yet all he felt was a pervasive dread. “Let’s talk about you instead.”

“Why? I’m a boring academic—”

“Not boring, and academics are exciting.”

She laughed. “Are they?”

“I went to school with brilliant women. There is nothing sexier than a smart woman—” he broke off as he realized what he’d said. He’d gone to school with brilliant women. And he knew he hadn’t meant high school or grammar school. He’d meant university, and the words had been so comfortable, so natural. He also knew that calling university school was very American. Had he gone to school—college—in America?

He could see from Josephine’s expression that she’d heard the reference, too, and understood it, as well.

“Your memory is returning,” she said softly, breathlessly.

“You’re healing me,” he said. “All this sun and swimming.”

She smiled back at him. “It’s not as if there’s a lot to do here. No TV or video games.”

“But even if you had those, I don’t think it’s something you’d do. You love being outside. You’re at home in the sea.”

Her cheeks were pink, and her eyes were bright as she tucked a long strand of sun-streaked hair behind her ear. “I’ve always grown up next to the sea. First in Hawaii and then here. I can’t imagine not swimming. If I go too many days without getting wet, I feel off. The sea always restores me.”

“You are a fish.”

She laughed. “My father says the same thing. He says that I have scales and they dry out if I’m out of the water too long. Thus my close proximity to the beach.”

“So maybe not a fish but a mermaid.”

“Maybe,” she answered, smiling, feeling strangely shy and sensitive because everything inside her seemed to be shifting and lurching. Changing.

She’d noticed it before, and she’d tried to suppress the feelings, but she couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening, or real, any longer. She couldn’t pretend that he wasn’t aware of her. She couldn’t pretend that there wasn’t something taut and electric between them, because there was something about the way he looked at her, something in the intensity of his expression that made the air catch in her throat, making her heart gallop. The way he looked at her terrified her and yet, at the same time, thrilled her. Being near him was wonderful, confusing, exhilarating. No one had ever looked at her as if she were so important. No one had ever made her feel so beautiful. Every conversation made her feel alive, and she didn’t know why because there was nothing terribly revealing said. And yet he fascinated her. He’d fascinated her on the beach when he’d been just a mysterious stranger, and her fascination only grew with every day because how could he—this gorgeous, handsome stranger—want her?

And yet, being wanted was doing something to her, seducing her, making her question everything she believed. She’d always thought that she’d never have sex with someone, not unless he was her forever love, the man who would marry her, the man who would share a life with her. Looking into his eyes, she figured she was losing out on something beautiful. This felt special. It felt like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, something she wasn’t prepared to miss.

It helped that she knew the attraction wasn’t one-sided.

It was clear from the heat in his gaze that he desired her, and the knowledge was a heady power. An aphrodisiac that made her restless and curious. He could make her feel so much with just a look. How would she feel if he touched her? Kissed her?

She didn’t let herself think further than that. She’d never experienced more than a couple kisses, kisses that hadn’t inspired her in any way, making her think there was no need to repeat the experience. Until now. Somehow she sensed that kissing her mysterious stranger would be entirely different. Maybe even life-changing.

But did she want that?

She looked hard at her stranger, who truthfully was no longer a stranger, but someone who was quickly becoming very important to her.

She’d spent so much of her life alone, or alone with her father—which was virtually alone since he rarely spoke, his head always down, buried in his work. She understood her father’s fascination with his work and his commitment to research, but every now and then she wanted...more.

She wanted to be seen.

She wanted to be known.

She wanted to be...loved.

Growing up as she had had taught her tremendous self-reliance, but there were times she felt that her life had also left her empty and aching for more. More connection. More expression. More emotion.

Usually these thoughts and feelings happened late at night, and she’d blame fatigue and the need to sleep.

But she was feeling these things almost constantly lately. The arrival of her mystery man had changed something within her.

His arrival had made her aware of the world out there and that there was more to the world than she knew. But even with that knowledge, she also knew she was happy on Khronos. Most of the time she wanted nothing but her work and the sun and the sea. Most of the time she was utterly content.

She needed to be content again.

Abruptly, Josephine rose, moving away, trying to escape the heat suffusing her skin and ache filling her chest. Her father had left her here to manage the foundation’s station. She needed to stay focused on her responsibilities. “I’d better get back to work,” she said huskily.

“Can I help?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I’m just going to check the solar panels. You relax—”

“That’s all I’ve done the past few days. Show me what you’re doing, or what needs to be done, so I can help while I’m here.”

She smiled tightly. “Okay, follow me.”

The old Greek cottage had been constructed of stones, without the charm of whitewash, and while it looked ancient and almost abandoned from the front, there were clean, well-maintained stairs behind—stairs that rose up to a clearing filled with a mass of solar panels and equipment, and another smaller stone house.

“That’s where the foundation keeps all the seismic monitoring equipment. The equipment is connected to portable seismometers along the edge of the island, as well as some in the water. You see, we’re sitting practically on top of a volcano. Khronos is just the tip, which is why we have the seismometers to detect rock movement in the earth’s crust. Some movements may be the result of rising magma beneath the surface, which could mean an awakening volcano. We also have equipment here that monitors gases like sulfur dioxide, as an increase in sulfur dioxide could be an indication of magma near the earth’s surface.”

“And if that should happen? What do you do?”

“It hasn’t happened in the past ten years, so I think I’m safe. Odds are, I’m safe.”

“You’re pretty nonchalant about something potentially catastrophic.”

“Some people are terrified of volcanoes, particularly supervolcanoes, but there has never been such an eruption in human memory, and did you know there are actually quite a few people who choose to live near a volcano because they’re drawn to the geothermal energy, the minerals and the fertile soil? I’m a fan of geothermal energy because it’s very clean, and the resource is nearly inexhaustible.

“Speaking of energy, come see,” she said, walking farther back along a compact dirt path that cut deeply through the rough, rocky terrain dotted with a few gnarled olive trees. “Twenty years ago the foundation was powered by those wind turbines before us. Unfortunately, they were prone to breaking down and the repairs were costly, and then new, improved solar technology became a better answer, so eventually no one bothered to repair or replace the turbines.”

“They do look forlorn,” he said, taking in the line of tall wind turbines that covered the top of the island.

“Luckily for us, solar works incredibly well, allowing the foundation to live completely off the grid. We use solar energy for almost everything. Light, heating, cooking, powering the radio—when the radio actually works—and now for desalination.”

He’d been studying the solar panels, but she noted how his interest was piqued by the mention of their desalination system.

She walked him back to another frame, this one with its own set of panels, plus tubes, dials and black rectangular features, and motioned for him to crouch down beside her. “This is our baby and my personal favorite because this one gives us all our fresh water. In the beginning, we had to bring everything in, including gallons and gallons of water. We’d collect rainwater when we could, but if we had no rain, we’d begin to panic. Now, thanks to a partnership with my father’s university, we’re able to turn salt water into drinking water using only solar energy. Although there are over eighteen thousand desalination plants across the world, this one is unique in that it combines solar energy with brand-new technology allowing a family to generate enough clean water for individual use.”

“How is it different from traditional desalination?”

“You’re familiar with the desalination process?”

“Salt water is brought to a boil, creating steam. The steam is run through a condensing coil.”

“Right. The traditional method is very energy inefficient and requires expensive, complex infrastructure. Over half of the cost of a distillation plant is spent on energy.”

“So this is membrane distillation?”

She was impressed he knew that much. Perhaps he’d studied science in school, or something environment related. “Yes and no. The university took conventional membrane distillation, where hot salt water flows across one side of the porous membrane and cold freshwater flows across the other, and added in a layer of carbon-black nanoparticles. The carbon-black nanoparticles attract light, heating the entire surface of the membrane, converting as much as eighty percent of sunlight energy into heat, giving us more water with less energy. It’s ideal for us with a compact footprint, but it will also revolutionize the way the world desalinates water because the nanoparticles are low-cost and commercially available.”

“Fascinating,” he murmured, studying the section with the nanoparticles and then the tubing where water dripped into a clear canister. “By integrating photothermal heating with membrane distillation you’ve created more productive and efficient technology.”

“I haven’t. The university program did. We’re lucky the scientists and engineers agreed to let us work with it here. We’ve had it eighteen months now and it’s transformed our lives.” She nodded toward the small garden off to the side. “Tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuce, carrots, and more. All possible now due to a never-ending supply of clean, drinkable water.”

“I’d heard about an American university developing something like this, but it’s amazing to see it in use here on Khronos and to know it’s not just theoretical.”

“It’s a game changer for the world.”

“Indeed,” he murmured, and yet he wasn’t looking at the system but rather at her; his gaze locked on her lips and she felt his scrutiny all the way through her.

Heat bloomed in her cheeks. She felt overly warm, her skin exquisitely sensitive, and she looked away, trying to hide how flustered she felt. She wanted his kiss and yet she feared it, too.

She wasn’t experienced, and she knew most women her age would have had a number of significant relationships by now. She suddenly wished she’d had a more conventional life, a life where she’d had dates and boyfriends so she’d know what to do and how to respond.

She wanted to respond. Could he tell?

“You’re bored,” she said huskily, rising and brushing the coarse dirt from her hands.

“I’m not,” he answered, rising, as well. “I’m fascinated by everything here. Not just by how you’re managing to survive in the middle of nowhere but by you and this father of yours. I can’t imagine any other father leaving his only daughter defenseless in such a remote spot.”

“I’m not defenseless. I have the radio—” she broke off, lips tightening. Her heart was racing and her stomach churned and she felt close to tears and didn’t know why. Nothing had happened, and yet somehow everything was happening and she seemed to be losing control. “Normally it works. I’ve never dropped it before. I’ve never broken it before. That accident was a fluke, just like you being here is a fluke. I’ve spent four years on Khronos and we’ve seen plenty of yachts, but none have ever stopped here before. And we’ve certainly never had any castaways, either—”

“Why are you afraid?” he asked, interrupting her torrent of words.

“I’m not.” And yet her voice was high and thin, breathless.

For a long moment he was silent, studying her, and then he reached out and lightly traced her eyebrows, the right and then the left. Her breath caught in her throat as the touch sent sparks of hot sensation shooting through her veins. She stared at him, deep into his eyes, as he continued to explore her face, his fingertips light as they caressed the length of her nose, and then her cheekbone, and finally down along the line of her jaw.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice deep and rough.

She felt his voice and his touch all the way through her, an erotic rasp that teased her senses, making her skin flush and her body ache.

“No makeup, no designer clothes, no expensive blowouts. Just beautiful you,” he added. “I didn’t know women like you even existed.”

“You say that now, but if you put me next to your lovely ladies from the yacht, you’d see how I’d pale in comparison.”

“I don’t think there is any comparison. You’re extraordinary. Your mind. Your passion for your work. Your beauty. You’re perfect.”

“You’re going to give me quite an ego.”

“Good. You should know you’re special. One in a million.”

She drew back to look him in the face. He didn’t turn away, letting her look, allowing her to see the flare of heat in his eyes.

“If you really feel that way, would you kiss me?” she whispered. “Unless that’s not how you feel—”

“I’ve wanted to kiss you from the moment I opened my eyes and saw you in the room looking like an angel.”

She swallowed hard. “I’m no angel,” she murmured, even as her pulse beat double time, and her gaze drank him in, lingering on the hard, clean line of cheekbone and the shadow of a beard darkening his strong jaw. He shaved every morning, using her father’s kit, but by late afternoon he had that shadow again. And then there was that mouth, his wide, firm mouth, his lips lovely. She’d loved drawing his face and loved his mouth most of all, wondering what it would feel like against her own. Wondering what he’d taste like. Wondering if kissing him would be different from kissing alcohol-fueled Ethan in Honolulu two years ago. That kiss had been so awful and sloppy that it had killed all desire to date.

He closed the distance between them, his hands circling her upper arms, bringing her in against him. His blue eyes glowed bright, the heat in the depths holding her, trapping her. Life seemed to slow, and the world shrank to just them.

Josephine could feel the thudding of her heart, and his hands wrapping around her arms, his skin so warm. She shivered at his heat and the way his hard chest pressed against her breasts, making her conscious that she was braless, and her nipples were tight and yet tender, and so sensitive to every breath he took.

This was what she wanted. This was all she wanted. Just to feel his mouth on hers...

His dark head dropped and very slowly his lovely, sensual mouth captured hers, sending sharp hot sparks of sensation through her. She heard a whimper and prayed it wasn’t her. His hand rose to cup the back of her head, holding her still while his lips traveled over hers, teasing, tasting, discovering. She shuddered as more sparks of feeling shot through her, the heat making her melt on the inside, her brain flooded with wildly contradictory signals. She wanted more, so much more, even as another part whispered that she was out of his league.

“Second thoughts?” he murmured, lifting his head, his blue gaze meeting and holding hers.

“Um, yes. No. No.” Because truly, she’d never felt so alive and so full of yearning about anything, but this was crazy. Her feelings were crazy. Excitement filled her veins, making her feel daring and wild...two things Josephine was not, nor ever had been.

And yet, it felt so good to feel excited and alive.

It felt so good to be touched and kissed.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he said, stroking her cheek, sending rivulets of fire through her, fire that she could feel in the tips of her breasts and deep between her thighs.

“Because it’s obvious you’re thinking.”

“I know, and I’m sorry for it—”

“Don’t be. Talk to me.”

She drew a quick, shallow breath before blurting, “Do you think you could be married?”

“No.”

“So you don’t think you have a...a wife...somewhere?”

“No.”

“How can you be so sure?”

His broad shoulders shifted. “Just the way I know I’m not American. It doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t sound right. It doesn’t sound like...me.”

He released her and she took a step back, and then another, not because she wanted to be apart from him but because she couldn’t think when she was close to him and this conversation was important. “Your memory is returning.”

“It must be.”

“What sounds like you? Could you describe yourself? Who do you think you might be?”

“European. Wealthy.” He grimaced. “Mediterranean, most likely. I think I run a company, or own my own company, and I’m good at it. I feel like I have quite a few employees, so my company can’t be small. And I have a nagging suspicion that I’m a perfectionist, and, quite possibly, not easily pleased.” He looked chagrined. “And if that is all true, I’ve just described a man that sounds like a pompous ass, which makes me despise myself, even though I don’t yet know myself.”

She laughed. “Considering that you don’t know yourself, I think you’re being a little hard on yourself. After spending the past few days with you, I think you’re a better person than you described. My gut says you’re a very good person, as well as something of a loner, because even when you were with your friends, you were still a bit distant, and rather alone.”

“Probably because I’m an unlikable prat—”

“No!” She interrupted with a throaty gurgle of laughter, and the sheer joy in the sound stopped her. Was that really her giggling? Sounding so impossibly girlish and happy? Josephine went through life very seriously. She was committed to facts, not feelings, and her life revolved around work and being useful and practical.

“What are you thinking now?” he asked.

“Is it that obvious I have a tendency to overthink everything?”

“I like it. I like you. Don’t ever apologize for being you, Josephine.”

The commanding gruffness in his voice made her throat swell closed. She felt a ridiculous need to cry. It had been such a strange and wonderful few days with him here, and everything inside her felt full and tender and new.

“We should head back to the house so I can focus on dinner,” she said.

He caught her by the wrist to stop her from escaping. “You never answered my question. What were you thinking just a moment ago?”

She suppressed a shiver as he stroked the inside of her wrist with the pad of his thumb, setting her alight. “That I’m happy,” she said unsteadily, trying not to look at his mouth, trying not to remember their kiss earlier, because it had been perfect, and he made her feel beautiful and perfect, and standing close to him made her shockingly aware of how much she wanted to feel more. “And...” She gulped a breath and then lifted her chin, determined to finish her thought. “I’m happy you’re here.”

CHAPTER THREE

THE SKY WAS putting on a show tonight, the sunset a stunning orange on top of red, while waves crashed onto the beach—but the beauty was lost on him. Tension rolled through him. He didn’t yet know himself, but he sensed parts of himself. It was strange and disorienting as well as infuriating. He didn’t like not knowing himself, and he didn’t want to be called by a name that wasn’t his.

He wanted his name, and his identity.

He wanted to be himself, whoever that was, good or bad. He’d take the good and bad, fully embracing both because it was beyond frustrating to feel and think without a foundation of self, never mind self-knowledge.

Every time he heard himself say I think...a little voice inside him stopped him, questioning him. Are you sure? How do you know?

So, hurrah, his memory was returning, but it wasn’t fast enough. He was impatient with the process. He didn’t want pieces of himself; he wanted all his memory back. He wanted his life back. It wasn’t enough to sense things about himself. He needed to know. He needed the truth.

The darkness inside him threatened to engulf him tonight and it crossed his mind that this life of hers was not him, which just made him want to know what his life was. He was by no means bored on Khronos, and he was enjoying being with Josephine, but this quiet island of hers wasn’t his life.

He knew with certainty that his life wasn’t quiet.

His work wasn’t calm.

His world had stress and chaos and deadlines and people.

“Here,” Josephine said, emerging at his side on the beach, a glass of wine in her hand. “I think you could use it.”

He arched a brow.

“It’s good wine,” she said, smiling, her full lips curving, the sweet lift of her lips reminding him of their kiss earlier, and how soft her mouth had been beneath his, and how good she’d felt in his arms. Hunger stirred and he imagined doing all sorts of things to her that weren’t innocent and would probably shock her.

But she’d enjoy it, and he’d enjoy her pleasure.

“And I need it because...?” he asked, smashing his hunger, not needing one more torment tonight.

“You’re pacing this poor beach like a caged tiger. I’m hoping a couple glasses of Father Epi’s merlot might help you relax.”

He took the glass from her. “We’ve never had wine before.”

“I don’t normally drink, but this is a special occasion.”

“Is it?”

She nodded, color suffusing her lovely cheekbones. “I thought we should do something different tonight. Make tonight special. Hopefully it will provide some diversion and distract you from whatever is bothering you.”

“You don’t need to worry about me.”

“But I do.”

“Why?”

“I care about you.” Her shoulders lifted and fell. “Which is why we’re having dinner alfresco tonight. I’ve set a table for us and we will enjoy dinner outside and watch the sun set, and you’ll be my first real date. Unless that is too awkward?” She bit into her lush lower lip for a moment, struggling with her confidence. “Am I horribly awkward? I’m afraid I am.”

“There is nothing awkward about you,” he answered huskily, reaching for her and drawing her close. “I would enjoy a dinner date with you very much, bella,” he murmured, his head dropping to kiss her soft, warm mouth. For a moment she stiffened, and then in the next, she leaned into him, giving herself up to him. He traced the seam of her lips with his tongue and when her lips parted, he claimed her mouth, too, his tongue teasing hers, tasting her, wanting her. She shivered against him, and he kissed her jaw and then the side of her neck, feeling her shiver again as he kissed his way down to her collarbone, the air catching in her throat. She was so sensitive. He battled his desire, keeping his need in check.

She wanted a date. She wanted romance. He could do that.

“You don’t have to do anything,” she said quickly, breathlessly. “I’m taking care of the dinner and I’ve already set the table. Want to come see?”

He nodded because he did want to see, very much so. He offered her his arm, and she shyly tucked her hand through the crook of his elbow. They left the beach, returning to the little house, which looked altogether different with the glowing fire outside in a fire pit and a small round table covered with a vivid tablecloth with bright birds and butterflies against a black wool background. There were two place settings on the table, and tall tapered candles glimmered in the center. It was charming and rustic and he was touched that she had gone to such pains for him.

“That’s not a Greek tablecloth,” he said.

“No, it’s from Peru. My dear Azucena made it for me before we left. I was supposed to save it for my hope chest—” She broke off when she saw his confusion. “Do girls not have hope chests where you’re from?”

“I’m not sure. What is that?”

“It’s where you save things for your wedding. Linens and quilts and other things to help you begin your new home once you’re married.”

He noticed she wouldn’t look at him as she talked, and color darkened her cheeks.

“I’m not planning on getting married,” she added, moving around the table, adjusting the plates and glasses, “and it seems like such a waste to leave this lovely tablecloth in a chest forever, so I brought it out tonight. It’s pretty, though, isn’t it?”

“It is.” But he wasn’t looking at the cloth. He was looking at Josephine as the candlelight illuminated her profile. She’d changed at some point from her casual sundress into a long blue skirt that she’d paired with a white peasant-style blouse. Her long hair had been pulled into a loose knot that she’d attempted to secure with what looked like wooden sticks, but long tendrils of hair were slipping out and curling loosely at her neck and around her face.

Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright as she glanced at him, and her expression was nervous and shy, sweet and hopeful, and it was the hopefulness in her green gaze that made his chest tighten and ache.

He had a feeling his life was full of beautiful women, but none were like her. How could they be? Who could possibly be as smart and beautiful and yet also so capable? He marveled at her ability to make do with so little. She complained about nothing.

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