Romy Sommer - The Trouble with Mojitos - A Royal Romance to Remember!

“We are. I’m taking you back via the scenic route.”

He pulled the car into a layby. The vegetation on this side of the mountain was low scrub, allowing unparalleled views. On the wide plain below them were the sugar cane fields that were still the island’s most profitable export.

Rik leaned across her, and her whole body went on high alert. Defcon one. Danger of explosion imminent.

Remember him drunk and passed out, you stupid girl. That ought to calm the hormones.

A chain of small islands curved out from Los Pajaros. The charter boat had taken her to the nearest of those. At the furthest tip of the curve a smudge of green was visible on the distant horizon. “That’s Tortuga.” Rik said, pointing out her window. “Corona isn’t visible from here.” His voice sounded almost wistful.

She blinked to clear the dancing spots before her eyes and the fog in her brain, relieved when Rik returned both his hands to the steering wheel and re-started the car.

Sleep, that’s what she needed. She was an eight hours a night girl and once she’d had an uninterrupted night of sleep, she would stop feeling this raw sexual tension that seemed to be zipping up and down her body. She rubbed her arms.

The road twisted and turned around the dormant volcano, away from the flat plain and the sugar cane fields, gradually descending through a plantation of banana trees to more familiar terrain; dense tropical vegetation, idyllic sandy beaches, and the lush resorts where tourists played in the sunshine.

Rik turned the car in through the gates of her hotel, into the long palm-fringed avenue with golf greens on either side. The resort buildings rose up before them, gleaming white and tiered like a wedding cake.

“So what’s the plan for tomorrow?” she asked as he parked her rental beside his.

“I’ll meet you in the hotel reception at ten.”

She rolled her eyes. “Now where’ve I heard that before? How can I be sure you’ll be there?”

His dark eyes glittered. “I’ll be there.”

He held out his palm with her car keys. His hand was tanned and oddly roughened, not as smooth and manicured as she’d expected of a prince. Gingerly, she took the car keys from him, careful not to touch him in case she combusted.

He raised an eyebrow. “ My keys?”

She flushed, the heat burning her skin. “Of course.” She fumbled in her rucksack for his car keys, and held them out less carefully. His fingers stroked the sensitive flesh of her palm as he took them. His gaze fixed on her hand, and he smiled. Then he opened the car door and climbed out.

“Until tomorrow,” he said, slamming the door closed.

She nodded, mute. It was a long time before she managed to move. Only when his flashy car roared to deafening life and slid out of its parking bay, did she open her own door. It was as though his touch had short-circuited the wiring in her body.

She had a dreadful suspicion that Lee was going to be very, very disappointed in her when she got back to Blighty.

“Damn him.”

***

@KenzieCole101: @LeeHill Is Neil in a huff that I got the permission?

@LeeHill: @KenzieCole101 He’s moaning about cost of travelling caterers & labour but the Director’s smiling like he just came. Clock’s still ticking.

@KenzieCole101: @LeeHill Any word on how the other scouts are doing?

@Lee Hill: @KenzieCole101 The scout on BVI has connections with Richard Branson. You need to hurry with your pics.

Kenzie rubbed her temple. As one of the film’s art directors, Lee had not only got her this gig but also had access to all the inside intel, for which Kenzie was grateful. She needed every bit of help she could get. But she was running out of time. Tortuga had better deliver or some other scout would get the glory.

It was ten the next morning and she waited in the hotel’s reception, on exactly the same velveteen banquette where Rik had lain the other night. Her foot tapped nervously on the tiled floor as she typed a final response to her flatmate.

She could do this. She was going to return to London a success. She could feel her destiny drawing closer, whatever it was, and Rik wasn’t going to distract her from her goal. He wasn’t a pirate, he was a prince. She didn’t like princes. She wasn’t a Disney kind of girl. Well, except for Flynn Rider …

She strained to hear the distinctive roar of the sports car, so when Rik strode into reception, not from the car park but from the gardens, he caught her by surprise. Which was so not a good way to start the day. She frowned. “Where’s your car?”

“Good morning to you too.” He grinned and hefted her camera bag onto his shoulder effortlessly. “We can’t get where we’re going by car, remember?”

Against her will, she drank him in. Today he wore dark jeans and a white open-necked, collared shirt. The merest hint of tattoo peeked out from beneath his collar. How had he managed to keep that tattoo hidden back in Westerwald? He must have worn nothing but buttoned-up suits and ties. She could hardly imagine it. The Rik who stood before her now looked nothing like a suit and tie kind of man. He looked like a windblown adventurer, with his tan, his days’ old stubble and overlong hair brushing his collar.

He looked like a man who could give Flynn Rider a run for his money.

She followed him through the gardens and down to the resort’s pier where a number of pleasure cruisers and luxury fishing boats were docked. She had to run to keep up with his long strides.

He definitely appeared in better shape today, which was just as well since he’d be transporting her across open ocean, but did he have to keep wrong-footing her? He was not a man she wanted to let have the upper hand. She wasn’t sure her willpower would withstand the test.

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