The Mediterranean Prince's Passion (The Royal House 0f Cacciatore Book 1)

by Sharon Kendrick

  He stilled at her words, a bemused expression on his lean and handsome face. How long had it been since someone had issued such a curt order? ‘What is it?’

  ‘How long have I been here?’ she questioned faintly.

  ‘Only a day.’

  Only a day? Only a day! She shook her head again to clear it, and strands of memory began to filter back. A boat. A boat trip taken with a bunch of people who, it had turned out, knew nothing of basic maritime law or safety. Who had proceeded to drink themselves into oblivion. And a man who had invited her—who had clearly thought that a woman should pay the traditional price for a luxury weekend.

  She screwed up her nose. What had his name been?

  Mark! Yes, that was it. Mark.

  Her eyes now accustomed to the dim light within the interior of the room, Ella turned her head slowly to look around.

  ‘Where’s Mark? What’s happened to him?’

  Nico’s mouth hardened. Had ‘Mark’ been on her mind when she had pressed her body so close to his? Or was she the kind of woman who was naturally free with her body?

  ‘By now—’ he glanced at his watch ‘—he will just about be released from jail.’

  ‘Jail!’ She stared at him in confusion. ‘How come?’

  ‘Because I informed the local police of their trespass,’ he informed her coolly.

  ‘You’ve had him put in jail?’

  ‘Not him,’ he corrected. ‘Them. All of them.’

  Ella swallowed, suddenly fearful. Just where was she? And who the hell was he? ‘Isn’t that a bit over the top?’

  ‘You think so?’ His voice became filled with contempt. ‘Putting the trespass aside—you think it acceptable for people to be drunk in charge of a powerful boat? To put not only their own lives in danger, but those of others? And that includes you! What do you think might have happened if I hadn’t come along?’

  Something in the stark accusation of his words made her feel very small and very vulnerable. ‘L-look, I’m very grateful for everything you’ve done,’ she said, in a low trembling voice, ‘but would you mind telling me exactly what’s going on? I don’t—’

  He silenced her with an autocratic wave of his hand. ‘No more questions. Not now. Later you will ask me whatever you please and I shall answer it, but first you must eat. You have been sick. You are weak and you are hungry and you need food. You will have your answers, but later.’

  Ella opened her mouth to object, and then shut it again, realising that she was in no position to do so. And even if she had been she simply did not have the strength. He was right—she felt all weak and woolly with the aftermath of fever.

  Yet surely she wasn’t expected to just lie here, helpless beneath the cover, while this handsome, dominant stranger told her what she could and couldn’t do? But what was the alternative? Did she just leap out of bed, feeling strangely naked despite his T-shirt?

  He turned his head to look at her and saw the fleeting look of vulnerability that had melted away her objections. Only this time he had to force himself to respond to it. Before it had been easy. While she had been sick he had been able to be gentle with her, as he would have with a child. But now that she was awake it was different. And suddenly not so easy. For she was a beautiful, breathing woman and not a child.

  Almost without thinking Nico rebuilt the familiar emotional barriers with which he habitually surrounded himself.

  ‘You wish to wash, perhaps?’

  ‘Please.’ But she noticed that his voice had grown cool.

  He pointed to a curtain at the far end of the simple room. ‘You’ll find some basic facilities through there,’ he said. He pulled a fresh T-shirt down from an open shelf and threw it onto the divan.

  ‘You might want that,’ he said. ‘All your stuff is still on the boat and your bikini is hanging outside. I washed it,’ he explained, amused to see her look of barely concealed horror. Was she afraid he was expecting her to change in front of him? Then clearly she had no memory of how her T-shirt had slithered up her naked thighs as she had thrashed around. Of how he had played the gentleman and slithered it right down again. ‘Don’t be shy—I’ll be outside.’

  Don’t be shy! Ella watched him disappearing through the door, caught a dazzling glimpse of blue as it opened, and heard the hypnotic pounding music of the waves.

  She was obviously in some kind of beach hut—but where exactly?

  She stared at the closed door and half thought of running after him, and demanding some answers. But she was too weak to run anywhere, and she was also naked, sticky and dusty. Surely she would be better placed to ask for explanations once she was dressed?

  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.

  But Ella heard the evasion in his voice and stared at him. Nothing added up. She stared at him as if seeing him properly for the first time. His clothes were simple, but his bearing was aristocratic, and there was something about his appearance that she had never seen in a man before. Something in the way he carried himself—an arrogant kind of self-assurance that seemed innate rather than learned. Yet he wore faded jeans and a worn T-shirt…

  He had brought her to this beach hut, where the shower dripped in a single trickle and yet the soap and shampoo were the finest French brands. She frowned. And he had called her cara, hadn’t he?

  ‘Are you Italian?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Spanish?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘French, then?’

  He smiled. ‘Still no.’

  Words he had spoken came back to her. ‘Yet you speak all three languages?’

  He shrugged. How much to tell her? How long to continue this delicious game of anonymity? How long could he? ‘Indeed I do.’

  ‘And your English is perfect.’

  ‘I know it is,’ he agreed mockingly.

  This time she would not be deterred by the soft, seductive voice. Ella leaned across the table, challenging him with her eyes. ‘Just who exactly are you, Nico?’

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE strangest thing was that Nico was really enjoying himself. It was like a game, or a story—the one where a prince disguised himself as a beggar and no one recognised him.

  For a man whose life had been composed of both light and dark fairy tale aspects, it was a new and entertaining twist. And if he told her…then what? Nothing would be the same, not ever again. Her attitude towards him would change irrevocably. No longer would she speak to him as if were just a man—an ordinary man.

  When he was a little boy, had he not sometimes wished to be made ‘normal’, just for the day? And even when he had been at college in America, doing his best to blend in, people had still known of his identity. It had been inevitable—security had arrived before he had, to make the place fit for a prince.

  And since when had he been asked to make an account of himself? To explain who he was and his place in the world?

  Never.

  He leaned back in the wooden chair. ‘How does a man define himself?’ He asked the question as much of himself as of her. ‘Through his possessions? His achievements, perhaps?’

  Ella gave him a bemused look. ‘Are you incapable of giving a direct answer to a direct question?’

  Probably. In the world he inhabited he was never asked a direct question. Conversation was left for him to lead, at whim. It was forbidden by ancient decrees for others to initiate it. When he spoke people listened. He had never known anything else, had accepted it as the norm, but now—with a tug of unfamiliar awareness—he recognised that total deference could be limiting.

  ‘I am Nico,’ he said slowly. ‘You know my name. I’m twenty-eight and I was born on Mardivino—a true native of the principality.’ His eyes glittered. ‘So now you know everything.’

  ‘Everything and yet nothing,’ she challenged. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘Do?’ His eyes glittered. How could he have forgotten that in her world people were defined by what they did for a liv
ing?

  ‘For a living?’

  ‘Oh, this and that,’ he said evasively. ‘I work for a very rich man.’

  That might go some of the way towards explaining things. Maybe that was why he seemed so impressively self-assured. Perhaps he had picked up and now mirrored some of his rich employer’s characteristics, as sometimes happened. That might also explain the extravagant soaps in the bathroom—he might be the recipient of a rich man’s generosity.

  Ella gestured towards the humble interior. ‘And is this your home?’

  There was a pause. ‘No. No, I don’t live here. It’s just a place that belongs to my…employer.’

  ‘And the jet-ski?’

  ‘You remember that?’ he questioned.

  The food and the shower had worked a recuperative kind of magic, and more fragments of memory now began to filter back. She recalled being clasped against a firm, hard body and the comforting, safe warmth of him. Then fast bobbing across the water, with spray being thrown against her fevered skin.

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘What about it?’ he asked carelessly.

  ‘Is it yours?’

  Inexplicably, he felt a flicker of disappointment. Would that matter, then? A top-of-the-range jet-ski was a rich man’s toy. His habitual cynicism kicked in. Of course it would matter—things like that always did. You were never seen for who you were but what you owned and what you possessed. Take away the trappings and what was left?

  ‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘It’s just something I use when I want to.’

  ‘Well, I hope I’m not going to get you into trouble,’ she ventured.

  His cynical thoughts began to crumble when she looked at him like that. So…so sweet, he thought. So scrubbed and so innocent. So utterly relaxed in his company and now worrying about his welfare! And when had anyone ever done that before?

  Now that it was dry, the tawny hair was spilling in profusion over her shoulders and face, but not quite managing to disguise the lush swell of her breasts. The aching in his body intensified as he imagined himself running the tips of his fingers over their heavy curves. ‘No, you won’t get me into trouble,’ he murmured. ‘I suspect he wouldn’t have minded rescuing you himself.’