Marion Lennox - Cinderella - Hired by the Prince / The Sheikh's Destiny

And figure she did. She swam forward in front of the boat, speeding up, speeding up. Faster, faster she swam, with her calf speeding after her.

And then, just as they thought they’d lost sight of her, she came sweeping back, a vast majestic mass of glossy black muscle and strength and bulk. Then, not a hundred yards from the boat, she rolled again, only higher, so her body was half out of the water, stretching, arching back, her pectoral fins outstretched, then falling backward with a massive splash that reached them on the boat and soaked them to the skin.

Neither of them noticed. Neither of them cared.

The whale was sinking now, deep, so deep that only a mass of still water on the surface showed her presence. Then she burst up one more time, arched back once more—and she dived once more and they saw her print on the water above as she adjusted course and headed for the horizon, her calf tearing after her.

Two wild creatures returned to the deep.

Tears were sliding uselessly down Jenny’s face. She couldn’t stop them, any more than she could stop smiling. And she looked up at Ramón and saw his smile echo hers.

‘We did it,’ she breathed. ‘Ramón, we did it.’

‘We did,’ he said, and he tugged her hard against him, then swung her round so he was looking into her tear-stained face. ‘We did it, Gianetta, we saved our whale. And you were magnificent. Gianetta, you may be a Spanish-Australian woman in name but I believe you have your nationality wrong. A woman like you…I believe you’re worthy of being a woman of Cepheus.’

And then, before she knew what he intended, before she could guess anything at all, he lifted her into his arms and he kissed her.

ONE moment she was gazing out at the horizon, catching the last shimmer of the whale’s wake on the translucence of the sea. The next she was being kissed as she’d never been kissed in her life.

His hands were lifting her, pulling her hard in against him so her feet barely touched the deck. His body felt rock-hard, the muscled strength he’d just displayed still at work, only now directed straight at her. Straight with her.

The emotions of the rescue were all around her. He was wet and wild and wonderful. She was soaking as well, and the dripping fabric of his shirt and hers meant their bodies seemed to cling and melt.

It felt right. It felt meant. It felt as if there was no room or sense to argue.

His mouth met hers again, his arms tightening around her so she was locked hard against him. He was so close she could feel the rapid beat of his heart. Her breasts were crushed against his chest, her face had tilted instinctively, her mouth was caught…

Caught? Merged, more like. Two parts of a whole finding their home.

He tugged her tighter, tighter still against him, moulding her lips against his. She was hard against him, closer, closer, feeling him, tasting him, wanting him…

To be a part of him seemed suddenly as natural, as right, as breathing. To be kissed by this man was an extension of what had just happened.

Or maybe it was more than that. Maybe it was an extension of the whole of the last week.

Maybe she’d wanted this from the moment she’d seen him.

Either way, she certainly wasn’t objecting now. She heard herself give a tiny moan, almost a whimper, which was stupid because she didn’t feel the least like whimpering. She felt like shouting, Yes!

His mouth was demanding, his tongue was searching for an entry, his arms holding her so tightly now he must surely bruise. But he couldn’t hold her tight enough. She was holding him right back, desperate that she not be lowered, desperate that this miraculous contact not be lost.

He felt so good. He felt as if he was meant to be right here in her arms. That she’d been destined for this moment for ever and it had taken this long to find him.

He hadn’t shaved this morning. She could feel the stubble on his jaw, she could almost taste it. There was salt on his face—of course there was, he’d been practically submerged, over and over. He smelled of salt and sea, and of pure testosterone.

He tasted of Ramón.

‘Ramón.’ She heard herself whisper his name, or maybe it was in her heart, for how could she possibly whisper when he was kissing as if he was a man starved for a woman, starved of this woman? She knew so clearly what was happening, and she accepted it with elation. This woman was who he wanted and he’d take her, he wanted her, she was his and he was claiming his own.

Like the whale rolling joyously in the sea, she thought, dazed and almost delirious, this was nature; it was right, it was meant.

She was in his arms and she wasn’t letting go.

Ramón.

‘Gianetta…’ His voice was ragged with heat and desire. Somehow he dragged himself back from her and held her at arm’s length. ‘Gianetta, mia …’

‘If you’re asking if I want you, then the answer’s yes,’ she said huskily, and almost laughed at the look of blazing heat that came straight back at her. His eyes were almost black, gleaming with tenderness and want and passion. But something else. He wouldn’t take her yet. His eyes were searching.

‘I’ll take no woman against her will,’ he growled.

‘You think…you think this is against my will?’ she whispered, as the blaze of desire became almost white-hot and she pressed herself against him, forcing him to see how much this was not the case.

‘Gianetta,’ he sighed, and there was laughter now as well as wonder and desire. Before she could respond he had her in his arms, held high, cradled against him, almost triumphant.

‘You don’t think maybe we should set the automatic pilot or something?’ she murmured. ‘We’ll drift.’

‘The radar will tell us if we’re about to hit something big,’ he said, his dark eyes gleaming. ‘But it can’t pick up things like jellyfish, so there’s a risk. You want to risk death by jellyfish and come to my bed while we wait, my Gianetta?’

And what was a girl to say to an invitation like that?

‘Yes, please,’ she said simply and he kissed her and he held her tight and carried her down below.

To his bed. To his arms. To his pleasure.

‘She left port six days ago, heading for New Zealand.’

The lawyer stared at the boat builder in consternation. ‘You’re sure? The Marquita ?’

‘That’s the one. The guy skippering her— Ramón, I think he said his name was—had her in dry dock here for a couple of days, checking the hull, but she sailed out on the morning tide on Monday. Took the best cook in the bay with him, too. Half the locals are after his blood. He’d better look after our Jenny.’

But the lawyer wasn’t interested in Ramón’s staff. He stood on the dock and stared out towards the harbour entrance as if he could see the Marquita sailing away.

‘You’re sure he was heading for Auckland?’

‘I am. You’re Spanish, right?’

‘Cepheus country,’ the lawyer said sharply. ‘Not Spain. But no matter. How long would it take the Marquita to get to Auckland?’

‘Coupla weeks,’ the boat builder told him. ‘Can’t see him hurrying. I wouldn’t hurry if I had a boat like the Marquita and Jenny aboard.’

‘So if I go to Auckland…’

‘I guess you’d meet him. If it’s urgent.’

‘It’s urgent,’the lawyer said grimly. ‘You have no idea how urgent.’

There was no urgency about the Marquita . If she took a year to reach Auckland it was too soon for Jenny.

Happiness was right now.

They could travel faster, but that would mean sitting by the wheel hour after hour, setting the sails to catch the slightest wind shift, being sailors.