so she’d hardly had any quiet moments when memory could ambush her. But now she leaned against the shower wall and closed her eyes, finally able to surrender. No longer did she have the strength to battle back those memories.
Not now she’d seen him again.
Not when the ramifications of that day were so dramatic.
The floodgates opened and every secretly stored sensation, every muscle memory, every beautiful image burst into her brain. Unstoppable. Overwhelming. Sensations trammelled through her as she relived every minute.
Despite the glorious weather, that day had turned bad just after lunch. She’d been summoned by her commanding officer and informed that there was a peace-keeping crew being sent to a high-conflict area. And she wasn’t going.
‘You’re not the right officer for this mission.’
‘Why not?’
All she’d wanted was one chance to lead a team. She’d prove to them how capable she was. But the chance had never been forthcoming.
‘Do not question the decisions of your superiors,’ he’d answered bluntly. ‘Not this one, Zambrano,’ he had added more kindly. ‘Maybe the next.’
Or maybe not. She’d been certain her father was blocking her progression, but knew she’d never challenge him on it. She’d just work harder, longer...and ultimately she’d win. Because she’d be so absolutely the best he wouldn’t be able to ignore her any more. None of them would.
But frustration had burned at yet another disappointment. What did she have to do to prove her worth and make him see she was as fine a soldier as the men he favoured?
Back in her barracks, her anger had burned hotter. She’d been passed over for so many opportunities. Sure, she’d had a few crumbs thrown her way, but nothing that she’d really wanted, and she was busting her butt every single day.
She hadn’t been able to stick around the base in such a septic mood—she’d needed to get her game face back. So she’d left her room and walked out into the afternoon sun.
While she wasn’t on active duty she was required to be available in case anything came up. But she’d known she’d hear the siren from the bay if there was an emergency. Which there rarely was. And just a short time out wasn’t going to hurt anyone.
The base was situated on a cliff overlooking the sea. To a rock-climber it was a good challenge, because at the bottom of the cliff, hidden by a rocky outcrop, was the Cala de Piratas—a bay accessible from the other side of the beach only at low tide because of the treacherous rocks surrounding it. Tiny, beautiful, dangerous.
Stella had climbed down—out of sight of her superiors, away from everyone.
It was island legend that some of San Felipe’s wealth had come from the pirate ships that had been sunk against the jagged rocks hidden just below the rough waves. That legend was embellished with the whisper that even the royal family had a rogue pirate in their ancestry. Tourists paid handsomely to dive and explore the various wrecks not far from the island’s shores, hoping to find gold.
But they didn’t dive here, the place at the heart of the pirate folklore, because at this bay there was a rip tide that not even the strongest ocean swimmer could conquer. Stella hadn’t intended to swim—only to wash the sweat from her skin and cool the angry heat of her muscles. She’d kicked off her shoes and strode straight in, water splashing her shorts and tee shirt. But as she’d walked forward a large wave had buffeted her and she’d stumbled, almost slipped right under the water.
Strong arms had suddenly banded around her and pulled her back against a large body of steel. Hard. Forceful. Threatening.
Shocked, she’d jerked her elbow to free her arm and, moving on pure defensive instinct, turned and lashed out. She’d been trained well and her fist had landed true and hard.
She had heard his grunt and her own as visceral pain had zinged up her arm. She’d quickly flicked her fingers, reeling at the impact of bone on bone. But she’d drawn her arm back again, ready to land another.
But the giant who’d grabbed her had reached even more quickly, catching hold of her upper arm and twisting it behind her, pulling her harder, more tightly into his steely body.
‘Stop fighting. I’m not going to hurt you,’ he’d said, in a deep, loud voice right in her ear.
She knew her best plan was to go limp, then move and take him by surprise. But when she let her muscles relax and fell against him he pulled her closer still, locking her into a hold she knew she mightn’t be able to escape.
It seemed he’d been trained too.
‘You have a powerful punch,’ he said.
Her throat clogged, but not with fear. She recognised that voice.
At three in the afternoon Prince Eduardo De Santis was wearing a tuxedo that was now wet to the waist. As the waves ebbed and flowed, the water moulded his trousers to his long, muscled legs and he was moulding her to him. Her wrists were bound in his broad hands and twisted tight behind her back, thrusting her forward so she was pressed flat against his torso. His legs were parted only enough to lock hers together between his.
Because of the motion of the waves battering them she remained standing only because he held her trapped against him. Because of his strength.
Her anger morphed into something far more dangerous. Far more tantalising. Far more foreign.
Stella didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t believe it. But that melting sensation deep inside her was undeniable. She’d had many hand-to-hand training sessions with men. All kinds of scenarios. She’d never become aroused by any.
‘You’re Prince Eduardo,’ she said stupidly.
And while he might not want to hurt her, she’d certainly hurt him. Already the skin around his eye was reddened. It was going to result in a mega bruise. She wanted to curl into a ball and die of shame.
He inclined his head in acknowledgement, but didn’t loosen his grip. ‘You have the advantage. I do not know your name.’
And he wasn’t going to. Her father would kill her. She’d be demoted in seconds. And she’d be a laughing stock.
‘Why are you here?’ he asked. ‘This cove is not safe. Soon enough the tide will sweep back in and the sand will almost vanish. You’ll be stuck here for the next twelve hours.’
A hitherto mute part of her figured that wasn’t that bad an option if he was going to be here too...
‘I’m sorry I hit you,’ she said roughly, embarrassed at that rogue thought. ‘It might sting for a while. Then it will discolour. You’re going to be marked for a few days.’
His low laugh reverberated within her.
‘You think I haven’t been bruised before?’
Well, she’d never seen a picture of either prince with a black eye.
He smiled, and suddenly looked exactly as if he had a suave, dangerous pirate ancestor. ‘If you feel that bad about it, you could always
