Page 8 of The Prince's Castaway Baby

“Yeah,” he says uncertainly, holding out his arms like he’s testing his balance.

I’m not fully certain I believe him, but there’s no way I can carry him, so for both our sakes he’d better be telling the truth.

Shakily he takes a step forward. I let him hook an arm around my shoulder to steady his balance, and that’s when I know I must have been alone for too long.

As we make our way out of the sea, I notice the strong muscles in his arms and the firmness of his chest. I also notice his hands — despite the way they’ve been torn up from his ordeal, he clearly had a perfect manicure before he set sail.

Where has this man come from?

The second we get back to camp, I deposit him by the fire pit, and he flops down in the shade. “Wait here,” I say. Not that he’s going to be going anywhere.

This island is only ever inhabited for the purpose of scientific research, and there are three bases set up. I’m camping at the cabin to the far east of the island, my favorite one. I stayed in the north cabin last time, and it was too windy for my liking. It creaked so much I thought I might blow away.

Usually, the weather and the isolation don’t bother me, but it really got to me on that trip.

As a photographer, I’m closely associated with a couple of scientific teams, and when the guys asked me to come back here, I was over the moon. I love this island. I’ve been here three times, and every time it gets harder to leave.

The cabin is big enough for a team of three to live comfortably with a room each, though often more people will stay at a time. Once, I came with the conservationists and I had a great time — they even let me help with some of their work.

I wished I never had to go home.

All alone, the cabin does feel a little big, but it means I get full run of the pantry and first pick of the expensive sun hats, so I can’t complain too much.

I head inside to get the first-aid kit, and as I open the door, I glance back at Jens, who is still lying on the ground. Fortunately, the weather is good, so I don’t have to worry about keeping him warm after his exposure to the water. I grab the kit but linger in the doorway to watch him for a second before heading back out.

His hair is a light brown; almost blond but without being muddy or dull or looking like it’s dyed. He rolls over, spreading his hands on the ground like he’s happy that it’s solid beneath him, and I notice his perfect skin again, his long fingers, his blemish-free complexion. He has a chiseled jaw and high cheekbones, which, when paired with his dazzling blue eyes, make him look quite Scandinavian.

If that’s true, I wonder where he came from. Mostaza is about as far away from Scandinavia as it’s possible to get.

Then he notices me looking and smiles a wide, easy grin, which annoys me all over again. This guy has rocked up without any warning on my island, disturbing my peace and quiet and my job, when he clearly has absolutely no ability to live like this. And he’s expecting me to patch him back together!

Pressing my lips into a thin smile, I walk back over to him and crouch down. “Give me your arm,” I demand. He blinks at melike he’s not used to being spoken to like this but then relents, sitting up and turning his shoulder to me.

As I start cleaning his wound, I ask again, “So, how did you get here?”

“Shipwreck,” he says blandly.

“Yeah, I got that. But where did you come from?”

“Miami.”

“Are you just going to keep giving me one-word answers?”

“Yeah.”

I take a sharp breath, not wanting to lose my temper with him. “Look, I just dragged you out of the ocean and rescued you. The least you could do is say thank you.”

“Thank you,” he echoes. He winces as I wrap the bandage tight around his bicep, then turns his head to look me dead in the eyes again. “I don’t get why you’re so mad,” he says, speaking the most words I’ve heard him say since I picked him up “What areyoudoing here?”

Now he’s said a full, lucid sentence, I can hear it. He does have a European accent, though one that’s incredibly well polished, almost like he does a lot of public speaking. Which just raises more questions about where he comes from and what he’s doing here.

“Photography,” I say, deciding that if he isn’t going to give me answers, I’m not going to give him any either.

“Cool,” he says dismissively and I don’t even bother pretending to smile. “What’s your name?”

“Billie.”

“How did you get here?”

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