The Argentinian's Virgin Conquest

by Bella Frances

  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 v
ery 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.