The Mediterranean Prince’s Captive Virgin

But she’d never met anyone like Nico Magnati before.

Ringing Giselle and talking the situation through would help, but, although she craved a dose of her sister’s astringent pragmatism, she didn’t. Somehow, for the first time ever, she couldn’t share this with Giselle.

But she’d have to ring her in case she was worrying.

She straightened and dried her face, noticing that her sponge bag had been put onto the vanity. By the prince?

The thought of him walking through the room as she lay sleeping made her feel acutely vulnerable.

No, she thought logically, he’d have sent a servant in—she hoped it had been a maid, not the silent manservant.

Despising herself for dithering, she eyed her few clothes. Just as well the prince had told her to wear what she liked, because her wardrobe was basic. In the end she chose a simple silk shift the same tawny hue as her hair, and sandals that made the most of her long legs.

A knock caught her by surprise as she applied lipstick. After composing her face into a pleasant, noncommittal mask, she opened the door.

Nico smiled, his gaze skimming her with appreciation that held nothing of the raw passion she’d seen before. ‘Very fitting,’ he approved, and offered his arm. ‘I hope you won’t be bored staying here. Do you like opera?’

‘It depends,’ she said inadequately, laying her fingers gingerly on his arm. Trying to ignore the tension that sprang into life inside her, she wondered if he planned to take her to the theatre. Surely not?

She went on, ‘If it’s something modern and atonal, no. Why?’

‘I am trying to find out something of your tastes,’ he said gravely.

‘I like the classics,’ she said, still acutely suspicious. ‘And most other music. But you don’t have to entertain me.’

He led her into a drawing-room. ‘Champagne, I think,’ he said, and poured two glasses.

Leola glanced around the room, hoping she wasn’t being too obvious in her appraisal. It was much safer than watching her companion, dressed in casual clothes that had clearly been tailored especially for his broad shoulders and narrow hips and those long, heavily muscled legs.

Think furniture, she told herself sternly. This is probably the only time in your life you’re going to visit a prince’s house.

It was decorated in the same style as her bedroom—modern luxury spiced by pieces that could only have come from Illyria, like the painting of a prince in elaborate sixteenth-century armour. Mounted on a prancing charger, he was posed in front of a large, grim castle.

Leola examined him, then sneaked another glance at his descendant. Yes, there was a definite resemblance, although Nico’s cold grey eyes had come from somewhere else in his gene pool.

Of course he caught her, that black brow climbing as she hastily gestured at the picture. ‘An ancestor?’ she asked.

‘Alexander the Fourth, noted for his ferocity in battle and his astuteness. He fell in love with the daughter of the ruling prince of Illyria, but she was promised to a son of the King of France. He kidnapped her.’

Leola accepted the glass he held out, and concentrated hard on setting it down on a small table. ‘So it runs in the family. I hope she made his life hell,’ she said pleasantly.

His smile was swift and appreciative, and did very strange things to her insides.

‘She did,’ he said, ‘but as she was in love with him too they worked it out. Mind you, he had to give up quite a lot to appease her father. Until then the Lords of the Sea Isles had been more or less independent, although ostensibly they owed fealty to the ruler of Illyria. Alexander had to cede most of his rights to the Prince of Illyria.’

‘He must really have loved her,’ she said, surprised.

‘Of course he did. We Magnati are noted for our very successful marriages.’ He raised his glass and finished with an irony that suggested he didn’t mean what he was saying, ‘To love.’

‘To successful marriages.’ She sipped the most superb champagne she’d ever tasted.

‘You don’t believe in love?’

‘I believe in it,’ she said coolly. ‘I just don’t think it’s necessarily the most important thing in a good marriage.’

‘So what is the most necessary quality to achieve that?’ he probed.

She shrugged, uncomfortable yet not backing down. ‘Shared values, I suppose. And respect—trust. Pleasure in each other’s company that’s not solely based on physical appetite.’ Heat stung her skin. She went to take another sip of champagne, but decided it wouldn’t be politic. She didn’t know how much sedative was still swirling around her bloodstream.

‘Interesting,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘if perhaps a little prosaic. Are you warning me off?’

If he could be direct, so could she. She lifted her head and gave him a straight look. ‘I’m not in the market for any sort of affair.’

His mouth hardened. ‘Good, because neither am I. However, to make this work we need to look as though we are very much in lust.’

‘I told you before, I’m no actress,’ she warned.

He set his glass down before coming across to her. ‘I don’t think you’ll need to act,’ he said evenly, and slid his hands around her throat in a gesture that should have been threatening.

Unable to move, to breathe, she stared at him, her gaze darkening when his fingertips swept across the pulse that fluttered in the vulnerable hollow at the base of her throat. The tiny caress summoned a languorous desire, fiery yet honey-sweet, that licked through her body in a slow, feverish tide.

Deep in his eyes she saw the crystalline ice heat, so that they became burnished and opaque, almost impersonal in their unwavering focus.