went rigid as he padded sure-footed below deck into what was an all-purpose space on the ocean-going racing yacht. She was still in shock, he registered as he set her down on the one and only seat. All home comforts had been stripped away below deck to make room for necessary equipment, but as he’d been trialling on this voyage rather than racing there was plenty of fresh food on board—hence the bread his pirate wench had stolen. He had brought other supplies and small comforts along to make his time aboard more pleasurable, including the cushions he’d laid out on deck so he could sleep beneath the stars.
When the girl groaned and put her head in her hands, his first thought was to rehydrate her. He reached into the cold box for a glucose drink. ‘Here,’ he said, loosening the top and offering it to her. Her expression didn’t change. She remained stiffly non-responsive, staring ahead with her jaw set in white-faced fright.
‘Drink it, or I’ll hold your nose and pour it down your throat.’ He’d used similar shock tactics years back when his younger brother Razi had refused to take his medicine.
Just like then, she retaliated with a furious, ‘You wouldn’t dare!’
One look from him was enough to settle that argument. She held out her hand. He gave her the bottle; she gulped down the contents greedily.
‘When was the last time you had something to drink?’
She refused to answer. Swiping the back of her hand across her mouth, she raised blue-green eyes to his face. Chips of glacial ice would have held more heat.
No surrender, he concluded. And as for apologising for trespassing on his yacht? Forget it.
Tugging on the first top that came to hand, he began heating water to bathe her wounds. Blocking her escape with his body, he reached into a cupboard for antiseptic, lint and cotton wool. Adding a splash of disinfectant to the water, he stuffed a blanket under his arm and turned around. ‘Here—put this round you.’
She flinched and refused to look at him, drawing her legs in defensively, but it was when she crossed her arms over her chest that he finally lost patience. ‘I’m not interested in your body,’ he assured her, only to be rewarded by a tiny squeak of protest from a girl who was clearly accustomed to being admired. Proving the point, he put the bowl down and tugged the blanket tightly round her slender shoulders, trying not to notice that one lush, pert breast was partially exposed.
Seeing his momentary distraction, she snatched the blanket from him, holding it so tightly closed that her knuckles turned white.
‘Don’t flatter yourself.’
She was safe from him—too young, too reckless, plus he resented the intrusion. Any other time or place and he would have had her removed from his presence.
But she was tougher than she looked or she would have been reduced to a hysterical mess by now. She was an irritation, but she was also courageous, he concluded, and a breath of fresh air after the painted harpies who regularly served themselves up at court for his perusal.
There was only one thing wrong with the girl: she reminded him of someone else. Those tangled locks and slanting eyes held an echo of his father’s mistress, a woman who had destroyed his mother’s life and who had referred to Razi—the step-brother he couldn’t have loved more if they had shared the same blood—as the worst mistake she had ever made. That woman might be dead now, but she had left disaster in her wake, and as far as he was concerned she had defined his father’s weakness. It had been a fatal weakness that had stolen his father’s attention away from his country and its people. With that lesson guiding him, things had changed for the better since he had assumed control. There was no longer chaos in Sinnebar, and his people knew that he would never repeat his father’s mistake and become a slave to his heart.
He refocused as the girl shifted restlessly on the bench. ‘I’m going to bathe your scratches before they turn septic,’ he informed her crisply.
She recognised a command, but to his astonishment something in her eyes said she would dearly like to strike him. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ he warned grimly, at which she scowled and slumped back like the spoiled teen he thought her to be. ‘When did you last eat?’ he demanded as he assessed her wounds and general condition.
Her stomach answered this question with an imperative growl, and then he remembered the hunk of bread she’d dropped on the deck. ‘When I’ve finished, you can eat.’
She tilted her chin at a defiant angle to stare haughtily past him.
So, let her go hungry—though he was forced to concede he admired her nerve. He liked the electricity between them too, but neither of these things would affect how he dealt with her. He would administer basic first-aid and then turn her over to the authorities. ‘Arms,’ he prompted brusquely, and then, deciding he would teach her what it meant to risk her life in the Gulf, he demanded, ‘Don’t you know anything about maritime law?’
Her flickering gaze suggested not.
‘If I report your actions to the ruling Sheikh in Sinnebar…You have heard of the man known as the “Sword of Vengeance”, I take it?’ He had the satisfaction of seeing her pale. ‘If I tell him that you came aboard my yacht, stole my food and threatened me with one of my own knives I would imagine the most lenient sentence he could hand out would be life imprisonment.’
‘But you wouldn’t!’
Even as she protested her eyes were narrowing in defiance. He liked her fire. He liked her voice. He liked…‘Report you?’ he rapped, calling his wayward thoughts back to order. ‘That depends on you telling me exactly how you got here. And be completely honest with me; I shall know at once if you lie.’
Hearing the menace in his voice, she slowly unfurled her legs as if deciding a temporary truce was her only option. ‘You were moored up, and so I thought…’
She’d take her chances, he silently supplied, feeling a beat of lust as she held his gaze. She spoke English well, but with the faintest of Italian accents. ‘You don’t look Italian,’ he said, dropping it in casually.
‘I had an English mother,’ she explained, before her mouth clamped shut, as if she felt she’d said too much.
‘Start by telling me what brought you to the Gulf and how you arrived on my yacht.’
‘I jumped overboard and swam.’
‘You swam?’ He weighed up her guarded expression. ‘You’re telling me you jumped overboard and swam through these seas?’ His tone of voice reflected his disbelief.
‘For what felt like hours.’ She blurted this, and then fell silent.
‘Go on,’ he prompted, continuing to bathe her wounds.
‘Before the mist closed in, the boat we were on was hugging the coastline.’
‘“We”?’
She shook her head as if it was important to concentrate. ‘I could see this island and was confident I could make it to the shore.’
‘You must swim well,’ he commented.
‘I do.’
She spoke without pride, and, taking in her lithe strength, he was tempted to believe her. But she must have swum
