The Sicilian Duke's Demand

His voice was deep and husky. ‘And I walk upright, too. But sirens didn’t wear lime-green bikinis in Odysseus’s time, I believe.’ His appreciative eyes were roaming over her body, exactly the way he must have assessed the wreck. Her bikini was indeed lime-green, and none too big. She had not been expecting company so early in the morning. The skin of her breasts had tightened with the adrenaline coursing through her system and her nipples were making rigid exclamation points against the wet Lycra. She shook her long auburn hair forward, hoping it would provide some sort of curtain of modesty.

‘Give it to me,’ she panted, holding out her hand—which, she could not help but notice, was about half the size of his.

His deep blue eyes were mocking. ‘They say, ‘‘Finders, keepers’’.’

‘The police don’t say that,’ she snapped. ‘You have ten seconds to give it to me!’

Eyes dancing, he slowly opened his brown fingers. Isobel gasped. Gleaming in the broad palm of his hand was a heavy gold coin. It was ancient beyond a doubt. She could see—appropriately—the bearded head of a god gleaming on the heavy yellow disc.

She snatched at it but he was far too quick. His fingers closed around it and his smile mocked her. She grabbed his fist in both of her hands and tried to prise his fingers open.

‘You have no right to this,’ she panted.

‘Why not? I found it.’

‘This is an archaeological site. Stealing from an excavation is a very serious offence.’

He shook his head like a wet lion, spraying her with water from his hair and beard. ‘How serious?’

Her efforts to pry his fingers off the coin were in vain. Furious, she was about to bite those stubborn knuckles until it occurred to her she might catch something unsavoury from this villain.

‘Very serious. Besides which, it’s robbing the world of an incalculable piece of history.’

‘Incalculable?’ he echoed. ‘So it’s valuable?’

She glared into those taunting blue eyes. ‘You might get the price of a bottle of wine for it. Is that worth destroying an important part of the historical record for ever?’

‘A bottle of wine,’ he mused. ‘Against the, what was it again, the ‘‘historical record’’? Hmm. I have never been too impressed by clichés, bella signorina. I think I’ll take the bottle of wine.’

‘Damn you,’ she said angrily, frantic to see the coin again. She wasn’t the expert on numismatics on the team, but it was clearly the finest coin that had yet appeared on the site. ‘Give it to me!’

‘No.’

‘You thief!’ This time she threw caution to the winds. She pulled his unyielding fist to her mouth and sank her sharp white teeth into his knuckles.

Maddeningly, he just kept laughing at her. ‘Are you going to eat me alive? To preserve the historical record?’

She thought she could taste blood on her tongue. She spat. His pectoral plates were hard and strong, with dark nipples that were as rigid as hers, and crisp black hair making a triangle at the base of his thick throat. His arms were heavy with muscle. She was never going to get the coin away from him by force. He was much too strong. ‘I’ll buy it from you,’ she said desperately.

One dark eyebrow quirked in amusement. ‘I don’t think you could fit even the price of a bottle of wine in your lime-green bikini, siren lady. What do you intend to pay with?’

‘Give me the coin and I’ll bring back cash,’ she temporised.

‘The only thing you’ll bring back is a squad of carabinieri.’ He grinned. ‘Handcuffs don’t suit me. Think of something else.’

‘You’ll have to trust me,’ she said, glaring at her tormentor with furious jade-coloured eyes.

‘Sicilians say, never trust a woman with red hair and green eyes,’ he replied, as though imparting some important life lesson.

Having her hair called red was adding insult to injury. ‘Don’t you understand, you savage?’ she snapped. ‘That coin doesn’t belong to you or to me! It’s part of the national heritage. The world’s heritage. You’re not just stealing a lump of gold—you’re stealing a piece of our knowledge, our understanding of our past!’

‘Brava,’ he purred. ‘Is the lecture over?’ He was unimpressed by her passionate words, a primitive brute—a beautiful primitive brute—who was enjoying the situation to the full.

‘All right,’ she spat at him, her temper snapping, ‘take it, if that’s what you want. But at least let me see the markings on the coin—so I can make a note in the site log.’

‘I can tell you what’s on the coin,’ he replied. ‘Some old goat with a beard on one side, and a fork on the other.’

‘A fork?’

He made a jabbing motion with one arm, his biceps swelling as he did so. Her eye was caught by the octopus tattoo again, swirling tentacles etched against the tanned skin. ‘A spike with three points, like we use for spearing fish.’

‘A trident?’

‘Exactly, a trident.’

Poseidon, god of the sea, with his insignia. A gold Poseidon from Syracuse. Isobel bit her lip with even, pearly teeth. Not just a precious and beautiful coin, but important evidence. Vital evidence. ‘Listen to me,’ she said, trying to control her anger and dislike of this big ruffian who sat there mocking her every word. She spoke reasonably and slowly, as though to a child. ‘I’m going to try and explain this to you.’

‘Thank you, lady,’ he said gravely.

‘There’s a wreck down there. A very old wreck. An ancient Greek ship, called a galley. From a place called Corinth. We think it went down in a storm somewhere around three hundred BC. That’s over two thousand three hundred years ago,’ she added helpfully. He nodded, blue eyes filled with amusement. She pressed on. ‘That coin may be the key to the whole excavation. For one thing, it will give us a date. The coin can be dated to within a few years. And we’ll know that the wreck couldn’t have taken place before that date. You see?’

‘I see.’

‘For another thing, it shows us that the ship had already been to Sicily—and was on its way back. These galleys traded between Greece and the islands,’ she explained, her eyes searching his face for some sign of comprehension. ‘The presence of a gold coin from Syracuse on board means we can say that they had already visited Sicily and sold their cargo. So now we know that the cargo down there is Sicilian, not Greek—it was going back to Corinth to be sold there. You understand?’

‘I understand.’

‘But I can’t prove any of this unless I have that coin. It’s not enough for me to say I just saw a Syracusan coin in the wreck. I need to have it to prove—’

‘I’ll sell it to you for a kiss.’

Isobel’s sermon froze in her throat. ‘What?’

‘If this is so important to you, that’s a very small price to pay.’ His perfect white teeth flashed in a grin. ‘Sicilians also say that no woman can kiss like a woman with red hair and green eyes.’

‘My hair is not red!’

‘Do you want the coin or not?’

‘I—’

He reached out and brushed the heavy, wet ropes of hair away from her cheek. The same hand, surprisingly gentle for all its strength, then slid round to cup the back of her neck and drew her face forward to his.

To her eternal shame, she did not start struggling until after his warm, velvety mouth closed on hers.

And by then she was wrapped in the irresistible power of those muscular arms, which held her close and drew her tight against his naked chest. And the warm hand that held the back of her neck made it impossible for her to turn her mouth away while he kissed her…

And kissed her…