The Argentinian's Virgin Conquest

‘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 (#u7b5f2591-93c5-51a0-a993-f73bb767fdcc)

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 (#u7b5f2591-93c5-51a0-a993-f73bb767fdcc)

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.