by Dana Marton
They could stick around for a while.
The muscles in her chest squeezed together tightly. She looked around the hole, realizing, all of a sudden, that their small shelter might not hold out that long. They were trapped in the water with barely enough room to breathe. What on earth were they going to do when the tide began rising?
Chapter Six
The men stuck to the beach and the grove, looking for a boat that might have been stashed among the trees. One of them spent an hour by the rocks, gathering clams. Only the merciless noon sun chased them away. By the time Lazlo and Milda could come out of hiding, they were weak with hunger and thirst.
The breeze coming off the sea was negligible. Coming from the shade of the rocks, the open air felt ten degrees hotter. A bigger wave washed over their heads. Even that felt balmy.
“The tide?” Milda sputtered, her eyes going wide, her wet lashes sticking together.
Had she been worried about that? No wonder she’d looked half scared to death. “Not until late afternoon. Keep down,” Lazlo whispered over the sound of waves slapping against the rock and the cries of the seagulls circling above. “I’ll get that turtle out.” He hated to see anything or anyone trapped.
The loggerhead expressed his reluctance by sinking its horny beak—thicker than most other turtles’, made to crush clam and crab shells—into Lazlo’s hand.
If it had been a fully grown animal, weighing more than its rescuer, Lazlo could never have managed. But a juvenile at only half a meter long, he could handle.
The way the loggerhead was wedged in, he could only grab it from the front, which meant he had to keep his hand in harm’s way. He did what he had to, ignoring the repeated attacks.
He freed the ungrateful thing at last and it immediately disappeared underwater. Lazlo watched it swim out to sea, then he came up next to Milda.
For the first time since they’d met, she was looking at him with approval in her eyes. Her smile was genuine, pleased—not the supercharged, let’s-be-positive, this-will-work smile that was one of the tools of her trade. Her hair hung wet around her face, not a trace of makeup had remained; but beyond that smile she needed no enhancement. Even her crooked lips looked tempting. But, too quickly, she moved toward the beach, assuming they were ready to head back.
He caught up to her. “They’ll be watching for us there.” The men could still be close by. The fact that no voices came from the direction of the beach meant nothing. They could be taking a nap in the shade.
“Where can we get out?”
“How are you doing?” His body was weakened by the water, his muscles stiff from standing still for hours. She had to feel the strain, too. Although her body, with her clothes floating around her—allowing him a glimpse at her lace bra—looked more than fine to him.
“I’ll do what I have to.”
He raised his gaze to hers with effort. “This way.”
On their left, the flat, sandy beach stretched for several hundred meters. On their right, the water met a rocky shoreline that was higher than the surface of the sea. He moved in that direction. If they swam close enough to the rocks, they wouldn’t be seen by anyone on the shore. Once they’d swam far enough, they could climb out.
“What happened to your hand?” Her forehead wrinkled with concern when he brought the hand above water to grab on to a rock they were rounding.
“Unappreciative turtle.” Red dripped into the water. Unfortunate, but they would have to swim. No way to keep that hand out. And no sense in worrying about something he couldn’t help. “Be careful that the waves don’t bang you against the rocks,” he told Milda instead. “Some of them look sharp.”
But she seemed to be considering something else. “Sharks?”
“It’s a possibility.”
Although, the only marine life they’d seen so far were the small, colorful fish that swam under the rocks, checking them out while they’d waited. And, of course, the ungrateful turtle.
“Keep your eyes open.” He led the way, steering her clear of the most dangerous areas. If there were any strong currents or an undertow, he’d encounter it first and would have time to warn her. Not that they could put much distance between each other. Since they needed at least one hand to swim, plus a way to carry the hefty bag, they each hung on to a handle with their other hand, connected.
The first hundred feet or so went fine. Then the rocks became taller, steeper, the waves crushing against them harder. He banged his left shoulder at one point, but didn’t break it, didn’t even cut the skin, which was a miracle. He helped Milda through the rough spot, trying to ignore her trim body when she clung to him for a moment before she pushed forward.
They put all their focus and energy into battling the rocks and waves, but their progress was painfully slow. At least an hour must have passed before he estimated that they would be far enough from the beach so that it was safe to come out of the water.
He climbed up onto the rocks first, looked around, noted the dry brush a hundred feet or so ahead. Not much, but enough for cover. He went back, tossed the bag up, then helped Milda out of the water.
And tried not to look.
The thin material of her clothes was plastered to her body. The soggy material of her pants outlined the V of her thighs suggestively. She might as well have been naked. Her breasts made him ache, his fingers itching for the gentle swell of her hips. She had better curves than a top-of-the-line race car.
She pulled her clothes away from her skin and shook her legs, one after the other, like a dog, then moved on, having no apparent idea how tempting she looked, how erotic.
He kept his gaze averted as they dashed to cover, keeping down, and made their way farther and farther away from the shoreline. He led the way to higher ground, to the edge of yet another wild olive grove. From that vantage point, they would at least see if some one was approaching from below.
“Here is good,” he said, and they both collapsed to the ground next to the bag.
She went through the contents immediately, not wasting any time. “Canned food, and some salmon.”
That explained why the bag was so heavy.
She pulled out peaches first. “How are we going to open it?”
He searched for a small, sharp rock, then for a heavier one to use as a hammer. He managed to punch a hole in the top on the first try. He handed the can back to her. “Drink.”
And she did, hungrily, dribbling the juice in through her parted lips. Lips that went crooked when she smiled. Lips that he’d tasted.
Again, he looked away. That he was becoming obsessed with her mouth was absolutely ridiculous. She wasn’t even remotely his type. It had to be the island—or the heat. There was something strange going on with him.
He could understand liking her personality better, now that he’d had a chance to get to know her and she wasn’t hunting him. But the sudden physical attraction was baffling.
Desert Island Syndrome.
That was what he’d told her, and he was sticking with it.
She swallowed one more time then stopped, with some reluctance, to hand him the syrupy juice. He drank a few mouthfuls, leaving a little more for her. Then, when they were done with the juice, he picked his rocks back up and set to getting to the fruit. It was a good start, but they needed protein. So he opened the shrink-wrapped smoked salmon next, and watched her inhale it while he feasted on a container of rare clams in truffle sauce, at which she only wrinkled her nose.
When they finished eating, they started back up the hill, taking the empty cans with them. No sense in leaving a trail, and they might need the containers for something.
“Might as well look for that creek while those men are lurking by the beach,” she said.
“I doubt they’re still there.” He picked his way carefully over the loose soil. “They would have realized by now that we can’t still be out there swimming.”
“What will they do next?”
“If I were them, I’d round the
island. They know where we went into the water. But we didn’t come out there. So they’re probably looking for where we came out. Then they could track us.”
“Can they?” Alarm widened her eyes.
“I made sure we kept to rocky ground. No footprints.” Even here, on the side of the hill, they would be fine. The area was covered with loose gravel and brittle shale, their shoes leaving no trail.
He considered how long it would take these men to find them on this small island. It depended on how well they knew the place. “You said security checked the island over before giving the go-ahead for this trip?”
“Prince Miklos’s soldiers were here all morning, to make sure the place was safe for you and the ladies. He insisted that his team would be used for this task, and no other.”
Which didn’t surprise him. Miklos was an army colonel and dealt with security issues regularly. “So these killers definitely came here after the island was cleared.”
“Lucky timing? Just when you were supposed to arrive?” She looked skeptical.
Not more so than he felt. “The Freedom Council.”
She blanched. “I thought that was finished. The rebellion was put down.”
“But the Freedom Council was never caught. Maybe they’re regrouping.” He moved forward, his mind turning furiously, more and more questions filling it. “How many people at the palace knew about your plans for the island?”
“A handful. Only those who absolutely had to know. I had to make sure nobody told you.” She winced.
Never mind that now. “But at least two dozen people know about my planned hike with my brothers. There wasn’t any reason to keep that all hushed up, beyond basic security. A lot of the palace staff knew about the trip.”
“And one of them could have betrayed you.”
“The Freedom Council thought that all six princes would be here on this deserted island, with nothing but a few guards for protection. So they sent their assassins in.”
She swallowed at the mention of the word assassin. He immediately regretted saying it. There was no point in scaring her. Those bastards weren’t going to get to her. He was going to make sure of it.
“Why is the Freedom Council so set against the royal family? I heard bits and pieces about the rebellion, but I haven’t had time to find out more.”
“Too busy torturing me?” He tried to set a lighter tone.
“Too busy trying to help you.” She glared.
He shook his head. Their ideas of what would have been helpful for his life were diametrically opposite.
“The Freedom Council wants the country,” he explained in the most simple terms. Since there was a good chance that her life was being threatened by them, at least she should know why she was hunted all over the island. “Three prominent businessmen came up with it. They think if they do away with the monarchy, they can split the country up along ethnic lines.”
“The three major ethnic groups? Italian, Hungarian and Austrian?”
Surprise sent his eyebrows up his forehead. “Good to know you didn’t just hastily throw yourself into making my life miserable, but actually did some homework beforehand.”
“I came to help.” She paused. “Why is it good for them to split up the country?”
“They would each have full control over a small republic. Write their own laws. Do as they please.”
“And what would happen to the monarchy?”
“The monarchy would be dead.” He stopped for a moment to look around, then pointed east. “That way.”
“Why? And what do you mean dead?” Her voice thinned.
He nodded toward the beach where they’d last heard those men. “Dead, as in not as fast as the assassins. And we’re going this way because the vegetation is lusher up ahead. Might mean we’re getting closer to the water.”
“But why do they have to kill the royal family? Couldn’t you abdicate or something? Why can’t you just give up the throne?”
Her question set his teeth on edge. The Freedom Council had done its best to portray the royal family as dinosaurs, outdated, having no use, desperately clinging to power.
“We would, if that was what was best for Valtria. Fragmenting the country, pitching ethnic group against ethnic group, fracturing what industry we have, is not the way to a prosperous and peaceful future for the people.”
“But some of the people think so.”
“The Freedom Council has plenty of money to spend on propaganda. And there are always people who are discontented with their lives. It’s easy to convince them that someone else is to blame for all their misfortunes.”
“But the royal weddings of Miklos and your twin, Benedek, brought the people together. And yours would give even more reason to celebrate. For a while, it would distract the people.”
He blinked at her.
“Chancellor Egon told me that.”
“No kidding. The chancellor is hell-bent on marrying off all the princes. It’s easier than having to come up with a more serious plan, that would actually work for the long term. I’m afraid the man doesn’t live up to his predecessor.”
“A temporary solution is better than no solution at all.” Not surprisingly, she stuck to her guns. For a matchmaker, the best solution for all the world’s problems was probably marriage. “You could cooperate.”
He shook his head, not expecting her to understand, but feeling compelled to try to make her see reason. “My life is not a circus act. I’m not here to distract the people from the real problems the country is facing. The chancellor needs to come up with a better solution.”
“The Queen also wishes to see you wed.”
“She wishes to see all her sons wed. What mother doesn’t? She wants to see a roomful of grandchildren before—” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
A moment of silence passed between them.
“How sick is she?” Milda asked.
For a while, he didn’t answer. The Queen’s state of health was a private matter. But then he ended up saying, “Sicker than the public realizes.”
Milda startled him by giving him a hug. Too brief. She quickly drew back with a nervous smile. “Would it be so bad to set her mind at ease by settling down?”
He responded on reflex. “You’re asking me to give up what little freedom I have left. I won’t be trapped.” He’d been trapped before. In a burning car. His worst fear was that he’d end up in a bad relationship, an entrapment that would last forever.
“You’re a prince.” She gave an incredulous laugh. “You have all the freedom in the world. You can do anything.”
If only that were true. At the moment, for example, he wanted to kiss her. Since the moment he’d tasted that wild honey on her lips back in the orange grove, all he’d wanted was to kiss her again.
“Ninety percent of my life is choreographed,” he said, telling her the truth. “Protocol above everything.”
She watched him for a minute, looking incredulous. “What is it that you think you can’t do?”
A great many things, he thought; but he gave her one that had nothing to do with her. “I can never be a professional race car driver, for one.” The only thing he’d ever wanted to be, since as far back as he could remember.
Protocol wouldn’t allow it. The racing associations wouldn’t allow it. They couldn’t handle the liability. His schedule couldn’t handle it. Being a top driver took 110 percent. So did being a prince.
They reached an area of thicker grass, then bushes, then trees at last. And then finally, he could hear water trickling somewhere up ahead. He quickened his steps. They reached the water within fifty meters, a crystal-clear creek that was smaller than he’d remembered—maybe two meters wide and about thirty centimeters deep in the middle. It’d been a dry summer.
“Oh, God, we so needed this.” She splashed water on her face and neck, getting her top partially wet all over again.
The creek rushed along over the rock bed—mossy in the areas of deep shade—tufts of water g
rasses edging the bank. He rinsed the peach can and filled it with water, wishing they had their empty champagne bottles. No matter. They would bring those back later.
She leaned to the surface of the creek and quenched her thirst from her cupped palms.
He did the same.
They looked at each other when they leaned back, satisfied, mirroring the smiles on each other’s faces.
Clear droplets of water hung from her eyelashes. The sun filtering through the trees above bathed her face in soft light. This is what Milda, the Lithuanian goddess of love, must have looked like on her best days, he thought as warmth spread through his body. Nothing to do with her, he told himself.
The midafternoon heat was nearly unbearable, even by the creek. Here the air was a few degrees cooler than on the open hillside, but the humidity was getting to them. And the saltwater that had dried on his clothes and skin made him itchy. He pulled his shirt over his head.
She looked away.
Was she as aware of him as he was of her? It didn’t seem possible. She’d never been anything but vocal about what she thought of him and his ways with women. And that angered him all of a sudden. What right did she have to judge him? What did she know about his life? So what if he acted out now and then? Being a prince was anything but easy. She was lucky to have been born into an average family and allowed to lead a normal life.
Well, perhaps not exactly average.
“Did you always want to be a matchmaker?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said without hesitation, but there was something in her voice and in the way she wouldn’t look at him.
“Maybe not,” he observed, and thought about it for the first time. Maybe she was as bound by family expectations and traditions as he was. “You never wanted to be anything else?”
“What kind of question is that?” she snapped, with more heat than was warranted.
“A reasonable one.” He watched her more closely now. “Why did you become a matchmaker?”
“Marital consultant,” she said, emphasizing each word. “My mother was one.”
