The Mediterranean Prince's Passion

Never had the thought of washing seemed more alluring, though the sight that greeted her behind the curtain was not terribly reassuring. There was a sink, a loo, and the most ancient-looking shower that Ella had ever seen. It didn’t gush, it trickled, but at least it was halfway warm and there was soap and shampoo, too—surprisingly luxurious brands for such a spartan setting.

Basic it might have been, but Ella had never enjoyed or appreciated a shower more than that one. She washed all the salt and sand away from her skin and hair, and roughly towelled herself dry, then slithered into the clean T-shirt that fortunately—because its owner was so tall—came to mid-way down her thigh. It wasn’t what she would call decent, but it was better than nothing.

He was standing by the small table, dishing out two plates of something she didn’t recognise, the scent of which made her empty stomach ache. He had left the door open and Ella discovered why the sound of the waves was so loud. It looked directly out onto the most glorious sea view she had ever seen in her life.

Pale, powdered sand dotted with shells gave way to white-topped sapphire waves that glittered and sparkled and danced and filled the room with light. But the room seemed suddenly to have kaleidoscoped in on itself, for all Ella could see was the dark power of the man who was silhouetted against the brilliant backdrop outside.

Now that she was on her feet she didn’t need the T-shirt as an indicator of just how tall he was. She could see that instantly from the way he towered, dominating the small room, making everything else shrink into insignificance. His hair was dark and ruffled, tiny tendrils of it curling onto the back of his neck. She felt an odd, powerful kick to her heart as he looked up and slowly drifted his eyes over her.

‘My T-shirt suits you,’ he mused softly.

It was an innocent enough remark, but something in the way he said it, and the accompanying look of approbation in his eyes, made her feel all woman. She could feel her breasts tingling, and the soft, moist ache of longing. It was a powerful and primitive response, and it had never happened to her quite like that before.

Filled with a sudden feeling of claustrophobia, and unsure of how to deal with the situation, she walked to the open door and breathed in the fresh, salty tang of the air, staring at the moving water in silence for a moment.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ came his voice from behind her.

Composing her face into an expression of innocent appreciation, Ella turned round. ‘Unbelievable.’ And so was he. Oh, he was just gorgeous. ‘That…that smells good,’ she managed, in an effort to distract herself.

‘Mmm.’ He had seen the perking breasts and the brief darkening of her eyes and he felt himself harden. ‘Come and eat,’ he said evenly. ‘We could take our food outside, but I think you need a break from the sun. So we’ll just look at the view from here.’

But Ella didn’t move. ‘You said you would give me some answers, and I’d like some. Now. Please.’

Nico gave a slow smile. The novel always stirred his blood, and it was rare for him to be spoken to with anything other than deference. ‘Questions can wait, cara, but your hunger cannot.’

His words were soft, but a steely purposefulness underpinned them. As if he were used to issuing orders; as if he would not tolerate those orders being disobeyed. The scent of the food wafted towards her and Ella felt her mouth begin to water. Maybe he was right. Again.

She went back inside and sat down at the table.

‘Eat,’ he said, pushing a plate of food towards her, but it seemed the command was unnecessary. She had begun to devour the dish, falling on it with the fervour of the truly hungry.

He watched her in fascinated silence, for this, too, was a new sensation. In his company people always picked uninterestedly at their food. There were unspoken rules that were always followed. They waited for him to begin and they finished when he finished. It was all part of the protocol that surrounded him—and yet for all the notice she took of him he might as well not have been there!

She ate without speaking, unable to remember ever having enjoyed a meal as much. Eventually she put her fork down and sighed.

‘It’s good?’

‘It’s delicious.’

‘Hunger makes the best sauce,’ he observed slowly.

There was red wine in front of her, and he gestured towards it, but she shook her head and drank some water instead, then sat back in her chair and fixed him with a steady look. His eyes were as black as a moonless night and they lanced through her with their ebony light.

‘Now are you going to start explaining?’

Nico found that he was enjoying himself. He had played the rescuer—so let him have a little amusement in return. ‘Tell me what you wish to know.’

‘Well, for a start—who are you? I don’t even know your name, Mr…?’

There was a pause while he considered the question. It seemed sincere enough, although the Mr tacked onto the end could have been disingenuous, of course. Was it?

‘It is Nico,’ he said eventually. From behind the thick dark lashes that shielded his eyes he watched her reaction carefully, but there was no sign of recognition in her emerald eyes. ‘And you?’

‘I’m Ella.’

Ella. Yes. ‘It’s a pretty name.’

‘It’s short for Gabriella.’

‘Like the angel,’ he murmured, letting his eyes drift carelessly over the pale flames of her hair.

It was that thing in his voice again—that murmured caress that made her conscious of herself as a woman. And him as a man. A man who had seen her sick and half-naked. But he was the angel—a guardian angel.

‘Where am I?’ she asked slowly.

Now his expression became sceptical. ‘You really don’t know?’

She sighed. ‘How long are we going to continue with these guessing games? Of course I don’t know. One minute I was on a boat—and the next I’m in some kind of beach hut, eating…’ She stared down at her empty plate. Even the food had been unfamiliar, just as he was, with his strange accent and his exotic looks. Disorientated, she found herself asking, ‘What have I just eaten?’

‘Rabbit.’

‘Rabbit,’ she repeated dully. She had never eaten rabbit in her life!

‘They run wild in the hillsides,’ he elaborated, and then, still watching her very closely, he said, ‘Of Mardivino.’

‘Mardivino?’ She stared at him as it began to sink in. ‘Is that where we are?’

‘Indeed it is.’ He sipped from a tumbler of dark wine and surveyed her from eyes equally dark. ‘You have heard of it?’

It was one of the less-famous principalities. A sun-drenched Mediterranean island—tax haven and home to many of the world’s millionaires. Exclusive and remote and very, very beautiful.

‘I’m not a complete slouch at geography,’ she said. ‘Of course I’ve heard of it.’

Authority reasserted itself. ‘You were in forbidden waters. You should never have ventured onto this side of the island!’

She remembered Mark and one of the others blustering about navigation, and then they had started hitting the bottle, big-time. She remembered how frightened she had been, how she had stood on deck for what seemed like hours and hours, the blistering sun beating down on her quite mercilessly. She shivered. ‘But we were lost,’ she protested. ‘Genuinely lost!’

‘Yes.’ He didn’t disbelieve her. Off Mardivino’s rugged northern coast there were rocks and rip tides that would challenge all but the most experienced sailor. No one would have been foolish enough to deliberately put themselves in the danger in which he had found them. So why had they?

His eyes bored into her. ‘Those people with you…’

‘What about them?’

There was a long pause. ‘One of them is a journalist, perhaps?’ he questioned casually.

‘A journalist?’ She screwed up her nose. ‘Well, I don’t know any of them that well, but none of them said they were journalists.’ She met his eyes, which were hard and glittering with suspicion. ‘Why would they be?’

‘No reason,’ he said swiftly.