The Prince's Stolen Virgin. Maisey Yates

It is the motion of the... Well, of the cash flow. The natural resources. And that, my country has in abundance. However, we are going through a few structural changes. You are part of those changes.”

      “How can I be part of those changes? I’m a doctor’s daughter. I’m a university student. I don’t have a place on the world stage.”

      “And that is where you’re wrong. But we’re not going to finish having this discussion here.”

      He had paid the good doctor for his silence, that much was true, but he did not trust anything when a larger payday had the potential to come into play. And when news of Briar Harcourt going missing hit the media, there was a chance that the man would go forward with his story.

      That meant that the details revealed in the van needed to be limited. Soon, however, they arrived at the airport, and the vehicle pulled up directly to Felipe’s private plane.

      “Don’t we have to go through customs? I don’t have... Well, I don’t have a passport.”

      “Darling. You’re traveling with me now. I am your passport. Does she need the IV any longer?” He posed that question to the doctor.

      “She shouldn’t,” came the grave reply.

      “Then remove it,” Felipe commanded.

      The doctor did so, carefully and judiciously, putting a Band-Aid over where the needle had been.

      “She is not hooked up to anything else?”

      “No,” the doctor replied.

      “Excellent.” Felipe reached down, wrapping his arms around Talia and hoisting her up out of the bed. “Good help is all very well and good, but in the end it’s always better to do things yourself.”

      She clung to him for a moment, clearly afraid of falling out of his arms and getting another head injury, and continued to hold on to him while he got out of the van and began to stride across the tarmac toward the plane.

      And then she began to struggle.

      “Please do not make this difficult,” he said, tightening his hold on her, not finding this difficult at all, though he would rather not end up with a bruise if it could be helped. If he was going to be marred, he preferred for it to happen in the bedroom. At least then, there would be a reward for his suffering.

      Hell, sometimes the suffering was just part of the reward.

      “The point is to make this difficult!”

      “I have never had a woman resist getting on my private plane quite so much.”

      “But you’ve had them resist. That says nothing good about you.”

      He sighed heavily, taking them both up the steps and into the aircraft. His flight crew immediately mobilized, closing the door and beginning the process of readying for takeoff. As they had been instructed prior to his and the princess’s boarding.

      “You say that as though it should bother me,” he said, setting her down in one of the plush leather chairs on the plane before sitting down in the chair across from her. “Don’t bother to try and get up and unlock the door. It can only be unlocked from the cockpit now. I made arrangements for some high-security additions to be added to the plane before coming to get you.”

      “That seems stupid,” she said. “What if we need to get out and the pilots can’t let us out?”

      He chuckled, reluctantly enjoying the fact that she seemed so comfortable running her mouth even though she had absolutely no power in the situation. “Well, I can actually control it from my phone, as well. But don’t get any ideas about trying to do it yourself. It requires fingerprint and retina recognition.”

      “Fine. But if the plane catches fire and we need to get out and somehow your fingerprints have melted off and you can’t open your eyes and we die a painful death because of your security measures...”

      “Well,” he said. “In such a case I will feel terribly guilty. And, I imagine continue the burning in hell.”

      “That’s a given.”

      “Are you concerned for the state of my eternal soul?”

      “Not at all. I’m concerned for the state of my present body.” She looked around, and he could tell the exact moment she realized she had nothing. That she was wearing a hospital gown, that she had no identification, no money and no phone.

      “I do not intend to harm you,” he said, reaching down and straightening his cuffs. “In fact, that runs counter to my objective.”

      “Your objective is to...improve my health?”

      “Does it need improving? Because if it does, I most certainly will.”

      “No,” she laid her head back, grimacing suddenly. “Okay. Well, right now it needs slight improvement because I feel like I was hit by a taxi.” She sat upright, slamming her hands down on either side of her, her palms striking the leather hard, the sound echoing in the cabin. “Oh, yes! Because I was hit by a taxi!”

      “Regrettable. While I orchestrated a great many things, that was not one of them. I would never take such a risk with you.”

      “Maybe now is a good time for you to explain yourself. Since we’ve established I’m not going anywhere. And I assume that Santa Milagro is not a quick and easy flight. I suppose we have the time.”

      “In a moment.” The engines fired up on the plane, and they began to move slowly. “I like a little atmosphere. And I don’t want to be interrupted by takeoff.”

      The aircraft began to move faster and he reached across to the table beside him, opening the top and pressing a button. An interior motor raised a shelf inside, delivering a bottle of scotch, along with a tumbler.

      As the plane began to ascend he opened the bottle and poured himself a generous measure of the amber liquid. He did not spill a drop. That would be a mistake. And he did not make mistakes.

      Unless he made them on purpose.

      “And now?” she pressed.

      “Do you want to change first?” He took a sip of his drink. “Not that the hospital gown isn’t lovely.”

      Her face contorted with rage. “I don’t care what I’m wearing. And I really don’t care what you think of it.”

      “That will change. I guarantee it.”

      “You don’t know very much about women, do you?”

      He set his glass down on the table. “I know a great deal about women. Arguably more than you do.”

      “You don’t know anything about this woman. I don’t know what kind of simpering idiots you normally capture and drag onto your plane, but I’m not impressed by your wells, by your title, by your power. My father did not raise a simpering, weak-willed idiot. And my mother did not raise a fool.”

      “No, indeed. However, they were raising a princess.”

      “I’m not a princess.”

      “You are. The Princess of Verloren. Long-lost. Naturally.”

      “That is... That is ridiculous.”

      “It is the subject of a great many stories, a great many films... Wouldn’t you think that something like that, a story so often told, might have its roots in reality?”

      “Except this isn’t The Princess Diaries and you are not Julie Andrews.”

      He chuckled. “No, indeed.” He took another sip of his scotch. Funny, alcohol didn’t even burn anymore. Sometimes he missed it. Sometimes he simply assumed it was a metaphor for his conscience and found amusement in it. “A cursory internet search would corroborate what I’m telling you. King Behrendt and Queen Amaani lost their only daughter years ago. Presumed dead. The entire nation mourned her passing. However,