Crown Prince's Chosen Bride Page 11

  ‘As if he wouldn’t be okay in the care of the world’s most doting dad,’ Gemma said.

  Andie and Dominic’s son, Hugo, was fifteen months old now, and the cutest, most endearing little boy. Andie often brought him into the Party Queens office, and Gemma doted on him. One day she wanted a child of her own. She was twenty-eight. That was yet another reason not to waste time on men who were Mr Impossible—or Crown Prince Impossible.

  ‘Where’s Eliza?’ Andie asked. ‘I don’t want to leave you by yourself in case that predatory prince swoops on you.’

  ‘No need for name-calling,’ said Gemma, though Andie’s choice of words made her smile. ‘Eliza is over there, talking with the best man at your wedding, Jake Marlowe. He’s a good friend of Tristan’s.’

  ‘So I believe... Dominic is pleased Jake’s in town.’

  ‘From the look of it, I don’t know that Eliza would welcome the interruption. She seems to be getting on very well with Jake. You go and make your phone call. I’m quite okay here without a minder, I assure you. I’m a big girl.’

  Gemma shooed Andie off. She needed to check with the hotel liaison representative about the service at the bar. She thought they could do with another barman on board. For this kind of exclusive party no guest should be left waiting for a drink.

  But before she could do so a bodyguard of a different kind materialised by her shoulder. She recognised him immediately as one of the men who had been discreetly shadowing Tristan. She shuddered at the thought that he’d been spying on her and Tristan as they’d kissed on the beach.

  ‘Miss Harper, His Royal Highness the Crown Prince Tristan would like a word with you in the meeting room annexe through that door.’ He spoke English, with a coarser version of Tristan’s accent.

  She looked around. Tristan was nowhere to be seen. From the tone of this burly guy’s voice, she didn’t dare refuse the request.

  Neither did she want to.

  * * *

  Tristan paced the length of the small breakout room and paced back again. Where was Gemma? Would she refuse to see him?

  He had noticed her as soon as he’d got to the hotel. Among a crowd of glittering guests she had stood out in the elegant simplicity of a deep blue fitted dress that emphasised her curves and her creamy skin. Her hair was pulled up and away from her face to tumble to her shoulders at the back. She was lovelier than ever.

  He had to see her.

  He was taking a risk, stepping away from the party like this. His idyllic period of anonymity was over. He was the crown prince once more, with all the unwanted attention that warranted.

  The local press seemed particularly voracious. And who knew if one of his invited guests might be feeding some website or other with gossipy Prince Charming titbits? That was one of the nicknames the media had given him. They would particularly be looking out for any shot of him with a woman. They would then speculate about her and make her life hell. That girl could not be Gemma. She did not deserve that.

  And then she was there, just footsteps away from him. Her high heels brought her closer to his level. The guard left discreetly, closing the door behind him and leaving Tristan alone with her. Could lightning strike twice in the same place? For he felt again that coup de foudre—that instant sensation that this was his woman.

  His heart gave a physical leap at the expression on her face—pure, unmitigated joy at seeing him. For a moment he thought—hoped—she might fling herself into his arms. Where he would gladly welcome her.

  Then the shutters came down, and her expression became one of polite, professional interest.

  ‘You wanted to see me? Is it about the canapés? Or the—?’

  ‘I wanted to see you. Alone. Without all the circus around us. I miss you, Gemma. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.’

  Her face softened. ‘There isn’t a moment since I left the Argus that I haven’t thought about you.’

  Those words, uttered in her sweet, melodious voice, were music to his ears.

  He took a step towards her, but she put up her hand in a halt sign.

  ‘But nothing has changed, has it? I’m a commoner and you’re a prince. Worse, the Playboy Prince, so it appears.’

  Her face crumpled, and he saw what an effort it was for her to maintain her composure.

  ‘I...I didn’t think you were like that...the way the press portrayed you.’

  The Playboy Prince—how he hated that label. Would he ever escape the reputation earned in those few years of rebellion?

  ‘So you’ve dug up the dirt on me from the internet?’ he said gruffly.

  She would only have had to type Playboy Prince into a search engine and his name would come up with multiple entries.

  ‘Is it true? All the girlfriends? The parties? The racing cars and speedboats?’

  There was a catch in her voice that tore at him.

  He gritted his teeth. ‘Some of it, yes. But don’t believe all you read. My prowess with women is greatly exaggerated.’

  ‘You’re never photographed twice with the same woman on your arm—princesses, heiresses, movie stars. All beautiful. All glamorous.’

  ‘And none special.’

  No one like Gemma.

  ‘Is that true? I...I don’t know what to believe.’ Her dress was tied with a bow at the waistline, and she was pleating the fabric of its tail without seeming to realise she was doing so.

  ‘I got a lot of attention as a prince. Opportunities for fun were offered, and I took them. There were not the restraints on me that there were on my brother.’

  ‘If I’d been willing, would I have been just another conquest to you? A Sydney fling?’

  ‘No. Never. You are special to me, Gemma.’

  ‘That sounds like something the Playboy Prince might say. As another ploy.’

  There was a cynical twist to her mouth he didn’t like.

  ‘Not to you, Gemma. Do not underestimate me.’

  She was not convinced.

  He cursed under his breath. He wanted her to think well of him. Not as some spoiled, privileged young royal. Which he had shown all the signs of being for some time.

  ‘There was a reason for the way I behaved then,’ he said. ‘I was mad about an English girl I’d met at university. She was my first serious girlfriend. But my parents made it clear they did not approve.’

  ‘Because she was a commoner?’

  ‘Yes. If she’d been from a noble family they would have welcomed her. She was attractive, intelligent, talented. My parents—and the crown advisers—were worried that it might get serious. They couldn’t allow that to happen. They spoke to her family. No doubt money changed hands. She transferred to a different university. I was angry and upset. She refused to talk to me. I realised then what it meant to have my choice of life partner restricted by ancient decrees.’

  ‘So you rebelled?’

  ‘Not straight away. I still believed in the greater good of the throne. Then I discovered the truth behind my parents’ marriage. The hypocrisy. It was an arranged marriage—my father is older than my mother. He has a long-time mistress. My mother discreetly takes lovers.’ He remembered how gutted he’d felt at the discovery.

  ‘What a shock that must have been.’

  ‘These days they live separate lives except for state occasions. And yet they were determined to force me along the same unhappy path—for no reason I could see. I was young and hot-headed. I vowed if I couldn’t marry the girl I wanted then I wouldn’t marry at all.’

  She sagged with obvious relief. ‘That’s understandable.’

  ‘So you believe me?’

  Slowly, she nodded. ‘In my heart I didn’t want to believe the person I was reading about was the person I had found so different, so...wonderful.’

  ‘I was u
nhappy then. I was totally disillusioned. I looked at the marriages in my family. All were shams. Even my brother’s marriage was as cynical an arrangement as any other Montovian royal marriage.’

  ‘And now?’

  She looked up at him with those warm brown eyes. Up close he saw they had golden flecks in them.

  ‘It is all about duty. Duty before personal desire. All the heroes in our culture put duty first. They sacrifice love to go to war or to make a strategic marriage. That now is my role. Happiness does not come into the equation for me.’

  ‘What would make you happy, Tristan?’

  ‘Right now? To be alone with my beautiful Party Queen. To be allowed to explore what...what we feel for each other. Like an everyday guy and his girl. That would make me happy.’ He shrugged. ‘But it cannot be.’

  There was no such thing as happiness in marriage for Montovian royalty.

  This sea nymph had totally bewitched him. He had not been able to stop thinking about her. Coming up with one scheme after another that would let him have her in his life and explore if she might be the one who would finally make him want to marry—and discarding each as utterly impossible.

  ‘I...I would like that, too,’ she said. ‘To be with you, I mean.’

  He took both her hands in his and pulled her to him. She sighed—he could not tell if it was in relief or surrender—and relaxed against him. He put his arms around her and held her close. She laid her head on his shoulder, and he dropped a kiss on her sweetly scented hair.

  Then he released her and stepped back. ‘We cannot risk being compromised if someone comes in,’ he explained. ‘The last thing we want is press speculation.’

  ‘I...I didn’t realise that your life was under such scrutiny,’ she said.

  ‘That is why I wanted to be incognito. We could not have had that day together otherwise. I do not regret keeping the truth from you, Gemma. I do not regret that day. Although I am sorry if I hurt you.’

  She had abandoned the obsessive pleating of the bow on her dress. But her hands fluttered nervously. Looking into her face, he now understood what it meant to say that someone had her heart in her eyes.

  She felt it, too. That inexplicable compulsion, that connection. His feelings for Gemma might be the most genuine emotions he had ever experienced. Not love at first sight. He didn’t believe that could happen so quickly. But something powerful and intense. Something so much more than physical attraction.

  ‘We...we could have another day...together,’ she said cautiously, as if she were testing his reaction.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We could have two days. I’m offering you that chance. You don’t leave until Monday morning. All day Saturday and Sunday stretch out before us.’

  She was tempting him almost beyond endurance. ‘You would want us to spend the weekend together knowing it could never be more than that? Not because I don’t want it to be more, but because it would never be allowed?’

  ‘Yes. I do want that. I...I ache to be with you. I don’t want to spend a lifetime regretting that I didn’t take a chance to be with you. I keep trying to talk sense to myself—tell myself that I hardly know you; that you’re leaving. But at some deep, elemental level I feel I do know you.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not explaining this very well, am I?’

  ‘I understand you very well—for it is how I also feel. But I do not want to hurt you, Gemma.’

  ‘And I certainly don’t want to get hurt,’ she said. ‘Or hurt you, for that matter. But I don’t want to be riddled with regret.’

  ‘Remember in three months’ time I must announce my engagement to a suitable bride. I cannot even offer to take you as my mistress—that would insult both you and the woman who will become my wife. I will not cheat on her. I will not have a marriage like that of my parents.’

  ‘I understand that. Understand and admire you for your honesty and...and moral stance. I’m offering you this time with me, Tristan, with no strings attached. No expectations. Just you and me together. As we will never be allowed to be again.’

  He was silent for a moment too long. Common sense, royal protocol—all said he should say no. If the press found out it would be a disaster for her, uncomfortable for him. The Playboy Prince label would be revived. While such a reputation could be laughed off, even admired, for the second or third in line to the throne, it was deeply inappropriate for the crown prince and future king.

  Gemma looked up at him. She couldn’t mask the longing in her eyes—an emotion Tristan knew must be reflected in his own. Her lovely, lush mouth trembled.

  ‘I should go,’ she said in a low, broken voice. ‘People will notice we’ve left the room. There might be talk that the prince is too friendly with the party planner. It...it could get awkward.’

  She went to turn away from him.

  Everything in Tristan that spoke of duty and denial and loyalty to his country urged him to let her walk away.

  But something even stronger urged him not to lose his one chance to be with this woman with whom he felt such a powerful connection. If he didn’t say something to stop her, he knew he would never see her again.

  He couldn’t bear to let her go—no matter the consequences.

  Tristan held out his hand to her.

  ‘Stay with me, Gemma,’ he said. ‘I accept your invitation to spend this time together.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  NEXT MORNING, in the grey light of dawn, Tristan turned to Gemma, who was at the wheel of her car. ‘Where exactly are you taking me?’

  ‘We’re heading west to my grandmother’s house in the Megalong Valley in the Blue Mountains. She died a few years ago, and she left her cottage to me and my two cousins. We use it as a weekender and for vacations.’

  ‘Is it private?’

  ‘Utterly private. Just what we want.’

  He and Gemma had plotted his escape from the hotel in a furtive whispered conversation the previous night, before they had each left the annexe room separately to mingle with his guests. There had been no further contact with each other until this morning.

  While it was still dark, she had driven to his hotel in the city and parked her car a distance away. He had evaded his bodyguards and, with his face covered by a hoodie, had met her without incident. They had both laughed in exhilaration as she’d gunned the engine and then floored the accelerator in a squeal of tyres.

  ‘The valley is secluded and rural—less than two hundred people live there,’ Gemma said. ‘You might as well be ten hours away from Sydney as two. The cottage itself is on forty acres of garden, pasture and untamed bushland. We can be as secluded as we want to be.’

  She glanced quickly at him, and he thrilled at the promise in her eyes. This was a relaxed Gemma, who had pulled down all the barriers she’d put up against him. She was warm, giving—and his without reservation for thirty-six hours.

  ‘Just you and me,’ he said, his voice husky.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice laced with promise. ‘Do you think there’s any chance your goons—sorry, your bodyguards—could find us?’

  ‘I was careful. I left my laptop in my suite and I’ve switched off my smartphone so it can’t be tracked. But I did leave a note to tell them I had gone of my own free will on a final vacation and would be back late Sunday night. The last thing we want them to think is that I’ve been kidnapped and start a search.’

  ‘Is kidnapping an issue for you?’ Her grip visibly tightened on the steering wheel.

  ‘It is an issue for anyone with wealth. The royal children are always very well guarded.’

  ‘I’m not putting you at risk, am I? I...I couldn’t bear it if I—’

  ‘Here, the risk is minimal. Please do not concern yourself with that. We are more at risk from the media. But I checked that no one was lurking about
at my hotel.’

  ‘Can you imagine the headlines if they did find us? Playboy Prince in Secluded Love Nest with Sydney Party Planner.’

  Tristan rather liked the concept of a love nest. ‘They would most likely call you a sexy party planner.’

  Gemma made a snort of disgust, then laughed. ‘I’ll own sexy. Or how about: Playboy Prince Makes Aussie Conquest? They’ll want to get the local angle in, I’m sure.’

  ‘You could also be Mystery Redhead?’ he suggested.

  He found he could joke about the headlines the press might make about his life—there had been enough of them in the past. Now he was crown prince he did not want to feature in any more. He appreciated the effort Gemma was making to preserve their privacy.

  They made up more outrageous headlines as Gemma drove along the freeway until Sydney was behind them.

  ‘Are you going to unleash your inner tour guide and tell me about the Blue Mountains?’ Tristan asked as the road started to climb.

  ‘How did you know I was waiting for my cue?’ she said.

  ‘Please, go ahead and tell me all I need to know—plus more than I need to know,’ he said.

  ‘Now that I’ve been invited...’ she said, with a delightful peal of laughter.

  Tristan longed to show her Montovia some day—and pushed aside the melancholy thought that that was never likely to happen. He had thirty-six hours with her stretching ahead of him—bonus hours he had not thought possible. He would focus his thoughts on how he could make them special for her.

  ‘They’re called the Blue Mountains because they seem to have a blue haze over them from a distance, caused by the eucalypt oil from the trees,’ she said.

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t think of them as mountains like Montovian mountains. Australia is really old, geologically, and the mountains would have been underwater for millions of years. They’re quite flat on top but very rugged. There are some charming small towns up there, and it’s quite a tourist destination.’