Stranded with the Prince

by Dana Marton

  She looked toward the mainland. The sunrise over the endless blue of the ocean filled the sky with pink. The scene was beautiful enough to take her breath away, but after a few moments her instincts prickled. Something didn’t feel right. There was something…sinister in the air.

  She shook her head. She thought that just because the prince was missing. Or maybe because she’d seen those dreadful pictures.

  She ignored her prickling senses, although she’d always been proud of her keen intuition, a must in her line of work, a strong family trait. Having excellent intuition was essential in matching up couples.

  Except, she’d never felt that sense of rightness when she’d considered a candidate for the prince. Not even with the three women she’d invited to the island, if she were to be honest, and the present moment seemed like the perfect time to face certain truths. She didn’t feel that certain zing. Didn’t see that image of the young couple leaving the church and rice flying. Didn’t hear the proverbial wedding bells ring. Maybe that had been the problem to begin with.

  Every time she’d looked at a woman and thought of her with the prince, the image brought only one thought to her mind: wrong. And she didn’t have all that much time to keep looking.

  She picked up a chunk of driftwood by her feet, walked to get another. Even a couple of larger pieces had washed onto the shore overnight. She could use smoke to signal for help. Not that she had any matches. Those were in the gear, which was presumably with the prince. Still, there was that Boy Scout thing of making a bow with a string and rubbing things against each other. She’d seen that once on TV. But before she could bring up in her mind’s eye exactly how that was done, she saw a man bobbing in the water a few hundred feet from shore. He hadn’t been there a moment before.

  Then he was close enough for her to recognize Prince Lazlo. Relief flooded her. He was swimming for shore, pulling something with him. A green bag, dripping with water, she realized, when he was close enough to stand up and start walking.

  Naked!

  Her dreams rushed back. Her eyes went wide. Her throat constricted. Her heart put on a drum festival in the middle of her chest, the beat growing faster and faster, not slowing until he was out of the water enough so she could see that he was still wearing his underwear. Phew. Royal-blue boxer briefs.

  Thank God for small mercies.

  Not that the rest of his nakedness wasn’t distracting enough. His upper torso was all lean muscles, drops of seawater running down his tanned skin. The rising sun was behind him, outlining his perfect shape.

  Then her gaze dropped to the scars on his left leg.

  She bit her lip. The skin was pulled together and a shade darker than the rest, white stripes going through the angry red here and there. He’d gotten trapped in a wreck at a racetrack crash and had been burned a few years back, an accident he so downplayed that, before now, she hadn’t even been aware of the extent of his injuries. From what she was seeing now, he must have suffered horribly. That he was even walking had to be a miracle.

  His stunning scars didn’t detract anything from his absolute masculine beauty. If anything, they gave him an edge that she imagined drew women even more.

  His physique drew her, for love’s sake, and he was the last man on earth she would have ever been seriously interested in.

  The first rule of matchmaking was: Do not get involved with a client under any circumstances.

  He pulled his left hand through his dark hair to get it out of his eyes, shaking the bag with his other hand to dislodge a long strand of seaweed. His breathing was labored, as if he’d been swimming for a long time.

  “What are you doing?” Had he tried to swim off the island with some of their supplies? That made no sense whatsoever.

  “Saving the remains of our gear.”

  Her feet rooted to the spot. For a second, she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. She couldn’t really understand. “But—”

  “The storm last night whipped up the waves. They ran farther up the beach than usual.” He came over and lowered the bag to the ground at his feet.

  “It’s all gone?” She stared at him, still barely comprehending.

  He nodded.

  Disaster. Absolute disaster was all she could think.

  “Can you go back for the rest?” She wasn’t the best of swimmers.

  He dropped to the sand, panting, stretching his muscular legs in front of him. “I’ve been at it for the last two hours. Everything else must have been carried far out to sea.”

  Her legs wouldn’t hold her up. She sank down across the bag from him.

  He opened the bag and pulled out ten jars of caviar—five red, five black—a dozen scented candles and a half-dozen bottles of champagne carefully wrapped in bubble bags.

  She waited for more, then could have cried as he tossed the empty bag aside. She pulled it to herself and went through it again. And in one of the front pockets she found waterproof matches, one box of the two dozen she’d ordered from a camping supply store.

  “Breakfast?” He held out a jar of caviar, the top already twisted off.

  “No thanks.” Her stomach was in a knot. No way could she put anything into it.

  He shrugged and scooped some tiny, shiny, pearl-like beluga roe into his mouth. When he finished off the jar, he washed the food down with champagne. Then he lay back on the sand, his face to the sky, suddenly grinning while she did her best not to hyperventilate.

  “How can you be happy at a moment like this?” she snapped at him.

  He came up on one elbow—biceps bulging all over the place—and pinned her with those wicked dark eyes of his. “I have two weeks without you being able to do anything to get me married.”

  He was insufferable.

  “You’re missing your race,” she pointed out, just to needle him.

  He shrugged. “A little freedom might just be worth it.”

  She didn’t say anything for a while, then, “We should light a fire and send smoke signals.”

  He looked over the meager pile of driftwood she’d collected. “If the guards are on the other side of the island, they won’t see it. Better we save the wood for tonight to keep warm. It has to dry before we can light it anyway.”

  She couldn’t bear the thought of another night. Under those rocks. With the prince. “The boat will come.”

  “Maybe. But we need a plan B.”

  “We should find another shelter. And we should go and find fresh water before the day gets too hot.” They were in the Mediterranean. There was plenty of heat; his shorts were half-dry already. And they needed to do something. Sprawled on the sand, he looked like he was on vacation. He gestured toward the champagne bottles.

  “That won’t prevent dehydration. In fact, alcohol speeds it.” Lady Szilvia, the survival expert, had told her that when she’d given advice about what to bring. And Milda had made sure to pack plenty of water. Except, those plastic bottles were now bobbing somewhere in the sea. “We need fresh water.”

  “We have nothing to put it in until we drink the champagne.”

  She hated that he had a point. “We could pour the champagne out.”

  He seemed to consider that, but then he said, “On the off chance that we might be here awhile without much food, we could need those calories.”

  She grabbed the bottle from him.

  The bubbles tickled down her throat deliciously. After the ninth or tenth sip, she felt some of the tension leaving her body. “There.” She took another gulp, then tossed the empty bottle onto the sand in front of him.

  He picked it up with an amused look, stood and held out his hand.

  She ignored him.

  He walked to the bushes and came back with his clothes, a bundle she hadn’t seen there in her frenetic search for him. He dressed, then slipped the waterproof matches into his pocket, packed everything else back into the bag before slinging it over his shoulder. “Let’s stash this under the overhang before we go for a stroll. Wouldn’t want to lose it a
gain.”

  She walked after him, trying not to look at him too much. The only man she’d ever known who managed to swagger with a limp. Who did he think he was, John Wayne?

  They crossed the wild olive grove, the tangy scent of the trees heavy in the air. That odd feeling returned to her again, a premonition she couldn’t put her finger on, a sense of unease. Probably because they were going back to those gruesome rocks.

  “So, what are those paintings about? I didn’t realize Valtria’s past was that bloodthirsty.”

  “It’s not. The island was used by Etruscan priests back in the day, for their human sacrifices. Valtrians came here much later.”

  A shiver ran down her spine as she thought how many men and women must have died on the island over the centuries. Which would explain the bad vibes she’d been getting. By being here, they were probably disturbing some ancient burial grounds.

  She tried not to look at the rock paintings as they emptied the bag and secured their meager supplies. Then they were finally heading for higher ground. The hillside wasn’t too steep, solid rock in places, brittle shale in others where she had to watch her step in order not to slip. Here and there, thick woods appeared, especially close to the top, but on the bottom, the wild groves were sparse with plenty of open areas between them.

  “Is there fresh water here, do you know?” She did her best to keep up with him. He was pretty fast, even with the limp.

  She was wearing sandals. Only two-inch heels, but still… She hadn’t planned on staying on the island beyond explaining the camping trip to Lazlo and introducing him to the ladies. She’d planned on being back at the palace by dinner, at the latest. At least she’d had the good sense to wear summer slacks, and brought a sweater in case the wind was too much on the boat ride over.

  “There’s a stream.”

  “Do you know where?”

  “No idea. I was only here once, when I was a kid.”

  The higher they went, the denser the vegetation became.

  “Wild animals?” She remembered last night’s worry.

  “Rabbits and foxes.”

  At least that was reassuring.

  They walked until noon but found nothing. “We should switch tactics and walk the perimeter of the island,” Lazlo recommended. “Even if the guards keep out of our way, we should be able to find one of their tents. We’d be set for supplies at least.”

  Exactly. Why didn’t she think of that earlier? Had to be the champagne.

  Downhill was a lot easier than up. She did slip a couple of times, but he always caught her easily. She didn’t like when they were touching. He was the type of man a woman couldn’t help but be aware of physically.

  Several hours passed as they walked, keeping as much as possible to the shade of the trees. Her stomach growled.

  “Should have brought some food and champagne,”

  Lazlo said. “Sorry.”

  “We didn’t know it would take this long.”

  It had to be midafternoon by the time he spotted the tent under a clump of trees and pointed it out to her.

  She was so tired she could barely walk, but she broke into a run.

  “Hello, we need help.” She pushed through the open flap, relieved that the nightmare was over.

  Then reeled back, was caught against Lazlo’s wide chest. He swore softly, put his arms around her, tried to pull her back. But she couldn’t move, couldn’t take her eyes off the sight in front of her.

  Inside the tent was the dead body of one of the guards. Lying in a pool of blood, stripped naked. A sight that eerily echoed the rock paintings.

  Chapter Three

  Lazlo searched for a weapon, but Ben’s gun was gone. So was his radio.

  “For love’s sake.” The mumbled words came through as Milda cupped her hands in front of her mouth. Tears filled her eyes, which were round with shock.

  He looked outside. The woods seemed empty, the birds trilling in the air, no sign that anyone might be lurking in the bushes. He waited anyway, watching for any movement, listening for any sound that didn’t belong. When he was certain that they were alone, he pulled the tent flap closed behind them.

  “We’ll be fine. I think we’re alone for now. As soon as I take care of Ben, we should grab whatever we can use, then get out of here.”

  The young guard had only been working at the palace for a little over a year. He was a fine polo player and an antique car enthusiast. They’d had some conversations. Yesterday wasn’t the first time the man had been assigned to Lazlo’s personal detail.

  He wrapped the man in his sleeping bag, then carried him outside, to a spot they’d passed on their way to the tent. A storm had uprooted an ancient olive tree, leaving a giant hole in the ground. He laid Ben in the hole, then went back for the short camping shovel he’d seen in the tent’s corner.

  Milda still stood in the same spot, looking at the pool of blood, her arms folded in front of her, her face ashen.

  He handed her their bag, the one he’d salvaged from the sea and brought along in case they found anything suitable to eat. “You should start packing.” She needed a distraction.

  He waited until her eyes focused on him at last and she gave a dazed nod.

  Burying Ben took a fraction of the time it would have if Lazlo had to dig a hole, but still much longer than he preferred. He said a prayer as best he could, and marked the grave. His people would be back for the body, but he had no idea how many days that would take. First he had to get off the island. In the meantime, he didn’t want to leave the guard to the birds and the foxes.

  He wished he’d at least found Ben’s radio so he could figure out where Vince, the other guard, was. Probably camping on one of the island’s high points. If Ben took the shore, the other would take the highest lookout point. That would make the most sense.

  Back in the tent, Milda was still standing and staring. He put a blanket in the bag she held. And he realized there wasn’t much more to take. He tossed aside a pair of boots that wouldn’t fit either of them. Then grabbed three books, highbrow literary novels. If nothing else, they could use the paper to start a fire.

  A couple of plastic bags littered the tent’s floor. He took those. Might come in handy for something. He rechecked the small tent, hoping for more, but whoever had killed Ben had cleared the place out fairly well.

  At least they had their own tent back at Painted Rock. The bottom panel of this one was soaked with blood. He took the duffel bag from Milda and slung it over his shoulder. “Ready?”

  For the first time ever, he hated that she was quiet. She was clearly rattled, but he couldn’t give her time to gather herself. They had to get moving.

  He turned to look around the campsite one last time before heading out. The grass had been trampled on and flattened. Ben had probably done a fair share of that. So had Lazlo and Milda for that matter. He could see cracked twigs and the soil disturbed here and there, a faint path leading into the woods, but couldn’t tell how long it had been since anyone had walked that way, or whether it had been Ben or his killer.

  Maybe Miklos or Arpad could have done better. They were the best hunters among the royal brothers. They went after elk and even bear. The most Lazlo ever did was join in the occasional fox hunt, which he did for the sake of riding. Nobody noticed his limp on a horse. He played polo for the same reason. But real sport, for him, began and ended on the racetrack.

  “Who would do this?” Milda’s voice trembled, her blue eyes searching his face as she waited for an answer.

  “Maybe a fugitive. Or someone who got shipwrecked and went crazy.”

  The island was supposed to be uninhabited. Only the odd ornithologist visited now and then, usually during the spring or fall, when migrating birds stopped to rest here. And even the ornithologists needed a royal permit to conduct their observations.

  She rubbed her hands up and down her slender, bare arms. She didn’t have that stunning cover model look that normally tended to capture his imagination, b
ut she did have an earthy sort of wholesome thing going on. What they called the “girl next door” look, he supposed, and he kind of knew what that meant, although there were no girls next door to where he lived. The royal palace stood alone on Palace Hill.

  At the moment, she looked frightened and fragile, but he’d fought against that steel core of hers too many times these past few months to forget that it was there. She kept looking back toward the clearing, slowing her steps each time.

  He took her by the hand and led her deeper into the woods. “We need to keep moving. Whoever did this might come back.”

  She didn’t pull away. “What about the other guard?” She seemed completely subdued. Downright meek.

  He warned himself not to get used to that. She was scared, not reformed. “We’ll find him. Don’t worry about it.”

  She shivered. He almost pulled her closer on reflex, but he caught himself in time. Of all the women he knew, she was the one who would need comfort from a man the least. She was no shrinking violet. He had likened her to a she-dragon several times in the past, in fact.

  She’d never shown an ounce of respect for his title. Every chance she got, she stood up to him. She was incredibly pushy. And when he’d tried to seduce her upon arrival, to distract her from her matchmaking, she’d resisted. Not that he was so vain that it would have bothered him. But still.

  Yet the pluck now seemed to have gone right out of her. He watched her suspiciously. Could be some new trap. She was endlessly inventive when it came to tricking him into all sorts of things that pushed him closer to the shackles of matrimony. But try as he might, he couldn’t figure out how acting meek now would benefit her.

  Maybe she’d never seen a dead body before. Plus, she was a city girl. The whole nature thing was probably wearing her down, too. That thought cheered him up, so he spent some time on it. Milda Milas subdued and malleable. Paradise at last!

  He mercilessly squashed whatever protective instincts her unusual mood brought out in him.

  “I’m hungry,” she said after a while, her voice still shaky. “Could we go back for food?”