The Mediterranean Prince’s Captive Virgin. Robyn Donald

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СКАЧАТЬ decided waspishly that life amongst the rich and powerful had certain advantages. She was sitting in a sleek corporate jet, watching Europe slide beneath her. Not far away the prince was speed-reading his way through what seemed to be a huge pile of documents.

      Tea had been offered, and accepted with gratitude in the hope that it might help to clear a mind still clouded by whatever drug Nico Magnati had administered to her.

      As if he could read her mind he looked up, the half-smile curving his sculpted mouth fading when he met her accusing glare. ‘Are you all right?’

      ‘Yes, although it’s no thanks to you,’ she said stiffly.

      That black brow climbed, but he knew what she was referring to. ‘I’m sorry it had to be done, but I didn’t trust anyone on the island to keep you there if you made up your mind to leave. You will soon be free of any after-effects.’

      ‘I hope so,’ she told him, stopping because the steward appeared with a tray of food.

      ‘Eat now,’ Prince Nico commanded.

      It wasn’t difficult; the snacks were delicious, about as far removed from the usual airline fodder as diamonds from glass. Her tension faded, only to surge back when they approached London, increasing in quantum leaps when she found herself in a magnificent house in Mayfair.

      The prince showed her to a bedroom that impressed her with its superb fittings, although she preferred the one in Osita because of its view.

      ‘I suggest you have a shower and a rest,’ he said, adding with a smile she found unnecessarily sarcastic, ‘and I hope you won’t refuse just because I suggested it. Flying dehydrates.’

      ‘I’m not in the habit of cutting off my nose to spite my face,’ she returned, a splash of acid in her words.

      ‘Then we should deal very well together.’ He indicated a door in the wall. ‘Your bathroom and wardrobe are in there. You will be pleased to know that I had someone bring your clothes from your previous lodging and hang them for you.’

      ‘How—?’

      His smile turned cynical. ‘The landlord was most obliging,’ he said and went out, closing the door behind him.

      Leola did feel better once she’d worked out how to get the shower going, but she started yawning again when she got into a camisole top and briefs. It was a relief to see familiar clothes hanging in the huge walk-in wardrobe. They’d been pressed, she noted, wondering who’d done it, and smiled wryly. Certainly not the prince.

      Back in the palatial bedroom she noticed that someone had turned back the covers and put a tray on a table beside an armchair with a carafe of water and some fruit and crackers.

      Still wary, she ignored them, getting herself a glass of water from the bathroom, and then, with a sigh of relief, crawled between the sheets and fell asleep almost instantly.

      The sound of her own name woke her. ‘Leola,’ someone was saying. ‘Wake up, or you won’t sleep at all tonight.’

      And when she groaned and turned over and buried her face in the pillow, Prince Nico repeated on a note of amusement, ‘Leola. Leola, look at me.’

      ‘Go ’way,’ she muttered.

      But her body responded to his presence before her sluggish brain. A sizzle of electricity powered through her, alerting her to the fact that Nico Magnati was sitting on the side of the bed.

      Gently he shook the bare shoulder presented to him. ‘Wake up. Or do you want to have dinner in bed?’

      ‘No.’

      She barely knew what she’d said; his touch set off fires deep in the pit of her stomach that galvanised her into action. Shocked, she rolled away from him, only to realise that the sheet had slipped and she had on nothing but the skimpy camisole and matching briefs.

      Her eyes flew open. Prince Nico was looking at her face, not, she was grateful to see, at her almost exposed breasts, but the glittering heat in his eyes both scared and elated her. Some deeply hidden part of her had recognised the sexuality in his touch, and thrilled to it.

      You want him, she thought, appalled and terrified by the swift firestorm of sensation leaping from cell to cell, nerve to nerve. Scarlet-faced, she grabbed the sheet and hauled it up to her chin.

      Nico said something in a language she didn’t know and she gabbled, ‘Get out of here! What do you think you’re doing? You told me you’d be—I’d be…’

      The tumbling words faltered to a stop. Eyes locked, for long seconds neither spoke. And then he got to his feet, towering over the bed.

      ‘You’ll be safe,’ he told her, a raw note charging his tone with dangerous sensuality. ‘Dinner will be ready in half an hour. If you’d rather eat here, a tray will be brought in.’

      She almost took the coward’s way out, but sheer pride lifted her chin. ‘I’ll be out shortly,’ she said, adding with spirit, ‘Do I dress?’

      ‘Wear whatever you like,’ he said curtly, and walked out of the room.

      Heart still thudding in her ears, Leola scrambled out of bed, trying to block out the seconds when Nico’s hand had smoothed the skin of her shoulder. His face had been hard, the arrogant features more prominent, the half-closed eyes fierce and demanding.

      That intense attraction had been mutual, and the thought both chilled and exhilarated her.

      Was this what had torn her parents’ marriage apart—this dangerous combination of excitement and hypnotic physical attraction?

      Every muscle tense, she recalled her anguished turmoil when her mother had left her husband and twin daughters to follow her lover.

      Shivering, Leola splashed cold water over her face. During their adolescence both sisters had kept free of emotional ties, a wariness that had solidified in her when she’d followed her dream into the world of fashion. There she saw enough painful love affairs to decide that life was simpler and more pleasant without passion.

      But she’d never met anyone like Nico Magnati before.

      Ringing Giselle and talking the situation through would help, but, although she craved a dose of her sister’s astringent pragmatism, she didn’t. Somehow, for the first time ever, she couldn’t share this with Giselle.

      But she’d have to ring her in case she was worrying.

      She straightened and dried her face, noticing that her sponge bag had been put onto the vanity. By the prince?

      The thought of him walking through the room as she lay sleeping made her feel acutely vulnerable.

      No, she thought logically, he’d have sent a servant in—she hoped it had been a maid, not the silent manservant.

      Despising herself for dithering, she eyed her few clothes. Just as well the prince had told her to wear what she liked, because her wardrobe was basic. In the end she chose a simple silk shift the same tawny hue as her hair, and sandals that made the most of her long legs.

      A knock caught her by surprise as she applied lipstick. СКАЧАТЬ