Crown Prince's Chosen Bride (3 page)

‘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

O
N
W
EDNESDAY
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.'

‘Your chef and waiter are already in the kitchen,' he said. ‘You have created a superb lunch for us.'

‘And your guest for lunch? Is she—?'

At that moment a crew member approached to tell him they were ready to cast off from the dock and start their cruise around the harbour.

Tristan thanked him and turned to Gemma. ‘I'm very much looking forward to this,' he said.
To getting to know her.

‘You couldn't have a better day for exploring the harbour,' she said with a wave of her hand that encompassed the impossibly blue waters, the boats trailing frothy white wakes behind them, the blue sky unmarred by clouds.

‘The weather is perfect,' he said. ‘Did Party Queens organise that for me, too?'

It was a feeble attempt at humour and he knew it. Gemma seemed to know it, too.

But her delightful dimples flirted in her cheeks as she replied, ‘We may have cast a good weather spell or two.'

He raised his eyebrows. ‘So you have supernatural powers? The Party Queens continue to surprise me.'

‘I'd be careful who you're calling a witch,' she said with a deepening of the dimples. ‘Andie and Eliza might not like it.'

A witch? She had bewitched him, all right. He had never felt such an instant attraction to a woman. Especially one so deeply unsuitable.

‘And you?' In his country's mythology the most powerful witches had red hair and green eyes. This bewitching Australian had eyes the colour of cinnamon—warm and enticing. ‘Are
you
a witch, Gemma Harper?' he asked slowly.

She met his gaze directly as they stood facing each other on the deck, the dock now behind them. ‘I like to think I'm a witch in the kitchen—or it could be that I just have a highly developed intuition for food. But if you want to think I conjured up these blue skies, go right ahead. All part of the service.'

‘So there is no limit to your talents?' he said.

‘You're darn right about that,' she said with an upward tilt of her chin.

For a long moment their eyes met. Her heart-shaped face, so new to him, seemed already familiar—possibly because she had not been out of his thoughts since the moment they'd met. He ached to lift his hand and trace the freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose with his finger, then explore the contours of her mouth, her top lip with its perfect, plump bow.
He ached to kiss her.

But there could be no kissing. Not with this girl, who had captured his interest within seconds of meeting her. Not when there were rules and strictures guiding the way he spent his life. When there were new levels of responsibility he had to step up to when he returned home. He was on a deadline—everything would change when he turned thirty, in three months' time. These next few days in Sydney were the last during which he could call his time his own.

His life had been very different before the accident that had killed his brother. Before the
spare
had suddenly become the
heir
. His carefree and some might even say hedonistic life as the second son had been abruptly curtailed.

There had been unsuitable girlfriends—forbidden to him now. He had taken risks on the racing-car circuit and on horseback, had scaled the mountains that towered over Montovia. Now everything he did came under scrutiny. The Crown took priority over everything. Duty had always governed part of his life. Now it was to be his all.

But he had demanded to be allowed to take this vacation—insisted on this last freedom before he had to buckle under to duty. To responsibility. For the love of his country.

His fascination with Gemma Harper was nowhere on the approved official agenda...

‘I'm trying to imagine what other feats of magic you can perform,' he said, attempting to come to terms with the potent spell she had cast on him. The allure of her lush mouth. The warmth of her eyes. The inexplicable longing for her that had led him to planning this day.

He should not be thinking this way about a commoner.

She bit her lip, took a step back from him. ‘My magic trick is to make sure your lunch date goes smoothly. But I don't need a fairy's wand for that.' Her dimples disappeared. ‘I want everything to be to your satisfaction. Are you happy with the
Argus
?'

Her voice was suddenly stilted, as if she had extracted the laughter and levity from it.
Back to business
was the message. And she was right. A business arrangement. That was all there should be between them.

‘It's a very handsome boat,' he said. He was used to millionaire's toys. Took this level of luxury for granted. But that didn't stop him appreciating it. And he couldn't put a price on the spectacular view. ‘I'm very happy with it for this purpose.'

‘Good. The
Argus
is my favourite of any of the boats we've worked on,' she said. ‘I love its wonderful Art Deco style. It's from another era of graciousness.'

‘Would you like me to show you around?' he said.

If she said yes, he would make only a cursory inspection of the luxury bedrooms, the grand stateroom. He did not want her to get the wrong idea. Or to torture himself with thoughts of what could never be.

She shook her head. ‘No need. I'm familiar with the layout,' she said. ‘We held a corporate party here earlier in the spring. I'd like to catch up with my staff now.'

‘Your waiter has already set up for lunch on the deck.'

‘I'd like to see how it looks,' she said.

She had a large tan leather bag slung over her shoulder. ‘Let me take your bag for you,' he said.

‘Thank you, but I'm fine,' she said, clutching on to the strap.

‘I insist,' he said. The habits of courtliness and chivalry towards women had been bred into him.

She shrugged. ‘Okay.' Reluctantly, she handed it to him.

The weight of her bag surprised him, and he pretended to stagger on the deck. ‘What have you got in here? An arsenal of wooden spoons?'

Her eyes widened, and she laughed. ‘Of course not.'

‘So I don't need to seek out my armour?'

It was tempting to tell her about the suits of medieval armour in the castle he called home. As a boy he'd thought everyone had genuine armour to play with—it hadn't been until he was older that he'd become aware of his uniquely privileged existence. Privileged and restricted.

But he couldn't reveal his identity to her yet. He wanted another day of just being plain Tristan. Just a guy getting to know a girl.

‘Of course you don't need armour. Besides, I wasn't actually going to
hit
you with that wooden spoon, you know.'

‘You had me worried back in that kitchen,' he teased. He was getting used to speaking English again, relaxing into the flow of words.

‘I don't believe that for a second,' she said. ‘You're so much bigger than me, and—'

‘And what?'

‘I...I trusted that you wouldn't hurt me.'

He had to clear his throat. ‘I would never hurt you,' he said. And yet he wasn't being honest with her. Inadvertently, he
could
hurt her. But it would not be by intent.
This was just one day.

‘So what's really in the bag?' he asked.

‘It's only bits and pieces of my favourite kitchen equipment—just in case I might need them.'

‘Just in case the chef can't do his job?' he asked.

‘You
did
want me here to supervise,' she said, her laughter gone as he reminded her of why she thought she was on board. ‘And supervise I need to. Please. I have to see where we will be serving lunch.'

There was a formal dining area inside the cabin, but Tristan was glad Party Queens had chosen to serve lunch at an informal area with the best view at the fore of the boat. Under shelter from the sun and protected from the breeze. The very professional waiter had already set an elegant table with linen mats, large white plates and gleaming silver.

Gemma nodded in approval when she saw it. Then straightened a piece of cutlery into perfect alignment with another without seeming to be aware she was doing it.

‘Our staff have done their usual good job,' she said. ‘We'll drop anchor at Store Beach at lunchtime. That will be very
romantic
.'

She stressed the final word with a tight twist of her lips that surprised him.

‘I don't know where Store Beach is, but I'm looking forward to seeing it,' he said.