by Dana Marton
She went for his knife and cut Lazlo free. He was alive—she hadn’t been too late. She wanted to cry with relief. She could have hugged him. She could have kissed him. She held herself back.
He wiped the blood from his face with his sleeve, admiration glinting in his eyes. “You came back.” His voice was hoarse, his gaze stunned as he took her in.
“Let’s go. The other one is sleeping in the tent.” She couldn’t be sure if that one hadn’t woken up to all the commotion. He could be on them any minute. She didn’t have enough strength to fight off another attack, and Lazlo didn’t look like he could handle hand-to-hand combat at the moment, either.
He glanced at the motionless figure on the ground, then looked toward the tent. “You go back up the path. I’ll take care of that one.”
He reached for the knife, and she gave it to him, relieved to be free of it. “Are you sure? You don’t look…”
“He’s asleep now. He’ll wake up eventually and come after us. We’re in no shape to evade him. There’s a third one, too. Have you seen him?”
She shook her head. “I’ll come with you.”
“It’ll go faster and easier if I don’t have to worry about you stepping into harm’s way.”
She nodded. Her knees threatened to buckle as she ran up the path, but she kept going. Until she ran into a solid body just around the corner. A young man grabbed her roughly, his face dirty, his thick lips stretching into a mean leer.
“Puta. You gave me much work tonight. You better make up for that.” He yanked her against him.
His fingers bit into her arms. His breath was bad enough to knock her back. His gaze was emotionless, his eyes endless dark pools, as if there was no soul behind them, nothing whatsoever.
“Lazlo!” she screamed as a shot sounded somewhere behind her.
Then another.
Then Lazlo was running up the path, still bleed ing and now breathing hard. He looked like he’d just escaped from hell. She’d never been so happy to see him.
The man shoved her roughly to the ground, pulled his gun and aimed at the prince. But Lazlo got off the first shot and hit his target. The man shouted in pain before he shot back. Then he threw himself into the bushes and ran away.
She remained flat on the ground, her hands over her head, not daring to move, barely daring to breathe.
Lazlo took another shot at the man who was now nothing more than a distant rustling in the bushes, then rushed to her side. “All you all right?”
She nodded, her heart going as fast as if they’d kissed. A nonsensical thought at a time like this.
“You?”
He was beaten and bloodied, but undefeated. He looked larger than life as he extended a hand to her, the kind of hero memorialized in those Valtrian myths on the bookshelves in her room at the palace. “Let’s get out of here.”
She didn’t have to be told twice. She was only too aware that the man who’d grabbed her was still armed, still out there somewhere in the darkness.
HOURS HAD PASSED since they’d arrived back at the Painted Rocks, but Lazlo was still frustrated on every possible level.
He hadn’t been able to protect Milda. That bothered him the most. He’d been captured. She could have been killed.
He hadn’t been able to take out all three of the bastards. He didn’t know for sure if Milda had gotten Roberto for good. He’d taken out José and was on his way back to his torturer when Milda had screamed and he’d rushed to her instead. He wasn’t sure if his second bullet found Marco, either. Or whether the first one had caused enough damage to kill him eventually.
And without knowing that, he didn’t want to leave Milda alone to go back and finish Roberto. Nor did it seem safe to take her with him since Roberto might have recovered enough to arm himself in the meanwhile.
Milda sat quietly, staring into the night.
She had saved him.
She had put her life on the line to rescue him. He didn’t see that coming. He would have expected that from his guards and from his brothers, but not from a matchmaker he’d been less than civil to on a number of occasions.
She truly was one of a kind, the most extraordinary woman he’d ever met. She played no games. She asked for no gifts, accepted no bribes. She was honest, some times painfully so. Levelheaded. Brave. And she was beautiful, too. He couldn’t understand why he’d ever thought her crooked lips less than the most tempting sight he’d ever seen.
“So how come a marital consultant like you isn’t married? Wouldn’t that be the best advertisement?” he asked, even as he found himself oddly annoyed at the thought of her with another man.
They were back in the crevice at Painted Rocks. They’d eaten more of their food. She had more smoked salmon. He had canned soup. She’d taken care of his wounds, disinfected them with champagne—reasoning that alcohol was alcohol. They only had a few hours to go until dawn. They should be resting, but they were both too wired to sleep.
The moon bathed her face, including her raised eye brows, in a silver glow. “Marital consultant?”
He’d forgotten to tease her with the matchmaker thing. “Forget the things I said before,” he told her. “You have my full respect.”
The eyebrows went down. The pleased expression that appeared on her face made her look even more breathtaking.
“I’ve dated….” She hesitated as she answered his question. “Most of the time when I meet a guy, the first thing I think of is whether he’d be right for any of my clients.”
“The cobbler who has holes in his shoes?”
She nodded.
“I can’t imagine men not pursuing you,” he observed, again, the thought uncomfortable. He didn’t want to think of another man within a mile of her. She was too earnest, too honest, too well meaning. Someone could take advantage of her. It wasn’t that he was interested in her personally, he told himself, but he didn’t want to see her hurt.
“If they do, it ends pretty fast.” She turned away, looking out at the sea. “They tend not to be crazy about my occupation. They’re afraid that I know all the tricks of the trade to trap them.”
He couldn’t say much to that. He’d entertained the same thoughts when they’d first met. He’d avoided her every chance he got. What a fool he’d been, he thought. Five whole months wasted.
But then, did that mean that he was interested in her personally?
Only one way to find out.
He drew her into her arms slowly, gently, giving her time.
She didn’t pull away. “How are you feeling?” she asked, snuggling closer to him.
And he felt a sense of peace that he’d never felt with a woman before. “Sore everywhere.” But not too sore to do something about it if she turned in his arms.
She didn’t. “At least I got there before he was able to use the knife.”
“And for that, you have my undying gratitude.” He meant that. He would never forget the way she had appeared out of the night, scared stiff, to save him.
“Tomorrow we’ll go back to the stream, wash your wounds with clean water and rebandage them.”
“Good. I don’t think I can handle another champagne treatment.” The alcohol might have been good for disinfecting, but it stung like hell. While she’d bandaged him in strips of his pants leg, he ended up finishing the bottle.
He must have looked like a mummy in raggedy shorts. He presented a less dashing picture than he was used to. But Milda had just smiled at him. And he found that, as long as she found it entertaining, he didn’t mind being disheveled.
Peace surrounded them. He was almost certain that they would be safe for the night. Roberto and Marco, if they were alive, would need time to regroup. One or both were seriously wounded. They wouldn’t mount a manhunt in the middle of the night.
Gradually, the pain in his body abated, other sensations taking its place. To go with them or not, that was the question. To hell with hesitation, he thought then. He knew what he wanted with sudden clarity, and he’d ju
st escaped death’s jaw. Not that he’d ever been afraid of taking chances.
He reached up to caress Milda’s arm, gliding his fingertip softly along her smooth skin, his touch barely a whisper. He didn’t want to give her a reason to protest. She lay with her back to him. He pressed his lips behind her ear. Then down her neck, paying special attention to the heart-shaped mole there.
She was so incredibly soft everywhere. He wanted to investigate every inch of her body. His blood heated as it pumped through his veins. His fingers found their way over to the firm swell of her breast. His body hardened, predictably, and he kissed her neck again. His thumb found her nipple, a hard little knob that right now seemed the most fascinating thing in the universe.
So she wasn’t completely unaffected by him.
He hated the obstruction of clothes between them.
His hand slid down to the button on her pants. He could already see them both naked, pressed together. He could no longer feel any pain. All he could feel was her incredible body against his. All he could think of was sliding into her tight heat, taking her.
He tugged her shirt loose. Then he splayed his fingers across her flat stomach, touching smooth skin again. He wanted to press his lips there. Not yet. But soon. For now, he went as slowly as he possibly could. He wanted to show her how good this could be between them.
He wanted her to feel. His hand moved up, his fingers reaching her bra. Lacy. Normally, he appreciated frills like that. But right now he resented any impediment. Still, he bade himself to be patient, and outlined the lace edging with his fingers.
A soft shiver ran through her, even as she put her hand over his to still it. “Shouldn’t you rest?” Her voice was heavy, but not with sleep.
The sound shot even more desire through his body.
Rest? Not with her pressed against him. “I can’t.”
“And I can’t do this,” she said, but her voice was full of uncertainty, which gave him hope. “You’re a client.”
“The Queen hired you, not me.”
She turned at last, but only to look into his eyes, not to throw herself into his arms. “We agreed that this wasn’t going to happen.”
“Because it would break some unwritten rule for you?” He reached a new level of frustration all of a sudden.
“Among other things.”
“You could always quit and find another line of work.”
She pulled back. There was that wall again. “What else would I be?” she asked, exasperated.
“A teacher. An actress…a princess,” he added, before he could stop himself.
He’d never said that to any woman. Never thought he would, had always studiously avoided making any false promises.
For a moment, time stood still.
Then she shook her head. “Don’t do this. You’re a born seducer. You can’t help yourself.” She pulled back, out of his arms. “Look, you’re very attractive. It’s…it’s not fair.”
He didn’t want to be fair. “Why couldn’t it work?
What do you have against me?”
“Are you kidding?” She gave a sour laugh. “You chase after anything in a skirt. You have no idea how to care about a woman, how to be faithful, how to love.”
That stung. She was being incredibly unfair.
“I love my mother, I love my brothers and I love my country.” And he knew how to care, too. He cared about his people, his employees at the factory. About her.
Earlier, when she’d come to his rescue, he had spotted her in the bushes. And willed her to go away. He would have rather faced more of Roberto’s torture than have something happen to her. His heart had nearly stopped when she’d lunged forward to stop Roberto.
The relief of having her back here with him, safe, was indescribable. Every cell inside him insisted on celebrating life in the most basic way possible.
“I care about a lot of things,” he assured her.
“That’s not the same, and you know it. With all due respect, you have no idea how to be in a meaningful relationship.”
Did he want to be in a meaningful relationship? He hadn’t before. But with her… He didn’t think he could tire of Milda anytime soon. Maybe never.
“Teach me then.” He reached for her. “You’re the expert.”
She wouldn’t move closer. She was visibly pulling herself together. The passion was gone from her voice when she said, “I came here to do a job, not to have my heart broken.”
“I see.” She was deliberately misunderstanding him. Again. He let it go, not wanting to push her. But he wasn’t giving up. He was a prince. He wasn’t easily thwarted.
Chapter Eight
Milda woke to an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach.
Alone.
Again.
Last night… She sat up when she remembered that she’d nearly given in to the prince. For a moment there she believed him, believed that he could be seriously interested in someone like her for a change. For love’s sake, she couldn’t be that foolish. She wouldn’t.
She knew him. She knew how he was. He could never take a woman seriously, beyond a quick affair.
Sure, that would have been fun. He was wonderfully male, had the greatest body she’d ever had the good luck to snuggle against—eyes and voice made for seduction.
When he touched her, when he kissed her…her body responded to him fully. He would be a wonderful lover.
But she craved more. And less, in some ways. She wanted someone ordinary and simple. She wanted forever. She wanted a family. A family to replace the one she had lost, not that they could ever be replaced completely.
The part she loved most about her job was that she was creating families. That gave her a sense of satisfaction that nothing else could. It helped her forget, even if only temporarily, that she didn’t have a family of her own. Being invited to those weddings and christenings mattered so much because there she could pretend that she was part of some unit and not all alone in the world.
A brief fling with Lazlo wouldn’t solve anything. She had more self-respect than to allow herself to become another notch on the prince’s bedpost—even if she was more attracted to him than to any other man she’d ever met. That would pass. She could ignore whatever insanity drew her to him. She was a professional.
She ran her fingers through her hair, then went to relieve herself in the bushes. A slight cramp ran through her stomach as she straightened. She pressed her hand against the pain. Here was the result of drinking champagne instead of water, and eating erratically.
She spotted Lazlo on her way back. He sat where he could see most of the area above and below them. She went to sit next to him.
“So, leaving before the woman you slept with wakes up is an ingrained habit with you, is it?” she asked, to remind herself what a colossally bad idea it would be to fall for him. A reminder she needed.
He looked at her, the rising sun behind him. His gaze took in her face, not missing any detail.
And she regretted her sharp remark. Her attraction to him wasn’t his fault. She should be annoyed with herself, not with him.
“Maybe I don’t trust myself around you in the mornings,” he said quietly.
She felt her face heat.
“We need to go back to the creek and get some water today,” he said, changing the subject suddenly, turning back to his survey of the island.
“What if the men go for water?”
“It’s a chance we have to take.”
He was right. They weren’t drinking nearly enough, not even with the champagne. And maybe some cold, clear water would settle her stomach.
“Maybe those men are dead,” she said, knowing she was probably being too optimistic. But it could have happened. Lazlo said he’d taken out the one in the tent.
She’d hit and kicked the one who had tortured him as hard as she’d been able. And Lazlo had shot the young guy who’d run into the woods once for sure.
“That would be nice. But we shouldn’t count on it.�
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He stood and offered her his hand.
She accepted the help, acknowledged the electric current that passed between them and prudently let him go the second she was standing.
“How about breakfast before we head out?” he asked.
“Not hungry right now. Maybe when we come back.
But you should eat. Go ahead.”
“I’d rather go for water first, too. Before it gets too hot out here.”
They walked back to the crevice together.
She’d had some practice at averting her eyes from the painted images, and did that now, as soon as they came into view. “I still wouldn’t mind moving someplace else.”
“The crevice is protected on two sides, and you can’t see it until you’re nearly upon it. We haven’t been found so far. We should stick to what works.” He dumped out the remaining food from the duffel bag, then placed the two empty champagne bottles and two empty cans inside.
She stumbled after him as he started out. She needed caffeine badly. Maybe her stomach problem was a withdrawal symptom. At home, the first thing she did each morning was drink a cup of coffee. She couldn’t get dressed without it.
She might have given a little moan, because he asked, “What’s wrong?” in a whisper, looking alert, looking her over.
“Just thinking.”
He relaxed. “About what?”
“Everyone who complains about their job in an air-conditioned office, with the coffeepot around the corner, should try being a castaway for a week.”
“You have an office?” He resumed walking.
That this would surprise him annoyed her. “I am a professional.”
“Didn’t mean it as an offense. All I meant was that you’re one person. No employees. You could work out of your house. Isn’t that what everyone wants? To go to work in their pajamas?”
“Is that what you want?” She resisted picturing him in pajamas. Especially since her gut feeling said he was the type who would definitely sleep in the buff.
“I want to work, play and sleep at the racetrack,” he confessed, with a disarming smile that she was beginning to like too much.
