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Chapter1
IT WAS PRETTY NATURAL that she wasn’t sleeping well. Not only had Mila fractured her ankle, meaning she struggled to get comfortable at any time, day or night, the fact some crazed fan had been stalking her for over a year meant she basically hadn’t relaxed in forever.
As soon as she heard the noise, she was wide awake, eyes staring into the darkness. She listened intently, ears straining, heart rushing so all she could hear was the sound of her frantic blood. Was she being paranoid? It wouldn’t have been the first time. The creep following her meant she was constantly looking over her shoulder for shadows. The rhythmic brush of waves against the shore—at night, so close to this little house they practically kissed the footings—had her relaxing a little. These were the same noises she’d heard every night, lulling her to sleep like the lullabies some mothers would sing to their children.
She exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to her heart and laying back against the pillows, right as she heard it again. A man’s voice, low and soft. And close. A curse, in Greek.
She sat up again, hair standing on edge as she pushed out of bed then froze, struck still by fear. She looked around for any kind of weapon, tempted to turn on a light but not wanting to draw any attention to her location. At this point, she had the upper hand. She’d been staying in her cousin’s house for weeks, coalescing until her ankle healed. It was getting close; every day she felt more strength returning, but God only knew if she’d be fit enough to train for the Internationals.
Electronic buttons were being pressed—a noise she knew well. The front door. It had one of those fancy locks with the keypads, and someone was pressing numbers.
She held her breath, staying exactly where she was. The door was secure. If they couldn’t get in, they’d move onto the next house.
The next house? Her cousin’s Croatian hideaway was on the very edge of the island of Hvar. She’d had to be driven through densely wooded forest, which surrounded the house on three sides. Other than by way of the dune buggy, the ocean was the only means to escape.
Benji loved the isolation of this place, and Mila had never understood that until recently. But now?
What she wouldn’t do for her densely populated Knightsbridge apartment complex, where she could scream and alert around twelve neighbours in the process.
There was no sense bemoaning her circumstances. She was here in the middle of nowhere, with no one around to help. She had to be prepared.
Heart in throat, she took a step towards the door then let out a sharp cry as her ankle immediately registered a protest. Pressing a hand to her mouth, she reached back, grabbing her crutches, and moving as softly and quietly as she could towards her bedroom door. Heart in throat, she turned the knob, wincing as it creaked a little.
The beeping had stopped. She paused outside her bedroom, looking down the hall to the kitchen, where she’d left her phone charging. Not that it would offer much help—there was no cell phone service here, by choice. Benji had paid to put in a tower to block the signal. There was very slow wifi. Perhaps she could email emergency services?
Gritting her teeth, she moved down the corridor, then froze as a shadow passed the window. He was walking along the sand that was just outside the lounge room. He was quick, too, and big. Oh, God.
This was it. This was how she was going to die. And she’d never get to claim her gold medal at the Internationals, the last piece she needed to finally get the record her mother had wanted so desperately, the record Mila had made impossible when she’d implanted herself in Lorraine Monroe’s belly. After her mother’s death, that obligation had taken on a new imperative.
Too late, she remembered the back door. She hadn’t used it. Benji had told her the lock was sticky and it was best to use the front door only, so she’d forgotten all about the second entrance to the house. Now, as the noises outside stopped, she held her breath. He was there.
Whoever had been stalking her had followed her to this Croatian sanctuary and was about to break in through the sticky back door. With sweat beading her brow, she grabbed the closest thing she could find—a rolling pin from the almond cookies she’d made earlier—and moved with as fast a gait as her crutches allowed, into the tiled laundry. Sure enough, the door groaned.
Oh, god. She pressed herself against the wall, lifting her hand high, closing her eyes so she’d hear the exact moment he burst into the room. Another curse, this time in English, and then the door gave, opening with a loud groan.
It all happened so fast.
The hulking figure of a man entered, and then, fear turning to ice in her veins, she was crashing the rolling pin down on his head. Only he was so much taller, it was impossible to strike hard enough, certainly too hard to knock him out, so he spun, his craggy features showing shock in the light thrown by the full moon and open laundry door. Or was it menace?
She shivered, lifting the rolling pin again, badly off-balance on her crutches, but now, he had all the advantage. He was so much larger, stronger, and lacked a broken ankle, so could move freely, without impediment. He grabbed the rolling pin before it crashed down again, drawing his body closer to hers, his breath heaving out of him. Terror flooded her. She kneed him, but had to use her bad leg as it wouldn’t hold her weight. She managed to connect with his thigh, stunning him enough to loosen his grip, and then she pushed one of her crutches into his foot.
He made a gruff, growling sound, then caught her crutches, pulling at them, throwing them away from her, so she was totally off-balance, hobbling on her one foot.
“Who the hell are you?” He demanded indignantly, and despite her fear she was cognizant enough to feel relieved. If he didn’t know who she was, then this wasn’t her stalker. But he was still a random burglar, and they were alone in this very isolated shack together.
She pushed at his chest, using all her weight, so she toppled a little, and began to fall towards the ground. He reached for her right as she went to kick him again, attacking like a wild animal now, desperate and livid all at once.
Her knee connected with his groin and he cursed harshly, thrown off kilter by her attack, so that when she fell, he tumbled with her, his body weight on hers, caught only by his quick-thinking reflexes. She thrashed beneath him, hitting her head on the tiled laundry floor, uncaring for the sharp shock of pain, just terrified now because of the man who’d broken in and was lying on top of her, his powerful body heavy and hard, so strong and muscled.
How could she be aware of his physique at a time like this? Or the masculine fragrance emanating from him, or the deep timbre of his voice?
She shifted again, trying to get out from under him, but her breath snagged in her throat as a thousand sensations flooded her, not all of them bad.
“Get off me,” she demanded through gritted teeth, glad she could at least give the appearance of indignation. Fear, though, was receding. If he’d come here intending to kill her, he’d have been able to do it by now.
“Not until you tell me who you are, little thief,” he growled. “Didn’t you read Goldilocks as a little girl?”
She glared at him, not keeping up.
