His most tempting conquest!

Lucinda Bond might be descended from English nobility, but her aloofness hides painful insecurities. Painful enough that she’s never allowed herself to be touched.

Then Dante Hermida sweeps her from the Caribbean Sea, assuming she’s drowning, and Lucie finds herself in the arms of Argentina’s most outrageous playboy! His arrogance challenges her, but his caressing gaze ignites a desperate desire...

Despite Lucie’s defiant facade, soon Dante has her at his sensual command! But discovering Lucie’s innocence, this dark-hearted Argentinian finds himself longing to claim her...with a need that shows no sign of abating!

‘Dante, there is nothing I want to do more right now than this.’

And Lucie held his eyes, then leaned forward to cup his face. Still Dante held back. Until her tongue eased his lips apart and slid into his mouth.

‘Please don’t stop,’ she breathed, tightening her legs and tilting her hips. She reached her arms up and pulled him down into a kiss he could no more resist than resist taking his next breath. She defined irresistible.

Her eyes, when she opened them to see why he had stopped, were anxious.

‘Lucie, are you sure you’ve done this before?’ he asked, not even knowing himself that those words were going to come out of his mouth. It seemed ridiculous—but he had to know...

She glanced away.

‘Sweetheart?’

‘I never said I had or I hadn’t, but—I want to…so badly. Please, Dante.’

He looked bewildered. ‘Are you telling me you’re a virgin?’ He shook his head at his own stupidity. She was so adamant. So resolute. And she just did it for him. Completely.

When she didn’t answer he rolled that fact around for a bewildered second even as she moved under him, used the legs hooked around his back to pull him nearer.

‘Oh, angel, you’re killing me…’

Claimed by a Billionaire

Commanding and charismatic, these men take what—and who—they want!

Dante Hermida, polo player and playboy extraordinaire, meets the only woman to tame him in

The Argentinian’s Virgin Conquest

April 2017

Billionaire tycoon Marco Borsatto has never forgiven Stacey Jackson’s betrayal, but he’s never forgotten their chemistry... Meeting her again, he’s determined that this time, she will never forget him!

The Italian’s Vengeful Seduction

May 2017

You won’t want to miss this dramatically intense, scorchingly sexy duet from Bella Frances!

The Argentinian’s Virgin Conquest

Bella Frances

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Unable to sit still without reading, BELLA FRANCES first found romantic fiction at the age of twelve, in between deadly dull knitting patterns and recipes in the pages of her grandmother’s magazines. An obsession was born! But it wasn’t until one long, hot summer, after completing her first degree in English literature, that she fell upon the legends that are Mills & Boon books. She has occasionally lifted her head out of them since to do a range of jobs, including barmaid, financial adviser and teacher, as well as to practice (but never perfect) the art of motherhood to two (almost grown-up) cherubs.

Bella lives a very energetic life in the UK, but tries desperately to travel for pleasure at least once a month—strictly in the interests of research!

Catch up with her on her website at bellafrances.co.uk.

Books by Bella Frances

Mills & Boon Modern Romance

The Playboy of Argentina

Mills & Boon Modern Tempted

The Scandal Behind the Wedding

Dressed to Thrill

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk for more titles.

MILLS & BOON

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To my daughter Katie, filling the world with love everywhere she goes. I couldn’t be more proud. X

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Claimed by a Billionaire

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

IT WAS ONE thing to plan the perfect party—it was another thing entirely to pull it off. The Honourable Lucinda Bond of Strathdee knew that better than anyone. Oh, yes. Sipping a scalding mouthful of a really rather bitter Americano, she made yet another mental note of how she would improve things next time.

Next time! As if there would ever be a next time...

Down in the galley kitchen of her infamous father’s infamous yacht she could hear voices rise and explode between the chef and the caterers.

Lucinda—Lucie to her very few friends—stepped out onto the nearest sleekly polished deck to get a moment to herself, but there was no escape. The fierce Caribbean sun was already causing the air to throb, and the flotilla of little boats and giant yachts that were moored off Petit Pierre reminded her more of a flock of killer seagulls than a flutter of happy butterflies.

Honestly. What on earth had possessed her to have this charity auction, the biggest bash of the season, in aid of her beloved Caribbean Conservation Centre, here in the Bahamas, on the Marengo, with a guest list to die for and a crippling lack of confidence as deep as the Caribbean Sea?

Money. Dollars—Bahamian or American. Pounds. Euros. It didn’t really matter at the end of the day. As long as her sanctuary—her pride, her joy, her reason for being in this hot, bright heaven—got every last cent from the people who would soon be treading all over her father’s floating emporium.

Her stomach lurched again, but the calm, flat sea definitely wasn’t to blame. The thought of this party tonight was.

As long as she came—Lady Viv, her mother.

As long as she came to call the auction and schmooze the crowd everything would be fine. No one would give a damn about Lucie and her crippling social anxiety if her glamorous, glorious mother dropped from the sky in her helicopter and beamed her brilliant smile all around. She was adored by public and press alike. Loved for her golden hair, her sparkling eyes and her utterly perfect figure.

The fact that she had an utterly imperfect style of parenting was neither here nor there. The world had no idea that the custody battle that had raged between her mother and father had been more about each having less time with her than more. All they knew was that she’d had enough of her husband’s affairs and had decided to have one herself—with James Haston-Black, or ‘Badass Black’, as he was known. Glamorous divorcees sold many more newspapers than neglected children, after all.

Lucie swilled the final inch of bitter dark liquid around the cup, then tossed it back. She screwed up her face and shuddered, wishing desperately that she could drink full-fat lattes instead of these vile brews. Soon. As soon as tonight was over she would unhook the unforgiving satin frock, screw it in a ball and head to the fridge without a care in the world. She would eat what she wanted and drink what she wanted. She would slob about in shorts and T-shirts and wash her hair when she felt like it. She would exercise by lifting food to her mouth. She would pack her make-up bag away in a drawer and smash her bathroom scales with a sledgehammer. End of.

Well, she might...

Her mother’s ‘conditions’ for flying halfway across the world to host this party were fierce, but she had met them. Three months of abject misery—lose ten pounds, drop two dress sizes, style her hair, tone those ‘thunder thighs’. Each and every obstacle—or ‘betterment’, as her mother described them—she had overcome. But this was the end. In ten hours’ time she would be wearing the dress and smiling at the rich and the beautiful and counting all those lovely pennies.

And five hours after that she would be counting her blessings. If she pulled this off without having a panic attack or throwing herself overboard then a miracle would indeed have happened.

Lucie looked up at the place she had felt most happy in her whole life. The verdant green island, with its dormant volcano and swathe of blue ocean, truly was one of the prettiest islands in the Bahamas. And the fact that she had spent so much of her childhood there, especially in the years after her mother had left, made it doubly important. No one here cared that she was minor aristocracy, with a father who was more interested in dogs and horses than anything that had two legs—unless the legs belonged to a pretty young woman. No one here really cared about her mother either. Each second of life was just too succulent for them to bother about what Lady Vivienne Bond—as she would be known for ever, despite the divorce—was wearing to someone’s party on the other side of the Atlantic.

Life here, in every stolen moment, was simple, happy, and as beautiful as the calypso music played all over the island. Lucie wasn’t ‘hiding’, as Lady Viv claimed. She simply didn’t understand that anyone could find pleasure working with smelly animals in a conservation centre, whereas Lucie couldn’t understand how anyone could find pleasure wading through all those air-kisses at parties.

Much like what was going to happen tonight.

Yeuch.

She looked back over her shoulder at the ballroom—one of the many rooms on this three-hundred-foot yacht that would be used for the auction tonight, and was already being decorated by a silent swarm of staff who were transforming the darkly elegant interiors into something from a thirties musical film set.

She had taken care of promotion and ticket sales, passing on the growing list of familiar and unfamiliar names to her mother, Some of them had caused a seismic shift when she’d heard them.

‘Urgh! Dante Hermida! He’s a polo player and an utter Lothario. You’d best stay well away—though, having said that, you’re probably not his type. Really, darling, you should put more effort into knowing who’s who,’ she’d added, when Lucie had reeled from yet another spray of her mother’s vitriol.

A lull in the rapid exchanges from the galley allowed her to hear that her phone was ringing. Lucie looked at where it lay, face down on top of a pile of crisp napkins. It couldn’t be Lady Viv—she was supposed to be halfway across the Atlantic by now. But even as she took the four paces across the deck she knew just whose image would be flashing.

God, no. She couldn’t... Not this time...

Sure enough, her mother’s iridescent smile flashed up at her. Lucie lifted the phone and stabbed the green call symbol like a crazy person.

‘Why are you phoning? Where are you? Why aren’t you on your way?’

She waited, clearly imagining the slight roll of her mother’s artfully lined eyes and the slight twitch of her perfectly painted lips.

‘Darling, must you answer your telephone in such a belligerent manner?’

Lucie clenched her eyes closed and prayed for composure.

‘We’ll overlook it for now and begin again. Good morning, Lucinda. I trust you slept well?’

Lucie was in no mood to play her games.

‘Where are you, Mother?’

There was a slight pause—long enough for her to know that she was right. Her gut had told her that she would be left high and dry with this, that her mother would let her down yet again, but she had refused to believe it—refused to believe she could be so cruel. She knew just how much Lucie hated social situations, but one in which she would have to host was inconceivable.

Her mother was babbling on in her ear, but what did it matter? It was just one more example of where she featured in her mother’s list—Badass Black at the top, then her beautiful boy Simon, then her friends, her charities, her houses, clothes and jewellery—and the thing lolling about at the bottom was Lucie.

‘I’m calling to say I might be a little late.’

She sounded clipped, defensive. Or was that just wishful thinking?

‘I’m almost sure I will still manage to make it—some of it—but things are really rather difficult at the moment... I’m sure Simon has got himself into a little trouble, and I can’t just up and off until I know he’s all right!’

Simon and trouble were like strawberries and cream. For twenty years her half-brother had been getting himself into trouble. He was quite the expert.

‘I know your little party is important to you, but clearly I have to look after Simon—and, really, it was a bit selfish to expect that I could drop everything and fly over the Atlantic for something as trivial as a tortoise, or whatever it is, when I’ve got all these other commitments...’

Lucie didn’t hear the end of the sentence. She stood in a daze, hearing the crystal clipped vowels and imagining the perfect nails drumming. James Haston-Black would be pouring a Scotch and Simon Haston-Black would be lying in someone’s bed, lining up his next party.

And Lucie? She would be getting on with it. Herself.

She wondered if she would ever, ever feature to her mother as anything other than the irritating, overweight, unattractive daughter of her first husband.

‘I have to go,’ she said woodenly into the air, and then stood. Her shoulders sank and her head dipped and a sigh as heavy and wide as the gunmetal skies of home poured from her soul.

‘Go where?’ her mother whined, her voice like claws on thin wood. ‘Look, Lucie, you’ll be absolutely fine. You’ve watched me a thousand times. You simply speak into the microphone, pick a face in the crowd. And smile!’

‘I have to get some—air. I have to go. For a swim.’

Lucie’s mouth almost formed her Love to Simon, love to James standard response, but this time it choked her. She swallowed it back.

‘Love you, Mother,’ she said, and she clicked off the call, powered off the phone and walked, one flat sole after another, to her cabin. She’d clear her head. She’d work this out. She had to. Because, once again, she had no other option.

* * *

It was the morning after the night before—and the night before that—and if he could focus enough he knew that he might be able to recall exactly when this party had started. Because for Dante Salvatore Vidal Hermida—Dante to his several thousand friends, acquaintances and fans—this was turning into one hell of a hangover. Not that he had been drinking too much—he’d long since outgrown that particular route to oblivion. But the whole effort involved in happily hosting was catching up with him.

What he needed now was a clear run of mindless athleticism before getting back on a horse and leading the team to the glory of the Middle Eastern circuit.

There were noises behind him—a slurred squeal, a crash, a muffled laugh—and there was only so much more he could stomach. It was already nearly eleven a.m., and the day surely held a lot more than getting back ‘on it’ with Vasquez and Raoul and whoever else was left.

He scanned the bay. He was glad they had come here. Such a beautiful part of the world. He normally never ventured farther than the mid-Caribbean islands of Dominica and Costa Rica—he didn’t have the time. But they were heading out to a full-on schedule that would last weeks, and he’d planned to squeeze every last drop of fun from the run-up to finally sealing the deal on the new polo club with Marco in the Hamptons.

All that before the big sober-up in New York with his family.

Five days until New York. The clock was ticking and his mother had been remarkably patient—for her. He’d sort that out later today—his date for the awards ceremony. There had to be someone he could take. Someone who would know that attending with his family didn’t mean she was next on the list to join it. And that ‘white tie’ didn’t mean turning up like a gift-wrapped Playmate. He smiled to himself. Though admittedly that held a certain appeal.

Five days. He could achieve a lot in five days. Starting with a trip on board Lord Louis’s infamous Marengo.

He looked at it where it was berthed in the bay, dwarfing everything—like an iceberg in an ice floe of dinghies. He braced his arms on the balcony and really scanned it. He’d never been on it, but according to Raoul it was the Playboy Mansion of the seas. Well, he’d judge that for himself. Maybe. He had at least three offers tonight—and they were in the middle of nowhere.

His reputation was getting out of hand. But the oblivion of hedonism was sometimes exactly what he needed.

Tonight...? He might make an appearance and then call it a day. Though how many times had he said that? And how many times had he woken up buried underneath another blanket of limbs and loving, with another mindless, numbing headache and people wanting more than he was ever prepared to give.

He dropped his head, stared at his braced hands, white knuckles, and tensed his jaw. Happy-go-lucky Dante. What a sham. Like the happy family they’d show the world at the Woman of the Year Awards. A united front of high-achievers, with perfect lives and perfect partners, the Argentinian Hermidas would be honouring their American-born mother as she collected a Lifetime Award for services to charity. Charities that didn’t begin at home, of course.

Yes, his mother would be back on the case at any moment—asking who his ‘mystery date’ was. The mystery was why everyone. including the press, thought he had one. He hadn’t! Not yet, anyway. But he would—all he had to do was call up one of the endless stream of women they were speculating he’d bring. As long as she had an IQ above eighty and dug her own gold.

He chuckled as he recalled the list of minimum assets his mother had rattled off when she’d first told him about tonight.

He would figure it out. He always did.

Right after he figured out what was going on over there on the Marengo...

He frowned, lifted his binoculars. A woman was climbing up and along the very edge of the bottom deck. A woman in a bikini. Even from this distance she was uniquely, outstandingly female. Nothing unusual in that on the Marengo, he supposed, but there was something strange about her.

She made her way to the side and stood completely upright on the railing. as if on the ledge of a skyscraper. waiting to jump. Tall, proud, dignified. Seconds passed. Minutes, even—and still he stared. And then, with an almost regal shake of her head, she stepped into mid-air and plunged.

God! He dropped his binoculars. She’d disappeared. Straight down into the water. No elegant dive...no playful jump. Just down like a lead pipe.

He grabbed the binoculars, paced forward. ‘What the hell?’

He waited a moment, scanned the water round the yacht, but it was a shimmer of brilliant white and blue. He forced his focus as the sun needled his eyes. There was no sign of life—just the glitter and glare of heat and light. He pulled his binoculars away, rubbed at his eyes. Put them back. Nothing. Not. One. Single. Thing.

Dante paused. Surely there was nothing wrong? Surely the people on the yacht would be on hand if something had happened? Surely he should mind his own business?

But he had no option. Hand on the rail, he vaulted—right over into the speedboat that was tied up as a tender. Music blasted behind him, and Raoul called his name, but he landed in front of the wheel, turned the key and was off.

The party could wait.

The boat bumped, soared and crashed over the water but he kept his gaze still and steady. What the hell had he just seen? It could just have been a daredevil jump, but it wouldn’t be the first time he had known someone try to hurt themselves...

Closer, he slowed. The last thing he should do was make the situation worse by ploughing into her.

He looked up at the Marengo, at its infamous majestic outline—there were people milling about, but nobody seemed to be shouting, Man overboard!

And then he saw her. A single pale arm like a white reed rose above the water, then lowered in a circle as she stroked the surface and moved back effortlessly.

He waited—watched, mesmerised. Each arm was raised high above her then down in a slow, graceful arc. He smiled. Put the binoculars that hung round his neck up to get a better view—he had to make sure she really was okay. She was swimming out past the safety buoys—and only a really experienced swimmer or a complete lunatic would be doing what she was doing. This was speedboat turf. Anything could go wrong.

He saw her tread water and watched for her arms to rise and circle again. For a second there was immense calm. As if time had stopped. As if all the air had been sucked from the whole wide expanse of sea and sky. And then the surface of the water churned as white limbs thrashed.

He narrowed his eyes—what had happened? She’d been gliding like a pro one minute, then thrashing like a novice the next. He powered up the boat immediately and went to her, eyes trained like a tractor beam on her. Her head sprang up and he almost felt her gaze, wide and frightened. He had to help her. There was nothing else in that moment but her safety.

He cut the engine and nosed the boat away, and then in one move dived into the water and swam with bursting lungs towards her. She was still on the surface and he reached out, grabbed her light, silky limbs and clutched them to his chest, flipping backwards and powering them on.

The frail limbs in his grasp suddenly took on a ferocious strength, and he had to dig a bit deeper to keep them afloat and moving.

‘Let me go—let me go!’ she yelled.

Shock. It had to be. But it was really not helping.

‘You’re fine—you’re going to be okay. Relax!’

He loosened his hold and then gripped her again, tucked his arm around her and propelled them back to his boat. She was still thrashing and yelling, and even as he reached round her waist, his hands meeting on warm wet skin, he could feel her strength and hear her rage.

A part of him fired up.

Like breaking in a new pony, he needed to overcome this flailing, furious female—pin her down and soothe her. But he had nothing to push back against, no purchase to propel her up and onto the boat. With one huge effort he raised her up and over the edge. His face caught curves and clefts, firm, soft wet skin, tiny triangles of bright green fabric and string and all sorts going on.

She landed, and leaped out of his hands as he hauled himself up and over the edge, his breath steadying into pants as he stared at this bundle of nervous energy.

She was even more beautiful up close. Her skin was pale, glistening satin, barely covered by the bikini that lay askew over lush curves. Her hair hung in soaked blonde tresses around her shoulders. Her arm... She was rubbing it up and down, up and down. He frowned as he realised just how mesmerised he was by her.

Shaking it off, he stepped towards her. ‘Are you hurt?’

The look on her face...

‘Am I hurt? You tore across the sea in this stupid boat! You nearly carved me up. And the marine life that actually does belong here—it’s a miracle that I’m not hurt!’

Dante stared. This was beyond shock.

‘I got stung, you stupid great idiot! That’s all—there was no need for all—this.’

She stared at him, ran glinting green eyes all over him, and he felt his jaw tense, his hands flex. He found himself standing taller, puffing out his chest, staring down at her.

‘No need for all what?’

He could not get this framed right in his head. She’d been struggling in the water—he was sure she had! If he hadn’t seen her God knew what would have happened to her. What sort of person was ungrateful for that?

‘So you didn’t need any help? Well, my mistake, but you certainly didn’t look like you were in control out there.’

Her head came up and she gave him that haughty look he’d clocked just before she’d vanished into the sea.

‘You didn’t rescue me! I didn’t need rescuing! I was fine—it was only a jellyfish! And if I hadn’t had to swim away from you and your stupid speedboat I would have seen it!’

Dante opened his mouth and then bit down. What a foul-tempered witch! He should have left her there. She was screaming at him when all he’d tried to do was help her.

‘You might want to learn some manners, Princess. Before I toss you back overboard.’

That was exactly what he wanted to do. He could feel his shoulders tensing further and his fists bunch—he had to get himself in check. What was going on? He was easy, slow—even lazy when it came to women. He never, ever got fired up. Never acted without brain and body being in total harmony. Hadn’t he learned anything all those years ago?

So what the hell nerve was she touching that had him flexing and puffing and grinding his jaw when he looked at her?

He looked at her now as her green eyes widened. Her rosy mouth fell open slightly, and maybe that was a moment of vulnerability stealing across her face like a cloud across the sun. Likely she was just another one of Lord Louis’s cast-offs, dramatically throwing herself overboard because she’d just realised her shelf life had expired.

Who knew? Women were all games and drama. He had the T-shirt to prove it. And the only sure thing was that he was never going to be taken in by a woman again.

‘Do not call me Princess. I do not hold that title. And you might want to ask people if they want to be manhandled before you chuck them onto your boat.’

‘Plenty do.’ Dante smiled then, and watched her eyes widen all over again. He nodded his head back to the Sea Devil, where the gang would be getting well back on track now. ‘There’s a party over there, waiting for its host to return. So if you’ll excuse me...?’

He gestured to the water—jerked his thumb. She could get on with her own rescue.

‘Off.’

‘What?’ She frowned as if he was speaking a different language—and not very clearly at that. ‘Who do you think you’re talking to?’

He looked round at the Sea Devil. Another boat was making its way towards it and now berthed alongside. He put the binoculars back up to his eyes. Looked like the Cotier sisters climbing out. He’d know those legs anywhere...

He turned back to her.

‘Sorry—what?’

‘You know, people like you—you disgust me! You’re just tourists, intent on destroying this place—it’s all parties and speedboats and you don’t give a damn about the island, or the people, or the animals, or—’

‘Maybe you didn’t hear me. I said, off.’

Her eyes widened in shock and up went her chin even further.

‘Honestly! You think you can order me around now? Really? Do you know who I am?’

‘Know who you are? Apart from being the biggest pain in my ass, I couldn’t care less if you were the Queen of England. Which you’re not. So now I think—’

He cocked his head, relishing the pink tinge to her neck, which seemed to be spreading to her chest. Her chest. She certainly had one—and it was well worth a lingering stare. But he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction—even though the swell of her left breast, set almost completely free by her bikini, was quite a test.

‘I think you and I have nothing left to say to one another. So I’m ordering you now to get off my boat.’

She stared right at him, and he knew that a lesser man would flinch. But not he. Not Dante Hermida. He might not have a doctorate from Harvard Law School, or a Fortune 500 business like his brother—yet. But he could fight and he could ride and he could charm every woman within a hundred-mile radius.

So why was this one being so difficult?

‘You’ve got twenty seconds. Damn!’ he said, suddenly catching sight of the misted face of his grandfather’s treasured watch.

He shook his head, held his annoyance in check. He’d nearly lost it once before over a stupid woman, but he’d managed to keep it intact for all these years—a gift from the one person on this earth who’d had time for him. Damn this woman. Standing on his boat, spraying her poison and leaving him soaked to the skin. She might look like a goddess—like some kind of deity in female form—but life was far too short to waste another second with a woman who made his hackles rise this high.

‘Ten,’ he said.

Biting down on the urge to throw her off himself, he ripped his T-shirt over his head and grabbed up a towel. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her watching him through narrowed eyes, seething and ungrateful. Yeah, but there was no mistaking her hunger. He could feel it—emanating out of every selfish pore. She might sound as if she wanted to fight, but she was eying him like a late lunch.

He patted the towel down each arm and over his pecs. ‘Five.’

She was still gawping, still showing no signs of going anywhere. Slowly he grabbed each end of the towel and rubbed it across his back, then down over his abs. Finally he smoothed it over his face and dragged it roughly through his hair. Then he stood right in front of her. His shorts were soaked too. Her eyes landed there and her mouth opened on a coy, ‘Oh...’

Her skin glistened in the bright late-morning light as stray droplets of water continued to course their way down all those curves. Idly he wondered if her waist-to-hip ratio was the best he’d ever seen, because it had started a reaction in his body that seemed to pay no heed at all to the fact that he really didn’t like her.

It looked as if she was planning to play hardball. Okay. He was open to the idea.

Feeling more than a little turned on himself, he lifted the towel again and swiped down each leg. He had great legs—or so he was told, he thought laughingly. ‘Great legs’ were legs that could grip a horse, make it twist or stop with a squeeze of the thighs. But she didn’t look as if riding a polo pony was what she had in mind for him.

‘You don’t seem to be moving, Princess. Were you hoping for some more body contact before you go?’

He was. He let his gaze travel all over her now. The twisted bikini provided such a generous view of her left breast. The hard bud of her nipple peeped out invitingly and he felt another hard kick of lust. For all she was annoying, she was also an incredibly attractive woman—and he could think of many ways she could redeem herself.

He cupped himself and dropped his hands to his waistband, tugged at the string and raised his eyebrows in invitation. Just how far would she let him go?

‘Zero,’ he said.

In one move he loosened the shorts, slid them down over his jutting erection to the wet floor of the boat and stepped out. She stood for a split second, a look of utter shock on her face, and then she spun, bolted to the side and dived off into the sea.

‘Man overboard!’ he called after her. ‘Again.’

He felt the splash of water on his sun-warmed skin and walked to the side to see limbs and white foam as she thrashed her way back to the Marengo.

‘Pleasure, Princess,’ he said, sending her on her way with a mock salute.

Then he pulled his shorts back on and with his hand on the wheel and his foot on the floor, he powered back through the waves. If he never saw her again it would be far too soon.

CHAPTER TWO

LUCIE HEAVED HERSELF back onto the Marengo, wheezing and gasping and incandescent with rage. Staff appeared from every possible corner, staring at her bedraggled form, complete with purple rash. She stomped through them, flapping her arms to get them out of her way. After what she’d just been through the last thing she needed was a crowd of strangers babbling on about jellyfish stings!

Back in her quarters, she went straight into the bathroom—and it was only then that she noticed that what had started out as a hastily thrown on bikini that she’d grabbed to do a quick circuit of the yacht had now turned itself into three postage stamps of ill-positioned fabric.

She turned herself this way and that in the mirror, looking to see what he had seen. And it wasn’t good—the ten pounds she had lost certainly hadn’t gone from her boobs or her bottom.

She pulled the skimpy thing off and tossed it in the laundry basket, wondering if she would ever have the nerve to wear it again. Then she stepped into the shower and let the hot water course down over her. What on earth would happen next on this disastrous day?

All she’d wanted when she’d jumped in was a relaxing, calming swim to clear her head, and then she’d planned a bath and an hour or so with the hairstylist and the beauty therapist to help her prepare for tonight. But instead of an aromatherapy massage and pampering to within an inch of her life she’d been nearly ploughed to death by a speedboat and stung by a jellyfish—not to mention that whole encounter on the boat.

She shuddered and reached for the shampoo. So much for being relaxed. She’d have to deal with her social anxiety on top of all the other anxieties she’d developed so far today. One thing was sure—she was in for hours of deep breathing until she finally put her head on her pillow tonight.

Damn that stupid man and his stupid boat!

And his outrageous behaviour.

She let the soap run free and stared down at her body, cringing because he had seen so much of it. But, even though she might not have been exactly dressed for an audience with Her Majesty, that didn’t excuse his unashamedly egotistical actions! Standing there in those red swim-shorts, with his manhood outlined so clearly...

She shook her head and scrubbed at the jellyfish sting like Lady Macbeth, as if by trying to get rid of the mark she would get rid of the image of him. The look that he’d speared her with—that supercilious grin and those twin dimples, those bright blue eyes that had mocked her. Those shoulders and those impossibly firm, smooth pectorals. An actual six-pack that one could imagine—touching...

What an arrogant, egotistical, boneheaded...

Urgh!

At least this was one thing that she and her mother agreed on. Men who were so obvious about sex were normally more to be pitied than despised. And he was definitely obvious! And she totally despised him.

Who was she kidding? She knew absolutely zero about men and even less about sex. One didn’t really fall over them at home with the governess or at an all-girls boarding school. Thankfully.

The last thing she wanted was a life like her mother’s—diets and dresses, reporters and snappers. With every last move scrutinised and analysed and published for the world to see. And having to wear that everything’s fabulous, darling face everywhere she went—even if she’d just caught her husband cheating or her weight had ricocheted to above eight stone.

It wasn’t that she was vehemently opposed to men—but they had very little to recommend them.

Take this yacht, for example. It was such a drain on the family finances when they could be funding more eco projects, out here or at home. But her father simply had to have it so that he could ‘entertain’.

She flipped the taps off and stepped out of the shower, twisting her hair up into a turban and grabbing a towel as she went.

Her father’s answer to everything was to throw money at it. He’d paid for the food, the drink, the staff, her dress, the harbour fees and the biggest auction item—the use of his yacht for a month.

But his most generous gift, as far as she was concerned, was that he had stayed away—as instructed. It would be a disaster to end all if he suddenly turned up. She’d seen first-hand what happened to women under the age of ninety whenever he was near—and it wasn’t a pretty sight. No wonder she’d found that man today so irritating. He was just a young, blond version of her father. All ego, all sex appeal—and disaster written all over him.

She began searching for something to cool her skin, but really there wasn’t enough coconut oil in the whole of the Caribbean to smooth away the vicious red marks from the jellyfish sting—or the mental scarring from her encounter with that—that lunatic on a speedboat!

She checked her phone, registering that the blank screen meant her mother was now even less likely to put in an appearance.

She put it down with a sigh and lifted a pot of her most expensive unguent. She dropped a thick, gloopy dollop onto her palm, spreading it across her arm and chest where the jellyfish sting now bloomed like a cheap tattoo. But it still didn’t look any better. And she had less than an hour now until she had to squeeze herself into that hideously revealing frock and face those hideously overbearing crowds—completely alone.

Another wave of nausea announced itself and she swallowed quickly, lest any more acid land in her mouth.

Its lid screwed back on, she replaced the little pot on the dressing table and stared at herself in the mirror, suddenly noticing that lights were starting to appear in the harbour, announcing the evening ahead. And here was she—stressed, not dressed, and with no mother in sight to take over the horrific task of hostessing.

Maybe she could ‘have a migraine’. She’d always thought it such a convenient ailment. How could anyone prove it one way or another? She could feign some sort of illness and let the whole thing look after itself. The conservation centre staff would be there. Somebody was bound to be willing to host...

She wanted to scream into a pillow, but this was her mess and there was nothing else to do but to get on with it. It was bad enough that the guests thought they were going to be schmoozing with Lady Viv—who now only just might be persuaded to put in an appearance on camera—so Lucie certainly couldn’t leave the whole thing to anyone else.

She ran to the bathroom. This nausea was overwhelming. She had to get it under control—one way or another.

CHAPTER THREE

LUCIE CLUTCHED A glass of fortifying champagne between white-knuckled fingers and stood like one of the pillars on the mid-deck. Any minute now someone might drape a piece of muslin over her and tie a balloon round her neck.

Her first glass had been half emptied in a single gulp in her room, which had led to a choking fit and a grave look from the hairstylist, who had been packing up her stuff. She’d better not start throwing alcohol down her neck—even though she’d run out of ideas for a quick and painless death. A little deadly nightshade—how did that work?—or something one could simply inhale or swallow. And then she’d fold like a chimney struck by a wrecking ball, while all these strangers continued to sip obliviously on their champagne.

They were arriving all the time. She could hear them, smell them, see them—one big, sensory blur. Her face felt tight—was she even smiling? She had no idea—couldn’t feel anything other than the hammer of her heart and the flush of burning red that still bloomed across her chest and neck. She tried to open her mouth to say hello, but the word stuck in her throat, died there.

All she could do was stand there—shoulders back, stomach in, chest out—with her glass clutched in her hand and her face stretched into what she hoped was a smile. All she could do was breathe deeply and wait for it to be over.

‘I haven’t seen Lady Vivienne yet—is she here?’

The Mexican Wave of those words washed over her every few minutes. If she heard it one more time she might actually throw herself overboard. That would be quite dramatic. Lucie ran a mental image as another crowd of people who, like her mother, probably couldn’t tell the difference between a turtle and a tortoise, came trundling onto the yacht, making too much noise.

Suddenly the Mexican Wave turned back on itself. Bodies seemed to wheel around and preen and pose and Lucie’s heart began to pound even more loudly.

Someone interesting was arriving. Someone very interesting.

Could it be...? Could it possibly be...? Had her mother actually dropped everything back home and got on a jet to get here? Maybe she had heard the hurt and felt some kind of empathy or love or even just motherly duty towards her. Was that possible?

She turned with the crowd and strained her head to see. Everybody was thronging towards the steps. It had to be her. Who else would get this level of interest in a crowd that was already chock-full of the so-called ‘it-list’?

Maybe she had been too harsh? Too quick to judge? She hadn’t really given her a proper chance to explain. She had said she would come for part of it—hadn’t she? And she had been the one to plan most of the party—who’d laid down all those rules. And they’d really, really made Lucie focus. She did like the fact that she could see past her stomach to her feet now. And it felt good—it really did—that she could tolerate the heat so much more easily and not worry about her thighs rubbing together when she walked.

Yes, she had her mother to thank for all that—and she would. That was her, wasn’t it? Coming aboard? Strange that she hadn’t come in on the helipad, but maybe she’d found a different way to get here. Maybe that was what she’d been about to say on the phone before she’d cut her off so abruptly.

Lucie finally found a space in the crowd and got ready to greet her. But...where was she? There was no sign of Lady Vivienne. No gleaming perfect smile or couture-perfect outfit. No. There, strolling towards her, was another version of perfection. The male version. Dark blond hair flopped over an eye, golden skin, bluest, truest gaze and the laziest, most indolent grin.

The idiot from the boat.

What on earth was everyone doing, staring at him? Lucie looked to her left and right. And what on earth was he doing here?

Suddenly her dry voice formed words and actually delivered them.

‘Who invited you?’

He was strolling towards her as if he could barely find the energy, but her words had an effect. Oh, yes.

He straightened and his shoulders went back—rigid just for a moment, but no mistaking it. Exactly the same way he’d looked on his boat earlier, when she’d had the temerity to question his intelligence. When he’d seemed made of steel and stone.

And then he slipped back into that easy, breezy, nothing-is-a-problem attitude.

‘Invited? You mean begged, don’t you?’

Lucie fumed. The big idiot was standing right in front of her now. On either side of him stood two pull-up banners—sea turtles swimming, with white lettering clearly displaying the name of her foundation: Caribbean Conservation Centre.

‘Not if you were the last man alive! This is for people who’re trying to do something to save endangered animals. You probably can’t even spell endangered!’

He looked at her, tucked one hand on his hip—and her eye slid there again! Despite herself. His perfect wide shoulders, broad, strong chest and narrow waist were all tucked up inside a soft blue shirt the colour of his eyes. Not that she particularly cared about his eyes. Or how arresting they were. Or how hard it was to look away.

‘Maybe you can find someone to play schools with later, Princess.’ He was looking down at her as if he had some other kind of game in mind. ‘But you don’t have a monopoly on helping save the planet. I’m sure my friends’ money is quite as good as everybody else’s.’

Lucie slid her eyes around to see the party he’d come with all disappearing into the crowd. She knew she should get over her disappointment towards her mother and her anger towards him and find someone out there who could run the auction. But his very presence riled her.

‘You have friends? How did you get them—kidnapping them? Throwing them onto your boat?’

‘Trust me, kidnapping you couldn’t be further from my mind.’

He slipped her a self-important smile, bared a flash of teeth between two proud dimples.

She could sense the crowd getting fuller, the time coming closer. Suddenly the realisation of where she was and who she was and what she was supposed to be doing overwhelmed her.

An anxious voice to her right told her there were only twenty minutes until the auction. Followed by yet another question about her mother. Followed by a third question about who exactly was going to announce the items if not Lady Vivienne... Were they to assume that Lady Lucinda would be doing it in her stead?

She hadn’t sorted anything out. She had buried her head, hoping the problem would just solve itself. That a miracle would happen. But it hadn’t.

The faces around her were all staring. People began to crush in. Her personal space was disappearing, and with it the air to breathe. And still he stood, right in front of her, with that dimpled smile plastered all over his face, that supercilious look dripping contempt.

‘Lady Lucinda...? We need to get started now. Will you...?’

She turned, and a sickening grey mist swept down over her vision. A hand moved, sweeping out to show her where she should proceed. Blindly she moved ahead, her eyes focused on the little podium that had been built up at the head of the ballroom.

To its left and right were the various objects and artefacts that had been gifted by her mother and her coterie of high society friends who had been persuaded to be part of this. A couture gown here...a handbag there... Jewellery, silk scarves, cosmetics and more. A week on someone’s island in the Indian Ocean...a fortnight at an English country house in the shooting season. A signed polo shirt and tickets to a match in Dubai...

Dazedly she realised that that was who he was—the polo player. The one her mother had practically passed out over when she’d heard he’d be coming. The one who was an ‘utter Lothario’.

But what did any of that matter now? Her mother wasn’t here and she was—and she had to step up, get on with this auction. She had to.

She stared again at the tables set up with all the goodies. She could list each and every one. She had typed them into the programme that she’d sent out, into the advertising copy she’d placed in various local and international publications—she knew every single thing and who had donated it.

But there was no way she would be able to say that. Say anything at all. Her voice was buried under a rock of anxiety.

There was nothing she could do—nothing she could do. The suffocating fear built, the tightness returned, and the terror of being right here, right now, became excruciating. She looked for one of the staff from the conservation centre. She scanned the room, but all she could see was the crushing crowd of people, hovering and staring. They were all around her, gawping as if she were some kind of crazy. Which she was.

She had to get out—had to get out or she’d pass out.

‘Hey, what’s going on?’

She could see jewel-bright colours, dresses,, jewellery, glasses... She could hear voices, feel the daggers of their derision.

‘Hey.’

A warm, strong hand wrapped around her arm. She jumped at the sudden contact and tried to jerk away, but the sickness was overwhelming.

‘Get your hands off me,’ she whispered.

‘Slow down, Princess. You trying to take someone’s eye out?’

Lucie slowed...stopped. He was right behind her, his hand still on her arm. Her skin, clammy now, felt the chill of the night breeze and the warmth of his touch. She reached out, tried to lay her hand on the railing—missed. She stepped forward, unseeing, stumbled...

‘Steady on. Stand still.’

She grasped the rail and stood staring down at the black sea. Her stomach still heaved, but the spinning had stopped and the whirling grey settled as the world became centred around a solid warm wall behind her, stabilising her. A large male body. He laid one hand beside hers on the rail and placed the other at her neck, weighted and heavy, and for once she didn’t flinch.

‘This is the last thing I want to be doing, but you look as if you’re about to pass out.’

She felt the warmth seep through her. Her freezing skin was suddenly soothed, enveloped and wrapped up in another human’s body. How many times had she been held like this? Ever? Never?

Could she remember a time when the touch of another had been accepted, never mind encouraged? No. She wasn’t the type. The Bonds did not hug each other—never mind strangers.

She pushed away from him—put her hands against the solidity and shoved hard as she could.

‘Get off me—go away.’ Her voice came out like a hiss.

He stepped back, hands up in mock surrender. Her eyes flashed to his face and she caught a look of surprise.

‘No problem.’

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the auction is about to begin. Can you please take your places in the salon?’

‘No problem at all—and believe me when I tell you this: there won’t be a third time.’

‘Can Lady Lucinda please make her way to the podium for the start of tonight’s charity auction? So many wonderful items for such a wonderful cause.’

The voice, like a call to the gates of hell, boomed out across the Tannoy.

‘I can’t...’ she breathed to the wind. ‘I simply can’t...’

He turned. The blue shirt, broad back, warmth and strength moved away, and she knew that there really was no way out.

‘Me either,’ he said, and he was stepping away, leaving her in the grip of the suffocating black velvet night and the sickening dread of the sea of upturned, staring faces.

‘Please...’ she said, reaching him, grabbing for his arm.

He turned immediately, glancing down at the hand that gripped his elbow.

‘What?’

She opened her mouth, looked over his shoulder.

The tinny voice boomed out again, calling people forward, making some kind of apology about her mother’s lack of appearance. Her fingers gripped his arm. Pressed into his flesh.

‘I’ve got to say, Princess, you’re sending out some very conflicting signals. So allow me to be clear...’

He put his hand over hers and slowly began to prise her fingers up.

The voice sounded again. Everyone was in position. She had to do this. She had to locate her breath, count in and out slowly, and then she’d be fine. She would be absolutely fine.

Her fingers, now free of his arm, hung in mid-air like a wizened claw.

‘I can’t go in there. I can’t be in front of all those people.’

He stepped back into her space, blotting out the view. ‘You can’t be in front of all those people? Hang on—is this your party? Are you Lady Lucinda?’

She clenched her eyes and nodded.

He looked behind him, as if expecting to see something horrifying, then turned back to face her. ‘What’s going on? Is this some kind of emotional blackmail?’

She could barely breathe now, the panic had gripped her so fiercely.

‘It’s the auction,’ she gasped.

‘You’re telling me that’s what’s got you like this? Is that what this is all about? Really? The auction?’

He was staring at her as if she was deranged. Which was exactly how she felt.

‘You might have thought of that before you organised it, then, wouldn’t you say?’

She nodded, swallowed, put her hand on her chest and tried hard to slow her furious heartbeat.

‘Just another example of your consideration for others? Impressive. Awesome. You really are something else, Princess.’

And he turned on his heel.

‘No—no, you can’t. Please!’ Lucie heard herself begging and saw herself reach out, grab his arm, pull him back. She really pulled him back.

He turned. Looked down at her, hands on hips.

‘Please? Please, what? What do you expect me to do? Help you? Are you serious? After the way you’ve acted?’

‘I can’t go in there.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper. ‘I simply can’t.’

She didn’t know herself what she expected him to do. All she knew was that for some reason his presence, his body—whatever it was—she felt warmed by it. And when she felt warm she was less likely to run away—or in this case swim away.

He turned to look at the room full of people. Restless people.

‘All these good people here are waiting patiently for you to go in there and start this off, aren’t they?’

Lucie nodded, held her head in her hands.

‘And you’re in no fit state to deliver. Are you?’

Her shoulders drooped as she shook her head. What an idiot she was. A gauche idiot with social anxiety as an extra talent.

Suddenly she felt her chin being lifted up.

‘Is it nerves? Is that it? You’re stressed out because your mother hasn’t turned up and suddenly the spotlight’s on you?’

She heard him murmur the words. Someone understood. Someone genuinely understood. How many times had she tried to explain to the people close to her that she simply couldn’t do the things they could? How many times had she heard the word ‘nonsense’ fired at her? And how many times had she seen her mother sweep past her, shaking her head and rolling her eyes, making her feel such an abject, worthless piece of garbage just because she wasn’t like her?

‘God only knows why I’d do anything other than get as far away from you as possible, but I don’t suppose it would kill me to help you out. And I can’t really stand back and watch you let all those people down...’

She stared up into that face. It was suddenly serious, the dimples subsumed into all that beautiful golden skin. His eyes were grave. And she felt again that strange sense of caring, of kindness, of being anchored.

Lucie nodded. She stood in the shelter of his warm, strong body and nodded.

He looked at her for a long second, then stepped away, shaking his head.

‘God only knows...’

She watched his back as he walked into the crowd, her breaths lengthening and her heart gradually steadying. Easy and lazy—no problem at all for him to go and stand before a crowd, all eyes trained on him.

Lucie’s gaze fixed on the breadth of his shoulders, the slight swing of his backside, so fabulously formed inside those trousers, the angle of each leg as he stepped so damn nonchalantly onto the podium, before the crowd of women who clearly thought exactly the same as she did closed over his path like waves of hungry harpies.

She might have solved one problem, but she had the feeling she had launched herself head-first into another.

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