Stranded with the Prince

by Dana Marton

  So she focused on something else instead. “I don’t want to receive clients in my apartment.” Aside from the privacy issue, they might lose confidence in her if they realized how modestly she lived. Her apartment didn’t exactly portray an image of success. Her income was way down in the last couple of years.

  “I do what they call ‘office sharing.’” To keep costs down.

  “With a divorce attorney?” he teased. “Get them coming and going?”

  “You’re hilarious.” She made a face at him. “Lawyers can afford their own offices. I share with a psychic.”

  He made no comment, but she could tell from the expression on his face that it strained him.

  “So, what’s the most difficult part of your job?” he asked after a while, moving forward quietly, keeping his voice down, only turning to look at her now and then.

  You, she wanted to say. But since she wasn’t feeling up to par this morning, she decided it would be better not to start an argument with him. “Clients who know exactly what they need.”

  He did glance back at that. “How is that wrong?”

  “They’ll ask for someone who is professional, financially established, a certain religion. Then I find someone just like that and the client goes along for a while before he or she realizes that their date doesn’t make their heart sing.”

  He sounded thoughtful as he said, “A person to make your heart sing?”

  She nodded, even though he couldn’t see her. “Exactly. You’ll meet her one day. Soon, I hope,” she added.

  And then, because the thought twisted something deep inside her chest, she added a snide remark. “You certainly seem to meet enough women.”

  He stopped and turned around to face her. “You do know that I don’t bed every woman I meet?”

  “Could have fooled me. How about the ladies who left us here?”

  “I said I dated them. There might have been a couple of dinner invitations.”

  “As far as you remember.”

  “Fine, as far as I remember. I’m a sociable person.

  I like to go out. I like beautiful women.” He paused.

  “Did they say that we—”

  Her cheeks burned. Which was so insane. He should have been embarrassed. “I didn’t ask intimate questions.”

  They fell quiet for the last leg of their trek, mindful that the men might be headed for the water, too. When she finally heard the creek—and then saw it—she realized Lazlo had picked a different spot, a little farther down the hillside.

  The water felt incredible. She couldn’t stop drinking. He rinsed the bottles. She rinsed the cans. Then they filled them.

  “I’ll hand-carry the cans so they don’t spill. You can bring the bottles in the bag,” he told her in a whisper, keeping his eyes on the surrounding vegetation. He was ready to go.

  “Could I take a quick dip, you think?” The creek wasn’t nearly deep enough to swim in, but she could sit in the water, or even lay in it. She’d sweated through her shirt on the way here. Feeling clean would have been nice. And the cold water might make her feel a little better. The sun was already high enough in the sky so that her clothes would dry in minutes.

  He hesitated, but then he said, “All right. Try not to make any noise. You have two minutes.”

  He kept lookout while she bathed. Since she kept her clothes on, there was no reason to feel shy in front of him, but she did.

  “You could turn around.”

  “I want to monitor both sides of the creek.”

  He was only a few steps away, the situation oddly intimate. He kept his eyes on their surroundings for the most part. But from time to time, his dark gaze did stray to her.

  She splashed water into her face. On her neck. Oh, the hell with it, she thought then and lay right down, letting the water trickle over her, keeping only her face out so she could breathe. “I can’t imagine anything more refreshing,” she said as the dust and sweat of their long walk washed away.

  He said nothing.

  “Your turn.” She submerged completely before she stood, nearly slipping, then walked out, keeping her arms crossed in front of her breasts.

  He set the cans down and avoided looking at her. “We can probably spare another minute.”

  THIS TIME SHE STOOD sentinel and kept scanning the bushes, aware that any of them could hide an attacker. She studiously avoided looking at Lazlo. Managed for two whole minutes.

  He didn’t leave his clothes on.

  He squatted, wearing his black shorts, in the deepest part of the water, which was only eight or nine inches deep at that spot. He was throwing water on his head, wetting his hair. Water ran down his impressive back in rivulets, dappled sunlight making the scene seem like an artistic photograph.

  But not the kind he collected—antique photos of the first automobiles. This picture could have been in a wall calendar made for women. Even his scars looked artistic from this angle.

  A deep yearning rose inside her, an elemental need she hadn’t known was there. Her throat went dry as she watched him. Every movement showed the strength of the man. He was alert, unhurried, keeping his gaze on the opposite bank.

  Then he turned.

  And caught her watching him.

  The expression on his face changed, heat coming into his gaze. He stood slowly, his tanned skin glistening. He took a step toward her. Then another.

  A wave of dizziness washed over her. The next second, a cramp in her stomach made her double over. Then he was there.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I think I’m getting dehydrated.”

  “What hurts?”

  “My stomach.”

  He helped her sit.

  “I’m fine. It already passed.” She glanced up at him, aware of his lack of clothing, of his hands on her shoulders.

  “Let’s get back to the Painted Rocks.” He dressed hurriedly, then picked up their bag and the cans. “Stay behind me.”

  “I’m fine. Could be the sun.” They’d spent too much time outside in the past couple of days.

  He looked grim, as if not buying her explanation. “Did it just start hurting?”

  “I had a few twinges yesterday.”

  He scowled. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “We’ve been living on champagne, caviar and wild fruit. I thought my body was just adjusting to the circumstances.”

  Another cramp came, this one stronger, stealing her breath away. She felt the blood run out of her face and her knees weaken. She leaned against a tree. She was dizzy again.

  He handed her the cans and picked her up. Suddenly, she was too weak to protest. “My ears are ringing.”

  By the time he got them back to their shelter, half the water had sloshed from the cans, but she was feel ing better again—and foolish for having made such a fuss over what was most likely nothing. “I’ll be fine in a couple of hours. Don’t worry about it.”

  “As soon as night falls, I’m going back to the men.

  We need that radio. You’re sick. You need medical help.” He paced. “I think they’re building a raft. I saw something in a clearing near the shore when Roberto was marching me back to their tent. We could steal that and get off the island.”

  “No,” she said immediately.

  “If we can’t get the radio, that might be our only chance.”

  “The mainland is too far away. Maybe they can risk their lives like that, but you can’t. You’re a prince.”

  He poured the remaining water from the smaller can to fill up the bigger one, then sat on a rock and began hammering the empty can with a fist-size stone he’d wrapped in a piece of his shirt to muffle the sound. His mouth pulled tight as he looked out over the side of the hill. “I’ll take my chances.”

  “I won’t. I’m a terrible swimmer.”

  He only hesitated a second before he said, “It has to be the radio then.”

  “I’ll be better by tonight, and we’ll go get it together in the morning.”

/>   “I won’t allow that.”

  Oh, please, she thought, but before she could object to his imperial style, a wave of nausea rolled over her. She got up, started toward the bushes. Lazlo stood to go with her.

  “I need a moment of privacy.”

  “What if you fall?”

  “Please.” She didn’t want to throw up in front of the prince.

  He seemed to understand, but didn’t look like he liked it. “Call if you need me.”

  She kept plodding forward. Then went a little farther. She didn’t want him to hear her give back her last meal.

  Another roll of nausea came. She squeezed her eyes shut. She was rarely sick. Catching some bug out here where she couldn’t get any help was so unfair. If she got sick, she was going to hold Lazlo back. And she would be no help whatsoever if the men found them.

  She braced an arm on the trunk of an old olive tree. A soft noise came from the bushes behind her. She didn’t turn. “I’ll be fine. Please go back.”

  But the prince didn’t respond. Instead, she was grabbed roughly by the neck. She smelled unwashed, sweaty male. Opened her mouth to scream. But a large, dirty palm cut off her air.

  She fought against the man who was dragging her away from Painted Rocks, fought as hard as she could until the next stomach cramp came and she lost all her strength for a minute.

  Then she heaved.

  The man swore in another language and snatched his hand from her mouth, but didn’t let her go. Which meant that she ended up throwing up all over him.

  Oh, God, that felt so much better. But he wouldn’t let her sink to the ground. He slapped her across the face, then dragged her along as if nothing had happened.

  He dragged her by the arm now, bruising her. She kicked out, too dizzy to put up a real fight. A murderous madman had her, and she could do little about it. Lazlo wouldn’t even notice that she was gone until it was too late. And to be honest, part of her was glad about that. That way, at least the prince couldn’t come after her, wouldn’t come to harm.

  She felt responsible for how things had turned out. She was the one who had tricked him into coming to the island.

  Her stomach hurt and her head swam as the man dragged her along. When she realized that no amount of scratching and kicking would free her, she began grabbing for the branches they passed. But when she got a firm grip on one, it barely slowed the man’s progress. He yanked her violently, nearly ripping her arm from the socket, and she was forced to let go.

  She expected him to take her back to the campsite where she’d found Lazlo, but the man was carrying her up the hillside in another direction. This was the slope where they’d found the second guard’s body in the woods.

  Think, think, think. Not an easy task when her stomach was heaving and her head spinning.

  She’d been gone for at least fifteen minutes now. Lazlo would start looking. She desperately wanted him to find her, but she wanted him to stay safe just as badly.

  She had to save herself.

  She refused to die here.

  She was weak, thanks to her stomach, but the man was tiring, too. She dragged her feet, putting up as much resistance as possible, to exhaust him sooner. By the time they reached the clearing, his grip was loosening.

  The well she’d fallen into was somewhere up ahead. Which gave her an idea.

  She gave a loud moan, then made as if collapsing, heaved. The man let her drop to the ground this time, taking a quick step back. She rolled away from him as soon as she hit the ground. Then she was on her feet and running.

  “You stupid—” The rest came out in his native language.

  He was right behind her.

  Her first burst of energy ran out quicker than she had anticipated. The nausea and dizziness weren’t helping.

  If she could make it to the well… She gave everything she had.

  The tip of his fingers touched her back, but it was too late. She jumped.

  He went down the hole, shouting.

  She collapsed on the other side, her knees wobbly, her lungs burning. She did her best to catch her breath. Almost succeeded, before she threw up again. When she was done, she rolled onto her back and stared up at the sky. God, she hated feeling sick. But at least she was safe for the moment.

  Only a moment, she realized, as a noise drew her attention to the well. Rocks scraped under the man’s shoes as he fought his way up, and she remembered that Lazlo had been able to get out of there without much trouble.

  No time to rest now. She pushed to her feet, her limbs dangerously weak. But she didn’t get farther than a few yards before the man shouted behind her. His head and arms were above the rim of the well. He was holding his gun on her.

  How could she forget about the weapon? It must have been under his shirt all along. But he hadn’t thought it was necessary to use until now. He’d thought taking her would be easy. And he’d probably wanted her alive. Now, with his head bleeding, he looked mad enough not to care anymore.

  She froze as he pulled his body up and climbed out. This was it. The end.

  But then Lazlo stole out of the woods behind the man, carrying a long, straight branch. She kept her eyes on her attacker, praying that he wouldn’t turn. Of course, he did. And immediately took aim at Lazlo.

  But Lazlo had already launched his makeshift spear. The sharp end went through the man’s throat, and he fell to the ground, dropping the gun, clutching at the spurting blood, writhing.

  She staggered toward Lazlo as he ran to her. “Where did you get that?”

  “Made a tip from that can we weren’t using.” He pushed her behind him and walked toward the man carefully, grabbed the gun, then searched the man’s pockets. “No radio. He must have passed it on to José.”

  “Finish him.” She wanted to make sure the bastard was dead, that he could never come after her and Lazlo again.

  “He’s finished,” he said simply, taking her hand. “And I might need all the bullets we have to keep us safe. Or to signal for help,” he added, then paused for a second, as with a mighty groan, the man pulled himself to his knees.

  He gripped the spear’s handle with both hands, his eyes bulging. He was trying to remove the spear, but ended up lurching back instead. Into the well. Then everything went quiet.

  Lazlo went to the well, holding the gun in front of him. He looked down. “Broke his neck,” he said as he turned to her.

  She looked away. The man had come to a gruesome end, but she couldn’t feel sorry for him. Not when she remembered the two royal guards who’d been killed in cold blood. The man in the bottom of the well had gotten what he deserved.

  Lazlo drew her forward. They didn’t stop until they were in the woods, in the cover of the trees. Then he looked her over. “Did he hurt you?”

  “He didn’t have a chance. I fought him all the way.”

  The tight lines of his face relaxed. “How are you feeling?”

  “Okay.”

  He tucked his gun away and picked her up without warning, carried her back to their crevice.

  The closer they got, the worse she felt. By the time he gently placed her on their blanket, her head was swimming again. “Face it, Gilligan, you’re never getting off this island,” she muttered miserably, regretting that she’d ever set foot here.

  Lazlo stilled. “Who is Gilligan?”

  Of course he wouldn’t get the cultural reference. Valtrian TV stations ran Valtrian shows. Although she’d seen some syndicated prime-time dramas since she’d been in the country, they tended to be the latest U.S. and U.K. top hits. He’d probably never seen a single rerun of Gilligan’s Island. And she didn’t have the energy to explain.

  “An ex-boyfriend?” He frowned.

  “A fictional character.”

  “Forget him. I’ll get you back to the mainland. I promise you that.”

  The thing was, she believed him. She just hoped it wouldn’t be too late.

  He watched her for a few seconds, then moved to their food stock and beg
an sorting it into four piles, carefully checking the cans and all the packaging. His movements were deliberate, unhurried, his focus on his task. Only the tight set of his jaw betrayed that he was fighting some emotion.

  “What are you doing?” She hoped he wasn’t going to eat. She was afraid the smell and sight of food would push her over the edge again. She needed a break. She was sure that if she could just rest for a few minutes, she would feel much better.

  “This is what neither of us ate from.” He pointed at the first pile. “This is what we both ate from. This is what only I ate from. And this—” his mouth tightened as he indicated the last pile “—is what only you ate.”

  The last thing she wanted to talk about was food. But something in his face made her ask, “And?”

  He watched her as if weighing whether or not to say more. But then he drew a slow breath and held her gaze. “I think you’ve been poisoned.”

  Chapter Nine

  When someone was dehydrated enough to have symptoms this severe, other signs showed as well, but Milda’s eyes weren’t sunk in, her skin felt elastic and supple. He checked.

  His thoughts kept coming back to the smoked salmon that she’d eaten. Since she liked it so much, he’d left it all for her.

  He made her drink as much water as she could keep down, hoping it would flush her system. By the time night fell again, she seemed to be resting more comfortably. He wasn’t. Dark rage coursed through him. If anything happened to her, there’d be hell to pay. He could and would find the bastard who was responsible for this.

  “Are you still hurting?” Lazlo asked, as calmly as he was capable, not wanting to let on just how precarious her situation was.

  “The stomach cramps have passed.” She looked pale in the moonlight.

  Cooler night air came from the sea. “Do you want me to light a fire?” Only, Roberto could still be alive. If the bastard was alive, and the light of the fire led him here, Lazlo would deal with him.

  “No fire. It’s too hot already.”

  Except it wasn’t. He moved closer and placed a hand on her forehead. Worry tightened the muscles of his jaw. “You’re running a fever.”