by Dana Marton
She gave a resigned groan. “Figures.” She closed her eyes. “I can’t believe the food spoiled. The bag had been in the ocean, in cold water. That’s as good as a refrigerator, isn’t it? And everything was canned or shrink-wrapped. How could I get food poisoning from that?”
“Not food poisoning. Someone did this. On purpose.” And now she had a fever. He had to do something about that.
“But these men had no access to our food.” She opened her eyes and gave him a look of confusion.
“Not these men. The Freedom Council.”
She fell silent. Then, after a moment she said, “That can’t be. The food was prepared in the royal kitchen. No outsiders have access to it, do they?”
“They don’t.” The royal kitchen had top-notch security. And yet, it had somehow been infiltrated. “The Freedom Council thought, like I did, that the six princes would be coming to the island. They found a way to get to the food. The temptation was too much, I suppose.”
“You mean, like the cook, or someone on his team, betrayed you?”
“Or someone who had access to the food during transportation. Between the kitchen staff and those who have access to the kitchen and transport, at least two dozen people could have found a moment to tamper with the packages.” He remembered a discussion he’d had with his brothers a while back. “Benedek was right,” he said under his breath. Of course, his twin brother often was.
“About what?”
“When he was in the catacombs with Rayne after the attack on the opera house, he heard a group of rebels down there. And one of the voices was familiar to him. He couldn’t place it, but he swore that he’d heard that man speak before. He insisted that the enemy had someone inside the castle.” He paused to think over the implications. “I didn’t believe him.”
“And now?”
“We need to get off this island and warn my family. I’m going to catch this bastard.”
“Just be careful,” she said weakly.
He watched her for a moment. Then he picked up the gun that was sitting on the rock beside him and handed it to her. “Hang on to this. If Roberto comes by, shoot him the second you spot him.”
Her eyes went wide. “And you?”
“I’m going back to the creek.” He gathered up all their empty containers in the canvas bag. “I’ll be back as fast as I can.”
“Please don’t leave,” she pleaded, pulling up to a sitting position.
He hesitated only for a second. Her fever had to be dealt with. “If I hear a shot, I’ll come flying.” Then he strode into the woods before he could change his mind.
That the Freedom Council had found a way, yet again, to get to the royal family didn’t even surprise him anymore. They had money, which meant power. They were bound to find a way. He was a royal prince. He knew the risks. But Milda coming to harm…
Anger clenched his muscles tighter as he strode forward in the night. The need to stay quiet tempered his need for speed. The woods were considerably darker than the sparse area around their crevice, the branches above blocking out moonlight for the most part.
It didn’t take long before he lost his points of reference. He stopped to regain his bearings, and realized that the unfamiliar feeling that was tearing him apart was despair. Except that he didn’t despair. He was the easygoing prince.
But at some point Milda had become important to him. He cared more than he wanted to admit, about this pesky matchmaker—marital consultant, he corrected himself—holed up in a small crevice somewhere behind him, possibly dying.
Because of him.
And it was as if part of him was dying just thinking about that. Over the past couple of insane days, Milda Milas had come to mean something to him. She’d gained his trust and admiration, she’d become a friend—a sort of reluctant partner in survival.
It was a new experience for him, a relationship that he found he was desperate to keep. Even if the very word “relationship” scared him more than being stuck on the island with a cold-blooded killer who wanted to see him dead. Self-preservation dictated that he keep his thoughts on his enemy and on figuring out a way to defeat the man. But his mind wanted to dwell on Milda. As if somehow, in the middle of all the craziness, she had become the most important—
The thought stilled him. And in that moment of silence, he heard the distant call of the creek.
Ten minutes passed before he reached it. Then another forty minutes by the time he got back to Milda, careful again not to make too much noise, in case Roberto was out there hunting for them; careful, also, not to spill any water.
She was sitting with her back against the rock, the gun aimed at him as he stepped out of the bushes.
“It’s me.”
She lowered the weapon.
He noticed the small tremble in her arm. She looked weak, but she was still able to sit upright. That was something. “Feeling any better?” He searched her face.
She lay down on the folded-up tent, as if only nerves had kept her together while he’d been gone. “About the same.” Her slim fingers worried the colorful bracelet on her left wrist.
“What’s that made of, anyway?” he asked, to distract himself from how concerned he was about her.
“Love beads,” she said sheepishly.
He resisted rolling his eyes. The woman took the whole love thing too far. He simply said, “Interesting,” then lined up the water-filled champagne bottles and cans on the rock beside her. When he was done, he stepped back and used a sharp piece of metal that he’d scrapped when he’d put together his makeshift spear, and used it to slice off his other pant leg. His once elegant pants were now frayed shorts. “If Time magazine could see me now,” he muttered, with irony in his voice. They’d done a piece on him the year before, entitled: “Gentleman, Businessman, Prince.” His normally impeccable style merited five whole paragraphs. As opposed to the single sentence about his charities toward the end of the article, the reason why he’d agreed to the interview in the first place.
They’d simply used him to sell more copies. Out of a hundred people he met, ninety-nine wondered how he could be of use to them. Yet another way his title trapped him.
Milda was giving him a weak smile. “You’re beginning to look like a real castaway.” She watched as he dipped the cloth into the largest water can, the one that at one time had held some incredibly delicious Valtrian peaches. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to wash you off in some cool water. We need to bring down your fever.”
He washed her face first, carefully, feeling the heat radiating off her. She closed her eyes, but it took little imagination to conjure up her familiar, knowing, lively gaze. Nothing was lively about her now. He hated the listlessness that took possession of her.
“You’ll be fine. We’ll get off this island. I promise.”
She didn’t say anything in response.
He dunked the cloth into the can, then squeezed out the excess water. He washed her face again, then her neck, as far as her shirt allowed. Not too far. She wasn’t into plunging necklines.
He found now, to his surprise, that he liked that about her. She had an amazing body—he’d seen that every time her clothes got wet—but she didn’t feel the need to put her assets on display every minute of every day. That spoke of self-assurance and the kind of sense of security that the models and actresses he’d dated rarely possessed.
She was different from most women he knew; he’d known that from the beginning, when he had come on to her. Her response had definitely not been the usual, what he’d come to expect.
They’d been in his office. She was working through an endless list of questions about him—his personality, what attracted him, and so on. He was nothing but a client to her. She was completely unaware of him as a man. And she was dead set on putting an end to his freedom. Which had seriously annoyed him.
So he strode up to her to take a look at the notes she was writing in her little personal organizer thing, thinking that he
hadn’t seen a paper one of those in years. She clearly hadn’t yet moved into the twenty-first century. She’d worn a prim suit, her hair pulled away from her face. He’d leaned forward to see what she was writing.
And caught the scent of vanilla.
Nobody wore vanilla perfume. Absolutely nobody. Maybe young schoolgirls. He’d tried to discern what that told him about her, trying to pin down the enemy. But while he was thinking hard about his next move, that plain, faint vanilla scent had somehow gotten to him.
As did the soft strands of her hair, curled against her slim neck, hair that had clearly never seen artificial coloring. Her cheeks were not covered by foundation. And he’d marveled at her luminous skin.
The crook of her neck, the only bare spot exposed on her body, was inches from his lips. He wanted to kiss the heart-shaped mole there, even if he was certain that it was fake. She took the whole matchmaker/ambassador of love thing too far.
Not his type, some sane part of his mind had said.
But the rest of him hadn’t cared.
She’s going to be trouble. One last, reasonable thought surfaced.
But all he could think of was, Well, if she’s going to be trouble anyway…
And then he’d leaned forward and kissed her soft skin. The heart-shaped mole was real.
She’d jumped out of her chair and was on the other side of the table before he could blink. “Your Highness!”
“We could skip all the hard work and see if we might find a more pleasant way to pass the afternoon,” he’d suggested.
She had succeeded in thoroughly distracting him. He’d thought maybe he could turn the tables on her and distract her from marrying him off to some woman of her choosing.
Women frequently developed passionate and mostly unrequited attachments to him. If she did, maybe she wouldn’t push for some nightmare of a marriage with an “appropriate” lady. The idea had seemed brilliant. A lover who drew him for reasons he couldn’t explain, and a way to gain safety.
But she had expressed, in the most polite—not to mention firm—terms, that she could never, under any circumstances—
“That feels nice.” Her words cut off his memories.
Just as well. They were on the embarrassing side. He hadn’t experienced much rejection as a prince. After that incident, they were firmly on opposing sides. She’d made it clear that she would do anything to see him married. He was equally determined to avoid that fate. He couldn’t imagine coming home to the same person every night. Having to come home every night. Probably at the same time, or the wife would be upset that dinner had gotten cold, or that he left their guests waiting or whatever. Royal protocol already took up an inordinate amount of his time, time he would have rather spent on his cars and business.
Except, he’d barely thought about his cars and business since he’d been on the island with Milda. She had a way of filling out his time most interestingly, a way of invading his thoughts. And for some strange reason, he didn’t even mind it.
Desert Island Syndrome, he reminded himself, then moistened and squeezed the cloth again, and after folding it, placed it on her forehead, leaving it there this time.
They sat quietly for the next few minutes. Then he reached for the cloth to change it again. Her forehead hadn’t cooled enough. If anything, it was even hotter than before he’d started. His cure wasn’t working.
He glanced at the bottles and cans of water, then at her. “I’m going to have to remove your clothes.” He paused when her eyes went wide. “I’m sorry. It’s a medical necessity.”
“I bet you say that to all the women.” She smiled weakly, but sat and pulled off her shirt and pants herself.
Moonlight gilded a body that would have thoroughly seduced him under different circumstances.
He busied himself by pouring out all the water they had, save one bottle, and soaking their only blanket. “Here.” He lifted her up and wrapped her in the wet, soggy fabric.
In a minute, her teeth were chattering. “I’m freezing.”
“You can put your dry clothes back on as soon as your temperature comes down a little.” He hated that he could do nothing for her beyond this. Or maybe one more thing. He lifted the bottle to her lips. “Drink.”
“You’re very bossy,” she said before she did as he’d asked.
He shrugged. “Comes with the territory.”
“Along with an endless supply of beautiful women?” she asked when she was done drinking. “You must be going through withdrawal by now.”
He should be. He never lacked female company. But being on the island with Milda wasn’t altogether bad. He had a feeling that, under different circumstances, they might have enjoyed their two secluded weeks. There were a couple of Etruscan ruins he remembered from his childhood that he wouldn’t have minded showing her.
She tended to be amazed by anything older than a couple of hundred years—older than the U.S., her home country. She was forever admiring the palace and its artifacts. In fact, that had been one of the few things he’d been able to use now and then to successfully distract her from her matchmaking. Not nearly enough, but it had been something. He was grateful for even the smallest reprieve.
“You can catch up when we get back to the palace.”
A moment passed by the time he realized she was still talking about women.
“I’ve cut back lately, actually.”
She managed a weak snort.
But he was speaking the truth. He’d gone out less, and he kept his socializing to clubs and restaurants, going home afterwards. For the last couple of months, at least.
Maybe he was getting old.
Or maybe, with Milda trying to hook him up left and right with the most suitable women, he needed a break.
“Maybe I’m in a slump.” He’d heard others talk about that before, but back then he hadn’t fully understood what that meant.
Milda rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you’ll recover.”
He wasn’t worried. They would get off this island; her assignment would be up. She would stop pestering him with her matchmaking. His strange new attraction to her would no doubt clear up as well, once he was back at court among all those ladies. Their friendship, or whatever it was that had grown between them, would fizzle out. She’d go back home to her life and he’d go back to his. Things would return to normal.
He couldn’t wait.
Or could he?
SHE WOKE TO SUNSHINE and birdsong. Her fever was gone. She was freezing.
Milda kicked off the damp blanket, then grabbed her clothes. Lazlo slept sitting up, his back against the rock. He must have stayed up most of the night to watch over her.
She couldn’t forget how he had gently washed her face and neck over and over again, then carefully wrapped her in the blanket. It was a side of him she hadn’t seen before. She had a feeling he hadn’t seen it too often in the past, either. She had wanted him so badly to hold her. Had to be the fever, she’d told herself at the time.
His eyes popped open. His dark gaze immediately focused on her. “How are you?”
He looked all mussed and so incredibly handsome that it made her heart ache. Don’t fall for him, she warned herself, and had a feeling that this would become her new mantra for as long as they were trapped on this island together. “Cold.”
He pushed the damp blanket farther away and came to lie next to her, folding her into his arms. As always, he radiated heat. And she found herself molding her body against his. Her muscles relaxed, degree by degree, as she grew more comfortable.
Don’t fall for him.
“Stomach pains?”
“None so far. Do you think the worst is over?” Please, please, for love’s sake.
“Let’s hope. Make sure you keep hydrated.” He grabbed a water-filled champagne bottle.
She took it but didn’t drink at first. “What will we eat?”
Not that she could think of food at the moment, not yet, but she had to have nourishment eventually. God forb
id, Roberto found them and she was washed out and weak. She didn’t want to become a liability. She needed to get back up to speed so they could work like a team.
“The food from that pile.” He pointed. “I had some of it before, but you passed out.”
Caviar galore. She wrinkled her nose. “What about the food we both tasted?”
“I thought about that. But it’s possible that there was something that you ate more of than I did. Could be that my level of tolerance for whatever poison was used is higher. We should go with the safest option available.
And have more oranges and honey,” he added.
Mentioning the honey reminded her of his kiss. She couldn’t take her eyes off his face all of a sudden. They were snuggled together in the breathtaking Mediterranean morning, the sea murmuring in the distance, birds singing in the air. She was pressed against him intimately, as if they’d just woken up after a night of lovemaking.
He must have been thinking the same thing, because his eyes darkened with heat. No man had ever looked at her like that before. That look made her feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. He lowered his lips.
To her forehead.
Disappointment sang through her.
But it was for the best. Definitely. One of them had to keep a cool head, and on this morning it seemed that person would be him.
She was grateful.
Under no circumstances would she acknowledge that she was also a little disappointed.
HE FOUND THEM.
Roberto lay among the rocks halfway up the hill side, looking down. He saw some scattered cans and a blanket a hundred meters or so below him. This had to be their hideout.
A difficult spot to approach unseen. They were protected by the boulders. And since Marco hadn’t come back last night, he had to assume that they had gotten to him and now had his weapon. He wasn’t too upset over Marco. The man had been way too hotheaded. He might have gotten rid of the idiot himself before he left the island. He couldn’t afford Marco messing up once they reached the mainland. His big mouth had been the reason they’d been caught and ended up in jail in the first place. And he never did listen.