The Argentinian's Virgin Conquest. Bella Frances

turned up. She’d seen first-hand what happened to women under the age of ninety whenever he was near—and it wasn’t a pretty sight. No wonder she’d found that man today so irritating. He was just a young, blond version of her father. All ego, all sex appeal—and disaster written all over him.

      She began searching for something to cool her skin, but really there wasn’t enough coconut oil in the whole of the Caribbean to smooth away the vicious red marks from the jellyfish sting—or the mental scarring from her encounter with that—that lunatic on a speedboat!

      She checked her phone, registering that the blank screen meant her mother was now even less likely to put in an appearance.

      She put it down with a sigh and lifted a pot of her most expensive unguent. She dropped a thick, gloopy dollop onto her palm, spreading it across her arm and chest where the jellyfish sting now bloomed like a cheap tattoo. But it still didn’t look any better. And she had less than an hour now until she had to squeeze herself into that hideously revealing frock and face those hideously overbearing crowds—completely alone.

      Another wave of nausea announced itself and she swallowed quickly, lest any more acid land in her mouth.

      Its lid screwed back on, she replaced the little pot on the dressing table and stared at herself in the mirror, suddenly noticing that lights were starting to appear in the harbour, announcing the evening ahead. And here was she—stressed, not dressed, and with no mother in sight to take over the horrific task of hostessing.

      Maybe she could ‘have a migraine’. She’d always thought it such a convenient ailment. How could anyone prove it one way or another? She could feign some sort of illness and let the whole thing look after itself. The conservation centre staff would be there. Somebody was bound to be willing to host...

      She wanted to scream into a pillow, but this was her mess and there was nothing else to do but to get on with it. It was bad enough that the guests thought they were going to be schmoozing with Lady Viv—who now only just might be persuaded to put in an appearance on camera—so Lucie certainly couldn’t leave the whole thing to anyone else.

      She ran to the bathroom. This nausea was overwhelming. She had to get it under control—one way or another.

       CHAPTER THREE

      LUCIE CLUTCHED A glass of fortifying champagne between white-knuckled fingers and stood like one of the pillars on the mid-deck. Any minute now someone might drape a piece of muslin over her and tie a balloon round her neck.

      Her first glass had been half emptied in a single gulp in her room, which had led to a choking fit and a grave look from the hairstylist, who had been packing up her stuff. She’d better not start throwing alcohol down her neck—even though she’d run out of ideas for a quick and painless death. A little deadly nightshade—how did that work?—or something one could simply inhale or swallow. And then she’d fold like a chimney struck by a wrecking ball, while all these strangers continued to sip obliviously on their champagne.

      They were arriving all the time. She could hear them, smell them, see them—one big, sensory blur. Her face felt tight—was she even smiling? She had no idea—couldn’t feel anything other than the hammer of her heart and the flush of burning red that still bloomed across her chest and neck. She tried to open her mouth to say hello, but the word stuck in her throat, died there.

      All she could do was stand there—shoulders back, stomach in, chest out—with her glass clutched in her hand and her face stretched into what she hoped was a smile. All she could do was breathe deeply and wait for it to be over.

      ‘I haven’t seen Lady Vivienne yet—is she here?’

      The Mexican Wave of those words washed over her every few minutes. If she heard it one more time she might actually throw herself overboard. That would be quite dramatic. Lucie ran a mental image as another crowd of people who, like her mother, probably couldn’t tell the difference between a turtle and a tortoise, came trundling onto the yacht, making too much noise.

      Suddenly the Mexican Wave turned back on itself. Bodies seemed to wheel around and preen and pose and Lucie’s heart began to pound even more loudly.

      Someone interesting was arriving. Someone very interesting.

      Could it be...? Could it possibly be...? Had her mother actually dropped everything back home and got on a jet to get here? Maybe she had heard the hurt and felt some kind of empathy or love or even just motherly duty towards her. Was that possible?

      She turned with the crowd and strained her head to see. Everybody was thronging towards the steps. It had to be her. Who else would get this level of interest in a crowd that was already chock-full of the so-called ‘it-list’?

      Maybe she had been too harsh? Too quick to judge? She hadn’t really given her a proper chance to explain. She had said she would come for part of it—hadn’t she? And she had been the one to plan most of the party—who’d laid down all those rules. And they’d really, really made Lucie focus. She did like the fact that she could see past her stomach to her feet now. And it felt good—it really did—that she could tolerate the heat so much more easily and not worry about her thighs rubbing together when she walked.

      Yes, she had her mother to thank for all that—and she would. That was her, wasn’t it? Coming aboard? Strange that she hadn’t come in on the helipad, but maybe she’d found a different way to get here. Maybe that was what she’d been about to say on the phone before she’d cut her off so abruptly.

      Lucie finally found a space in the crowd and got ready to greet her. But...where was she? There was no sign of Lady Vivienne. No gleaming perfect smile or couture-perfect outfit. No. There, strolling towards her, was another version of perfection. The male version. Dark blond hair flopped over an eye, golden skin, bluest, truest gaze and the laziest, most indolent grin.

      The idiot from the boat.

      What on earth was everyone doing, staring at him? Lucie looked to her left and right. And what on earth was he doing here?

      Suddenly her dry voice formed words and actually delivered them.

      ‘Who invited you?’

      He was strolling towards her as if he could barely find the energy, but her words had an effect. Oh, yes.

      He straightened and his shoulders went back—rigid just for a moment, but no mistaking it. Exactly the same way he’d looked on his boat earlier, when she’d had the temerity to question his intelligence. When he’d seemed made of steel and stone.

      And then he slipped back into that easy, breezy, nothing-is-a-problem attitude.

      ‘Invited? You mean begged, don’t you?’

      Lucie fumed. The big idiot was standing right in front of her now. On either side of him stood two pull-up banners—sea turtles swimming, with white lettering clearly displaying the name of her foundation: Caribbean Conservation Centre.

      ‘Not if you were the last man alive! This is for people who’re trying to do something to save endangered animals. You probably can’t even spell endangered!’

      He looked at her, tucked one hand on his hip—and her eye slid there again! Despite herself. His perfect wide shoulders, broad, strong chest and narrow waist were all tucked up inside a soft blue shirt the colour of his eyes. Not that she particularly cared about his eyes. Or how arresting they were. Or how hard it was to look away.

      ‘Maybe you can find someone to play schools with later, Princess.’ He was looking down at her as if he had some other kind of game in mind. ‘But you don’t have a monopoly on helping save the planet. I’m sure my friends’ money is quite as good as everybody else’s.’

      Lucie slid her eyes around to see the party he’d come with all disappearing into the crowd. She knew she should get over her disappointment towards her mother and her anger towards him and find someone out there who could run the auction. But his very presence