His stunning scars didn’t detract anything from his absolute masculine beauty. If anything, they gave him an edge that she imagined drew women even more. His physique drew her, for love’s sake, and he was the last man on earth she would have ever been seriously interested in.
The first rule of matchmaking was: Do not get involved with a client under any circumstances.
He pulled his left hand through his dark hair to get it out of his eyes, shaking the bag with his other hand to dislodge a long strand of seaweed. His breathing was labored, as if he’d been swimming for a long time.
“What are you doing?” Had he tried to swim off the island with some of their supplies? That made no sense whatsoever.
“Saving the remains of our gear.”
Her feet rooted to the spot. For a second, she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. She couldn’t really understand. “But—”
“The storm last night whipped up the waves. They ran farther up the beach than usual.” He came over and lowered the bag to the ground at his feet.
“It’s all gone?” She stared at him, still barely comprehending.
He nodded.
Disaster. Absolute disaster was all she could think.
“Can you go back for the rest?” She wasn’t the best of swimmers.
He dropped to the sand, panting, stretching his muscular legs in front of him. “I’ve been at it for the last two hours. Everything else must have been carried far out to sea.”
Her legs wouldn’t hold her up. She sank down across the bag from him.
He opened the bag and pulled out ten jars of caviar—five red, five black—a dozen scented candles and a half-dozen bottles of champagne carefully wrapped in bubble bags.
She waited for more, then could have cried as he tossed the empty bag aside. She pulled it to herself and went through it again. And in one of the front pockets she found waterproof matches, one box of the two dozen she’d ordered from a camping supply store.
“Breakfast?” He held out a jar of caviar, the top already twisted off.
“No thanks.” Her stomach was in a knot. No way could she put anything into it.
He shrugged and scooped some tiny, shiny, pearl-like beluga roe into his mouth. When he finished off the jar, he washed the food down with champagne. Then he lay back on the sand, his face to the sky, suddenly grinning while she did her best not to hyperventilate.
“How can you be happy at a moment like this?” she snapped at him.
He came up on one elbow—biceps bulging all over the place—and pinned her with those wicked dark eyes of his. “I have two weeks without you being able to do anything to get me married.”
He was insufferable.
“You’re missing your race,” she pointed out, just to needle him.
He shrugged. “A little freedom might just be worth it.”
She didn’t say anything for a while, then, “We should light a fire and send smoke signals.”
He looked over the meager pile of driftwood she’d collected. “If the guards are on the other side of the island, they won’t see it. Better we save the wood for tonight to keep warm. It has to dry before we can light it anyway.”
She couldn’t bear the thought of another night. Under those rocks. With the prince. “The boat will come.”
“Maybe. But we need a plan B.”
“We should find another shelter. And we should go and find fresh water before the day gets too hot.” They were in the Mediterranean. There was plenty of heat; his shorts were half-dry already. And they needed to do something. Sprawled on the sand, he looked like he was on vacation. He gestured toward the champagne bottles.
“That won’t prevent dehydration. In fact, alcohol speeds it.” Lady Szilvia, the survival expert, had told her that when she’d given advice about what to bring. And Milda had made sure to pack plenty of water. Except, those plastic bottles were now bobbing somewhere in the sea. “We need fresh water.”
“We have nothing to put it in until we drink the champagne.”
She hated that he had a point. “We could pour the champagne out.”
He seemed to consider that, but then he said, “On the off chance that we might be here awhile without much food, we could need those calories.”
She grabbed the bottle from him.
The bubbles tickled down her throat deliciously. After the ninth or tenth sip, she felt some of the tension leaving her body. “There.” She took another gulp, then tossed the empty bottle onto the sand in front of him.
He picked it up with an amused look, stood and held out his hand.
She ignored him.
He walked to the bushes and came back with his clothes, a bundle she hadn’t seen there in her frenetic search for him. He dressed, then slipped the waterproof matches into his pocket, packed everything else back into the bag before slinging it over his shoulder. “Let’s stash this under the overhang before we go for a stroll. Wouldn’t want to lose it again.”
She walked after him, trying not to look at him too much. The only man she’d ever known who managed to swagger with a limp. Who did he think he was, John Wayne?
They crossed the wild olive grove, the tangy scent of the trees heavy in the air. That odd feeling returned to her again, a premonition she couldn’t put her finger on, a sense of unease. Probably because they were going back to those gruesome rocks.
“So, what are those paintings about? I didn’t realize Valtria’s past was that bloodthirsty.”
“It’s not. The island was used by Etruscan priests back in the day, for their human sacrifices. Valtrians came here much later.”
A shiver ran down her spine as she thought how many men and women must have died on the island over the centuries. Which would explain the bad vibes she’d been getting. By being here, they were probably disturbing some ancient burial grounds.
She tried not to look at the rock paintings as they emptied the bag and secured their meager supplies. Then they were finally heading for higher ground. The hillside wasn’t too steep, solid rock in places, brittle shale in others where she had to watch her step in order not to slip. Here and there, thick woods appeared, especially close to the top, but on the bottom, the wild groves were sparse with plenty of open areas between them.
“Is there fresh water here, do you know?” She did her best to keep up with him. He was pretty fast, even with the limp.
She was wearing sandals. Only two-inch heels, but still …She hadn’t planned on staying on the island beyond explaining the camping trip to Lazlo and introducing him to the ladies. She’d planned on being back at the palace by dinner, at the latest. At least she’d had the good sense to wear summer slacks, and brought a sweater in case the wind was too much on the boat ride over.
“There’s a stream.”
“Do you know where?”
“No idea. I was only here once, when I was a kid.” The higher they went, the denser the vegetation became.
“Wild animals?” She remembered last night’s worry.
“Rabbits and foxes.”
At least that was reassuring.
They walked until noon but found nothing. “We should switch tactics and walk the perimeter of the island,” Lazlo