The Argentinian's Virgin Conquest. Bella Frances

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      ‘Steady on. Stand still.’

      She grasped the rail and stood staring down at the black sea. Her stomach still heaved, but the spinning had stopped and the whirling grey settled as the world became centred around a solid warm wall behind her, stabilising her. A large male body. He laid one hand beside hers on the rail and placed the other at her neck, weighted and heavy, and for once she didn’t flinch.

      ‘This is the last thing I want to be doing, but you look as if you’re about to pass out.’

      She felt the warmth seep through her. Her freezing skin was suddenly soothed, enveloped and wrapped up in another human’s body. How many times had she been held like this? Ever? Never?

      Could she remember a time when the touch of another had been accepted, never mind encouraged? No. She wasn’t the type. The Bonds did not hug each other—never mind strangers.

      She pushed away from him—put her hands against the solidity and shoved hard as she could.

      ‘Get off me—go away.’ Her voice came out like a hiss.

      He stepped back, hands up in mock surrender. Her eyes flashed to his face and she caught a look of surprise.

      ‘No problem.’

      ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the auction is about to begin. Can you please take your places in the salon?’

      ‘No problem at all—and believe me when I tell you this: there won’t be a third time.’

      ‘Can Lady Lucinda please make her way to the podium for the start of tonight’s charity auction? So many wonderful items for such a wonderful cause.’

      The voice, like a call to the gates of hell, boomed out across the Tannoy.

      ‘I can’t...’ she breathed to the wind. ‘I simply can’t...’

      He turned. The blue shirt, broad back, warmth and strength moved away, and she knew that there really was no way out.

      ‘Me either,’ he said, and he was stepping away, leaving her in the grip of the suffocating black velvet night and the sickening dread of the sea of upturned, staring faces.

      ‘Please...’ she said, reaching him, grabbing for his arm.

      He turned immediately, glancing down at the hand that gripped his elbow.

      ‘What?’

      She opened her mouth, looked over his shoulder.

      The tinny voice boomed out again, calling people forward, making some kind of apology about her mother’s lack of appearance. Her fingers gripped his arm. Pressed into his flesh.

      ‘I’ve got to say, Princess, you’re sending out some very conflicting signals. So allow me to be clear...’

      He put his hand over hers and slowly began to prise her fingers up.

      The voice sounded again. Everyone was in position. She had to do this. She had to locate her breath, count in and out slowly, and then she’d be fine. She would be absolutely fine.

      Her fingers, now free of his arm, hung in mid-air like a wizened claw.

      ‘I can’t go in there. I can’t be in front of all those people.’

      He stepped back into her space, blotting out the view. ‘You can’t be in front of all those people? Hang on—is this your party? Are you Lady Lucinda?’

      She clenched her eyes and nodded.

      He looked behind him, as if expecting to see something horrifying, then turned back to face her. ‘What’s going on? Is this some kind of emotional blackmail?’

      She could barely breathe now, the panic had gripped her so fiercely.

      ‘It’s the auction,’ she gasped.

      ‘You’re telling me that’s what’s got you like this? Is that what this is all about? Really? The auction?’

      He was staring at her as if she was deranged. Which was exactly how she felt.

      ‘You might have thought of that before you organised it, then, wouldn’t you say?’

      She nodded, swallowed, put her hand on her chest and tried hard to slow her furious heartbeat.

      ‘Just another example of your consideration for others? Impressive. Awesome. You really are something else, Princess.’

      And he turned on his heel.

      ‘No—no, you can’t. Please!’ Lucie heard herself begging and saw herself reach out, grab his arm, pull him back. She really pulled him back.

      He turned. Looked down at her, hands on hips.

      ‘Please? Please, what? What do you expect me to do? Help you? Are you serious? After the way you’ve acted?’

      ‘I can’t go in there.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper. ‘I simply can’t.’

      She didn’t know herself what she expected him to do. All she knew was that for some reason his presence, his body—whatever it was—she felt warmed by it. And when she felt warm she was less likely to run away—or in this case swim away.

      He turned to look at the room full of people. Restless people.

      ‘All these good people here are waiting patiently for you to go in there and start this off, aren’t they?’

      Lucie nodded, held her head in her hands.

      ‘And you’re in no fit state to deliver. Are you?’

      Her shoulders drooped as she shook her head. What an idiot she was. A gauche idiot with social anxiety as an extra talent.

      Suddenly she felt her chin being lifted up.

      ‘Is it nerves? Is that it? You’re stressed out because your mother hasn’t turned up and suddenly the spotlight’s on you?’

      She heard him murmur the words. Someone understood. Someone genuinely understood. How many times had she tried to explain to the people close to her that she simply couldn’t do the things they could? How many times had she heard the word ‘nonsense’ fired at her? And how many times had she seen her mother sweep past her, shaking her head and rolling her eyes, making her feel such an abject, worthless piece of garbage just because she wasn’t like her?

      ‘God only knows why I’d do anything other than get as far away from you as possible, but I don’t suppose it would kill me to help you out. And I can’t really stand back and watch you let all those people down...’

      She stared up into that face. It was suddenly serious, the dimples subsumed into all that beautiful golden skin. His eyes were grave. And she felt again that strange sense of caring, of kindness, of being anchored.

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