He struck out in his novice freestyle, battling to keep his head above water, struggling to keep her in his sights, desperate to reach her.Frantic.
‘Helena!’ he cried.
But despite his calls and his efforts, he couldn’t reach her. He couldn’t find her.
He couldn’t save her…
‘Shh, it’s okay.’
He was suddenly aware of the warm press of hands at his shoulders. He was aware of the soothing voice through the pain of his loss. A calming voice that made no sense. It was at odds with his memory—of his father pulling him half-drowned from the sea, laying him on the sand where Theo had retched his stomach out, as much from the seawater he’d swallowed as the knowledge that he’d failed his sister.
‘It’s okay.’ The words permeated the thickness in his mind, yet in an accent that didn’t sound like anyone he knew. Not his father who’d plucked him from the sea. A woman, yet not his mother.
Sophia, he thought. It made no sense but it had to be Sophia. Who else could it be but his wife saying soothing words, blotting out memories of the beach tragedy as she had always done? And the nightmare receded, his jagged breathing eased, as he let himself drift at the comforting stroke of her hands on his arms, at her calming perfume coiling into his senses.
Until something snagged with the sensuality of his dream. A hairline crack in the perfection that jarred.
Because Sophia’s perfume had been heady and sensual, rich with the spices of the silk route.
Whereas this scent—this scent was citrus and fresh.
And Sophia?
Sophia was gone.
And what started as a hairline crack grew into a fracture, shattering his dreamlike state and jolting him into wakefulness.
His eyes snapped open. It was dark but he was fully awake. He saw her face—Isabella’s face—close to his, as she murmured soothing words and heaven turned into hell.
He roared into the darkened room, rearing upright in the bed, pulling the sheet over his body with one hand, seizing one of her wrists with the other. He snapped on the bedside light. She whimpered as she scuttled from the bed as far as she could, as far as she could go with one wrist ensnared. ‘You frightened me.’
The colour in her cheeks was high, her hair was mussed from sleep, and had her lips always been that plump and inviting? Her candy-striped pyjama shorts showed off her smooth-skinned legs. Her tiny lace camisole revealed too much the fullness of her breasts, not to mention the pointed peaks of her nipples. He tore his eyes away, half wishing he’d left the light off so he couldn’t notice.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘You scared me.’
‘Tell me what you were playing at?’
‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’
‘Answer the question!’
‘You were having a nightmare. You were calling out. I was worried about you.’ She looked down at her wrist, still encircled by his long-fingered hand. ‘Are you going to let me go or are you going to hold onto me all night.’
He was in two minds, his thoughts in turmoil. All he knew was that his dream had turned into a living nightmare, and he couldn’t get out of bed. He was naked beneath the sheet, memories of Sophia turning him hard. Finding a woman in his bed wearing scant clothing when he was in such a state was next-level hell.
She licked her lips, as if his hesitation was in her favour, her eyes traversing his naked chest as if she was sizing him up. ‘Because if you want me to stay…?’
He flung her hand away.
‘Don’t you realise how dangerous that was coming into my bedroom—where it could have ended up? What it might have cost you?’
‘I was worried about you,’ she said, a challenge clear in her voice. ‘You were calling out.’
He glared at her, hating her for reminding him of the loss of his younger sister. Hating himself more for letting her witness his weakness. And then there was his mad decision to sleep commando. He’d expected the Princess to try to escape—he’d improvised alarms on the doors and windows in case she tried to make a run for it. The last thing he’d expected was for her to ambush him in his own bedroom. He growled at his lack of foresight.
‘You acted foolishly, Princess.’
