The Prince's Scandalous Wedding Vow

Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright as she glanced at him, and her expression was nervous and shy, sweet and hopeful, and it was the hopefulness in her green gaze that made his chest tighten and ache.

He had a feeling his life was full of beautiful women, but none were like her. How could they be? Who could possibly be as smart and beautiful and yet also so capable? He marveled at her ability to make do with so little. She complained about nothing.

“Why won’t you marry?” he asked, wanting to touch one of those long, loose tendrils that had slipped free from her chignon to rest on her smooth, tanned shoulder.

“It’s just unlikely,” she answered, giving him a smile. “It’s not as if men wash up on my beach often.”

“I did.”

“Yes, but it took me eight years to rescue my first prince.”

His brow creased. “Prince?”

She smiled, and a small dimple appeared near the corner of her mouth. “Like the story ‘The Little Mermaid,’ except I don’t intend to give up my soul in order to marry or in order to make him—or anyone—happy.”

“I confess, I don’t know the story.”

“How can you not know it?”

“I was an—” he stopped and looked away, perplexed. He’d come so close to saying I was an only child.

But was he?

And was that why he didn’t know the story?

“It’s not an American story,” she added, “although Disney did a version of it. It’s Hans Christian Andersen, and his stories are invariably really sad and depressing. I think they were meant to scare children into good behavior, but they gave me nightmares so my dad told my mom not to read them to me anymore, but of course I remember the ones that upset me most.”

She glanced at him. “But no depressing conversation. Dinner is ready. Shall we eat?”

Josephine plated their dinner—roasted lamb fragrant with garlic, oregano, thyme, rosemary, and lemon juice. She loved cooking Greek food and tonight’s lamb paired perfectly with the merlot and the sky, the stunning sunset fading to just a wisp of red and purple on the horizon.

He held her chair for her as she sat down, a chivalrous gesture that made her feel safe and protected. “Thank you,” she murmured, watching as he took the seat opposite her, the candlelight reflecting off the bronze of his cheekbones and his inky-black hair. She felt a sizzle race through her as his blue gaze met hers and held. It was hard to think clearly when he made her feel so much, her pulse racing, her body humming with nerves and excitement.

She wanted him to kiss her again.

She wanted him to hold her and make her feel all the things she’d felt earlier, because this magic wouldn’t last. He’d be gone before she knew it and this time here, together, would be just a memory. A memory she’d cherish forever.

“I can’t imagine a more inviting table setting, or a more beautiful dinner companion,” he said, lifting his wineglass. “To you, Josephine. Thank you for everything.”

“It’s my pleasure,” she said, lightly clinking the rim of her goblet to his.

He sipped the wine and nodded. “This is really good wine.”

“It’s Greek, made by Father Epi in the monastic community Mount Athos. It’s my father’s favorite and what he always brings back with him.”

“I’ll have to remember it.”

She felt her lips curve. “I’d rather you remember your name and those important things like where you live and what you do.” Her smile faded. “Your family must be frantic. If you were mine, I’d be beside myself.”

“It’d be nice to know who they are.”

“I’m sure they are heartsick, as are your friends.”

“Hmm.”

She shot him a speculative look. “You don’t think so?”

His jaw hardened, his gaze narrowing. “They didn’t come back.”

She’d thought the same thing many times. Carefully, she added, “Maybe they didn’t know where you disappeared. It is a huge sea.”

“Whoever I fought with knew I went overboard. Why didn’t he sound the alarm?”

“If that person did know...you’re still in trouble. That person is dangerous. He or she meant to do you harm. Otherwise the yacht would have circled back. Your friends, the rest of them, would never have left you.”

“That’s the first time, you said he or she.” His gaze met hers and held. “Until now, you’ve always said he. Do you think it was a woman?”

“I don’t know. I shouldn’t have said anything. And I shouldn’t speculate. I was never close enough to your group to hear conversations. I only watched from afar, and to be honest, I only really watched you.” She felt her face go hot once again. Her shoulders twisted. She didn’t know where to look. “You were the most interesting.”

His gaze locked with hers and held, and what she saw in his eyes made the air bottle in her lungs and her skin heat. He wanted her, desired her, and it struck her for the first time that it wasn’t because he was grateful she’d saved him—which was what she’d always told herself until now—but because he liked her, Josephine Robb, social misfit. It shouldn’t matter that she could speak a half-dozen different languages but didn’t know anything about popular American culture, but it did whenever she returned to the States. While women her age discussed fashion and the current social-media sensation, she felt foolish and exposed, a fish out of water.

It was all she could do to eat her dinner, and it was one of her favorite meals. Chewing, swallowing, talking, smiling became a challenge because she could feel him from across the table; she could feel his energy and it was dizzying. Her breasts peaked, her body felt hot, like liquid, and she pressed her knees together, trying to deny the sensitivity between her thighs.

“You’ve become very quiet,” he said, as they finished their meal.

The candlelight flickered, casting a dancing shadow across his face. Her gaze followed the shadow and light as it moved over the slash of cheekbones, the strong forehead, the line of his nose, and the utterly masculine jaw. He was handsome and virile but also hard, with a toughness, a fierceness, at his center that made her think she wouldn’t ever want to be his adversary. Far better to have him in her corner, on her side.

“I should clear the table,” she said huskily.

“No, you shouldn’t,” he answered, his gaze focused intently on her.

She felt her mouth tingle beneath his scrutiny, and her face warmed, the skin feeling taut and sensitive. The heat in his blue eyes took her breath away, making her heart pound. Awareness rippled through her, desire coiling low in her belly with a need and a desperation she’d never felt until now. He’d awakened something within her that made her restless, even frantic.

She didn’t just want him; she needed him.

There might never be another who made her feel this way. Beautiful and valuable. Excited and alive.

“Come here,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

He didn’t extend a hand, nor were the words sharp or frightening, but the command was undeniable. He expected her to go to him. He knew she’d obey.

And she knew it, too.

She rose on shaky legs and walked around the small table to his side.

His dark head tipped, and his gaze slowly traveled over her, from her hot flushed cheeks to her full mouth and down over her shoulders. His attention riveted on the tips of her breasts pressing against the thin gauze of her blouse, and then finally moved down over her waist and hips.

The hunger in his eyes made her tremble. She wasn’t frightened, and yet the heat in her body now seemed to center low, pooling in secret places that made her damp. She felt as if he was slowly turning her to wine and honey.

“I want you,” he said, and his deep voice had a rasp in it that made her nipples tighten. “But I’m trying to be respectful,” he added. “I’m aware of how much I

owe you—”

“No.”

“I do. I owe you my life.”

“Then don’t want me. Not if it’s because you’re grateful. I don’t want to be wanted out of some misguided gratitude—” She broke off as he reached out and pulled her down onto his lap, his hands locking around her waist.

“I don’t want you out of gratitude. I want you because I can’t sleep at night anymore because my body aches for you. I want to touch you and taste you and be in you. The only reason I’ve held back is because you’re innocent. I’m hoping to God you’re not, because then I wouldn’t feel like such a bastard for wanting to take you and make you mine.”

Her thighs clenched as heat ricocheted through her, the desire as sharp as a razor’s edge.

“Tell me you’re not a virgin. Tell me this wouldn’t be your first time.” His gaze, so hot, blistered her, while his deep voice scratched her senses, gravel-rough.

“It would be my first time,” she answered unsteadily, “but everyone has to have a first time. Why can’t it be with you?”

“Because I don’t think I’m good for you. I don’t think I’m what you need.”

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t.”

“Exactly. We don’t know very much of anything except that I’m as attracted to you as you are to me, and I like how you make me feel. I like this, whatever this is, between us and I want more of it, not less.”

His jaw flexed, hardened, just as she could feel him harden beneath her bottom in undeniable proof of his desire. His erection made her feel even more sensitive and she exhaled in a rush, overwhelmed by the sensation coursing through her. “I want you,” she said thickly, sliding her hands up his chest, exploring the hard, warm plane of muscle. “I want you to be my first.”

Her words were like gasoline on an open flame.

He wanted to strip her bare right there and feast on her. He wanted his mouth on every inch of her. He wanted her, oh, so very wet and writhing beneath him.