Captive At Her Enemy's Command

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Not a problem, Katie thought wryly, seeing as I don’t actually have any shoes.

Caine continued to quiz the doctor as he left the cabin with her. Katie could hear them talking as they went up on deck together but was way too tired to decipher what was being said.

She stretched out on the couch, watching the lights on the headland as the voices drifted into silence, followed by the rumble of the boat’s engine.

Next stop, Capri. The site of one of my worst memories. And four days spent in Jared Caine’s overwhelming company.

She listened to the waves slapping against the hull, felt the kick of movement as the boat peeled away from the dock, and breathed in the scene of new leather and sea air.

Caine would probably be back in a minute to micromanage her. She closed her eyes. Well, he couldn’t bully her if she was comatose.

The salty breeze coming from the deck ruffled the short hairs on her arms as her limbs became weightless. She floated, buoyed by the bone-deep fatigue which had been lurking at the edges of her consciousness for hours. But as the gentle sway of the boat lulled her into a deep, drugging sleep, the buzz refused to fade.

* * *

“I’ll need some clothes,” Jared spoke into his cell phone as he stood in the entrance to the cabin and watched Katherine sleep.

She’d curled up on the couch like a child, her hands under one cheek, her bare feet tucked under her butt.

“Do you know what size your guest is, Mr. Caine?”

Jared frowned, his gaze absorbing the long, coltish line of her body, the gentle rise and fall of her breasts beneath the grubby tank top. “No. Bring a selection.”

“We could hire a stylist—arrange for them to come to your villa tomorrow morning and fit her for a new wardrobe,” the resort concierge suggested helpfully.

“Great. Whatever,” he said, not wanting to think about her slim frame and how it had felt so fragile in his arms.

“Will she be attending events with you?” the concierge asked.

He considered the question for a moment. “What events, exactly?”

He hated PR junkets. The original plan had been to fly in from Naples at the end of the weekend for one night and then head back to New York. But because of the woman curled up in front of him—who didn’t look like she had a care in the world—he was going to be stuck on Capri for four days at least. Possibly more, if it took longer to get her a replacement passport.

“We have the investors’ ball tomorrow,” the concierge began. “Then the press picnic on Saturday afternoon and the gala on Sunday. There are a number of other events that the resort would love you to attend too, if you’re not too busy with the security teams.”

The truth was the security teams didn’t need his oversight, but he planned to give it to them anyway, so he could spend as little time as possible going stir-crazy in a luxury villa he was being forced to share with his house guest.

The trickle of unease worked its way down his spine at the thought of having to share a villa with anyone. After living on the street—his crib being anything from a hotly contested doorway on the Upper West Side to a patch of turf in Harlem over a subway grate—his creature comforts were important to him, and he insisted on complete privacy.

He didn’t share bed space or any other space. Especially not overnight.

He swallowed past the ripple of anxiety. And the pulse of heat.

He wasn’t going to be sharing a bed with Katherine, just a villa. Luckily he’d booked a two-bed, because there’d been no other availability. But she would be in another room. And would no doubt want to avail herself of the resort’s spa and leisure activities. Plus, the soundproofing in his room would be sufficient if... His jaw tensed. He wasn’t going to have any episodes. He hadn’t had any in months.

Even so, frustration twisted in his gut to tangle with the unwelcome swell of heat.

He should have said no to Dario’s request. He didn’t like the volatility of his attraction to this woman, especially as it made no sense. But he could never say no to Dario, because he owed the guy everything.

Katie mumbled in her sleep as the boat hit a swell.

“Signore Caine, do you want me to list the other events we have scheduled?” the concierge prompted on the other end of the line.

“Put me down for the ball,” he said. If he was going to be here, he might as well make a couple of appearances. “Otherwise, make my excuses.”

“Will Ms. Whittaker be attending with you?” the concierge asked.

He frowned, suppressing his kneejerk desire to say no.

The less time he spent with Katherine, the easier it would be for them both. But, as he watched her sleeping, it occurred to him that sometimes the easy option wasn’t the smart option.

Perhaps he should rope her into the circus too. Given her aptitude for PR stunts, she’d enjoy the press attention—and it might stop her from getting up to mischief. He didn’t trust her not to run off if left too much to her own devices.

Whatever happened, he was delivering her to Dario in New York as promised. And entertaining her in public was a lot less dangerous than entertaining her in private.

“Yeah, Ms. Whittaker will attend the ball with me.”

“Wonderful, Signore Caine, I’ll add you both to the guest lists.”

Ending his call with the concierge, he headed back on deck.

But, as he let the sea spray mist his face, it didn’t do a lot to cool the heat flowing through his veins.

He would have been quite happy never to see Katherine Whittaker again in this lifetime. And now he was going to be stuck with her for several days. He didn’t like it one bit.