Captive At Her Enemy's Command

He sent her a quelling look and she knew she wasn’t going to win this argument either. “How did it happen?” he asked.

“The battle for my pack got a little out of hand.”

Temper flashed in his eyes, disconcerting her, because it didn’t appear to be aimed at her. For once. “How many of them were there?”

“Two, but they were just teenagers. I don’t think they meant to hurt me.”

“So what? They did,” he said. “I want a description. I’ll file a report with the local cops and brief my team on Capri. Those little bastards need to be caught and punished.”

There he went, assuming she was going to Capri with him again... But her objections remained locked in her throat, beaten into submission by the low fury in his tone and the news he was going to get his men to help find her muggers. The wobbly sensation it caused in her tummy had to be exhaustion.

She didn’t want an avenging angel any more than she wanted a white knight. And especially not one like Jared Caine whose control-freak tendencies were only slightly less disturbing than his ability to make her insides vibrate as if she were plugged into an electric socket.

He shifted into gear and pulled back onto the road. The sun was setting, adding a vivid glow to the stunning landscape as they approached Sorrento. Colorful terracotta houses perched precariously over the vivid blue of the Mediterranean, punctuated by orange groves and trellises of grape vines. A train decorated with colorful graffiti rattled past on the hillside above them.

After calling his PA to arrange a doctor to meet them at the port, and coaxing a surprisingly detailed description of Pinky and Perky out of Katie, Caine contacted the local police force on speaker phone to report the crime. She let her mind drift as she listened to him talk to the dispatcher in Italian, the lyrical language making his deep voice sound even more compelling. She’d only been in Italy a month, and her Italian was still patchy, but his accent sounded perfect. Why was she not surprised? Was there nothing the man didn’t excel at?

The dying sunlight cast the angles of Caine’s face into sharp relief. No wonder she’d had such a crush on him as a nineteen-year-old—the man was scarily gorgeous with a confidence most women would find irresistible. But not her, she told herself, determined to believe it.

He finished the call as they entered the city’s narrow streets, and she forced herself to make one last-ditch attempt to salvage her pride and self-respect, not to mention her sanity. Because four days on Capri with him was liable to threaten all three.

“Are you sure you don’t want to just lend me some money and let me stay here?” she asked. “I really don’t need a keeper. Whatever Dario thinks.”

He took his sunglasses off as the twilight descended and sent her a level look. “Not gonna happen, so give it up,” he said with a determination that dashed her last hope. “And, just for the record, Dario’s not the only one who thinks you need a keeper.”

She huffed out a breath. She should have been upset by the high-handed comment. But she was now officially too tired and too miserable to care. Her head was throbbing, her feet hurt and her nose was beginning to sting from what felt like third-degree sunburn. And then there was the blasted hum to consider, which was making her giddy.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a bully?” she muttered.

“Frequently,” he said, then a strange thing happened. The sensual line of his lips lifted on one side drawing her attention to the scar on his top lip. She might have missed the movement, because it was there one second and gone the next. But even that tiny flicker—the infinitesimal crack in the controlled facade—had a devastating effect on her equilibrium as the hum plunged.

Her face heated, the atmosphere suddenly too close, too intimate, despite the salty breeze as they took the road down to Marina Grande.

Lights glittered on the cliff top as Sorrento woke up for the night, the Palladian splendor of the Hotel Excelsior Vittoria beaming down on the harbor like a reigning queen. But the view wasn’t anywhere near as breathtaking as the barest hint of a smile on Jared Caine’s lips.

Had she ever seen him smile before? She couldn’t have. Because that crooked half-smile—rare and rusty—was a secret weapon in the man’s arsenal she had been unaware of. As if he didn’t already have enough weapons at his disposable.

“Just so you know, I make a terrible house guest,” she added, not happy that he’d managed to get the upper hand so easily. “I always leave the top off the toothpaste and I never put anything away. You’re going to hate having me there.”

“Our villa has two bathrooms,” he replied as he took a left past the main port at the bottom of the cliff road. “And staff to clean up after you. I’ll manage.”

Our villa? So they were going to be sharing a villa.

The hum became a deep primal buzz.

They drove past the concrete dock where passengers were boarding the evening ferry to Ischia. He slowed the car to a crawl to inch past a couple of waterfront restaurants already filled with tourists watching the last of the sunset. The pungent scent of raw fish and garlic wafted past as they approached rows of fishing boats, leisure dinghies and small yachts bobbing on the water. The car edged to a stop at the very end of the waterfront where a private dock protruded out into the bay. A huge motor launch stood at the end of the floating wooden platform, the stainless-steel stanchions gleaming red in the fading sunlight.

He braked and got out of the car. Reaching into the back, he lifted out her art box and hefted it under his arm. The sunset shone on his onyx hair as he came round to open her door. “How are the feet?” he asked. “Do you need me to carry you on board?”

“No. My feet are fine.” Give or take a million and one blisters.

She stepped out of the car, struggling not to flinch as her tortured soles connected with the worn wood of the dock. But she’d rather walk across hot coals than give him another excuse to scoop her up again. Being in such close proximity to that broad, heavily muscled chest and his disconcertingly delicious scent would increase the disturbing buzz.

She took her time making her way toward the boat, far too aware of his powerful presence beside her, waiting to step in again if she stumbled. She couldn’t help the sigh of relief, though, when she was able to lean on the guardrail of the gangplank.

A young man, wearing a peaked cap greeted them on deck and took her art box from Jared, after introducing himself as Matteo, the launch’s pilot. He had a brief conversation with Jared. From her smattering of Italian, she gathered Dr. Chialini would be arriving shortly, but was based in Sorrento so couldn’t travel with them to Capri.

Jared seemed to want to argue the point.

“It’s okay. I really don’t need a doctor anyway,” she interrupted in English. But as both men swung toward her she made the mistake of letting go of the guardrail.

The boat swayed slightly and her knees gave way as blood rushed to her aching head with startling speed.

Hard hands grasped her upper arms, catching her before she could hit the deck.

A rough, urgent curse beckoned her back from toppling into the abyss.

She locked her knees as Caine’s fingers pressed into her biceps.

“Why didn’t you say you were feeling faint?”

“I’m just tired,” she said, but the earthquake which had started in her legs was still sending aftershocks through her body.

“You’re shaking,” he said, his tone raw. The rough calluses on his palm sent ripples of sensation sizzling across her skin. Then suddenly she was weightless.

Her breath got trapped in her lungs as she ingested a lungful of his scent, the subtle hint of salt, soap and man. She was too close to him.

Close enough to detect the scar again which had once fascinated her through the shadow of stubble. Close enough to see the silver shards in the cool blue of his irises.

Her heartbeat slammed into her throat.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice sounding far away. “I told you, I can walk.”

He glanced at her, the muscle in his cheek flexing. “Shut up, Katherine.”

She wanted to insist he put her down, but she couldn’t find the strength to do anything, her limbs so numb she felt as if they weren’t her own. He crossed the deck in a few strides, then took the steps down into a cabin with her held securely in his arms. The flex of his biceps felt hard against her back, the wall of his chest solid against her cheek. Her pulse jumped and jived.

The luxury interior was furnished with deep leather couches built into the hull. Large portholes afforded a view of the edge of the dock and the sea beyond, the full moon lifting over the horizon as the last of the sun fled.

Caine deposited her on the couch. “Do you feel nauseous?”

“No, I’m okay, really.”

Before they could argue the point, the good Dr. Chialini appeared. Caine hovered throughout the examination, firing off questions to the doctor in Italian as the poor woman tried to do her job. Katie held her tongue and did as she was told. If he got his caveman act out of his system, maybe he’d back off.

After declaring Katie concussion-free, and giving her a dose of painkillers for her headache, the doctor cleaned Katie’s feet. She found only a few small cuts and abrasions, which she dabbed with antiseptic cream and covered with plasters.

“Keep the cuts clean, and wear soft shoes or go barefoot if they are too sore,” she said in her perfect English as she packed her black case.