Stepping into the Prince's World (7 page)

Could a guy with boots walk home? Maybe not, but when they were cleaned and dried he wouldn't be dependent on Don's slippers. And when he was finally taken off this rock...

‘You'll look very nice for the journalists,' Claire told him, and he looked at her sharply.

‘Journalists?'

‘You think if someone finds you that you'll slip back into Hobart unnoticed? Storm...wrecked yacht...marooned in the middle of Bass Strait...' She brightened. ‘Hey, maybe you could sell it to the tabloids. All it needs is a sex angle and you could maybe make enough to pay for your friend's yacht.'

A sex angle...

The comment had been flippant. Off the cuff. It had been all about tabloid newspapers and what sold. It wasn't anything to do with what was happening to them.

So why did it seem to stand out? Why did the words seem to echo?'

What
was
it about this woman that was making his senses tune in to nuances that shouldn't be there? She was injured, vulnerable, alone. He had no business thinking of her in any way other than as someone who'd saved his life and was stuck on this barren, rocky outcrop with him until help arrived.

Think of something else—fast.

He bent and picked up a battered piece of timber, the painted registration number of
Rosebud
, and tried to think of a way he could get a message to the mainland. A way he could get a message to his grandparents.

He tried not to think of the woman beside him, of how she made him feel.

‘Chuck a message in a bottle?' she asked.

He looked sharply up at her. She'd better not be able to read his mind, he thought. His thoughts were too tangled, and somewhere in there was the vision of Claire as he'd first seen her, struggling in the water towards him, holding him, her lovely chestnut curls tangled wetly around her face.

Claire...

Yeah, empty the mind fast,
he told himself. What had she said? A message in a bottle?

‘I suspect your supply boat might be faster,' he said, and she grimaced.

‘You're right. Your grandparents will be very frightened?'

‘They'll know I won't have gone AWOL.'
As will half the world
. He thought of the rumours that would be circulating. His country had had recent threats centred on the throne. The current thinking was that they had come from a crazy fringe organisation with no resources. Marétal was a small player on the world stage, but his disappearance followed by silence would have the media in a frenzy. His grandparents would be beside themselves.

No boat for almost a week...

‘If we had the internet we could try and make a crystal radio set,' Claire said thoughtfully. ‘I had a friend who made one once.'

‘Good idea,' he told her. ‘Except we
don't
have the internet and crystal sets receive but don't send. But if we had the internet we could email.'

‘Oh.'

‘But good thinking.'

‘Don't patronise me,' she muttered.

He grinned. She really was extraordinary. ‘I guess we could always burn the place down,' he said, deciding to join her in the planning department. ‘If the fire was big enough and we did it during the day the smoke would be seen for miles.'

‘Yeah, and if it wasn't noticed...?'

‘Is there a cave in any of these cliffs?'

‘I don't know about you, soldier,' she told him. ‘But Rocky and I don't take kindly to caves. We like our comfy beds. And how would I explain a fire to Marigold? I'm caretaker for this place. Burning it down doesn't exactly come into my job description.'

‘It was just a suggestion,' he said hastily.

‘A bad one.'

‘Okay, a bad one.'

‘Hmmph.'

They stared at the sea some more. She was so close, Raoul thought. She was obviously thinking.

He
should be doing some thinking. He
was
thinking. It was just that the woman beside him was taking up a whole lot of his thinking room.

‘What about an SOS in the middle of the island?' she said, and he hauled his thoughts back to sense when his thoughts really didn't want to go.

‘SOS...?'

‘We could do it in rocks,' she said. ‘There's a flat plateau behind the house. It's strewn with small rocks. We could organise them into an SOS. I'm thinking by tomorrow sightseeing flights might start again from Hobart. A plane might fly across.'

‘Do they always fly across?'

‘There aren't many,' she told him. ‘It's winter. Tourists who pay money for flights will be thin on the ground and we don't have a weather forecast so it might be a lot of effort for nothing.'

He thought about it. SOS. The universal cry for help. Was it justified?

They were both well. They had enough supplies to keep them fed for as long as they were stranded and the house was more than comfortable.

‘It'd be for your grandparents' sake,' Claire said, watching him. ‘And you might get charged for the cost of the rescue.'

He might.

The cost would be negligible compared to the costs his country would be facing trying to locate the heir to the throne.

Claire was watching him thoughtfully. ‘Is it just for your grandparents?' she asked, and he thought about telling her.

I'm royal and there'll be a worldwide search...

Not yet
. For some unknown reason a voice in the back of his head was pleading,
Not yet
. She thought he was an equal. A soldier, nothing more.

She'd been battered by people who'd treated her as trash. She was feisty and brave but she'd retreated to this island, hurt.

He didn't want her retreating from
him
. He knew he'd have to tell her, but now the voice was almost yelling.

Not yet. Not yet.

‘There'll be a fuss and a half when I get off this island,' he told her. ‘Part of me thinks I should just stay. But the fuss has to be faced some time, and my grandparents...they'll be pushing for a search, no matter what the cost.'

And that was the truth, he thought. When he thought of the resources they'd be throwing at it... At
him
... And his two bodyguards... They'd be being vilified and it wasn't their fault. Short of burning down the house, he had to try everything.

‘Let's do it,' he said shortly, without answering her question, and she looked at him curiously.

‘There's stuff you're not telling me.'

‘I'm ashamed of myself.'

‘Would the army rescue you?'

‘Yes.' That would be the best outcome, he thought. If the army could slip in and take him off the island...

‘An SOS seen by sightseers is going to hit the media,' she told him. ‘Are you prepared to have your picture taken?'

‘I guess it'll be both of us.'

‘Not me,' she told him. ‘Not in a million years. I'm hiding, remember? If you get taken off by a crew of SAS forces abseiling down with parachutes and stun guns I'll be hiding in Don's basement. Tell them you were taken in by a hermit with a beard down to his ankles who fires at the sight of a camera. Better still...' She hesitated. ‘Better still, just wait for the supply boat.'

‘I don't think I can.'

‘Really?'

‘Really.'

She looked at him long and hard. Then she sighed and picked up his waterlogged boots.

‘Okay, then,' she told him. ‘Let's go dry some boots and organise some rocks.'

* * *

He organised rocks. Claire sat on a rocky ledge at the edge of the plateau and watched.

It was kind of peaceful. The wind had died completely. The weak winter sun was warm on her face. Today was one of the few days she'd had here when the weather made her think this was a wonderful place to stay.

Or maybe it was the company. Maybe it was because the ache in her arm was fading. Maybe it was because she and Rocky were safe and yesterday had made her realise how wonderful ‘safe' was.

Maybe it was because she was watching Raoul work.

He worked...like a soldier. He'd decided a small SOS wouldn't cut it—he needed to work big. So first off he'd cleared an area the size of a tennis court. That alone had been huge. Now, the rocks he was heaving weren't small. One-handed, Claire couldn't have begun to help, but even if she'd been two-handed it would have been a big ask.

Raoul had simply set to work, heaving rock after rock. After the first half hour he'd stripped to his waist. He sweated a bit as he worked. His body glistened in the sunlight.

A girl could waste a lot of hours watching that body, Claire thought, and as there was little she could do to help she might as well enjoy it.

She did enjoy it.

She'd spent four solitary months here. She'd only seen the guys on the supply boat—two guys in their sixties, salt-encrusted to their toenails, bearded, weathered, cracking up at their own jokes as they tossed her supplies onto the beach and left her to cart them up to the house.

They hardly talked to her—they were men in a hurry, trying to get their run done and get back to Hobart and the pub. They couldn't know how important they'd become to her—two harried boatmen and fifteen minutes' terse conversation, mostly about the weather.

And now she had her very own guy here, to look at all she wanted, and who could blame her if she was enjoying it very much indeed?

‘You're making it very big,' she ventured, and he tossed a few more rocks and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He was magnificently tanned, she thought, or maybe he was permanently bronzed.

He was gorgeous.

‘Last S,' he said, and headed to a pile of rocks that loomed over the plateau. He climbed the rocks as if he'd been bred on cliffs, sure and steady on the shale. This was the high point of the island. He gazed down at his efforts and gave her the thumbs-up.

‘Want to see?'

‘I don't think I can.' She couldn't get the full effects of his artwork from ground level, but climbing the loose rocks with one arm would be asking for trouble.

‘That's what I'm here for.' He slid down the slope, reached her and held out his hand. ‘Your servant, ma'am.'

‘I'm very sure you're not,' she said a bit breathlessly, and he smiled.

‘You saved my life. You've taken me in and fed me. Believe me, Claire, I'm your servant for life.'

And he drew her upright and she was too close. But then he turned and started up the shale again.

A part of her didn't want to be tugged up the shale. It wanted to stop exactly where it was and be held.

But that wasn't Sensible Claire thinking. It was Dumb Claire. And hadn't she made a vow to be Sensible Claire forever?

Tomorrow, she told herself. Or the next day. Whenever the SOS worked. Then she'd be alone again and she could be as sensible as she wanted.

But Raoul was tugging her up the rocks, holding her tight, making sure she didn't slip, and the feeling of him holding her was making Sensible Claire disappear entirely.

Sense would have to be left to the soldier.

‘What do you think?'

They'd reached the top. He turned and held her at the waist—in case she slipped?—and she forced herself to stop focusing on the feel of his hands and look down at his handiwork.

He'd cleared the plateau. The rocks he'd used were seriously big. No one could fly over and miss the message he'd made.

He could be rescued today, she thought. A plane could fly over right now and within an hour a rescue chopper could arrive from the mainland. He'd be gone.

She shivered.

‘You're cold,' he said, and curved his arm around her as if he could keep her warm just by holding her.

As indeed he could, she thought ruefully. Even hot.

‘I've been doing manual work. You should have stayed inside.'

‘But I love hard work,' she managed. ‘I can sit and watch people do it for hours.'

Wrong,
she thought.
I can sit and watch you...

‘Inside now, though,' he told her. ‘You need to rest.'

‘You're the one who was battered for two days.'

‘So I was. So we both need to rest. And then... Do you have any movies on that very impressive entertainment system?'

‘Indeed we do.' She thought for a bit, which was kind of hard, because he was holding her and he was really close and his chest was bare and his skin felt...

Um...what was she trying to think of? Movies. Movies would be excellent.

‘Actually, they're mostly on the net,' she told him. ‘And we have no net with the communications down. But we do have a few oldies but goodies on DVD.'

‘I'm all for oldies but goodies. Popcorn?'

‘Possibly not. Potato chips and nuts?'

‘My favourite. You want me to help you down from this rock or would you like me to carry you?'

And what was a girl to say to that?

Luckily Sensible Claire hadn't completely disappeared. Luckily Sensible Claire said that this guy had had a physical battering and carrying a load—
her
—down the loose rocks would run every risk of disaster.

‘I'll walk,' she said, and Dumb Claire almost cried.

CHAPTER SIX

T
HEY
BOTH
HAD
a sleep. Then Raoul foraged in Don's cellar while Claire cooked a simple pasta dish.

He showed her what wine he'd chosen and she pretty near had kittens. ‘Do you know how much that's worth?'

‘No.' Then he looked at the dusty label and grinned. ‘Though I can guess.'

‘Raoul, it'll be half a week's salary.'

‘But I could be dead. And Don owes you. He's stranded an employee with no back-up on a deserted island. Hey, and you're a lawyer. We're safe.'

‘Right,' she said dryly, but she stopped arguing. Who could argue with that smile?

They curled upon the sofa and ate dinner, and Claire found chocolate, and the wine was truly excellent.

There were three settees in front of the vast TV screen, but two were elegant and only one was squishy and right in front, so it seemed foolish not to share.

They watched
African Queen
and then
Casablanca
. The wine was still amazing. The fire crackled in the hearth. Rocky snoozed by the fireside. They hadn't bothered with lights as the day faded to night. The television and the fire gave enough light.

And then the movie ended and they were left with the glowing embers of the fire.

‘Another one?' Raoul asked as Humphrey Bogart walked away in the fog.

Claire was too busy sniffing to answer.

‘I guess not,' Raoul said thoughtfully, and produced a handkerchief and dried her cheeks.

And she had enough sense left—
just
—to recognise the linen.

‘That's one of Don's monogrammed handkerchiefs.'

‘There goes another week's salary,' he said, and smiled into her eyes. ‘I can't think of a worthier cause.'

‘Raoul...' She should pull back, but he didn't. He traced the track of her last tear and suddenly things intensified. Or maybe they'd been intensifying all day and now they were too aware of each other, too warm and safe, too...
aware
?

Wrong word. There must be another, but Claire couldn't think of one. Actually, she couldn't think of anything but Raoul and how close he was.

She put her own hand up and touched his face—the bronzed skin, the creases at the corners of his eyes, the raw strength she saw there. And something inside her wanted. Badly wanted.

‘Raoul,' she whispered again, and her body seemed to move of its own accord. Closer.

‘Claire...'

‘Raoul...'

Raoul's smile had faded but his hands were still tracing her cheeks. When he spoke his voice sounded ragged. ‘I'm aware, my amazing Claire, that you're alone on this island apart from Rocky, and that Rocky doesn't seem to be standing guard right now. Don deserves to be tossed in jail for leaving you defenceless, and I will not take advantage. But...' He hesitated. ‘I
would
like to kiss you. So, in the cold light of day...'

‘It's night.'

‘In the warm glow of night,' he continued, and put his finger under her chin and raised her face to his. ‘Would you like to be kissed?'

‘You ask me that after
Casablanca
?'

‘I know I don't rate beside Humphrey.'

‘
How
do you know?'

‘Just guessing.'

And she managed a smile back. Sort of. ‘I'd have to see.'

‘Have you ever kissed Humphrey?'

‘No, but I've watched him kiss. He's pretty good. It's no small order to try and match him.'

‘You're asking me to try?'

‘No,' she said, and her voice was pretty much a whisper. She was feeling melty. Warm. Safe. Loved?

It was a dumb feeling—a mockery, a lie. How could she feel so deeply so soon? But it was there just the same, and there was no way she could ignore it.

‘No,' she said again. ‘I'm not asking. I'm ordering.'

And then there was nothing to be said. Nothing at all. Because he was taking her into his arms—gently, because of her injured arm. Or maybe gently because there was no way this man would force himself where he wasn't wanted. She knew him hardly at all, but she knew that about him at least.

And she knew more. She knew how he'd taste. She knew how he'd feel. She knew how her body would respond as their lips met, as the heat passed from one to another, as her whole body seemed to melt into his.

She didn't know how she knew, but she did. It was as if her whole life had been building to this moment. It was as if he was the other half of her whole, and finally—finally—they'd come together.

It was a dumb thought. Theirs was a fleeting encounter, she thought, with what little of her mind she had left to think. This man was a stranger.

Except right now he wasn't. For this moment, on this island, he was everything she needed and more.

And caution was nowhere.

* * *

He kissed...but what a kiss.

He hadn't expected to be blown away.

He'd expected a kiss he'd enjoy. He'd expected—or hoped for—warmth, arousal, passion.

He hadn't expected his world to shift.

It did.

Was it shock?

Was it the fear of the last few days?

Was it that Claire had rescued him?

Who could say? But somehow being with this woman had changed something inside him, and whatever it was it felt huge.

He'd been in the army for years. He'd worked with feisty women—women with intelligence and honour and courage. Back home in Marétal he'd met some of the most beautiful women in the world. Society darlings. Aristocracy and royalty.

Beauty and intelligence weren't mutually exclusive. He'd dated many of those women and most he still called friends.

Not one of them made him feel like Claire was making him feel now.

He'd known her for less than two days. This was just a kiss.

So how did it feel as if breaking apart from her would break something inside him?

And, amazingly, she seemed to feel the same. Her body was moulding to his and her hands cupped his face, deepening the kiss. She was warm and strong and wonderful, and the feel of her mouth under his was making his body desire as he'd never felt desire.

This wasn't just a kiss. It could never be just a kiss. This was the sealing of a promise that was unvoiced but seemed to have been made the moment she'd crashed into him out in the water.

Claire.

If she wanted to pull back now he'd let her. Of course he would. He must, because this was a woman to be honoured.

Honour.

With that thought came another, and it was a jolt of reality that left him reeling.

This woman had saved his life. She'd been injured, battered, drugged, all to save his sorry hide, and now she was sharing her place of refuge with him.

Right now he wanted her more than anything he'd ever wanted in his life, but...

But.
The word was like a hammer blow in his brain.

But he was a man of honour...

A prince...

He hadn't even told her who he was. If this went further she'd wake up tomorrow and know she'd been bedded by the heir to the throne of Marétal.

There'd be consequences, and consequences had been drilled into him since birth.

Bedding a woman he'd just met...

But how could he think of consequences? He was kissing Claire and she was kissing him back. How could he think past it?

How could he draw away?

* * *

She wasn't sure how long the kiss lasted. How did she measure such a thing? How could she think of trying to measure? All she knew was that she was kissing and being kissed and she never wanted it to end.

His arms were around her, tugging her body to him. Her breasts were crushed against his chest.

It felt so right. It felt as if she'd found her home.

Raoul
. Her head was singing it—an ode to joy.
Raoul
.

Was it just that she'd been stuck alone on an island for four months? Was this some sort of Robinson Crusoe syndrome?

Their passion was pretty much overwhelming her. She seemed to have too many clothes on. Raoul definitely had too many clothes on.

Almost involuntarily her hands moved to the front of his shirt, tugging...

And his hands caught hers and held them.

* * *

He put her away from him and it nearly killed him. Every nerve-ending was warring with the caution that had been instilled in him since birth.

But he wasn't only fighting that caution. There was also a voice hammering inside, pounding out the fact that this was uncharted territory. This woman was special.

This woman had the means to slice through the carefully constructed armour he'd developed ever since his parents died. He didn't need anyone. He'd learned that early. And yet when Claire had surged through the surf to save his life... Yes, he had needed her, and somehow with every moment his body was telling him he needed her more.

But honour demanded that he step away. Honour and the need to rebuild that armour.

And was there a touch of fear in there as well?

* * *

No!

She wanted to scream it.

Don't stop. Please don't stop. I want to get close. So close...

But he was putting her back from him. She could see passion in his eyes, a desire that matched hers, but she could also see an almost desperate control.

‘Claire... We can't.'

‘Why not?'

‘It's too soon.' His voice was almost a groan. ‘Hell, I want to—I'd be inhuman not to—but you've been injured. You're still shocked and so am I. You're on this island by yourself. I won't take advantage.'

‘What are you talking about? You wouldn't be taking advantage. We're both adults.'

‘If we'd known each other for such a short time on the mainland...' He had her shoulders, was searching her eyes. ‘Claire, would you be sleeping with me tonight or would you be saying wait a little?'

‘I don't believe this.'

‘I don't believe I'm saying it either. Claire, more than anything in the world I want to take you to my bed right now. But I won't. It's not just honour. It's sense. In the army—'

‘What's this got to do with the army?'

‘Everything,' he told her. ‘And nothing. But in the aftermath of battle there's often emotional meltdown. What we've been through is the equivalent. We can't take this further until you're sure.'

And his words made her stop.

I'm sure.

She wanted to scream it from one end of the island to the other, but all of a sudden she wasn't.

He was being sensible. She hated him for it, but he was right.

If the weather blew up again they could be marooned together for weeks. Sense said that she had to keep her emotions under control.

She didn't want to be sensible.

She drew back, feeling foolish, emotional and, yes, if she was honest, humiliated. And he saw it. He reached out and touched her face again, but this time his touch was different. It was a feather touch. It was a caress all on its own.

‘Don't feel like that,' he told her. ‘Claire, I'm trained to recognise my emotions. I'm trained for sense.'

‘And I'm not?'

‘I don't know,' he told her. ‘All I know is that the way I'm feeling about you is scaring the heck out of me.'

‘So you'll run?'

‘Only as far as another movie.'

‘Raoul...'

‘Claire.' He touched her lips. ‘You are truly beautiful. You are truly wanted. But we both know that sense should have us building six-foot walls.'

‘I guess...' she whispered, and he smiled at her, that smile that undid every single thing he said about sense.

‘I
know
,' he said, and it nearly killed her that he was right.

* * *

Somehow she slept that night. Somehow she made it to breakfast. Somehow she swallowed her humiliation and got on with getting on.

But she didn't know whether she wanted a plane to come or not.

At dawn she was already tuned in to the sound of engines, but it was midwinter and the storm would still be fresh in people's minds. That storm had swung up from the Antarctic seemingly with no warning. Tourists would therefore be delaying or cancelling their sightseeing flights, so a plane was unlikely.

Somehow she had to figure a way to get through this without going nuts. She needed a way of facing Raoul and not wanting him...

After breakfast—a meal full of things unsaid, of loaded silences—she decided to cook. Cooking had been a comfort to her forever, so why not now?

‘Muffins,' she told Raoul.

‘Muffins?' He'd been distant over breakfast. He was obviously finding the going as hard as she was. It seemed up to her to find a way through it.

‘If you want fresh food on this island you need to cook,' she told him. ‘And I even have frozen herbs. So if we want muffins for lunch...'

There was a silence, and then, ‘Do you have apples?'

‘Tinned.'

‘Hmm.' He considered. ‘That might be a challenge, but I'm up for it. You make your muffins. I'll make
tarte tatin
.'

‘
Tarte tatin?
With tinned apples?'

‘I'm a camp cook extraordinaire.'

‘Wow!' She stared at him. He was back in Don's pants and the T-shirt that stretched too tight. They'd showered before breakfast. His hair was still damp. He was still a bit...rumpled.

The man could cook.

So they cooked, but if she'd thought it would make things easier between them she had been dead wrong.

She watched as he made pastry from scratch, his long, strong fingers rubbing butter into flour as if he'd been doing it all his life.

Wanting him was killing her.

‘Who taught you to cook?' she managed. ‘Your grandmother? If your mother died when you were so young...'