The Mediterranean Prince’s Captive Virgin. Robyn Donald

it had worked. Shame ate into her; she’d known he was dangerous, yet she’d succumbed to his cynical caress like some raw teenager awash with hormones.

      Never again, she vowed.

      At least it didn’t seem as though he intended to kill her. On the other hand she might be a hostage or a bargaining tool. Or he might just fancy a playmate for a few nights before getting rid of her.

      Feeling sick, she shifted uneasily, wondering if he’d already…

      No, she felt entirely normal, just lax and sleepy. Surely she’d know if she’d been raped?

      How? Although she’d had plenty of men friends, several of whom would have liked to become closer, she’d been too dedicated—too intensely focused on her dreams and her career—for relationships.

      Too scared, too; long ago she’d decided that love and passion led to pain and humiliation. So, as one-night stands were definitely not her style, she was that rare thing in the modern world, a virgin.

      But it hadn’t been fear she’d felt when the grey-eyed Viking had kissed her, and his kisses had wiped any thought of career and ambition from her mind. His kisses had made her feel uncontrolled and wanton and desirous.

      No other man had ever done that.

      Whatever she’d walked into last night in the square, she didn’t want a bar of it. She had to get away from here—wherever here was!

      Feverish thoughts jostled through her brain, but in the end the only plan she could come up with was to pretend to be the idiot her captor no doubt thought her.

      Feigning sleep, she tried to gather as many sensory impressions as she could. She was in a bed—a very comfortable one. Outside she could hear what seemed to be the soft lapping of water, but there was no smell of salt. Instead, an indescribable freshness filled the air, mingled with the now familiar scents of cypresses and something lighter and sweeter. Flowers?

      And someone else was with her. Although the room was silent, she could just catch the faint rhythm of something making regular motions. A rocking chair, she thought, rather pleased with herself for working this out.

      She simply couldn’t imagine the man who’d brought her here in a rocking-chair. Oddly enough that thought brought a smile to the corners of her mouth, and gave her the courage to slowly, stealthily, lift her lashes. This time they obeyed her will, so that she could see the woman who sat sewing beside a long window.

      Nothing frightening there, she thought with a swift rush of relief. Middle-aged, pleasantly plump, clad in some sort of nurse’s uniform, the woman in the chair wore her black hair off her face in a bun at her neck. Her olive skin and Mediterranean features meant she was probably Illyrian.

      As though she was warned by some sixth sense, the woman’s head swung abruptly around, her face lighting up when she saw Leola watching her.

      ‘Ah, you are truly awake,’ she said, and came across to stand beside her, automatically taking her wrist and checking her pulse.

      ‘Where am I?’ Leola’s voice sounded croaky and feeble at the same time.

      ‘In Osita, in the Sea Isles,’ the woman told her readily, releasing her wrist. ‘Yes, you are feeling much better. Perhaps you would like something to eat, hmm?’

      Osita? Leola frowned, trying to remember where she’d seen that name, then discarded the search to concentrate on more important things. Although the thought of food nauseated her, if she said yes, the nurse might leave the room to collect it.

      And then she could get up to work out where she was. ‘I’ll try,’ she said cautiously.

      But the woman rang a bell beside the bed. ‘Something light would be best. Soup, I think.’

      Baulked, Leola said in a muted voice, ‘Thank you.’

      Almost immediately there came a knock at a door. The nurse bustled across and ordered whatever it was she’d decided on, then came back. ‘So, let me help you sit up,’ she said. ‘You will want to wash your face and clean your teeth. I will bring you a basin.’

      After helping Leola sit against a bank of pillows, she went off through another door, this one in the wall opposite.

      Turning her head carefully, Leola examined the large, beautifully furnished room. No prison cell this, she thought with a stab of unwanted appreciation. It was a sumptuously decorated bedroom—a woman’s room. The large glass doors opened out onto a balcony; through the balustrade she could see the tops of trees, and a glimpse of blue, blue water against forested hills.

      Not the sea, though; a lake. And a picture suddenly flicked up in her mind—a lake amongst hills, with a small island to one side. And on the island a castle set in gardens.

      A very good place to keep a prisoner, she thought grimly, wondering how far from the shores of the lake the island was. She’d seen the photograph of Osita in a tourist brochure, but since she’d had no intention of going there she’d taken little interest in it.

      The nurse brought her the basin and a hairbrush, and stood by while she freshened up before brushing her hair into some sort of order.

      ‘So pretty,’ the woman commented as Leola smoothed the tawny-gold locks back from her face.

      Absurdly self-conscious, Leola said, ‘Thank you.’ And asked before she could think things through, ‘Who owns this place?’

      The woman looked surprised. ‘The prince,’ she said, as though there was only one prince and everyone knew his name.

      While Leola digested this in dumbfounded silence, another knock on the door summoned her keeper across to collect a tray.

      The prince? The only prince she could think of was Prince Roman, the hereditary ruler of the Illyrian Sea Isles, and she’d seen photographs of him. With the stunning good looks of some Mediterranean god, he wasn’t her Viking.

      Fugitive colour burned across her cheeks as she realised what her wayward mind had come up with. Whoever the man who’d brought her here was, he most definitely wasn’t her anything.

      After all, he’d kissed her just so that someone could pump her full of drugs. But if this place belonged to Prince Roman Magnati surely she couldn’t be in any real danger. He’d grown up in Switzerland, become a tycoon, and only recently returned to Illyria to take over his duties and responsibilities.

      It didn’t seem likely he’d be any sort of threat. But in that case, why was she here?

      CHAPTER TWO

      LEOLA looked up as the nurse returned and settled the tray over her knees. Her worried thoughts took second place to hunger. Lemons, she thought, and chicken—and some sort of very tiny pasta? Certainly a hint of garlic.

      ‘Eggs and lemon soup with chicken,’ the nurse told her. ‘A Greek dish, and good for illness—very soothing and nourishing.’

      Amazingly, Leola finished it, and the chunk of crusty bread that arrived with it, obediently ate an orange and drank a cup of coffee with milk and sugar. Even more amazingly she drifted off into a restful sleep afterwards.

      It wasn’t until the second day that she wondered if she was being drugged with a mild sedative. Those naps were too frequent. She tried to convince herself that it could be the aftereffects of the original drug, and waited for the nurse to leave the room. Cautiously, head spinning rather pleasantly, she got out of bed—and found herself staggering like a drunkard.

      Something was definitely wrong.

      Apart from the obvious physical effects, she felt altogether too mellow. Normally she’d be spitting tacks at this imprisonment; now she could barely summon up any resentment.

      And it was not because the Viking kept striding into her thoughts and her dreams…

      Clutching the back of an armchair, she stared out the window