The Mediterranean Prince's Passion. Sharon Kendrick

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?’

      â€˜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?’

      â€˜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.

      â€˜I’m asking now.’

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

      â€˜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.

      â€˜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!

      â€˜Why, yes,’ she said, in surprise.

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

      â€˜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?’

      â€˜How long have I been here?’ she questioned faintly.

      â€˜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.

      â€˜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?

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

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

      â€˜Because I informed the local police of their trespass,’ he informed her coolly.

      â€˜You’ve had him put in jail?’

      â€˜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?’

      â€˜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