Page 78 of Modern Romance Collection May 2024 Books 1-4

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.

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