She was trapped like a fly in amber, Ivy thought furiously, held captive within something that looked beautiful but was really a prison.
The door to the guest suite she’d commandeered in Damian’s absence stood open. One of the maids was emptying the dresser drawers; Esias stood by, supervising.
“Leave my clothes alone!”
The maid jumped back. Esias said something and the girl shot a glance at Ivy and reached toward the dresser again.
“Did you hear me? Do—not—touch—my—things!”
Esias barely looked at her. “His Highness said—”
“I don’t give a damn what he said.” Ivy pointed to the door. “Get out!”
The houseman stiffened but, well-trained robot that he was, he snapped an order at the maid. She scurried away at his heels as he marched from the room.
Ivy slammed the door behind them, locked it and sank down on the edge of the bed.
She would not remain on Minos. That was a given. What wasn’t so clear was how to escape. There were no bars on the windows of Damian’s palace, no locks on the doors, but why would there be?
The island was in the middle of the Aegean. You could only leave it by sea or by air.
And yes, there was an airstrip, a helipad, a couple of small boats in a curved harbor, even a yacht the size of a cruise ship anchored just offshore in the dark blue sea.
But all those things, every ounce of white sand beach, dark volcanic rock and thousand-foot-high cliffs belonged to Damian. He owned Minos and ruled it with an iron fist.
She could only leave Minos if he permitted it.
Aside from Esias, who watched her with the intensity of Cerberus, that ancient three-headed dog guarding Hades, the people who lived in Damian’s tightly controlled little kingdom were pleasant and polite.
The maids and gardeners, cook and housekeeper all smiled whenever they saw her. The pilot of Damian’s jet, poring over charts in a small, whitewashed building at the airstrip, had greeted her pleasantly; down by the sea, an old man scraping barnacles from the bottom-up hull of a small sailboat doffed his cap and offered a gap-toothed grin.
They all spoke English, enough to say oh, yes, it was very hot this time of year and indeed, the sea was a wonderful shade of deepest blue. But as soon as Ivy even hinted at asking if someone would please sail her, fly her, get her the hell off this miserable speck of rock, they scratched their heads and suddenly lost their command of anything other than Greek.
Terrified, all of them, by His Highness, the Prince.
His Horribleness, the Prince.
Ivy shot to her feet and went to the closet. There had to be someone with the courage to help her. Maybe the helicopter pilot. Maybe Damian had neglected to tell him that she was a prisoner. Either way, this was her last chance at freedom.
She had to make it work and the best way to do that was to look and sound like Ivy Madison, woman of the world, instead of Ivy Madison, desperate prisoner.
Quickly she stripped to her bra and panties. Grabbed a pair of white linen trousers from their hanger, stepped into them…
“Oh, for God’s sake…”
She inhaled until it felt like her navel was touching her spine. No good. The zipper wouldn’t budge.
Ivy kicked the trousers off and turned sideways to the mirror. Her expression softened and she lay her hand gently over her rounded belly.
The baby—her baby—was growing. Her baby…and Damian’s.
No. A condom’s worth of semen didn’t make a man a father. Concern, love, wanting a child were what mattered. Where was Damian’s concern, his love, his desire for this baby?
Nowhere that she could see. He wanted her child because he wanted an heir, and because he was the kind of unfeeling SOB who could not imagine giving up that which he believed was his.
A man like that was not going to raise her baby.
Two days out from under his autocratic thumb and Ivy had had time to think logically.