The Prince's Captive Virgin. Maisey Yates
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LOOKED UP at the imposing castle and tightened her coat more firmly around her petite frame. It was surprisingly chilly tonight on the small island country nestled in the Aegean Sea between Greece and Turkey.
Of course, when she had first heard of Olympios she had been put in mind of the Mediterranean. Bright white homes and searing blue skies and seas. And perhaps, in the daytime, that was what it was. But here at night, with the velvet darkness settled low around her and that damp air blowing in from the ocean, it felt like something completely unexpected.
The fortress in front of her, on the other hand, was almost far too expected. It was medieval, and nothing but the lights flickering in the window gave any indication that it might be part of the modern era. Of course, she could expect nothing less from a man who had gone to such great lengths to seek revenge on a photographer.
A man who had captured her father in the act of taking pictures and imprisoned him to get revenge for something as innocuous as photographs that were set to be published without his permission.
Belle supposed that she should be afraid. After all, Prince Adam Katsaros had proven to be unreasonable. He had proven to be inhumane. But she was bolstered by the same rage that had infused her veins from the moment she had first heard of her father’s fate, even now.
It seemed that she was insulated from fear, which was strange considering she’d spent a lot of her life feeling afraid of almost everything. Of losing her father and the haven she’d found with him after her mother had abandoned her when she was four years old. Of the potential inside herself to become a tempestuous, selfish creature driven by passions of the flesh, as her mother had been and probably still was.
All that fear was gone now. Had been from the moment she had first boarded her plane in LA, all the way through her layover in Greece, and through the flight that carried her here to Olympios.
She could only hope that her bravado lasted.
Tony was going to be so mad when he found out she’d done this. Her boyfriend of nearly eight months had always wanted to be more involved in her life. But she resisted. Just like she’d been resisting serious physical intimacy. That was part of all her fear stuff.
She’d never had a boyfriend before, and she was accustomed to her space and her independence. Surrendering any of it just didn’t sit well with her.
Which was an ironic thought, considering what she was prepared to do here today.
She was surprised to find that the palace was more or less unguarded. There was no one about as she walked up the steps that led to a rough-hewn double door. She was tempted—not for the first time since her arrival on the island—to check and see if her phone calendar had been set back into the last century. Or, perhaps, a few centuries ago.
She lifted her hand, unsure as to whether or not one knocked on doors like this. In the end, she decided to grasp hold of the iron ring and pull it open. It creaked and groaned with the effort, as though no one had dared enter the large, imposing building in quite some time. However, she knew that they had. Because only a few days ago her father had been brought here. And—if rumor was to be believed—he was being imprisoned on the property.
She took a cautious step inside, surprised by the warmth that greeted her. It was dark, except for some wall sconces that were lit across the room. The great stone antechamber possessed nothing like the sort of comforts she would have expected from a palace. Not that she was in the habit of being admitted into palaces.
No, the little seaside home she and her father lived in in Southern California was as far from a palace as it was possible to get. It wasn’t even Rodeo Drive.
But this wasn’t exactly what she had expected from royalty. In spite of her lack of experience, she did have expectations. She might never have been admitted into the lavish homes and parties that celebrities threw in Beverly Hills, but her father’s business was photographing those events. So she had a visual familiarity with them, even if it wasn’t based in experience.
“Hello?” she called out into the dim chamber, vaguely aware that that might not have been the best idea the moment the word left her mouth and ricocheted off the stone walls. But, that adrenaline that had wrapped itself around her like an impenetrable suit of armor remained. She had a mission, and she was not going to be frightened out of carrying it out.
Once the prince understood, he would be more than happy to return her father to her custody. She was certain. Once he understood about her father’s health.
“Hello?” she called again. Still nothing.
She heard a soft sound, footsteps on the flagstone floor, and she turned toward a corridor that was at the far left of the room, just in time to see a tall, slender man walking toward her. “Are you lost, kyria?”
His tone was soft and kind, faintly accented and nothing like the harsh, brutal surroundings that she found herself in. Nothing at all like she had imagined finding here in this medieval keep.
“No,” she said, “I’m not lost. My name is Belle Chamberlain and I looking for my father. Mark Chamberlain. He’s being held here by the Prince...and I... I don’t think he understands.”
The servant—at least, that’s what she assumed he was—took a step closer to her, his expression becoming clearer as he moved nearer. He looked...concerned. “Yes. I know about that. It is, perhaps, best if you go, Kyria Chamberlain.”
“No. You don’t understand. My father is ill, and he was supposed to start treatment back home in the States. He can’t be here. He can’t be...imprisoned, just because he took some photographs that the Prince doesn’t like.”
“There is a lot here that protects the Prince’s privacy,” the man said, as though she hadn’t spoken. As though he were simply reciting from a well-memorized book. “And whatever the Prince says is...well, it is law.”
“I’m not leaving without my father. I’m not leaving until I speak to the Prince. Also, your security is shockingly lax.” She looked around. “Nobody stopped me from entering. I imagine it was far too easy for my father to gain access to him. If he wants to keep his life private, then he should work harder at it.” The celebrities her father photographed went to great lengths to avoid his telephoto lens. She was not impressed with the setup the Prince had here.
Perhaps it was a little bit callous of her to look at things that way. But, she had been raised the daughter of a paparazzo, and that was just the way things were. Celebrities capitalized on their images, and relied on the fact that they were public commodities. Her father was simply a part of that economy.
“Believe me,” the man said. “You don’t want to speak to the Prince.”
She drew up to her full height, which, admittedly at five-three was not terribly impressive. “Believe me,” she countered. “I most certainly do want to speak to the Prince. I want to tell him that his tyrannical tactics, seizing an American citizen, all in the name of his precious vanity, are not the least bit impressive to me. In fact, if he has issues with his presumably weak chin, subtly rounded jawline and hollow chest, perhaps he could take some of the money he has saved by not renovating this palace and invest in a good plastic surgeon, rather than imprisoning a man for taking a few photographs.”
“Weak chin?” Another voice sounded in the darkness. Much different from the voice of the servant. It was deep; it resonated there in the stone room, resonated inside Belle. And then, for the first time, she knew fear. An intense, trembling kind that skated down her spine and reverberated in her stomach. “That is a new accusation, I have to say. However, suggestions that I go visit a plastic surgeon are not. I find that I have lost patience with going under the knife, though.”
“Prince Adam,” the servant said, his tone clearly intended to placate.
“You may leave us, Fos.”
“But, Your Majesty—”
“Don’t bow and scrape,” the Prince said, his tone hard as the stone walls all around them. “It is embarrassing. For