Crown Prince's Chosen Bride

‘I think our meeting will be brief. I have some more sightseeing to do—I’ve booked a jet boat on the harbour. Perhaps another time I could sample your cake?’ He would make certain there would be another time.

‘I can see that a cake wouldn’t have the same appeal as a jet boat,’ she said, with a smile that showed him she did not take offence. ‘What else have you seen of Sydney so far?’ she asked.

‘The usual tourist spots,’ he said. ‘I’ve been to the Opera House, Bondi Beach, climbed the Sydney Harbour Bridge.’

‘They’re all essential. Though I’ve never found the courage to do the bridge climb. But there’s also a Sydney tourists don’t get to see. I recommend—’

‘Would you show me the Sydney the tourists don’t see? I would very much like your company.’

The lovely food director’s eyes widened. She hesitated. ‘I...I wonder if—’

He was waiting for her reply, when a slender, dark-haired young woman swept into the room. Tristan silently cursed under his breath in his own language at the interruption. She immediately held out her hand to him.

‘You must be Mr Marco? I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting—the traffic was a nightmare. I’m Eliza Dunne.’

For a moment he made no acknowledgment of the newcomer’s greeting—and then he remembered. He was using Marco as a surname when it was in fact his second given name. He didn’t actually have a surname, as such. Not when he was always known simply as Tristan, Crown Prince of Montovia.

CHAPTER TWO

GEMMA CLOSED HER eyes in sheer relief at Eliza’s well-timed entrance. What a lucky escape. Despite all her resolve not to act on impulse when it came to men, she’d been just about to agree to show Tristan around Sydney.

And that would have been a big mistake.

First, Party Queens had a rule of staff not dating clients. The fact that Andie had broken the rule in spectacular fashion by falling in love with and marrying their billionaire client Dominic Hunt was beside the point. She, Gemma, did not intend to make any exceptions. The business was too important to her for her to make messy mistakes.

But it wasn’t just about the company rules. If she’d said yes to Tristan she could have told herself she was simply being hospitable to a foreign visitor—but she would have been lying. And lying to herself about men was a bad habit she was trying to break. She found Tristan way too appealing to pretend that being hospitable was all it would be.

‘Thank you for taking care of Mr Marco for me, Gemma,’ Eliza said. ‘The traffic was crazy—insane.’

‘Gemma has looked after me very well,’ Tristan said, again with that faint hint of a bow in her direction.

Her heart stepped up a beat at the awareness that shimmered through her.

‘She hasn’t plied you with cake or muffins or cookies?’ asked Eliza with a teasing smile.

‘The cake isn’t baked yet,’ Gemma said. ‘But I have cookies and—’

‘Perhaps another cake, another time,’ Tristan said with a shrug of those broad shoulders, that charming smile. ‘And I could give you chocolate in return.’

The shrug. The accent. Those blue, blue eyes. The Montovian chocolate.

Yes! her body urged her to shout.

No! urged her common sense.

‘Perhaps...’ she echoed, the word dwindling away irresolutely.

Thankfully, Eliza diverted Tristan’s attention from her as she engaged him in a discussion about final guest numbers for his party.

Gemma was grateful for some breathing space. Some deep breathing to let her get to grips with the pulse-raising presence of this gorgeous man.

‘I’ll let you guys chat while I check on my cake,’ she said as she went back around the countertop.

She slipped into the pink oven mitts and carefully opened the oven door. As she turned the pan around, she inhaled the sweet-sharp aroma of the cake. Over the years she had learned to gauge the progress of her baking by smell. Its scent told her this cake had a way to go. This kind of solid mud cake needed slow, even cooking.

That was what she’d be looking for in a man in future. A slow burn. Not instant flames. No exhilarating infatuation. No hopping into bed too soon. Rather a long, slow getting to know each other before any kind of commitment—physical or otherwise—was made. The old-fashioned word courtship sprang to mind.

She’d managed six months on her own. She was in no rush for the next man. There was no urgency. Next time she wanted to get it right.

Still, no matter what she told herself, Gemma was superaware of Tristan’s presence in her kitchen. And, even though he seemed engrossed in his conversation with Eliza, the tension in the way he held himself let her know that he was aware of her, too. The knowledge was a secret pleasure she hugged to herself. It was reassuring that she could still attract a hot guy. Even if there was no way she should do anything about it.

She scraped clean her mixing bowl and spoon and put them in the dishwasher while keeping an ear on Tristan and Eliza’s conversation about the party on Friday and an eye on Tristan himself. On those broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips, on the long legs she imagined would be lean and hard with muscle.

Catching her eye, he smiled. Her first instinct was to blush, then smile back. For a long moment their gazes held before she reluctantly dragged hers away and went back to the tricky task of finely slicing strips of candied lemon peel.

Okay, she wasn’t in dating exile any more. There was no law to say she couldn’t flirt just a little. But she had spent six months fine-tuning her antennae to detect potential heartbreak. And there was something about this handsome Montovian that had those antennae waving wildly with a message of caution. They detected a mystery behind his formal way of speaking and courteous good manners. It wasn’t what he’d said but what he hadn’t said.

Then there was the fact Tristan was only here for a few days. To be a good-looking tourist’s vacation fling was not what she needed in order to launch herself back into the dating pool. She had to be totally on guard, so she wouldn’t fall for the first gorgeous guy who strolled into her life.

She’d learned such painful lessons from her relationship with Alistair. It had been love at first sight for both of them—or so she’d thought. Followed by an emotional rollercoaster that had lasted for eighteen months. Too blinded by desire, love—whatever that turbulent mix of emotions had been—she’d only seen the Alistair she’d wanted to see. She had missed all the cues that would have alerted her he wasn’t what he’d sworn he was.

She’d heard the rumours before she’d started to date him. But he’d assured her that he’d kicked his cocaine habit—and his reputation as a player. When time after time he’d lapsed, she’d always forgiven him, given him the one more chance he’d begged for. And then another. After all, she’d loved him and he’d loved her—hadn’t he?

Then had come the final hurt and humiliation of finding him in the bathroom at a party with a so-called ‘mutual friend’. Doing her as well as the drugs. Gemma doubted she’d ever be able to scour that image from her eyes.

After that there’d been no more chances, no more Alistair. She’d spent the last six months trying to sort out why she always seemed to fall for the wrong type of man. Her dating history was littered with misfires—though none as heart-wrenchingly painful as Alistair’s betrayal.

On her first day back in the dating world she wasn’t going to backtrack. Tristan was still a mystery man. He had perhaps not been completely honest about himself and was on vacation from a faraway country. How many more strikes against him could there be?

But, oh, he was handsome.

Eliza had suggested that Tristan follow her into her office. But he turned towards Gemma. ‘I would like to speak to Gemma again first, please,’ he said, with unmistakable authority.

Eliza sent Gemma a narrow-eyed, speculative glance. ‘Sure,’ she said to Tristan. ‘My office is just around the corner. I’ll wait for you there.’

Gemma could hear the sound of her own heart beating in the sudden silence of the room as Eliza left. Her mouth went dry as Tristan came closer to face her over the countertop.

His gaze was very direct. ‘So, Gemma, you did not get a chance to answer me—will you show me your home town?’

It took every bit of resolve for her not to run around to the other side of the countertop and babble, Of course. How about we start right now?

Instead she wiped her suddenly clammy hands down the sides of her apron. Took a deep breath to steady her voice. ‘I’m sorry, Tristan. But I...I can’t.’

He looked taken aback. She got the distinct impression he wasn’t used to anyone saying no to him.

He frowned. ‘You are sure?’

‘It wouldn’t be...appropriate,’ she said.

‘Because I am a client?’ he asked, his gaze direct on hers.

She shifted from foot to foot, clad in the chef’s clogs she wore in the kitchen. ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s company policy.’

Just for a moment, did disappointment cloud those blue eyes? ‘That is a shame. As I said, I would very much enjoy your company.’

‘I...well, I would enjoy yours, too. But...uh...rules are rules.’

Such rules could be broken—as Andie had proved. But Gemma was determined to stick to her resolve, even if it was already tinged with regret.

His mouth twisted. ‘I know all about rules that have to be followed whether one likes it or not,’ he said with an edge to his voice. ‘I don’t like it, but I understand.’

What did he mean by that? Gemma wasn’t sure if he was referring to the Party Queens rules or a different set of rules that might apply to him. She sensed there might be a lot she didn’t understand about him. And now would never get a chance to.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll email the amended dessert menu to you.’

‘Dessert menu?’

‘Using Montovian chocolate for your party,’ she prompted.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I will look forward to it. I am sorry I will not be seeing more of Sydney with you.’

‘I...I’m sorry, too.’ But she would not toss away all that hard work she’d done on her insecurities.

‘Now I must let you get back to work while I speak with Eliza,’ he said, in what sounded very much like dismissal.

Gemma refused to admire his back view as he left the kitchen. She liked a nice butt on a man. For better or for worse, that ship had sailed. And she felt good about her decision. She really did.

But she was on edge as she prepared the coconut frosting by melting white chocolate and beating it with coconut cream. She kept glancing up, in case Tristan came back into the room. Was so distracted she grated the edge of her finger as well as the fine slivers of lemon and lime peel that would give the frosting its bite. But a half-hour later, when his meeting with Eliza concluded, he only briefly acknowledged her as he passed by the doorway to her kitchen.

She gripped her hands so tightly her fingernails cut into her hands. The sudden feeling of loss was totally irrational. She would not run after him to say she’d changed her mind.

* * *

An hour later, as Gemma was finishing her work on the cake, Eliza popped her head around the door.

‘Cake ready?’ she asked. ‘The smell of it has been driving me crazy.’

‘Nearly ready. I’ve been playing with the candied peel on top and tidying up the frosting,’ Gemma said. ‘Come and have a look. I think it will be perfect for the Sanderson wedding.’

‘Magnificent,’ Eliza said. She sneaked a quick taste of the leftover frosting from the bowl. ‘Mmm...coconut. Nice touch. You really are a genius when it comes to food.’

Gemma knew her mouth had turned downwards. ‘Just not such a genius when it comes to guys.’

Eliza patted her on the shoulder. ‘Come on—you’ve done so well with your sabbatical. Aren’t we going to celebrate your freedom to date—I mean to date wisely—with this cake?’

Both Gemma and Andie had been totally supportive during her man break. Had proved themselves again and again to be good friends as well as business partners.

Gemma nodded. ‘I know...’ she said, unable to stop the catch in her voice. It was the right thing to have turned down Tristan’s invitation, but that didn’t stop a lingering sense of regret, of wondering what might have been.

‘What’s brought on this fit of the gloomies?’ Eliza asked. ‘Oh, wait—don’t tell me. The handsome mystery man—Tristan Marco. He’s just your type, isn’t he? As soon as I saw him, I thought—’

Gemma put up her hand to stop her. ‘In looks, yes, I can’t deny that. He’s really hot.’ She forced a smile. ‘Our guesses about him were so far off the mark, weren’t they?’

‘He’s about as far away from short, bald and middle-aged as he could be,’ Eliza agreed. ‘I had to stop myself staring at him for fear he’d think I was incredibly bad mannered.’

‘You can imagine how shocked I was when he told me he was our client for the Friday night party. But I don’t think he told me everything. There’s still a lot of the mystery man about him.’

‘What do you mean, still too much mystery? What did you talk about here in your kitchen?’

Gemma filled Eliza in on her conversation with Tristan, leaving out his invitation for her to show him around Sydney. Eliza would only remind her that dating clients was a no-no. And, besides, she didn’t want to talk about it—she’d made her decision.

Eliza nodded. ‘He told me much the same thing—although he was quite evasive about the final list of guests. But what the heck? It’s his party, and he can invite anyone he wants to it as long as he sticks with the number we quoted on. We’re ahead financially, so it’s all good to me.’

‘That reminds me,’ Gemma said. ‘I have to amend the desserts for Friday to include Montovian chocolate. And he needs to approve them.’

‘You can discuss the menu change with him on Wednesday.’

Gemma stopped, the blunt palette knife she’d used to apply the frosting still in her hand. ‘Wednesday? Why Wednesday?’

‘Tristan is on vacation in Sydney. He’s asked me to book a private yacht cruise around the harbour on Wednesday. And to organise an elegant, romantic lunch for two to be taken on board.’

A romantic lunch for two?

Gemma let go of the palette knife so it landed with a clatter on the stainless steel benchtop, using the distraction to gather her thoughts. So she’d been right to distrust mystery man Tristan. He’d asked her to show him around Sydney. And at the same time he was making plans for a romantic tryst with another woman on a luxury yacht.

Thank heaven she’d said no.

Or had she misread him? Had his interest only been in her knowledge of local hotspots? After a six-month sabbatical, maybe her dating skills were so rusty she’d mistaken his meaning.

Still, she couldn’t help feeling annoyed. Not so much at Tristan but at herself, for having let down her guard even if only momentarily. If she’d glimpsed that look of interest in his eyes, he would have seen it in hers.

‘Which boat did you book?’ she asked Eliza.

The cooking facilities on the charter yachts available in Sydney Harbour ranged from a basic galley to a full-sized luxury kitchen.

‘Because it will be midweek, I managed to get the Argus on short notice.’

‘Wow! Well done. He should love that.’

‘He did. I showed him a choice of boats online, but the Argus was the winner hands down.’

‘His date should be really impressed,’ Gemma said, fighting off an urge to sound snarky.

‘I think that was the idea—the lucky lady.’

The Argus was a replica of a sixty-foot vintage wooden motor yacht from the nineteen-twenties and the ultimate in luxury. Its hourly hire rate was a mind-boggling amount of dollars. To book it for just two people was a total extravagance. Party Queens had organised a corporate client’s event for thirty people on the boat at the start of summer. It was classy, high-tech and had a fully equipped kitchen. Tristan must really want to impress his date.

‘So I’m guessing if lunch is on the Argus we won’t be on a tight budget.’

‘He told me to “spend what it takes”,’ said Eliza with a delighted smile. The more dollars for Party Queens, the happier Eliza was.

Gemma gritted her teeth and forced herself to think of Tristan purely as a client, not as an attractive man who’d caught her eye. It would be better if she still thought of him as bald with a pot belly. ‘It’s short notice, but of course we can do it. Any restrictions on the menu?’

Planning party menus could involve dealing with an overwhelming array of food allergies and intolerances.

‘None that he mentioned,’ said Eliza.

‘That makes things easier.’ Gemma thought out loud. ‘An elegant on-board lunch for two... I’m thinking seafood—fresh and light. A meal we can prep ahead and our chef can finish off on board. We’ll book the waiter today.’

‘“Romantic” is the keyword, remember? And he wants the best French champagne—which, of course, I’ll organise.’ Eliza had an interest in wine as well as in spreadsheets.

‘I wonder who his guest is?’ Gemma said, hoping she wouldn’t betray her personal interest to Eliza.

‘Again, he didn’t say,’ Eliza said.

Gemma couldn’t help a stab of envy towards Tristan’s date, for whom he was making such an effort to be romantic. But he was a client. And she was a professional. If he wanted romantic, she’d give him romantic. In spades.

‘But tell me—why will I be meeting with Tristan on Wednesday?’

‘He wants you to be on board for the duration—to make sure everything is perfect. His words, not mine.’

‘What? A lunch for two with a chef and a waiter doesn’t need a supervisor, as well. You know how carefully we vet the people who work for us. They can be trusted to deliver the Party Queens’ promise.’

Eliza put up her hands in a placatory gesture. ‘Relax. I know that. I know the yacht comes with skipper and crew. But Tristan asked for you to be on board, too. He wants you to make sure everything goes well.’

‘No!’ Gemma said and realised her protest sounded over-the-top. ‘I...I mean there’s no need for me to be there at all. I’ll go over everything with the chef and the waiter to make sure the presentation and service is faultless.’

Eliza shook her head. ‘Not good enough. Tristan Marco has specifically requested your presence on board.’

Gemma knew the bottom line was always important to Eliza. She’d made sure their business was a success financially. With a sinking heart Gemma realised there would be no getting out of this. And Eliza was only too quick to confirm that.

‘You know how lucrative his party on Friday is for us, Gemma. Tristan is an important client. You really have to do this. Whether you like it or not.’

CHAPTER THREE

ON WEDNESDAY MORNING Gemma made her way along the harbourside walk on the northern shore of Sydney Harbour. Milson’s Point and the Art Deco North Sydney Swimming Pool were behind her as she headed towards the wharf at Lavender Bay, where she was to join the Argus. As she walked she realised why she felt so out of sorts—she was jealous of Tristan’s unknown date. And put out that he had replaced her so quickly.

It wasn’t that she was jealous of the other woman’s cruise on a magnificent yacht on beautiful Sydney Harbour. Or the superb meal she would be served, thanks to the skill of the Party Queens team. No. What Gemma envied her most for was the pleasure of Tristan’s company.

Gemma seethed with a most unprofessional indignation at the thought of having to dance attendance on the couple’s romantic rendezvous. There was no justification for her feelings—Tristan had asked to spend time with her and she had turned him down. In fact, her feelings were more than a touch irrational. But still she didn’t like the idea of seeing Tristan with another woman.

She did not want to do this.

Why had he insisted on her presence on board? This was a romantic lunch for two, for heaven’s sake. There was only so much for her to do for a simple three-course meal. She would have too much time to observe Tristan being charming to his date. And, oh, how charming the man could be.

If she was forced to watch him kiss that other woman, she might just have to jump off board and brave the sharks and jellyfish to swim to shore.

Suck it up, Gemma, you turned him down.

She forced herself to remember that she was the director of her own company, looking after an important client. To convince herself that there were worse things to do than twiddle her thumbs in the lap of luxury on one of the most beautiful harbours in the world on a perfect sunny day. And to remind herself to paste a convincing smile on her face as she did everything in her power to make her client’s day a success.

As she rounded the boardwalk past Luna Park fun fair, she picked up her pace when she noticed the Argus had already docked at Lavender Bay. The charter company called it a ‘gentleman’s cruiser’, and the wooden boat’s vintage lines made it stand out on a harbour dotted with slick, modern watercraft. She didn’t know much about boats, but she liked this one—it looked fabulous, and it had a very well-fitted-out kitchen that was a dream to work in.

The Lavender Bay wharf was on the western side of the Sydney Harbour Bridge, virtually in its shadow, with a view right through to the gleaming white sails of the Opera House on the eastern side. The water was unbelievably blue to match the blue sky. The air was tangy with salt. How could she stay down on a day like this? She would make the most of it.

Gemma got her smile ready as she reached the historic old dock. She expected that a crew member would greet her and help her on board. But her heart missed a beat when she saw it was Tristan who stood there. Tristan...in white linen trousers and a white shirt open at the neck to reveal a glimpse of muscular chest, sleeves rolled back to show strong, sinewy forearms. Tristan looking tanned and unbelievably handsome, those blue eyes putting the sky to shame. Her heart seemed almost literally to leap into her throat.

She had never been more attracted to a man.

‘Let me help you,’ he said in his deep, accented voice as he extended a hand to help her across the gangplank.

She looked at his hand for a long moment, not sure what her reaction would be at actually touching him. But she knew she would need help to get across because she felt suddenly shaky and weak at the knees. She swallowed hard against a painful swell of regret.

What an idiot she’d been to say no to him.

* * *

Gemma looked as lovely as he remembered, Tristan thought as he held out his hand to her. Even lovelier—which he hadn’t thought possible. Her auburn hair fell to her shoulders, glinting copper and gold in the sunlight. Her narrow deep blue cut-off pants and blue-and-white-striped top accentuated her curves in a subtle way he appreciated. But her smile was tentative, and she had hesitated before taking his hand and accepting his help to come on board.

‘Gemma, it is so good to see you,’ he said while his heart beat a tattoo of exultation that she had come—and he sent out a prayer that she would forgive him for insisting in such an autocratic manner on her presence.

She had her rules—he had his. His rules decreed that spending time with a girl like Gemma could lead nowhere. But he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her. So her rules had had to be bent.

‘The Party Queens motto is No Job Too Big or Too Small,’ Gemma said as she stepped on board. ‘This...this is a very small job.’

He realised he was holding her hand for longer than would be considered polite. That her eyes were flickering away from the intensity of his gaze. But he didn’t want to let go of her hand.

‘Small...but important.’ Incredibly important to him as the clock ticked relentlessly away on his last days of freedom.

She abruptly released her hand from his. Her lush mouth tightened. ‘Is it? Then I hope you’ll be happy with the menu.’