Dana Marton: Stranded with the Prince

She was so not supposed to be here.

He was supposed to be snug in his tent, with three intelligent, great women, each with the pedigree and temperament to become a fantastic princess. Why couldn’t he have just gone with that plan? What did he have to complain about?

“It’s raining,” he said from a few feet away, his rich baritone startling her.

She hadn’t noticed him coming closer. “Cry me a river,” she muttered through clenched teeth. Or not. They seemed to have more than enough water already. She pulled her head into her cocoon. She’d been about to get out of the mud, but she would pretend that everything was well if it killed her.

“The water running down the hillside will be heading this way,” he observed with perfect aristocratic nonchalance.

Maybe it would wash him away. That could be another solution to the problem. He couldn’t very well embarrass the monarchy any more if he disappeared, could he?

But the water would wash her away, too, if she stayed like this. She crawled out and was soaked to the skin the next second. “You know how to set this thing up?” She gestured toward the tent. If they had it anchored to the ground, maybe the water would run around them. The canvas was waterproof.

“Forget it.” He grabbed the muddy, dripping tent, tossed it over his shoulder and headed inland. His slight limp did nothing to detract from his powerful appearance.

She reluctantly followed him, carrying her soggy blanket. With the cloud cover thick now, and the rain coming down hard, she could see little, even with the flashlight. Once she thought she caught a moving shadow up ahead, but by the time she looked closer, it disappeared. Maybe one of the guards. Their gear and supplies had been dropped off on the other side of the island earlier. They’d probably gotten their tents up around the perimeter in time for the rain. Lucky them.

“Hello!” she called out. “We need help. We’re here.”

She waited, but no response came. Maybe they couldn’t hear her. Or she’d only seen a bush moving in the wind.

Should have looked for the men this afternoon, instead of waiting for a boat by the beach and fighting, she thought as she pushed ahead, mud squishing in the front of her sandals and leaking out the back.

An hour of miserable marching got them to a rocky cliff wall. The famous Painted Rocks, not that she could make out any of the images in the rain and the dark. Soon blind luck brought them to an overhang that shielded them from most of the rain—if they sat far back in the rock’s crevice and very close to each other.

He positioned the rolled-up tent in front of them to block as much rain from that side as was possible. “You might want to take a minute and ponder where meddling gets you.” His tone was lecturing. “I hope you’re happy.”

She would have been happy if she’d never heard of Prince Lazlo of Valtria. “I’m wet.”

Her side was plastered to his. He was a full head taller than her, long limbs, muscles in all the right places. According to her research, he was an avid sportsman. Highly competitive, highly seductive, highly annoying. And, unfortunately, he was her cross to bear.

He relaxed his shoulders against the rock. His masculine scent of leather and motor oil reached her even through the rain. He’d probably spent his morning at the racetrack as usual.

She needed to think about something other than him, or she’d never relax enough to fall asleep. She gave that a valiant try for as long as she could. With her clothes soaked, she was cold to the bone, but she resisted moving even closer to him.

“First thing in the morning,” she said when she could stay silent no longer, “we’ll set up the tent and find our breakfast in the bags. I had the royal cook pack plenty of food for you and the women. If the rain stops, we can make a fire and signal for help.”

He didn’t say anything.

She thought of her small walk-up in Brooklyn, New York, that was mortgaged to the hilt. She couldn’t fail here. If she pulled this off, she’d have enough money to throw some serious advertising out there and save her business.

The matchmakers’ second rule was: Win each client’s goodwill. Only then can you work productively together.

And she badly needed to keep this client.

Having to apologize, when she’d done nothing wrong, just about killed her, but she was willing to make that sacrifice. She had a month left to claim the exorbitant fee the Queen had promised her if she succeeded. She needed to gain Lazlo’s cooperation and goodwill.

“I’m sorry. This isn’t how I planned this.”

Once again, he didn’t respond.

But she did hear a sound, so she turned and saw his head resting on his shoulder, at what looked like an uncomfortable angle. He softly snored into her face.

And then he began leaning and sliding against her. She tried to move away, but somehow ended up on the ground, practically pinned under him.

“Your Highness!” She shoved him toward the edge of their shelter.

“Mmmm,” he said without opening his eyes as he rolled onto his side.

Wedged between him and the rock, she had no room to pull away. She was practically spooning him. She had to get out of there. Except, the spot was comfortable. And his body heat was slowly drying her. And it was dark and scary out in the open.

She decided to stay put. For comfort’s sake. She did her best to ignore that they were touching. Still, sleep didn’t come easily.

Every noise the rain didn’t drown out startled her. At one point, she could have sworn something big moved through the woods nearby. She could hear branches cracking, but as she waited with her breath held, nobody materialized from the darkness.

When she did sleep, her dreams were strange. She was with the prince on the beach, entangled, naked, waves licking their feet. He was kissing the sensitive skin of her neck, sending spirals of need through her body. In her dream, he wasn’t the least annoying. The hands that at times molded metal at his auto factory, now caressed her breasts. She arched to press them into his palms as her nipples pebbled and begged for more. She tried to shift closer to him, but hit her head on rock.

What rock? They were making love in the surf on the beach. The sand was soft …except it wasn’t. She was lying on rock. She slowly came awake.

The wetness on her feet was rain, not playful waves. She’d stuck them out of their shelter while she slept. Prince Lazlo had turned in the night, one arm under her head, his other hand cupping one of her breasts gently.

Heat rushed to her face. “Your Highness!” She squeaked the words as she tried to wiggle away from him, but the rock provided no space.

Firmly, she pushed the hand away. “Prince Lazlo, this is not—” She glanced up into his face.

His eyes were closed, his aristocratic mouth lax. He was still fast asleep.

ROBERTO SPIT SAND as he crawled out of the water, too exhausted to stand. The waves had broken their raft, taken their weapons—the makeshift knife as well as the guard’s rifle—and separated the small team from each other.

He scanned the beach where he landed. Nothing but darkness and rain. He couldn’t even tell if he’d reached the mainland or only another island. He rolled to his side and puked up some of the saltwater he’d swallowed. Then he flopped onto his back, letting the rain beat his face, unable to move another inch.

Endless hours passed. Each time the waves came up to lick his feet, he crawled a little higher. Then the rain stopped, the clouds cleared out and he could see two dark forms on the beach—either his men, driftwood or clumps of seaweed. He stood from the wet sand and staggered toward them, squinting his eyes to see.