For the first week, a new delivery had arrived by boat every day, starting with two dozen boxes stuffed with designer wear perfect for idling about on a tropical island. Light, airy sundresses, tasteful bikinis and sandals, sunglasses and wide-brimmed hats in every shade. No detail had been left unsatisfied.
Then came the daily delivery of flowers, each time with a different gift.
A diamond tennis bracelet. A large basket of cashmere knitting yarn following her brief conversation with the housekeeper about wanting to pick up the hobby. Expensive exquisitely scented candles specially crafted for expectant mothers. A pen drive containing a drone’s-eye view of the completed project in Tanzania.
But best of the lot had been the small, framed photo of the ultrasound image of her baby. A photo she kept propped up on her bedside and the first thing she saw each morning.
It was that gesture that had triggered her questioning the unshakeable no she’d delivered every time Zak had asked her to marry him. Or perhaps it was more the fact that he hadn’t asked in the last three days?
She massaged mildly throbbing temples. Was she suffering some weird form of Stockholm syndrome? Softening just when she needed to harden her heart against her captor?
She looked around her now, at the sparkling pool and the pristine beach beyond. At the stunning beauty all around her. It didn’t look or feel like a prison. The staff were friendly and courteous with her, treated Zak with a respect and reverence that went beyond employee/prince boundaries.
Impatient with her thoughts and unable to concentrate on the book she was reading, she rose from the sun lounger that had become her outdoor refuge. She would’ve stayed in her room the whole time had it not signalled weakness. Instead, she’d flaunted her calm indifference in his face, let him taste her triumph, the way she had when he’d walked in on her opening the clothing boxes after their arrival.
He’d studied her with those piercing eyes, probably expecting her to gush her gratitude or throw a tantrum at her incarceration. Instead she’d calmly thanked him, instructed the staff to deposit the clothes in her dressing room, then, after sliding into the most provocative bikini she could find, she’d returned downstairs.
She knew she’d succeeded in scoring a point when he’d inhaled sharply at her appearance in the library with a shockingly large surface area of her body on display. Ignoring him, she’d sashayed to the extensive bookcase, taken her time to select a psychological thriller, then made her exit, head held high.
So why was she faltering now?
Because this stand-off couldn’t continue for ever.
Her mother’s emails were getting more frequent and strident and she wasn’t being mollified by Violet’s evasive replies. It was only a matter of time before Margot connected the dots and did something foolish. Like pick up the phone to her favourite tabloid magazine to voice her concern for her daughter’s whereabouts.
With a sigh, she turned away from the breathtaking view, her mind whirling as she entered the living room.
And came face to face with Zak.
They stared at each other. No, it was more than that. They absorbed each other. The air thickened with a heavy, crackling awareness, churning displeasure and...sex in a volatile mix that quickened her heartbeat.
Or was it the vitality and pure, raw masculinity that brimmed from him, the mouth she couldn’t stop thinking about kissing even as she remained steeped in her role of indifference, and the blinding white linen lounge clothes he’d taken to wearing on the island that was severely wrecking her equilibrium?
Whatever it was, it locked her in place. Until her lungs burned, and her senses screamed for self-preservation.
They snapped into motion at the same time, Zak heading for her with ferocious determination etched into his face. She attempted to bypass him by skirting the sofa. And failed when he cornered her a few feet from the door, his towering body barring her way.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, cringing when her customary coolness emerged hot and husky.
‘No, cara, you’re not excused.’
He blocked her escape by the simple act of placing his hands on the exquisite Venetian-papered wall on either side of her, caging her in, making her shockingly aware of how much of her skin was exposed in the orange bikini and the matching sarong that only covered her hips and upper thighs.
‘What are you—?’
‘Enough of this, Violet,’ he breathed, his voice a dangerous volcanic rumble that merely heightened her sensual awareness of him. ‘It’s been two weeks.’
In a wild bid to reverse the frantic beat of her heart at his proximity, she took her time to slot her bookmark between the pages of her novel before tossing it on a console table nearby. Only then did she gather every shred of composure to meet his eyes. ‘If it’s too much for you, you know what you need to do to end it.’
For a long stretch he didn’t answer, the only sound in the room the lazy whirling of the ceiling fan. And her agitated breathing.
His gaze raked her body before returning to rest on her face. ‘You intend to go on letting us both suffer in silence?’
‘Which one bothers you more, the suffering or the silence?’ she asked, noting again how her voice missed the flippancy she’d aimed for.
An arrogant, sexy smile draped his lips, even while his eyes remained shrewd, watchful. Calculating. ‘You wish me to bare myself so you can subject me to even more of the same treatment?’
Her smile was saccharine sweet. ‘If you would be so kind.’