CHAPTER THREE

HISHANDSOMENESSHIT her hard, just like it had the first time she'd laid eyes on him at the academy. The broad forehead and sharp cheekbones, offset by full, sensual lips, were all familiar. But the thickness of his beard and the longer cut of his hair, now hanging in wet strands turned to dark gold, sharply contrasted with the brooding air the so-called "Ice Prince" had exuded back home.

She breathed in, an action she quickly regretted as her breasts pressed more fully against his chest. Between the barely-there coverage of her bikini top and his ocean-soaked T-shirt, she could feel the heat of his skin against hers, the hardened muscle. Memories stirred of the night they'd lain together in bed, naked bodies entwined, the intimacy of lying together almost as powerful as when they'd joined.

Stop!She had to get a grip. Yes, they'd had an incredible night together. But the relationship she'd created in her mind, one of mutual respect and a desire to support the country they both loved, one deepened by the knowledge that she might have been called on at any moment to surrender her life for his, had been nothing more than a fantasy.

"It was one night, Miss Clark," he said with such disdain she wanted to curl inside herself and hide from the shame his words birthed. "But with my now impending marriage, it's best if you're reassigned elsewhere."

Cold. Callous. Everything she'd heard whispered about him had been true.

Anger started to churn in her belly, rising up and twining through her veins with a fiery strength that eclipsed her heartache and humiliation.

"Why on earth would you think I was drowning?" she asked, keeping her voice neutral. "You know the survival course requires being submerged for at least two minutes."

His brow furrowed. One hand came up to push the hair out of his eyes. "I—"

She swept her arms up and broke his grasp. Planting both hands on his chest, she gave him a shove and was rewarded with the sight of the prince falling back into the ocean. She savored the sight of him tumbling beneath the waves before making a beeline for the beach.

The sound of Julius cursing behind her made her smile. She spared a glance over her shoulder and grinned when she saw the thunderous expression on his face.

"What the devil was that for?" he shouted.

She froze. The anger paused, then seethed, churned, burning into white-hot rage as she slowly turned to face him.

"You can't be serious."

He stared at her for a long moment, then looked down as he let out a frustrated sigh.

"Look, Miss Clark. Esme—"

"No." Her voice rang out over the waves. "You addressed me as ‘Miss Clark' the day you fired me. You don't have permission to address me by my first name. Ever."

He scrubbed a hand over his face, then started walking out of the waves. She stood her ground and did her best to ignore the way his shirt molded to his muscled chest, the wet cloth revealing the dark golden hair that trailed down his stomach and disappeared beneath the waistband of his pants.

He stalked up onto the sand. With every step closer he took, her heart upped its rhythm, until it was beating so fast it was a wonder she didn't pass out.

"Miss Clark, we have to talk."

Her traitorous heart leapt. She mentally snatched it, pushed her treacherous emotions away.

"If you're offering to hire me back, the answer is—"

"Would you just listen to me, damn it?"

Something in his tone slipped past her hurt. She waited a moment, two, then evaluated the man before her. The man who looked more like a tourist on vacation than a royal prince. The man who had easily lost ten pounds since she'd last seen him and now sported a cut on one cheek. The man who was looking at her with a touch of uncertainty in his amber eyes.

She'd cut off all ties to the palace when she'd left. Told the few acquaintances she had that she would be in touch soon with no real intention of actually following through. She'd also avoided the media, not wanting to see carefully curated photos of Julius with whatever princess or duchess or heiress his father had picked as the perfect wife.

Something had obviously happened since she'd left. Her heart pounded once, twice, her hands yearning to reach out and smooth the furrow between his brows. To wrap her arms around him just once more the way she had the morning after they'd made love. He'd been standing at the balcony doors, hands tucked in his pockets, shoulders rigid as if he'd already resumed carrying the weight of the world. She'd walked up behind him, laid one hand on his back. The muscles had tensed beneath her touch. Reality had told her to step back, give him space. The intimacy they'd shared last night and into the early hours of the morning encouraged otherwise. So she'd slowly slid her arms around his waist, laid her cheek against his shoulder blade. And when he'd finally released a breath, relaxing in her hold, accepting the strength she offered for whatever battle he was fighting, she'd tipped over the edge she'd avoided for so long.

An edge she found once again as he watched her, his eyes roaming over her face as if he'd never seen her before.

"It's over, Miss Clark."

Her chin rose, her spine straightening as she faced down her former lover.

"I'm done listening to you." She executed a formal bow. "Your Highness." And then she turned, swept up her robe and walked away, leaving a soaking wet prince alone on the beach.

John stared after Esme until she disappeared up the winding wood stairs that led from the beach up to the tiny cottage perched on a cliff. He turned away and swore.

That could have gone better.

He'd gone to the cottage as soon as his plane had landed. The taxi had zipped past elegant resorts shrouded behind massive shrubs, colorful homes and the turquoise waters of the Caribbean Sea.

He'd seen it, registered it. But his thoughts had been solely focused on finding the mysterious Esmerelda Clark.

Which is why when he'd knocked, then knocked harder still and finally peered in the windows, he hadn't been able to stop the string of curse words that had tumbled from his lips. To come so far and find the cottage empty had left him trembling with anger and a gnawing fear that the woman who might hold all the answers was gone.

He'd spied the stairs curling down from the back porch. Instinct had nudged him to walk down the winding staircase that descended down the cliff before leveling out into a narrow boardwalk across a stream, then several more steps down onto a yellow-white sandy beach.

And then he'd seen her. Standing on the sand in a bikini that left little of her lithe, toned body to the imagination, hair spilling down her back in flaming red-gold curls. His anger and fear had evaporated in a moment. She was here. She was here and she was familiar in a way that he couldn't explain. He didn't know her middle name or what flowers she liked or what their relationship had been like before he'd ended up in London.

But he knew her. Knew her, craved her with not just his body but a need that surpassed the mere physical.

When she'd walked into the water, he'd held back, pulling himself back together piece by piece so that when he moved onto the beach, he wouldn't frighten her.

Except then she'd slipped beneath the waves and hadn't come back up.

He'd waited. But the seconds had stretched. He'd walked onto the beach, spied her red hair below the surface. When the seconds had turned into a minute and she hadn't moved, fear had propelled him into the water.

He rubbed his neck. The woman had a grip. And a grudge. The impressions that flirted with the edges of his broken mind had led him to the assumption that he and Esmerelda had been lovers. An assumption he thought confirmed by the brief flare of desire in her eyes when he'd held her nearly naked body close. A desire that had kindled an answering fire deep within him.

But she hadn't said anything about a romantic connection. No, she'd referenced working for him and tossed in that odd bow at the end. Had they been coworkers, or he'd been her boss, and tried to take the relationship from professional to intimate? Worse, had he crossed a line?

The headache returned with a vengeance and pounded at his temples. He'd obviously done something to taint whatever relationship they'd had. To make her walk away without a backward glance.

Ridiculous for the rejection of a woman he couldn't even remember to hurt. Yet hurt it did, a crackling pain beneath his skin coupled with an emptiness in his chest that rivaled the emptiness inside his head.

Enough.

He'd come this far, spent most of his money to find Esmerelda Clark. He would atone for whatever atrocities he'd committed in his murky past. But right now, he needed answers.

Five minutes later he stood outside the door of the cabin. He forced himself to not fling the door open and seek her out. As he raised his fist to knock, the door swung open. Esmerelda stood framed in the doorway, her eyes snapping green fire and her hair caught up in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. She'd pulled a blue T-shirt on but had yet to pull on shorts, leaving her long legs bare to his gaze.

"Did you get seawater in your ears?"

"Excuse me?"

"I said no."

She started to close the door. John flung up his arm and braced it against the door. Her eyes widened.

And then she got angry. She drew herself up to her full five-foot-five, her body tightening and shifting like a snake getting in position to strike.

She was glorious.

"If you are even contemplating forcing yourself in here, sir, I will break every bone in your body, starting with your—"

"I need your help."

She paused.

"Please," he added.

He knew the moment it worked because she slowly uncoiled, her body loosening, her stance relaxing a fraction as she regarded him with curiosity and suspicion.

"With what?"

He hesitated. Where to begin? He'd obviously done something to her in his previous life. Hurt her somehow.

Her eyes narrowed. She started to push the door shut. He had to plant himself to keep her sudden shove from knocking him off balance.

"I don't know who I am."

She stopped. Her eyes moved over his face.

His relief at sharing his predicament proved short-lived.

"Look, I can't help you." She glanced away, the first time she had done so, as if it made her uncomfortable to look at him. "I understand you're under a tremendous amount of pressure, not to mention the engagement—"

Disappointment speared his chest.

"We're not engaged?"

A stricken look passed over her face, pain flashing in her eyes as her lips parted in shock. He swallowed past the sudden thickness in his own throat.

"How can you even ask that?"

"Esme... Miss Clark," he amended as her lips thinned. "When I say I don't know who I am, I mean that literally."

Silence descended between them, thick and heavy. Dimly he heard the distant roar of the surf, the melancholy coo of a nearby bird, the thudding of his own heart. She stared at him, as if waiting for him to break character, to laugh and say it was all a joke.

"If this is some sort of scheme or manipulation—"

He reached down and grabbed her hand, ignoring her gasp and the electric awareness that surged up his arm. He leaned down and pressed her hand against the wound at the base of his skull. The initial touch made him bite back a hiss of pain. Her fingers tensed then gentled, tracing the swelling with a touch so soft it calmed some of the turmoil that had been churning inside him for the past twenty-four hours. As she leaned closer, he breathed in, smelling the salty scent of the sea clinging to her skin. Sea and something else...something floral and feminine that made him want to drag her against him and bury his face in her hair.

Mine.

The word shot through him, awoke something lodged deep in his chest. A possessiveness that felt right even as it unsettled him, to have such strong emotions for a woman he couldn't remember anything about.

"Turn around."

He kept his surprise at her sudden brusque demeanor hidden and followed her direction. Even though his mind resisted taking orders, took umbrage at being talked to like that, he forced himself to be vulnerable, to surrender something of himself.

"Crouch down, please. Sir," she added.

"You worked for me?" he asked as her fingers probed the wound once more, her touch now efficient.

"I did."

"What happened?"

"You fired me."

The words were said plainly, factually. It didn't mask the hurt lingering in her voice, the shade of embarrassment.

Before he could ask for details, she spoke.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

"Waking up in my hotel room yesterday afternoon."

"Blunt force trauma to the base of your skull." She walked around him and looked in his eyes. "Pupils appear normal. Any vomiting, dizziness?"

"No. Some nausea when I first awoke, but it disappeared quick enough."

"What did the doctor say?"

"Doctor?"

Her eyes widened before narrowing to tiny slits as she planted her fists on her hips. The gesture made her look like an adorably pissed-off fairy.

"You did go to a hospital, didn't you?"

An ache started to build in his temples as he straightened to his full height. Instead of stepping back or showing any sign of hesitancy, she merely lifted her chin and met his gaze head-on.

Oh, yes. He liked this woman very much.

"A hospital would have taken time. I was given your name and address and came straight here?"

She frowned. "Got my name from who?"

He held up his hand.

"Before I answer any more questions, tell me..."

He paused. Physically steeled himself for whatever response he was about to receive.

"Who am I?"

One hand came up, her fingers rubbing at her forehead. She muttered under her breath in a language he knew—Portuguese—and then looked up at him.

"Sit down. Please," she added huffily when he arched a brow at her command. "I'll be right back."

He moved to the table and chairs set at the far end of the porch that ran the length of the cottage. The chair let out a protesting groan as he sat. Given the hints of rust poorly disguised by a thin layer of white paint, it was a miracle the chair had lasted as long as it had.

Esme appeared a moment later, clad in the wet shirt that clung to her body and a pair of shorts, two steaming mugs in her hands. She set one in front of him as she sat in the chair across from him.

"Spiced coffee."

Cinnamon and a touch of sweetness swirled on his tongue as he took a long drink. The hot liquid warmed his throat, gave himself something tangible to focus on.

"Thank you." He set his cup down. "John Adamos isn't my real name, is it?"

"Why do you ask?"

"It doesn't feel like my name. There's no recognition, no connection."

"No. It's not your real name." Her gaze flicked down to her own cup, then back up to his. A veil had dropped over her eyes. The woman in front of him was even more of a stranger than the one he had happened on down on the beach. Cool, collected.

Withdrawn.

"Your name is Julius Carvalho."

Something flickered inside him, a flame of recognition. Distant, but there.

"Julius," he repeated.

"Yes." She breathed in deeply. "Crown Prince Julius Adamos Carvalho."

Silence stretched between them once more. Laughter died in his throat when she didn't smile, didn't chuckle, simply watched him with that clinical gaze.

"Prince," he echoed.

"Yes. Heir to the throne of the island nation of Rodina."