Stranded with the Prince. Dana Marton

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      “You know, the blonde looked familiar. I think I might have dated her in the past.”

      “You dated all three of them. With time being so tight, I wanted to go for certainty. A shortcut, you know? If you were attracted to them once, you could be attracted to them again.”

      Silence was the only answer.

      “Right?” she asked, then immediately hated that she was second-guessing herself because of him. He was terrible for her self-confidence.

      “'Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.'” He quoted William Congreve. “Better settle in for the full two weeks.”

      “They couldn’t have been that mad at you. They agreed to another try.”

      “Could be they planned to kill me in the wilderness,” he remarked dryly.

      “What on earth have you done to them? No, never mind.” The fact that he didn’t even remember that he’d dated them gave her a clue. Plus his tirade on the beach that the ladies had overheard. She’d never dated him, and even she was about ready to strangle him and leave him in the wilderness for the vultures or whatever.

      So maybe the ladies were somewhat justified in their fury. But leaving her stranded here with the prince was completely uncalled for. What harm had she done to anyone? She was doing the best she could, with everyone’s best interests at heart. She was beginning to feel decidedly underappreciated. The least of her problems, all considered, when her whole world was threatening to come right down around her ears.

      She was the last link in a long line of matchmakers. And the business hadn’t been doing well for the past couple of years. If she failed, the family tradition would end with her. Her grandmother was probably rolling in her grave.

      Poles miraculously snapping into place and holding the tent up from the inside at last distracted her from any further thoughts on what a disappointment she was turning out to be, compared to her more talented ancestors. The tent was standing. So there. That was something. She pulled herself straight proudly, grinning into the darkness. But then she tripped over the blanket she’d already tossed into the tent, not wanting it to get dirty or bugs to crawl inside, and fell with her full weight against one of the poles and the whole thing came apart all over again.

      She could have howled with frustration. She didn’t. She’d be damned if she’d lose control within hearing distance of the prince.

      “Everything okay in there?” His voice dripped with mockery.

      She climbed out on her hands and knees, the definition of undignified, stood and brushed herself off. “I decided to take it down. The air is too stifling in there.”

      The breeze coming off the ocean was balmy. She simply adjusted the waterproof material on the ground so the collapsed poles wouldn’t be sticking her in the ribs, then lay down at last. There. She was perfectly content. Who needed the tent?

      She was blissfully comfortable for five full minutes. Except maybe her neck. She adjusted a wadded-up blanket under her head just as a fat raindrop fell on her face. Wind ruffled her hair. Another raindrop followed.

      She squeezed her eyes closed for a moment. She was not going to be defeated. She got up and tried to unfold the tent, to get in the middle somehow, sandwiched between protective layers. But the rain picked up long before she finished. And by the time she was settled horizontally again, she realized she was lying in mud. She cursed the prince under her breath.

      She was so not supposed to be here.

      He was supposed to be snug in his tent, with three intelligent, great women, each with the pedigree and temperament to become a fantastic princess. Why couldn’t he have just gone with that plan? What did he have to complain about?

      “It’s raining,” he said from a few feet away, his rich baritone startling her.

      She hadn’t noticed him coming closer. “Cry me a river,” she muttered through clenched teeth. Or not. They seemed to have more than enough water already. She pulled her head into her cocoon. She’d been about to get out of the mud, but she would pretend that everything was well if it killed her.

      “The water running down the hillside will be heading this way,” he observed with perfect aristocratic nonchalance.

      Maybe it would wash him away. That could be another solution to the problem. He couldn’t very well embarrass the monarchy any more if he disappeared, could he?

      But the water would wash her away, too, if she stayed like this. She crawled out and was soaked to the skin the next second. “You know how to set this thing up?” She gestured toward the tent. If they had it anchored to the ground, maybe the water would run around them. The canvas was waterproof.

      “Forget it.” He grabbed the muddy, dripping tent, tossed it over his shoulder and headed inland. His slight limp did nothing to detract from his powerful appearance.

      She reluctantly followed him, carrying her soggy blanket. With the cloud cover thick now, and the rain coming down hard, she could see little, even with the flashlight. Once she thought she caught a moving shadow up ahead, but by the time she looked closer, it disappeared. Maybe one of the guards. Their gear and supplies had been dropped off on the other side of the island earlier. They’d probably gotten their tents up around the perimeter in time for the rain. Lucky them.

      “Hello!” she called out. “We need help. We’re here.”

      She waited, but no response came. Maybe they couldn’t hear her. Or she’d only seen a bush moving in the wind.

      Should have looked for the men this afternoon, instead of waiting for a boat by the beach and fighting, she thought as she pushed ahead, mud squishing in the front of her sandals and leaking out the back.

      An hour of miserable marching got them to a rocky cliff wall. The famous Painted Rocks, not that she could make out any of the images in the rain and the dark. Soon blind luck brought them to an overhang that shielded them from most of the rain—if they sat far back in the rock’s crevice and very close to each other.

      He positioned the rolled-up tent in front of them to block as much rain from that side as was possible. “You might want to take a minute and ponder where meddling gets you.” His tone was lecturing. “I hope you’re happy.”

      She would have been happy if she’d never heard of Prince Lazlo of Valtria. “I’m wet.”

      Her side was plastered to his. He was a full head taller than her, long limbs, muscles in all the right places. According to her research, he was an avid sportsman. Highly competitive, highly seductive, highly annoying. And, unfortunately, he was her cross to bear.

      He relaxed his shoulders against the rock. His masculine scent of leather and motor oil reached her even through the rain. He’d probably spent his morning at the racetrack as usual.

      She needed to think about something other than him, or she’d never relax enough to fall asleep. She gave that a valiant try for as long as she could. With her clothes soaked, she was cold to the bone, but she resisted moving even closer to him.

      “First thing in the morning,” she said when she could stay silent no longer, “we’ll set up the tent and find our breakfast in the СКАЧАТЬ