Stepping Into The Prince's World. Marion Lennox
to look. She just wanted to stay still for a moment longer and hold Rocky and think about anything other than what would happen when she had to move.
‘Tell me what’s wrong?’
He’d stirred. He was pushing himself up, looking down at her in concern.
‘H...hi,’ she managed, and his eyes narrowed.
Um...where was her bra? It was down around her waist, that was where it was, but she didn’t seem to have the energy to do anything about it. She hugged Rocky a bit closer, thinking he’d do as camouflage. If he didn’t, she didn’t have the strength to care.
‘Your arm,’ he said carefully, as if he didn’t want to scare her.
She thought about that for a bit. Her arm...
‘There...there does seem to be a problem. I hit the rocks. I guess I don’t make the grade as a lifesaver, huh?’
‘If you hadn’t come out I’d be dead,’ he told her. ‘I couldn’t fight the rip and I didn’t know where it ended.’
‘I was trying to signal but I didn’t know if you’d seen me.’ She was still having trouble getting her voice to work but it seemed he was, too. His lilting accent—French?—was husky, and she could hear exhaustion behind it. He had been in peril, she thought. Maybe she had saved him. It was small consolation for the way her arm felt, but at least it was something.
‘Where can I go to get help?’ he asked, cautious now, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
‘Help?’
‘The charts say this island is uninhabited.’
‘It’s not,’ she told him.
‘No?’
‘There’s Rocky and me, and now there’s you.’
‘Rocky?’
‘I’m holding him.’
Silence. Although it wasn’t exactly silence. The waves were pounding the sand and the wind was whistling around the cliffs. A stray piece of seaweed whipped past her face like a physical slap.
What was wrong with her arm? She tried a tentative wiggle and decided she wouldn’t do that again in a hurry.
‘Do you live here?’
‘I caretake,’ she said, enunciating every syllable with care because it seemed important.
‘You caretake the island?’
‘The house.’
‘There’s a house?’
‘A big house.’
‘Excellent,’ he told her.
He rose and stared round the beach, then left her with Rocky. Two minutes later he was back, holding her pile of discarded clothes.
‘Let’s get you warm. You need to put these on.’
‘You’re wet, too’ she told him.
‘Yeah, but I don’t have a set of dry clothes on the beach. Let’s cope with one lot of hypothermia instead of two. Tug your knickers off and I’ll help you on with your jeans and windcheater.
‘I’m not taking my knickers off!’
‘They’re soaked and you’re freezing.’
‘I have my dignity.’
‘And I’m not putting up with misplaced modesty on my watch.’ He was holding up her windcheater. ‘Over your head with this. Don’t try and put your arm in it.’
He slid the windcheater over her head. It was long enough to give her a semblance of respectability as she kicked off her soggy knickers—but not much. She should be wearing wisps of sexy silk, she thought, but she was on an island in winter for six months with no expected company. Her knickers were good solid knickers, bought for warmth, with just a touch of lace.
‘My granny once told me to always wear good knickers in case I’m hit by a bus,’ she managed. Her teeth were chattering. She had her good arm on his shoulder while he was holding her jeans for her to step into.
‘Sensible Granny.’
‘I think she meant G-strings with French lace,’ she told him. ‘Granny had visions of me marrying a doctor. Or similar.’
‘Still sensible Granny.’ He was hauling her jeans up as if this was something he did every day of the week. Which he surely didn’t. He was definitely wearing army issue camouflage. It was soaking. One sleeve was ripped but it still looked serviceable.
He looked capable. Capable of hauling her jeans up and not looking?
Don’t go there.
‘Why...? Why sensible?’ she managed.
‘Because we could use a doctor right now,’ he told her. ‘Your arm...’
‘My arm will be fine. I must have wrenched it.’ She stared down. He was holding her boots. He must have unlaced them. She’d hauled them off and run.
She took the greatest care to put her feet into them, one after the other, and then tried not to be self-conscious as he tied the laces for her.
She was an awesome lifesaver, she thought ruefully. Not.
‘Now,’ he said, and he took her good arm under the elbow. Rocky was turning crazy circles around them, totally unaware of drama, knowing only that he was out of the house and free. ‘Let’s get to this house. Is it far?’
‘A hundred yards as the crow flies,’ she told him. ‘Sadly we don’t have wings.’
‘You mean it’s up?’
‘It’s up.’
‘I’m sorry.’ For the first time his voice faltered. ‘I don’t think I can carry you.’
‘Well, there’s a relief,’ she managed. ‘Because I might have been forced to let you help me dress, but that’s as far as it goes. You’re carrying me nowhere.’
* * *
It had been two days since he’d set off from Hobart, and to say he was exhausted was an understatement. The storm had blown up from nowhere and the boat’s engine hadn’t been big enough to fight it. Sails had been impossible. He’d been forced to simply ride it out, trying to use the storm jib to keep clear of land, letting the elements take him where they willed.
And no one knew where he was.
His first inkling of the storm had been a faint black streak on the horizon. The streak had turned into a mass with frightening speed. He’d been a good couple of hours out. As soon as he’d noticed it he’d headed for port, but the storm had overwhelmed him.
And he’d been stupidly unprepared. He’d had his phone, but the first massive wave breaking over the bow had soaked him and rendered his phone useless. He’d kicked himself for not putting it in a waterproof container and headed below to Tom’s radio. And found it useless. Out of order.
Raoul had thought then how great Tom’s devil-may-care attitude had seemed when he and Tom had done their Sunday afternoon sail with his bodyguard in the background, and how dumb it seemed now. And where was the EPIRB? The emergency position indicating radio beacon all boats should carry to alert the authorities if they were in distress and send an automatic location beacon? Did Tom even own one?
Apparently not.
Dumb was the word to describe what he’d done. He’d set out to sea because he was fed up with the world and wanted some time to himself to reflect. But he wasn’t so fed up that he wanted to die, and with no one knowing where he was, and no reliable method of communication, he’d stood every chance of ending up that way.
He’d been lucky to end up here.
He’d