Crown Prince's Chosen Bride (5 page)

Gemma had become not necessarily a
people
pleaser but a man pleaser. She believed that was why she'd put up with Alistair's bad behaviour for so long. It was a habit she was determined to break.

She decided to take charge of the conversation. ‘What about you, Tristan? Are you single, too?'

He nodded. ‘Yes.'

‘Have you ever been married?'

‘No,' he said. ‘I...I haven't met the right woman. And you?'

‘Same. I haven't met the right man.' Boy, had she met some wrong ones. But those days were past.
No more heartbreakers.

The swell from a passing ferry made her rock unsteadily on her feet as she swayed with the sudden motion of the boat.

Tristan caught her elbow to steady her. ‘You okay?' he said.

The action brought him close to her. So close she could feel the strength in his body, smell the fresh scent of him that hinted at sage and woodlands and the mountain country he came from. There was something so
different
about him—almost a sense of
other.
It intrigued her, excited her.

‘F-fine, thank you,' she stuttered.

His grip, though momentary, had been firm and warm on her arm, and her reaction to the contact disconcerted her. She found herself trembling a little. Those warning antennae waved so wildly she felt light-headed. She shouldn't be feeling this intense attraction to someone she knew so little about.
It was against her every resolve.

She took another steadying breath, as deep as she could without looking too obvious. The
Argus
had left the Harbour Bridge behind. ‘We're on home territory for me now,' she said, in a determinedly conversational tone. ‘Come over to this side and I'll show you.'

‘You live around here?' he said as he followed her.

‘See over there?' She waved to encompass the park that stretched to the water under the massive supports for the bridge overhead, the double row of small shops, the terraced houses, the multi-million-dollar apartments that sat at the edge of the water. ‘You can just see the red-tiled roof of my humble apartment block.'

Tristan walked over to the railing, leaned his elbows on the top, looked straight ahead. Gemma stood beside him, very aware that their shoulders were almost nudging.

‘Sydney does not disappoint me,' he said finally.

‘I'm glad to hear that,' she said. ‘What made you come here on your vacation?'

He shrugged. ‘Australia is a place I always wanted to see. So far from Europe. Like the last frontier.'

Again, Gemma sensed he was leaving out more than he was saying. Her self-protection antennae were waving furiously. She had finetuned them in those six months of sabbatical, so determined not to fall into old traps, make old mistakes. Would he share more with her by the end of the day?

‘I think you need to travel west of Sydney to see actual last-frontier territory,' she said. ‘No kangaroos hopping around the place here.'

‘I would like to see kangaroos that aren't in a zoo,' he said. He turned to face her. ‘Living in Sydney must be like living in a resort,' he said.

Gemma tried to see the city she'd lived in all her life through his eyes. It wasn't that she took the beauty of the harbour for granted—it was just that she saw it every day. ‘I hadn't thought about it like that but, yes, I see what you mean,' she said. Although she'd worked too hard ever to think she was enjoying a resort lifestyle.

‘Do you like living here?' he said.

‘Of course,' she said. ‘Though I haven't actually lived anywhere else to compare. Sometimes I think I'd like to try a new life in another country. If Party Queens hadn't been such a success, I might have looked for a job as a chef in France. But in the meantime Sydney suits me.'

‘I envy you in some ways,' he said. ‘Your freedom. The lack of stifling tradition.'

She wondered at the note of yearning in his voice.

‘There's a lot more to Sydney than these areas, of course,' she said. ‘The Blue Mountains are worth seeing.' She stopped herself from offering to show them to him. He didn't want a tour guide. She didn't want to get too involved.
This was just lunch.

‘I would like to see more, but I go back home on Monday afternoon. With the party on Friday, there is not much time.'

‘That's a shame,' she said, keeping her voice light and neutral. She knew this—
Tristan
—was only for today...an interlude. But she already had the feeling that a day, a week, a month wouldn't ever be enough time with him.

‘I have responsibilities I must return to.' His tone of voice indicated that he might not be 100 per cent happy about that.

‘With your family's corporation? Maybe you could consider opening an Australian branch of the business here,' she said.

He looked ahead of him, and she realised he was purposely not meeting her eyes. ‘I'm afraid that is not possible—delightful as the thought might be.'

He turned away from the railing and went over to where he had put down her bag. Again, he pretended it was too heavy to carry, though she could see that with his muscles it must be effortless for him.

‘Let's stash your bag somewhere safe and see about that coffee.'

‘You don't want to see more sights?'

He paused, her bag held by his side. ‘Haven't I made it clear, Gemma? Forgive my English if I haven't. I've seen a lot of sights in the time I've been in Australia. In the days I have left the only sight I want to see more of is
you
.'

CHAPTER FIVE

T
RISTAN
SAT
OPPOSITE
Gemma at a round table inside the cabin. After his second cup of coffee—strong and black—he leaned back in his chair and sighed his satisfaction.

‘Excellent coffee, thank you,' he said. Of all the good coffee he'd enjoyed in Australia, he rated this the highest.

Gemma looked pleased. ‘We're very fussy about coffee at Party Queens—single origin, fair trade, the best.'

‘It shows,' Tristan said.

He liked Party Queens' meticulous attention to detail. It was one of the reasons he felt confident that his reception on Friday would be everything he wanted it to be—although for reasons of security he hadn't shared with them the real nature of the gathering.

‘Not true,' Tristan muttered under his breath in his own language. He could have told Eliza by now. The reason he was holding back on the full facts was that he wanted to delay telling Gemma the truth about himself for as long as possible. Things would not be the same once his anonymity was gone.

‘I'm glad you like the coffee. How about the food?' she asked.

Her forehead was pleated with the trace of a frown, and he realised she was anxious about his opinion.

‘Excellent,' he pronounced. Truth be told, he'd scarcely noticed it. Who would be interested in food when he could feast his eyes on the beautiful woman in front of him?

To please her, he gave his full attention to the superbly arranged fruit platter that included some of the ripe mangoes he had come to enjoy in Queensland. There was also a selection of bite-sized cookies—both savoury, with cheese, and sweet, studded with nuts—arranged on the bottom tier of a silver stand. On the top tier were small square cakes covered in dark chocolate and an extravagant coating of shredded coconut.

‘It all looks very good,' he said.

‘I know there's more food than we can possibly eat, but we knew nothing about your lunch date and her tastes in food,' Gemma said.

‘In that case I hope you chose food
you
liked,' he said.

‘As a matter of fact, I did,' she said, with a delightful display of dimples.

‘What is this cake with the coconut?' he asked.

‘You haven't seen a lamington before?'

He shook his head.

‘If Australia had a national cake it would be the lamington,' she said. ‘They say it was created in honour of Lord Lamington, a nineteenth-century governor.'

‘So this cake has illustrious beginnings?'

‘You could call it a grand start for a humble little cake. In this case they are perhaps more illustrious, as I made them using the finest Montovian chocolate.'

‘A Montovian embellishment of an Australian tradition?'

‘I suspect our traditions are mere babies compared to yours,' she said with another flash of dimples. ‘Would you like to try one?'

Tristan bit into a lamington. ‘Delicious.'

Truth be told, he preferred lighter food. He had to sit through so many official dinners, with course after rich course, that he ate healthily when he had the choice. The mangoes were more to his taste. But he would not hurt her feelings by telling her so.

Gemma looked longingly at the rest of the cakes. ‘I have the world's sweetest tooth—which is a problem in this job. I have to restrict myself to just little tastes of what we cook, or I'd be the size of a house.'

‘You're in very good shape,' he said.

She had a fabulous body. Slim, yet with alluring curves. He found it almost impossible to keep his eyes from straying to it. He would have liked to say more about how attractive he found her, but it would not be appropriate.
Not yet...perhaps not ever.

She flushed high on her cheekbones. ‘Thank you. I wasn't fishing for a compliment.'

‘I know that,' he said.

The mere fact that she was so unassuming about her beauty made him want to shower her with compliments. To praise the cuteness of her freckles, her sensational curves. To admit to the way he found himself wanting to make her smile just to see her dimples.

There was so much he found pleasing about her. But he was not in a position to express his interest. Gemma wasn't a vacation-fling kind of girl—he'd realised that the moment he met her. And that was all he could ever offer her.

It was getting more difficult by the minute to keep that at the top of his mind.

‘I'll try just half a lamington and then some fruit,' she said.

She sliced one into halves with a knife and slowly nibbled on one half with an expression of bliss, her eyes half closed. As she licked a stray shred of coconut from her lovely bow-shaped top lip, she tilted back her head and gave a little moan of pleasure.

Tristan shifted in his seat, gripped the edge of the table so hard it hurt. It was impossible for his thoughts not to stray to speculation about her appetite for other pleasures, to how she would react to his mouth on hers, his touch...

There was still a small strand of coconut at the corner of her mouth. He ached to lean across the table, taste the chocolate on her lips, lick away that stray piece of coconut.

She looked at him through eyes still half narrowed with sensual appreciation. ‘The Montovian chocolate makes that the best lamington I've ever tasted.'

She should
always
have chocolate from Montovia.

Tristan cleared his throat. He had to keep their conversation going to distract himself. In his hedonistic past he had been immune to the seduction techniques of worldly, sophisticated temptresses, who knew exactly what they were doing as they tried to snare a prince. Yet the unconscious provocation of this lovely girl eating a piece of cake was making him fall apart.

‘I believe you're a trained chef?' he said. ‘Tell me how that happened.'

‘How I became a chef? Do you really need to know that?'

‘I know very little about you. I need to know everything.'

‘Oh,' she said, delightfully disconcerted, the flush deepening on her creamy skin. ‘If that's what you want...'

‘It is what I want,' he said, unable to keep the huskiness from his voice. There was so much more he wanted from her, but it was impossible for him to admit to the desire she was arousing in him.

‘Okay,' she said. ‘I was always interested in food. My mother wasn't really into cooking and was delighted to let me take over the kitchen whenever I wanted.' She helped herself to some grapes, snipping them from the bunch with a tiny pair of silver scissors.

‘So you decided to make a career of it?' It wouldn't be an easy life, he imagined. Hard physical work, as well as particular skills required and—

He completely lost his train of thought. Instead he watched, spellbound, as Gemma popped the fat, purple grapes one by one into her luscious mouth.

Inwardly, he groaned.
This was almost unbearable.

‘Actually, I was all set to be a nutritionist,' she said, seemingly unaware of the torment she was putting him through by the simple act of eating some fruit. ‘I started a degree at the University of Newcastle, which is north of Sydney. I stayed up there during the vacations and—'

‘Why was that? I went to university in England but came home for at least part of every vacation.'

He'd loved the freedom of living in another country, but home had always been a draw card for him—the security and continuity of the castle, the knowledge of his place in the hierarchy of his country. His parents, who were father and mother to him before they were king and queen.

Gemma pulled a face—which, far from contorting her features, made her look cute.
Had she cast a spell on him?

‘Your home might have been more...welcoming than mine,' she said.

A shadow darkened her warm brown eyes at what was obviously an unpleasant memory. It made him sad for her. His memories of childhood and adolescence were happy. Life at the castle as the ‘spare' had been fun—he had had a freedom never granted to his brother. A freedom sorely lost to him now—except for this trip. There had always been some tension between his father and mother, but it had been kept distanced from him. It hadn't been until he'd grown up that he'd discovered the cause of that tension—and why both his parents were so unhappy.

‘You were not welcome in your own home?' he asked.

‘My mother was always welcoming. My stepfather less so.'

‘Was he...abusive?' Tristan tensed, and his hands tightened into fists at the thought of anyone hurting her.

She shook her head. The sunshine slanting in through the windows picked up amber highlights and copper glints in her hair as it fell around her face. He wanted to reach out and stroke it, see if it felt as fiery as it looked.

‘Nothing like that,' she said. ‘And he wasn't unkind—just indifferent. He didn't want children, but he fell in love with my mother when I was a little kid and I came as part of the package deal.'

‘A “package deal”? That seems a harsh way to describe a child.'

Again he felt a surge of protectiveness for her. It was a feeling new to him—this desire to enfold her in safety and shield her from any harm the world might hurl at her. A girl he had known for only a matter of days...

Her shrug of one slender shoulder was obviously an effort to appear nonchalant about an old hurt, but it was not completely successful. ‘He couldn't have one without the other. Apparently he wanted my mother badly—she's very beautiful.'

‘As is her daughter.' He searched her face. It was disconcerting, the way she seemed to grow lovelier by the minute.

‘Thank you.' She flushed again. ‘My mother always told me I had to be grateful to my stepfather for looking after us.
Huh.
Even when I was little I looked after myself. But I did my best to please him—to make my mother happy.' She wrinkled her neat, straight nose. ‘Why am I telling you all this? I'm sure you must find it boring.'

‘You could never be boring, Gemma,' he said. ‘I know that about you already.'

It was true. Whether or not she'd cast some kind of witch's spell over him, he found everything about her fascinating. He wanted nothing more than to find out all about her. Just for today, the rest of his life was on hold. It was just him and Gemma, alone in the curious intimacy of a boat in the middle of Sydney Harbour. Like a regular, everyday date of the kind that would not be possible for him once he was back home.

‘Are you sure you want to hear more of my ordinary little story?' she asked, her head tilted to one side.

‘Nothing could interest me more.'

She could read out loud the list of ingredients from one of her recipes and he'd hang on every word, watching the expressions flit across her face, her dimples peeking in and out. Although so far there didn't appear to be a lot to smile about in her story.

The good-looking dark-haired waiter came to clear their coffee cups and plates. Gemma looked up and smiled at him as she asked him to leave the fruit. Tristan felt a surge of jealousy—until he realised the waiter was more likely to be interested in
him
rather than
her
. Gemma thanked him and praised the chef.

After the waiter had left, she leaned across the table to Tristan. Her voice was lowered to barely above a whisper. ‘It feels weird, having people I know serve me,' she said. ‘My instinct is to jump up and help. I'm used to being on the other side of the kitchen door.'

Tristan had been used to people serving him since he was a baby. An army of staff catered to the royal family's every need. He'd long ago got used to the presence of servants in the room—so much that they'd become almost invisible. When he went back he would have a hand-picked private staff of his own to help him assume his new responsibilities as crown prince.

The downside was that there was very little privacy. Since his brother had died every aspect of his life had been under constant, intense scrutiny.

Gemma returned to her story. ‘Inevitably, when I was a teenager I clashed with my stepfather. It made my mother unhappy. I was glad to leave home for uni—and I never went back except for fleeting visits.'

‘And your father?'

‘You mean my birth father?'

‘Yes.'

‘He died before I was born.' Her voice betrayed no emotion. It was as if she were speaking about a stranger.

‘That was a tragedy.'

‘For my mother, yes. She was a ski instructor in the French resort of Val d'Isère, taking a gap year. My father was English—also a ski instructor. They fell madly in love, she got pregnant, they got married and soon after he got killed in an avalanche.'

‘I'm sorry—that's a terrible story.'

Skiing was one of the risky sports he loved, along with mountaineering and skydiving. The castle staff was doing everything it could to wean him off those adrenaline-pumping pastimes. He knew he had to acquiesce. The continuity of the royal family was paramount. His country had lost one heir to an accident and could not afford to lose him, too.

But he railed against being cosseted. Hated having his independence and choice taken away from him. Sometimes the price of becoming king in future seemed unbearably high. But duty overruled everything. Tragedy had forced fate's hand. He accepted his inheritance and everything that went with it—no matter the cost to him.
He was now the crown prince.

Gemma made a dismissive gesture with her hands. ‘I didn't know my father, so of course I never missed him. But he was the love of my mother's life. She was devastated. Then his posh parents arrived at the resort, looked down their noses at my mother, questioned the legality of my parents' marriage—it
was
totally legit, by the way—and paid her to forget she was ever married and to never make a claim on them. They even tried to bar her from the funeral back in England.' Her voice rose with indignation.