Crown Prince's Chosen Bride Read online

  ‘Is there something wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing wrong, I guess. But it’s not the kind of thing an Australian guy would do, that’s for sure. None that I know, anyway.’

  Tristan realised he might sound arrogant, but went ahead anyway. ‘It is the kind of thing I would do, and I am annoyed that I did not do so.’

  She tilted her head to one side, observing him as if he were an object of curiosity. ‘How would you have known my size?’

  ‘I have observed your figure.’ He couldn’t help but cast an appreciative eye over the curves of her breasts and hips, her trim waist. ‘I would have made a very good estimate.’

  Immediately, he suspected he might have said the wrong thing. Again he muttered a Montovian curse. Under stress—and the way she was looking at him was making him stressed—he found his English wasn’t turning out quite the way he wanted it to.

  Thankfully, after a stunned silence on her part, Gemma erupted into a peal of delightful laughter. ‘Okay... I’m flattered you’ve made such a close observation of my figure.’

  ‘It’s not that I... I didn’t mean—’

  Her voice was warm with laughter. ‘I think I know what you mean.’

  ‘I did not say something...inappropriate?’

  ‘You kinda did—but let’s put it down to culture clash.’

  ‘You do not think me...bad mannered? Rude?’

  Crass. That was the word he was seeking. It was at the tip of his tongue. He had a master’s degree in law from a leading English university. Why were his English language skills deserting him?

  It was her.

  Gemma.

  Since the moment she’d come at him with her wooden spoon and pink oven mitts she’d had him—what was the word?—discombobulated. He was proud he had found the correct, very difficult English word, but why didn’t he feel confident about pronouncing it correctly? The way she made him feel had him disconcerted, disorientated, behaving in ways he knew he should not.

  But the way she was smiling up at him, with her dimples and humour in her brown eyes, made him feel something else altogether. Something that was forbidden for him to feel for a commoner.

  She stretched up on her toes to kiss him lightly on the cheek, as she had done when she’d boarded the boat. This time her lips lingered longer, and she was so close he inhaled her heady scent of vanilla and lemon and a hint of chocolate, felt the warmth of her body. He put his hand to his cheek, where he had felt the soft tenderness of her lips, and held it there for a moment too long.

  ‘I don’t think you’re at all rude,’ she said. ‘I think you’re charming and funny and generous...and I...I...’

  For a long moment her gaze held his, and the flush high on her cheekbones deepened. Tristan held his breath, on tenterhooks over what she might say next. But she took a step back, took a deep, steadying breath—which made her breasts rise enticingly under her snug-fitting top—and said something altogether different from what he’d hoped she might say.

  ‘And I can solve your swimsuit problem for you,’ she said.

  ‘You can?’

  ‘First the problem of a swimsuit for me. That impossibly big bag of mine also contains a swimsuit and towel. The North Sydney Olympic Pool is on the way from Lavender Bay wharf to my apartment in Kirribilli. I intended to swim there on my way home—as I often do.’

  ‘That’s excellent—so you at least can dive in and swim.’

  ‘So can you.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘I understand if you don’t want to go in salt water in your smart white trousers. Or...or in your underwear.’

  Her voice had faltered when she’d mentioned his underwear. A sudden image of her in her underwear flashed through his mind—lovely Gemma, swimming in lacy sheer bra and panties, her auburn hair streaming behind her in the water...

  He had to clear his throat to speak. ‘So what do you suggest?’

  ‘In a closet in the stateroom is a selection of brand-new swimwear for both men and women. Choose a swimsuit and the cost of it will be added to the boat hire invoice.’

  ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘You get everything right, don’t you, Party Queen Gemma?’

  Her expression dimmed. ‘Perhaps not everything. But I’ll claim this one.’

  ‘Shall we go swimming?’ he asked. ‘I saw a swimming platform aft on the boat.’ His skin prickled with heat. He should have worn shorts and a T-shirt instead of trying to impress Gemma in his bespoke Italian sportswear. ‘I can’t wait to get into that water.’

  ‘Me, too. I can’t think of anything I would rather do on a beautiful day like this.’

  Tristan could think of a number of things he’d like to do with her on a beautiful day like this. All of which involved them wearing very few clothes—if any at all.

  * * *

  Gemma changed quickly and went back out onto the deck, near the swimming platform at the back. Tristan had gone into the stateroom to choose a swimsuit and change. She felt inexplicably shy as she waited for him. Although she swam often, she never felt 100 per cent comfortable in a swimsuit. The occupational hazard of a career filled with tempting food made her always think she needed to lose a few pounds to look her best in Lycra.

  Her swimsuit was a modest navy racer-back one-piece, with contrast panels of aqua and white down the sides. More practical than glamorous. Not, in fact, the slightest bit seductive. Which was probably as well...

  The door from the stateroom opened and Tristan headed towards her. Tristan had confessed to ‘observing’ her body. She smiled at the thought of his flustered yet flattering words. She straightened her shoulders and sucked in her tummy. And then immediately sucked in a breath as well at the sight of him. He’d looked good in his clothes, but without them—well, nearly without them—he was breathtaking in his masculinity.

  Wearing stylish swim shorts in a tiny dark-blue-and-purple check and nothing else, he strode towards her with athletic grace and a complete lack of self-consciousness. He was gorgeous. Those broad shoulders, the defined muscles of his chest and arms, the classic six-pack belly and long, leanly muscled legs were in perfect proportion. He didn’t have much body hair—just a dusting in the right places, set off against smooth golden skin.

  He smiled his appreciation of her in a swimsuit. His smile and those vivid blue eyes, his handsome, handsome face and the warmth of his expression directed at her, all made her knees so wobbly she had to hold on to the deck railing for support. Her antennae didn’t just wave frantically—they set off tiny, shrill alarms.

  She realised she was holding her breath, and it came out as a gasp she had to disguise as a cough.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Tristan asked.

  ‘F-fine,’ she said as soon as she was able to recover her voice. As fine as a red-blooded woman could be when faced with a vision of such masculine perfection and trying to pretend she wasn’t affected.

  The crew had left a stack of red-and-white-striped beach towels in a basket on the deck. Tristan picked one up and handed it to her. ‘Your swimsuit is very smart,’ he said.

  The open admiration in his eyes when he looked at her made her decide she had no cause for concern about what he thought of her shape.

  She had to clear her throat. ‘So...so is yours.’

  Tristan picked up a towel for himself and slung it around his neck. As he did so, Gemma noticed something that marred all that physical perfection—a long, reddish scar that stretched along the top of his shoulder.

  Tristan must have noticed the line of her gaze. ‘You have observed my battle wound?’

  She frowned. ‘I thought you said you didn’t go to war?’

  ‘I mean my battle wound from the polo field. I came off one of my ponies and smashed my collarbone.’

  She wanted to lean over and stroke it but didn’t
. ‘Ouch. That must have hurt.’

  ‘Yes. It did,’ he said with understatement.

  She didn’t know if it was Tristan’s way or just the way he spoke English. She wondered how different he might be if she were able to converse with him in fluent Montovian.

  ‘I have a titanium plate and eight pins in it.’

  ‘And your pony?’ Gemma wasn’t much of a horseback rider, but she knew that what was called a polo ‘pony’ was actually a very expensive and highly trained thoroughbred horse. Polo was a sport for the very wealthy.

  ‘He was not hurt, thank heaven—he is my favourite pony. We have won many chukkas together.’

  ‘Can you still play polo?’

  ‘I hope to be able to play in the Montovian team this summer.’

  She could imagine Tristan in the very tight white breeches and high black boots of a polo player, fearlessly ducking and weaving in perfect unison with a magnificent horse.

  ‘You play polo for your country?’

  ‘I have that honour, yes,’ he said.

  Again she got that feeling of otherness. Not only did he and she come from different countries and cultures, it seemed Tristan came from a different side of the tracks, as well. The posh, extremely wealthy side. Her stepfather was hardly poor, but he was not wealthy in the way she suspected Tristan was wealthy. Dennis was an orthodontist, with several lucrative practices. She could thank him for her perfectly aligned teeth and comfortable middle-class upbringing.

  As a single mother, I could never have given you this life, her mother had used to say, reinforcing her instructions for Gemma always to be grateful and acquiescent. Why couldn’t you have married someone who didn’t always make me feel in the way? Gemma had wanted to shout back. But she had loved her mother too much to rebel.

  Running a string of polo ponies, hiring a luxury yacht on Sydney Harbour for just two people, the upcoming no-expenses-spared function on Friday night all seemed to speak of a very healthy income. If she thought about it, Tristan had actually bought her company on the boat today—and it had been a very expensive purchase.

  But she didn’t care about any of that.

  She liked Tristan—really liked him—and he was far and away the most attractive man she had ever met. It was a waste of time to worry when she just wanted to enjoy his company.

  She reached into her outsize bag for her high-protection sunscreen. ‘You go in the water. I still have to put on some sun protection,’ she said to Tristan.

  ‘I’ll wait for you,’ he said.

  Aware of Tristan’s intense gaze, she felt self-conscious smoothing cream over her arms and legs, then twisting and turning to get to the spot on her back she could never quite reach. ‘Australia is probably not the best climate for me,’ she said. ‘I burn, I blister, I freckle...’

  ‘I think your pale skin is lovely,’ he said. ‘Don’t try to tan it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. It wasn’t a compliment she heard often in a country obsessed with tanning.

  ‘Let me help,’ said Tristan. He grabbed the tube of sunscreen before she could protest. ‘Turn around.’

  She tensed as she heard him fling the towel from around his neck, squeeze cream from the tube. Then relaxed as she felt his hands on her back, slowly massaging in the cream with strong, sure fingers, smoothing it across her shoulders and down her arms in firm, sweeping motions.

  The sensation of his hands on her body was utter bliss—she felt as if she was melting under his touch. When his hands slid down her back, they traced the sides of her breasts, and her nipples tightened. His breath fanned her hair, warm and intimate. She closed her eyes and gave herself over to sensation. To Tristan.

  Her breathing quickened as her body responded to him, and from behind her she heard his breath grow ragged. He rested his hands on her waist. She twisted around, her skin slick with cream, and found herself in the circle of his arms.

  For a long, silent moment she looked up into his face—already familiar, dangerously appealing. She knew he would see in her eyes the same mix of yearning and desire and wariness she saw in his: the same longing for something she knew was unwise. She swayed towards him as he lowered his head and splayed her hands against his bare, hard chest, his warm skin. She sighed as his lips touched hers in the lightest of caresses, pressed her mouth against his as she returned his kiss.

  He murmured against her mouth. ‘Gemma, I—’

  Then another voice intruded. ‘Gemma, I need to get your opinion on the plating of the yellow-tail kingfish carpaccio. Do you want— Oh. Sorry. I didn’t realise I was interrupting—’

  Gemma broke away from Tristan’s kiss. Glared over his shoulder to her chef, who had his hands up in surrender as he backed away.

  ‘No need. I’ll sort the carpaccio out for myself.’

  But he had a big grin plastered on his face, and she knew the team at Party Queens would find out very soon that Gemma had been caught kissing the client. She muttered a curse in English—one she was sure Tristan would understand. She wanted to keep Tristan to herself.

  Tristan’s arms remained firmly around her, and she didn’t really want to leave them. But when he pulled her towards him again, she resisted. ‘It’s as well our chef came along,’ she said. ‘We shouldn’t really be starting something we can’t continue, should we?’

  Tristan cleared his throat, but his voice was husky when he replied. ‘You are right—we should not. But that does not stop me wanting to kiss you.’

  She took a step back. ‘Me neither. I mean I want to kiss you, too. But...but you’re only here a few days and I—’

  I’m in danger of falling for you, even though I hardly know you and I have to protect myself from the kind of pain that could derail me.

  ‘I understand. It would be best for both of us.’ He sounded as if he spoke through gritted teeth.

  Disappointment flooded through her but also relief that he hadn’t pressed for more. After the world of promise in that brief, tender kiss, she might have been tempted to ignore those frantically waving antennae and throw away every self-protective measure and resolve she had made in that lonely six months.

  ‘Yes,’ was all she could murmur from a suddenly choked throat.

  ‘What I really need is to get into that cold water,’ he said.

  ‘You mean...like a cold shower?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, more grimly than she had heard him speak before.

  ‘Me, too,’ she said.

  He held out his hand. ‘Are you coming with me?’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AS TRISTAN SWAM alongside Gemma, seeing her pale limbs and the auburn hair floating around her shoulders reminded him of the Montovian myths of water nymphs. Legend had it that these other-world temptresses in human form inhabited the furthest reaches of the vast lakes of Montovia. They were young, exquisite and shunned human contact.

  If a man were to come across such a nymph, he would instantly become besotted, bewitched, obsessed by her. His beautiful nymph would entice him to make love to her until he was too exhausted to swim and he’d drown—still in her embrace—in the deepest, coldest waters. The rare man who survived and found his way home would go mad with grief and spend the rest of his life hunting the shores of the lakes in a desperate effort to find his nymph again.

  Montovians were a deeply superstitious people—even the most well educated and sophisticated of them. Tristan shrugged off those ancient myths, but in a small part of his soul they lived on despite his efforts to deny them.

  Gemma swam ahead of him with effortless, graceful strokes, ducking beneath the water, turning and twisting her body around. How did he describe how she seemed in the water? Joyous. That was the word. She was quite literally in her element, playing in the water like some...well, like a nymph enchantress.

  She turned bac
k to face him, her hair slicked back off her face, revealing her fine bone structure, the scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She trod water until he caught up with her.

  ‘Isn’t the water wonderful?’ she said. ‘I would have hated you if I’d had to stay in the kitchen while you cavorted in the sea with that other woman—uh, that other woman who didn’t actually exist.’

  ‘You would have “hated” me?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course not. I...I... You...’

  Again he got the sense that she had struggled with the urge to say something significant—and then changed her mind.

  ‘I’m very thankful to you for making this day happen. It...it’s perfect.’

  ‘I also am grateful that you are here with me,’ he replied. ‘It is a day I will not forget.’

  How could he forget Gemma? He would bookmark this time with her in his mind to revisit it in the lonely, difficult days he would face on his return to Montovia.

  A great lump of frustration and regret seemed to choke him as he railed against the fate that had led him to this woman when duty dictated he was not able to follow up on the feelings she aroused in him. When he’d been second in line to the throne, he had protested against the age-old rules governing marriage in Montovia. Now he was crown prince, that avenue had been closed to him.

  Not for the first time he wished his brother had not gone up in his helicopter that day.

  ‘Do you want to swim to shore?’ she asked. ‘C’mon—I’ll race you.’

  She took off in an elegant but powerful freestyle stroke. Tristan was fit and strong, but he had to make an effort to keep up with her.

  They reached the beach with her a few strokes ahead. He followed her as they waded through the shallows to the sand, unable to keep his eyes off her. Her sporty swimsuit showed she meant business when she swam. At the same time it clung to every curve and showcased the smooth expanse of her back, her shapely behind, her slender strong legs.

  Gemma Harper was a woman who got even more attractive the better he knew her. And he wanted her.