The Mediterranean Prince’s Captive Virgin

She hoped.

He said coolly, ‘I can assure you, once I let it be known that you’ve decided to extend your holiday for a time as my guest, everyone will accept that.’ Cynically he finished, ‘Even if you were still working for Tabitha Grantham she would accept your absence in the hope that you’d bring added sales.’

Leola’s hands clenched at her sides. Reluctantly she admitted that he was correct; Tabitha would have considered her temporary absence as the lover of a very rich man to be an excellent career move.

The Magnati princes were not just rich—they had huge power and influence, and they were part of a very exclusive upper circle, being related to most of the royal houses in Europe.

If she moved—even for a few weeks—in their world, she’d have gone from being a nobody from the other side of the world to a person with valuable contacts…

Not that it mattered any more, since Tabitha had dumped her. ‘My landlord—’

‘Was told by your employer that your tenancy had been terminated the day you came to the Sea Isles.’

Leola felt herself being backed inexorably into a corner. Flushed and angry, she blurted the first thing that came to mind. ‘It wouldn’t work. I’m no actress and we don’t know each other—’

Then she stopped, eyes widening as he advanced across the room in long, silent strides, his expression decisive. Nervously she licked her lips, and saw his ironic glance take in the betraying little movement.

He stopped in front of her, just close enough to remind her that even when he’d abducted her so brutally she’d noticed his subtle masculine scent. Her heart quickened, and her gaze slid down so that he couldn’t read what she was thinking.

‘You’ll be perfectly safe with me,’ he said quietly. ‘I told you I prefer willing women. For your own safety, this is necessary.’

Her voice uncertain, Leola asked, ‘Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?’

He scanned her face with penetrating eyes, as though he could see into her soul. ‘Because you’re safer not knowing. You do have a choice, Leola Foster. You can either agree to stay with me in London, or stay here as my guest.’

Take it or leave it, his tone implied, leaving no room for negotiation.

Pride fought with pragmatism. If she agreed to his suggestion she’d be for ever tarred with the stigma of being his temporary mistress. If she refused, she’d be stuck here until he let her go—and who knew how long that might be?

In London at least she’d be able to look for another job and try to find accommodation.

As though he could read her mind he said casually, ‘When this is over, I might be of some use in helping you find another position, possibly even better than the one you were so unceremoniously relieved of.’

She bit her lip, ambition warring with a cold common sense that told her nobody got something for nothing. ‘You don’t have to do that. I can make it on my own.’

Of course it would be much, much easier if she had Prince Nico Magnati batting for her. It galled her that she’d end up with the stigma of being a discarded mistress without the pleasure—

Whoa! No, it didn’t. The last thing she needed was any sort of romance with him.

Abruptly she made up her mind.

‘Is there anything illegal in what you’re doing?’ she asked abruptly, watching him keenly.

‘No.’ The denial was prompt and uncompromising.

Instinct told Leola she could trust him; she hoped it wasn’t influenced by her humiliating physical response to him. ‘Morally ambiguous?’ she pressed.

He shrugged. ‘Possibly, because I am forcing you to choose between two equally distasteful alternatives. However, as each will protect you from possible death, I feel that the risk is worth it.’

‘Death?’ She felt the colour fade from her skin, but rallied to say disbelievingly, ‘Oh, come on…’

CHAPTER THREE

HER words died away when Prince Nico took her chin. ‘Look at me,’ he commanded.

Leola swallowed but lifted her lashes. His eyes had darkened into an intensity that defeated the defiance sparking through her.

‘I am not fooling,’ he said quietly. ‘Death—your death—is a possibility.’

Desperately, she argued, ‘But all I saw was a face.’

‘That is more than enough to put your life in danger if the wrong people suspect it.’

Leola’s anger transmuted into apprehension. ‘So am I ever going to be safe?’

‘Yes. Soon he will be in custody. Until then I will protect you. Also, I will be honest; this might not be necessary. Possibly no one was aware of your presence in the square, but the people involved are ruthless; they have killed before, and would kill again if they knew what you saw. Lives are at stake—lives and money and futures.’

‘Do you know who that man is?’

He released her, standing back a step. In a voice that gave her no leeway, he said, ‘Why do you ask?’

‘You do know him, don’t you? So are you in danger too?’

One black brow arched in sardonic amusement. ‘I can protect myself.’ His expression hardened. ‘Come, make up your mind. Either you stay here, or in London with me—which is it to be?’

Leola hesitated. ‘I’ll need to look for another job,’ she said, despising herself for surrendering.

‘The same sort of thing you had before?’

‘If it’s at all possible.’ Why was he interested? ‘Work experience,’ she stressed.

Preferably with someone who wasn’t interested in women, she thought bitterly.

‘Very well, then, but not until this is over and you are safe.’

He meant it. When she opened her mouth he cut in, ‘That is non-negotiable. You are in danger, Leola. Accept it.’

Her gaze flew upwards; in his eyes she saw a bleak conviction that iced through her. After a few moments’ further struggle with herself, she reluctantly said, ‘I don’t appear to have much choice. I’ll go with you.’

An hour later she 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. After composing her face into a pleasant, noncommittal mask, she opened the door.

Nico smiled, his gaze skimming her with appreciation that held nothing of the raw passion she’d seen before. ‘Very fitting,’ he approved, and offered his arm. ‘I hope you won’t be bored staying here. Do you like opera?’

‘It depends,’ she said inadequately, laying her fingers gingerly on his arm. Trying to ignore the tension that sprang into life inside her, she wondered if he planned to take her to the theatre. Surely not?

She went on, ‘If it’s something modern and atonal, no. Why?’

‘I am trying to find out something of your tastes,’ he said gravely.

‘I like the classics,’ she said, still acutely suspicious. ‘And most other music. But you don’t have to entertain me.’

He led her into a drawing-room. ‘Champagne, I think,’ he said, and poured two glasses.

Leola glanced around the room, hoping she wasn’t being too obvious in her appraisal. It was much safer than watching her companion, dressed in casual clothes that had clearly been tailored especially for his broad shoulders and narrow hips and those long, heavily muscled legs.

Think furniture, she told herself sternly. This is probably the only time in your life you’re going to visit a prince’s house.

It was decorated in the same style as her bedroom—modern luxury spiced by pieces that could only have come from Illyria, like the painting of a prince in elaborate sixteenth-century armour. Mounted on a prancing charger, he was posed in front of a large, grim castle.

Leola examined him, then sneaked another glance at his descendant. Yes, there was a definite resemblance, although Nico’s cold grey eyes had come from somewhere else in his gene pool.

Of course he caught her, that black brow climbing as she hastily gestured at the picture. ‘An ancestor?’ she asked.

‘Alexander the Fourth, noted for his ferocity in battle and his astuteness. He fell in love with the daughter of the ruling prince of Illyria, but she was promised to a son of the King of France. He kidnapped her.’

Leola accepted the glass he held out, and concentrated hard on setting it down on a small table. ‘So it runs in the family. I hope she made his life hell,’ she said pleasantly.

His smile was swift and appreciative, and did very strange things to her insides.

‘She did,’ he said, ‘but as she was in love with him too they worked it out. Mind you, he had to give up quite a lot to appease her father. Until then the Lords of the Sea Isles had been more or less independent, although ostensibly they owed fealty to the ruler of Illyria. Alexander had to cede most of his rights to the Prince of Illyria.’

‘He must really have loved her,’ she said, surprised.

‘Of course he did. We Magnati are noted for our very successful marriages.’ He raised his glass and finished with an irony that suggested he didn’t mean what he was saying, ‘To love.’

‘To successful marriages.’ She sipped the most superb champagne she’d ever tasted.

‘You don’t believe in love?’

‘I believe in it,’ she said coolly. ‘I just don’t think it’s necessarily the most important thing in a good marriage.’

‘So what is the most necessary quality to achieve that?’ he probed.

She shrugged, uncomfortable yet not backing down. ‘Shared values, I suppose. And respect—trust. Pleasure in each other’s company that’s not solely based on physical appetite.’ Heat stung her skin. She went to take another sip of champagne, but decided it wouldn’t be politic. She didn’t know how much sedative was still swirling around her bloodstream.

‘Interesting,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘if perhaps a little prosaic. Are you warning me off?’

If he could be direct, so could she. She lifted her head and gave him a straight look. ‘I’m not in the market for any sort of affair.’

His mouth hardened. ‘Good, because neither am I. However, to make this work we need to look as though we are very much in lust.’

‘I told you before, I’m no actress,’ she warned.

He set his glass down before coming across to her. ‘I don’t think you’ll need to act,’ he said evenly, and slid his hands around her throat in a gesture that should have been threatening.

Unable to move, to breathe, she stared at him, her gaze darkening when his fingertips swept across the pulse that fluttered in the vulnerable hollow at the base of her throat. The tiny caress summoned a languorous desire, fiery yet honey-sweet, that licked through her body in a slow, feverish tide.

Deep in his eyes she saw the crystalline ice heat, so that they became burnished and opaque, almost impersonal in their unwavering focus.

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