Czytaj książkę: «The Mediterranean Prince's Passion»

Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing and awesome 100th book! Sharon is known worldwide for her likeable, spirited heroines and her gorgeous, utterly masculine heroes.

Contents

Cover

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS just a dazzle of white set against the endless sapphire, but the sun was blinding her too much to see clearly. Ella’s eyes fluttered to a close in protest. Maybe she had imagined it. Like a person hallucinating an oasis in the desert, perhaps her mind had conjured up an image on the empty sea that surrounded them. Some sign of life other than the birds that circled and cawed in a sky as blue as the waters beneath.

‘Mark.’ She croaked the unfamiliar name through lips so parched they felt as if they had never tasted liquid before. ‘Mark, are you there?’ She racked her brains for one of the women’s names. ‘Helen!’

But there was no answer, and maybe that wasn’t so surprising, for the throb, throb, throb of loud music from the lower deck drowned the sound of her feeble words. She could hear the muffled sound of girlish, drunken giggling drifting upwards. She moaned.

How long? How long since she had drunk anything? She knew she ought to go and get some water, but her legs felt as though they had been filled with lead. She lifted a heavy hand to try to brush the weight of damp hair that flopped so annoyingly against her cheek, but it fell uselessly to her side.

She was going to die. She knew she was.

She could feel the strength slowly ebbing from her body. Her ears were roaring and the weak flutter of her heart beat rapidly against her breast. Her skin was on fire, it was burning…burning…burning…

Below, the cool, darkened interior of the cabin beckoned to her enticingly, but an instinct even stronger than her need to escape the sun stopped her from giving in to it. Down there lay chaos, and no chance for escape, but at least here on deck someone might see her.

Her eyes began to close.

Please, God, let someone see her…

His dark hair ruffled by the breeze and his strong body relaxed, Nico stared at the horizon, his eyes suddenly narrowing as the flash of something on the horizon caught his attention.

A boat? Where there should be no boat? Here in the protected waters on this side of Mardivino? His mouth tightened. Modern-day bandits? Seeking access to the tax haven guarded so jealously by the super-rich? The island had a long history of being beseiged by bounty-hunters and their modern-day counterparts—the paparazzi—and his face darkened. Where the hell were the Marine Patrol when you needed them?

But the devil-may-care facet of his character made his pulse begin to race with excitement. Ignoring—almost relishing—the potential danger to himself, he reached for the throttle and his jet-ski sped forward, roaring in a spray of foam towards the stricken craft, which bobbed like a child’s toy on the waves.

As his craft approached he could see a figure lying on the deck, and as he drew alongside he could see that it was a woman and that she appeared to be sunbathing. Tawny limbs and tawny hair. Slim and supple, with the tight lushness of youth. It took him precisely two seconds to assess whether or not this was a ploy and she the decoy. It was an age-old method he had encountered before; it came with the territory he inhabited.

But she was not sunbathing. Something was very wrong—Nico could see that from her slumped and unmoving pose.

Moving swiftly, he secured his jet-ski and jumped on board, his stance alert and watchful as he scanned the deck for a brief moment and listened intently. From a distance he could hear the loud beat of dance music, but the woman appeared to be alone on deck.

In a few strides he had reached her. Bending over, he turned her onto her side, blotting out his instinctive first reaction to the way her magnificent breasts rose and fell beneath the skimpy jade-green bikini top she wore.

She was sick.

Assessingly, he ran his eyes over her. Her breathing was shallow, her eyes tight-closed and her skin very pink. He laid a brief exploratory hand on her forehead and felt the heat sizzling from it. Fever. Probably sunstroke, by the look of her.

Urgently, he shook her. ‘Svegli!’ he ordered, but there was no response. He tried in French. ‘Reveillezvous!’ And then, louder, in Spanish. ‘Despierte!’

Through the mists of the dream that was sucking her down towards a black numbness Ella heard a deep voice urging her back to the surface, back towards the light. But the light was hurting her eyes and she didn’t want to go there. She shook her head from side to side.

‘Wake up!’

Her eyes flickered open. A face was looming over her—its hard, handsome features set in a look of grim concern. A dark angel. She must be dreaming. Or dying.

‘Oh, no!’ he exclaimed, and levered her up into his arms, supporting her head with an unmoving hand as it threatened to flop back. ‘You will not sleep again! Do you hear me? Wake up! Wake up now, this instant. I demand it!’

The richly accented voice was too commanding to ignore, but Ella was lost in the grip of a fever too powerful to resist.

‘Go away,’ she mumbled, and she felt a cold terror when he lowered her back onto the deck and did just that—left her all alone again. She gave a little whimper.

Nico went below deck and the noise hit him like a wall. He stood for a moment, studying the scene of decadence that lay before him.

He could count five people—three men and two women—and all of them were in advanced stages of intoxication. One woman was topless and snoring quietly on the floor, while another gyrated in front of one of the men like a very poor lap-dancer.

Only one of the men seemed to notice his arrival, and he raised a half-empty bottle of Scotch.

‘Hey! Who’re you?’ he slurred.

Nico gave him a look of simmering fury. ‘Are you aware that you’re trespassing?’ he snapped.

‘No, matey—I think you’re the one doing that! This boat I paid through the nose for, and—’ The man pointed exaggeratedly upwards. ‘The sea is free!’ he added, in a sing-song voice.

‘Not here, it isn’t. You’re in forbidden waters.’ And, turning on his heel, Nico went back up onto the deck. He slid a mobile phone from his back pocket and punched in a number known to only a very few, which connected him straight to the Chief of Police.

‘Pronto? Si. Nicolo.’ He spoke rapidly in Italian.

There was a pause.

‘You want that we should arrest them, Principe?’ asked the Capo quietly.

Nico gave a hard glimmer of a smile. ‘Si. Why not? A night in jail sobering up might teach them never to put themselves nor others in danger again.’ But he stared down thoughtfully at the girl, for she was not drunk; she was sick.

He bent down and shook her gently by the shoulder. Her eyes fluttered open, dazed and green as spring grass.

Through the haze of her fever she saw his strength—a rock, a safe harbour and her only means of escape. ‘Don’t leave me,’ she begged.

The raw emotion in her voice made him still momentarily but it was an unnecessary appeal for he had already made up his mind. ‘I have no intention of leaving you,’ he said tersely, and scooped her up into his arms before she could protest.

Her arms clasped tightly around his neck, she slumped against his chest like a rag doll in an unconscious attitude of complete trust. He gripped her tightly as he manoeuvred her onto the jet-ski.

Most men would have struggled to cope with a woozy female, but Nico had been born to respond to challenge—it was one of the few things in life that invigorated him. A small smile touched the corners of his mouth as he set off for the shore.

He was always trying new thrills and spills, but this was the first time he’d ever rescued a damsel in distress.

CHAPTER TWO

COOL dampness rippled enchanting fingers across her cheeks and Ella let out a small sigh.

‘Mmm! S’nice!’

‘Drink this!’

It was the voice that wouldn’t go away. The voice that wouldn’t take no for an answer. The voice that had been popping in and out of her consciousness with annoying frequency. A bossy, foreign voice, but an irresistible one, too.

Obediently Ella opened her lips and sipped again from the cup she was being offered, only this time she drank more greedily than before, gulping it so that the water ran in riveluts down her face, trickling over her chin and startling her out of the hazy fog that engulfed her.

‘That is better,’ said the deep voice, with a touch of approval. ‘Take some more still, and then open your eyes properly.’

Befuddled, she did as she was told—only to find herself even more confused. For there was a man standing over her—a man she didn’t recognise.

Or did she?

She blinked up at his face and something peculiar happened to her already unsteady heart-rate, for he was utterly spectacular.

His chiselled features gave his face a hard, auto cratic appearance, but a sensual mouth softened it. Narrowed eyes were fringed by blocks of dark lashes and his hair was jet-dark and wavy, and slightly too long. He looked rugged and powerful—familiar and yet a stranger. His skin was golden and olive and glowing—as though it had been gently lit from within. His was the face that had drifted in and out of her fevered sleep, coaxing and cooling her. A dark angel. A guardian angel.

So she had not been dreaming at all. Nor, it seemed, had she died.

Still blinking in consternation, she glanced around her. She was in a room—a very plain and simple room, containing little more than a small wooden table and a couple of old chairs. On the floor were worn floorboards, the walls were wooden, too, and she could hear the roar of waves. It was cool and dim and she was lying on a low kind of bed, beneath a tickly-feeling thing that was too thick to be a sheet and too thin to be a blanket. Her hand slithered inside.

She was wearing nothing but a man’s T-shirt!

The last of her lethargy fled in an instant and fear galloped in to take its place. Clutching the coverlet, she sat up and stared at the man who stood over her, his dark face shuttered and watchful. Was she certain that she wasn’t dreaming? Who was he, and what was she doing here?

‘Would you mind telling me what the hell’s going on?’ she demanded breathlessly.

‘I think…’ There was a pause. He watched her very carefully, like a hunter with his prey held firmly in his sights. ‘That I should be asking you that very same question.’

Her heart was pounding like a piston. His voice was soft and rich and accented. And accusing. When surely, if there was any accusing to be done…Beneath the coverlet she ran an exploratory hand down over her body, as if checking that all her limbs were intact. And not just her limbs…

Nico watched her. ‘Oh, do not worry,’ he drawled. ‘Your virtue is intact. Or at least as intact as it was when you arrived.’ Though God only knew what she had been up to with the band of drunks on board that boat.

Ella tried to will her stubborn memory into gear, but it was as if her brain had been wrapped in cotton wool. Something told her that she must be grateful to this man, but something about his dark masculinity was suddenly making her feel very shy. More than shy. ‘What’s happened?’

‘You have been sick,’ he explained, but his eyes lost nothing of their glittering suspicion.

She looked around for signs that she might be in a hospital, but there was nothing remotely medical or sterile about the place. In fact, there were grains of sand on the floorboards, and a wetsuit lay coiled in a heap like a seal skin. Some of the cotton wool cleared. ‘Where am I?’

‘Ah! At last! The traditional question. It took you long enough to ask,’ he observed, arching imperious eyebrows that shot up into the ebony tumble of his hair. His dark eyes fixed her with a lancing stare.

‘I’m asking now.’

The eyes narrowed, for he was unused to such a response. ‘You don’t know?’

‘Why would I bother asking you if I already knew?’

Unless, he pondered, she had her own separate agenda, and there was no way of finding out, not until she was properly recovered. Not when she was still…

Nico turned away from her body, its outline undisguised by the T-shirt, its firm curves spelling out a temptation that would have stretched the resolve of the most holy and celibate of men—two things of which he had never been accused.

For hours she had lain there, her tawny limbs and hair flailing as she thrashed and cried out, hot with fever and lost in the strange world of delirium. And he had bathed her. Sponged her down. Fed her with water and sat with her during the long, lonely hours till dawn.

It had been a new sensation for him—having someone reliant and dependent on him. She had been as helpless as a wounded animal, and that very helplessness had brought about a protectiveness he had never before experienced.

Until…

He had been smoothing the damp hair away from her sweat-sheened skin, murmuring words of comfort, when she had suddenly called out in alarm. And when he shushed her she had sat up, the sheet falling from her. The T-shirt he had hastily flung on her had managed to both conceal and reveal—and the hazy hint of glorious rose-tipped breast beneath had been enchanting beyond belief. He had tried to move away but she had lifted her arms and clung onto him with the terrified and irresistible strength of someone who was lost in a nightmare. And she had been close. Oh…so…close…Far too close for comfort and sane thought.

His body had sprung into instant and unwilling response as she’d pressed closer still. Nerves stretching with unbearable tension, he had stared down into her eyes—the most green and startling eyes he had ever seen—but they had been clouded and vacant. Whomever or whatever she was seeing, it certainly was not him.

‘Lie down on the bed!’ he had ordered harshly, in English, and the still-dry lips had puckered into the shape of a parched flower before much-needed rain fell onto it.

Some men would have thought—why not? Taja ch’e e rosso, as the Romans sometimes said. To have taken advantage of what was so beautifully on offer might have been an option, but Nico was of different blood from other men. Even if his hadn’t been an appetite jaded by what had always been given to him so freely, he could not have countenanced making love to a woman unless she was in total command of her senses.

He stared down at her now and saw that the wild, febrile light had left her eyes. He felt a small tug of triumph, for she had been in his charge and now she was recovered. ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked unexpectedly.

His words made Ella focus, not on the extraordinary situation in which she found herself, but on the needs of her body, and she suddenly realised that her stomach felt empty and her head light as air. Hungry? She was absolutely starving!

‘Why, yes,’ she said, in surprise.

‘Then you must eat.’ He began to move away, as if he couldn’t wait to put physical distance between them.

‘No—wait!’

He stilled at her words, a bemused expression on his lean and handsome face. How long had it been since someone had issued such a curt order? ‘What is it?’

‘How long have I been here?’ she questioned faintly.

‘Only a day.’

Only a day? Only a day! She shook her head again to clear it, and strands of memory began to filter back. A boat. A boat trip taken with a bunch of people who, it had turned out, knew nothing of basic maritime law or safety. Who had proceeded to drink themselves into oblivion. And a man who had invited her—who had clearly thought that a woman should pay the traditional price for a luxury weekend.

She screwed up her nose. What had his name been?

Mark! Yes, that was it. Mark.

Her eyes now accustomed to the dim light within the interior of the room, Ella turned her head slowly to look around.

‘Where’s Mark? What’s happened to him?’

Nico’s mouth hardened. Had ‘Mark’ been on her mind when she had pressed her body so close to his? Or was she the kind of woman who was naturally free with her body?

‘By now—’ he glanced at his watch ‘—he will just about be released from jail.’

‘Jail!’ She stared at him in confusion. ‘How come?’

‘Because I informed the local police of their trespass,’ he informed her coolly.

‘You’ve had him put in jail?’

‘Not him,’ he corrected. ‘Them. All of them.’

Ella swallowed, suddenly fearful. Just where was she? And who the hell was he? ‘Isn’t that a bit over the top?’

‘You think so?’ His voice became filled with contempt. ‘Putting the trespass aside—you think it acceptable for people to be drunk in charge of a powerful boat? To put not only their own lives in danger, but those of others? And that includes you! What do you think might have happened if I hadn’t come along?’

Something in the stark accusation of his words made her feel very small and very vulnerable. ‘L-look, I’m very grateful for everything you’ve done,’ she said, in a low trembling voice, ‘but would you mind telling me exactly what’s going on? I don’t—’

He silenced her with an autocratic wave of his hand. ‘No more questions. Not now. Later you will ask me whatever you please and I shall answer it, but first you must eat. You have been sick. You are weak and you are hungry and you need food. You will have your answers, but later.’

Ella opened her mouth to object, and then shut it again, realising that she was in no position to do so. And even if she had been she simply did not have the strength. He was right—she felt all weak and woolly with the aftermath of fever.

Yet surely she wasn’t expected to just lie here, helpless beneath the cover, while this handsome, dominant stranger told her what she could and couldn’t do? But what was the alternative? Did she just leap out of bed, feeling strangely naked despite his T-shirt?

He turned his head to look at her and saw the fleeting look of vulnerability that had melted away her objections. Only this time he had to force himself to respond to it. Before it had been easy. While she had been sick he had been able to be gentle with her, as he would have with a child. But now that she was awake it was different. And suddenly not so easy. For she was a beautiful, breathing woman and not a child.

Almost without thinking Nico rebuilt the familiar emotional barriers with which he habitually surrounded himself.

‘You wish to wash, perhaps?’

‘Please.’ But she noticed that his voice had grown cool.

He pointed to a curtain at the far end of the simple room. ‘You’ll find some basic facilities through there,’ he said. He pulled a fresh T-shirt down from an open shelf and threw it onto the divan.

‘You might want that,’ he said. ‘All your stuff is still on the boat and your bikini is hanging outside. I washed it,’ he explained, amused to see her look of barely concealed horror. Was she afraid he was expecting her to change in front of him? Then clearly she had no memory of how her T-shirt had slithered up her naked thighs as she had thrashed around. Of how he had played the gentleman and slithered it right down again. ‘Don’t be shy—I’ll be outside.’

Don’t be shy! Ella watched him disappearing through the door, caught a dazzling glimpse of blue as it opened, and heard the hypnotic pounding music of the waves.

She was obviously in some kind of beach hut—but where exactly?

She stared at the closed door and half thought of running after him, and demanding some answers. But she was too weak to run anywhere, and she was also naked, sticky and dusty. Surely she would be better placed to ask for explanations once she was dressed?

Never had the thought of washing seemed more alluring, though the sight that greeted her behind the curtain was not terribly reassuring. There was a sink, a loo, and the most ancient-looking shower that Ella had ever seen. It didn’t gush, it trickled, but at least it was halfway warm and there was soap and shampoo, too—surprisingly luxurious brands for such a spartan setting.

Basic it might have been, but Ella had never enjoyed or appreciated a shower more than that one. She washed all the salt and sand away from her skin and hair, and roughly towelled herself dry, then slithered into the clean T-shirt that fortunately—because its owner was so tall—came to mid-way down her thigh. It wasn’t what she would call decent, but it was better than nothing.

He was standing by the small table, dishing out two plates of something she didn’t recognise, the scent of which made her empty stomach ache. He had left the door open and Ella discovered why the sound of the waves was so loud. It looked directly out onto the most glorious sea view she had ever seen in her life.

Pale, powdered sand dotted with shells gave way to white-topped sapphire waves that glittered and sparkled and danced and filled the room with light. But the room seemed suddenly to have kaleidoscoped in on itself, for all Ella could see was the dark power of the man who was silhouetted against the brilliant backdrop outside.

Now that she was on her feet she didn’t need the T-shirt as an indicator of just how tall he was. She could see that instantly from the way he towered, dominating the small room, making everything else shrink into insignificance. His hair was dark and ruffled, tiny tendrils of it curling onto the back of his neck. She felt an odd, powerful kick to her heart as he looked up and slowly drifted his eyes over her.

‘My T-shirt suits you,’ he mused softly.

It was an innocent enough remark, but something in the way he said it, and the accompanying look of approbation in his eyes, made her feel all woman. She could feel her breasts tingling, and the soft, moist ache of longing. It was a powerful and primitive response, and it had never happened to her quite like that before.

Filled with a sudden feeling of claustrophobia, and unsure of how to deal with the situation, she walked to the open door and breathed in the fresh, salty tang of the air, staring at the moving water in silence for a moment.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ came his voice from behind her.

Composing her face into an expression of innocent appreciation, Ella turned round. ‘Unbelievable.’ And so was he. Oh, he was just gorgeous. ‘That…that smells good,’ she managed, in an effort to distract herself.

‘Mmm.’ He had seen the perking breasts and the brief darkening of her eyes and he felt himself harden. ‘Come and eat,’ he said evenly. ‘We could take our food outside, but I think you need a break from the sun. So we’ll just look at the view from here.’

But Ella didn’t move. ‘You said you would give me some answers, and I’d like some. Now. Please.’

Nico gave a slow smile. The novel always stirred his blood, and it was rare for him to be spoken to with anything other than deference. ‘Questions can wait, cara, but your hunger cannot.’

His words were soft, but a steely purposefulness underpinned them. As if he were used to issuing orders; as if he would not tolerate those orders being disobeyed. The scent of the food wafted towards her and Ella felt her mouth begin to water. Maybe he was right. Again.

She went back inside and sat down at the table.

‘Eat,’ he said, pushing a plate of food towards her, but it seemed the command was unnecessary. She had begun to devour the dish, falling on it with the fervour of the truly hungry.

He watched her in fascinated silence, for this, too, was a new sensation. In his company people always picked uninterestedly at their food. There were unspoken rules that were always followed. They waited for him to begin and they finished when he finished. It was all part of the protocol that surrounded him—and yet for all the notice she took of him he might as well not have been there!

She ate without speaking, unable to remember ever having enjoyed a meal as much. Eventually she put her fork down and sighed.

‘It’s good?’

‘It’s delicious.’

‘Hunger makes the best sauce,’ he observed slowly.

There was red wine in front of her, and he gestured towards it, but she shook her head and drank some water instead, then sat back in her chair and fixed him with a steady look. His eyes were as black as a moonless night and they lanced through her with their ebony light.

‘Now are you going to start explaining?’

Nico found that he was enjoying himself. He had played the rescuer—so let him have a little amusement in return. ‘Tell me what you wish to know.’

‘Well, for a start—who are you? I don’t even know your name, Mr…?’

There was a pause while he considered the question. It seemed sincere enough, although the Mr tacked onto the end could have been disingenuous, of course. Was it?

‘It is Nico,’ he said eventually. From behind the thick dark lashes that shielded his eyes he watched her reaction carefully, but there was no sign of recognition in her emerald eyes. ‘And you?’

‘I’m Ella.’

Ella. Yes. ‘It’s a pretty name.’

‘It’s short for Gabriella.’

‘Like the angel,’ he murmured, letting his eyes drift carelessly over the pale flames of her hair.

It was that thing in his voice again—that murmured caress that made her conscious of herself as a woman. And him as a man. A man who had seen her sick and half-naked. But he was the angel—a guardian angel.

‘Where am I?’ she asked slowly.

Now his expression became sceptical. ‘You really don’t know?’

She sighed. ‘How long are we going to continue with these guessing games? Of course I don’t know. One minute I was on a boat—and the next I’m in some kind of beach hut, eating…’ She stared down at her empty plate. Even the food had been unfamiliar, just as he was, with his strange accent and his exotic looks. Disorientated, she found herself asking, ‘What have I just eaten?’

‘Rabbit.’

‘Rabbit,’ she repeated dully. She had never eaten rabbit in her life!

‘They run wild in the hillsides,’ he elaborated, and then, still watching her very closely, he said, ‘Of Mardivino.’

‘Mardivino?’ She stared at him as it began to sink in. ‘Is that where we are?’

‘Indeed it is.’ He sipped from a tumbler of dark wine and surveyed her from eyes equally dark. ‘You have heard of it?’

It was one of the less-famous principalities. A sun-drenched Mediterranean island—tax haven and home to many of the world’s millionaires. Exclusive and remote and very, very beautiful.