Stranded with the Prince. Dana Marton
Their throats were raw from swallowing too much seawater and vomiting.
“Close to a house, I hope.” Marco shook wet sand from his curly black hair, looking the most chipper among the three. “A house full of food and women.”
But instead of a house, the first thing they spotted once they got going was a tent, about a hundred meters or so inland.
Roberto signaled to the others, then picked up the largest stone within reach. They spread out and circled their target, caught the man inside the tent unawares. The guy had a weapon, but no time to use it before they smashed his skull in.
They stood over the body, breathing hard, adrenaline pumping, the scent of blood in their nostrils. They waited, listening. When they were sure that the man had been alone and nobody was coming, Roberto lit a lamp. He grinned as he looked around. His friends didn’t call him a lucky bastard for nothing. “We have food, shelter and a gun again.” Not a bad start to the day.
Marco was stuffing his face already. Crumbs rolled down his cleft chin as he made an animal-like sound.
“Give me that.” Roberto snatched the rucksack away from him. He went through the contents, then tossed José a neatly packed sandwich, laying claim to the rest. He was the boss; he would hand out the food when and where it pleased him.
He took the largest sandwich for himself and bit into it with only slightly more restraint than Marco. They were safe for the moment, out of the weather and soon their bellies would be full. Nobody knew they were here. Probably nobody knew the man they’d killed was here, either. Surveying his gear, he looked like a lone hiker out camping.
But before they could settle in comfortably, a radio he hadn’t noticed before came on, startling José into jumping.
The small device was hanging on a peg in a dark corner of the tent. “Station two, come in.”
MORNING COULDN’T COME soon enough. Every inch of Milda’s body ached. The only comfort she’d had over the long night was the heat radiating off the prince. Since their sole blanket was wet and muddy, she hadn’t been able to use that for anything.
She looked around, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
Lazlo was gone.
Thank God.
She ran her fingers through her hair. She wasn’t one of those women who woke with perfect style and grace. At least she would have a little time to get herself together before she had to face him. A drowned rat had to look better than she did.
She ran her fingertips under her eyes to take off any smudged mascara. Not that she wanted to look attractive for the prince, but looking put together gave her self-confidence, and she had a feeling she would need all the self-confidence she could get when dealing with this client on this particular morning.
She crawled out from under the overhang, smoothed down her soiled, ruined clothes. Then the pictures that covered the rock wall caught her attention, the paintings that had been nothing but darker smudges in the dark night when they’d arrived here.
She’d heard of them when she’d been asking around for information on the island, trying to figure out whether it would be right for this project, but she’d had no idea what they depicted. She’d expected horses and buffalos like other nonhomicidal cavemen left all over Europe. She blanched now as she looked at scenes of wholesale murder. Blood splashed everywhere, necks cut, bellies opened. Shocked, she snatched her gaze away.
Good thing she hadn’t seen the paintings the night before. They would have given her nightmares.
She stumbled away from the images, heading for the beach. The gear she’d put together, with professional help, included a number of toothbrushes and plenty of toothpaste. And breakfast. Most importantly, coffee. She’d have her first cup here, then another cup when they were back in the palace. They made the most amazing cappuccinos there, the frothy milk dusted with cinnamon.
She was one hundred percent certain that the boat would come for them today. The ladies had been angry. They’d made their point. The rescue team had to be on their way, if not already here.
But when she came out of the grove, she found the beach empty. No boat. No prince. And more alarmingly, no gear.
She swirled around. Maybe the boat had come and gone already. Was Lazlo mad enough at her to leave her like this?
“Your Highness?”
No response came, save the slapping of the waves.
“Your Highness?” she shouted more loudly as a twinge of panic squeezed her chest.
He couldn’t just leave her. He wouldn’t, she thought, openmouthed with shock, still scanning the empty beach. He was a gentleman.
In most situations.
But he did seem to have developed some sort of unreasonable dislike for her. Crazy, really, when one considered that she was here to help him. She was instrumental for his future happiness. That he wouldn’t see that was most frustrating.
She was close to making him see reason, though. She was pretty sure. The two weeks with those ladies on this island would have done it. Once she got back to the palace, she needed to come up with another plan, and quickly.
She looked toward the mainland. The sunrise over the endless blue of the ocean filled the sky with pink. The scene was beautiful enough to take her breath away, but after a few moments her instincts prickled. Something didn’t feel right. There was something …sinister in the air.
She shook her head. She thought that just because the prince was missing. Or maybe because she’d seen those dreadful pictures.
She ignored her prickling senses, although she’d always been proud of her keen intuition, a must in her line of work, a strong family trait. Having excellent intuition was essential in matching up couples.
Except, she’d never felt that sense of rightness when she’d considered a candidate for the prince. Not even with the three women she’d invited to the island, if she were to be honest, and the present moment seemed like the perfect time to face certain truths. She didn’t feel that certain zing. Didn’t see that image of the young couple leaving the church and rice flying. Didn’t hear the proverbial wedding bells ring. Maybe that had been the problem to begin with.
Every time she’d looked at a woman and thought of her with the prince, the image brought only one thought to her mind: wrong. And she didn’t have all that much time to keep looking.
She picked up a chunk of driftwood by her feet, walked to get another. Even a couple of larger pieces had washed onto the shore overnight. She could use smoke to signal for help. Not that she had any matches. Those were in the gear, which was presumably with the prince. Still, there was that Boy Scout thing of making a bow with a string and rubbing things against each other. She’d seen that once on TV. But before she could bring up in her mind’s eye exactly how that was done, she saw a man bobbing in the water a few hundred feet from shore. He hadn’t been there a moment before.
Then he was close enough for her to recognize Prince Lazlo. Relief flooded her. He was swimming for shore, pulling something with him. A green bag, dripping with water, she realized, when he was close enough to stand up and start walking.
Naked!
Her dreams rushed back. Her eyes went wide. Her throat constricted. Her heart put on a drum festival in the middle of her chest, the beat growing faster and faster, not slowing until he was out of the water enough so she could see that he was still wearing his underwear. Phew. Royal-blue boxer briefs.
Thank God for small mercies.
Not that the rest of his nakedness wasn’t distracting enough. His upper torso was all lean muscles, drops of seawater running down his tanned skin. The rising sun was behind him, outlining his perfect shape.
Then her gaze dropped to the scars on his left leg.
She bit her lip. The skin was