Crown Prince's Chosen Bride (7 page)

Don't go there, Gemma.

But her curiosity about Montovia was piqued. When she went home this evening, she would look up the country and its customs on the internet.

‘Did you actually have to go to battle?' she asked.

‘I spent time with the peacekeeping forces in eastern Europe. My brother went to Africa. It was good for us to see outside our own protected world.'

‘You know, I wasn't really aware that such kingdoms as Montovia still existed.'

‘Our royal family has ruled for centuries,' he said—rather stiffly, she thought. ‘The people love the royal family of Montovia.'

‘Do
you
?' she asked. ‘You're not harbouring any secret republican leanings?'

His eyebrows rose, and he looked affronted. ‘Never. I am utterly loyal to the king and queen. My country would not be Montovia without the royal family and our customs and traditions.'

Gemma was silent for a long moment. ‘It's all so outside of my experience. As a child I led an everyday suburban existence in a middle-class suburb of Sydney. You grew up in a town with a medieval castle ruled by a king and queen. What...what different lives we must lead.'

He steepled his fingers together. ‘Yes. Very different.'

* * *

Tristan was glad of the interruption when the waiter brought out a tray with the cool drinks they had ordered.
He had to be more careful.
He'd been on tenterhooks while chatting with Gemma for fear that he would inadvertently reveal the truth about himself and his family. There had been a few minor slip-ups, but nothing that couldn't be excused as a mistake with his English.

He drank iced tea as Gemma sipped on diet cola. It was too early for anything stronger.

The longer he maintained this deception, the harder it would become to confess to it. But did that really matter? After the party on Friday night he wouldn't need to be in any further contact with Party Queens. Or with Gemma.

He could leave the reveal until she found out for herself—when he appeared at his party wearing his ceremonial sash and medals. No doubt she would be shocked, would maybe despise him for lying to her. Her opinion should not matter—he would never see her again after the party.

But her opinion of him did matter.
It mattered very much
.

Just now there had been an opportunity for him to explain his role in the royal family of Montovia—but he had not been able to bring himself to take it. He was still hanging on fiercely to the novelty of being just Tristan in Gemma's eyes.

‘I haven't finished my interrogation yet,' she said, a playful smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

He liked it that she was unaware of his wealth and status. It must be obvious to her that he was rich. But she seemed more interested in
him
than in what he had
.
It was refreshing.

‘You said you went to university in England?' she asked.

‘To Cambridge—to study European law.'

Her finely arched auburn brows rose. ‘You're a lawyer?'

‘I don't actually practise as a lawyer. I have always worked for...for my family's business. A knowledge of European law is necessary.'

For trade. For treaties. For the delicate negotiations required by a small country that relied in some measure on the goodwill of surrounding countries—but never took that goodwill for granted.

‘Is it your father's business?'

‘Yes. And it was my grandparents' before that.' Back and back and back, in an unbroken chain of Montovia's hereditary monarchy. It had been set to continue in his brother's hands—not his.

Tristan knew he could not avoid talking about his brother, much as it still hurt. There'd been an extravagance of public mourning for his brother's death—and the death of his little son, whose birth had placed a second male between Tristan and the throne. But with all the concern about his unexpected succession to the position of crown prince, Tristan hadn't really been able to mourn the loss of Carl, his brother and best friend. Not Carl the crown prince. And his sweet little nephew. This trip away had been part of that grieving process. Being with Gemma was helping.

‘My brother played a senior role in the...the business. I now have to step up to take his role.'

‘And you're not one hundred per cent happy about that, are you?'

‘I never anticipated I would have to do it. The job is not my choice.'

Not only had he loved his brother, he had also admired the way Carl had handled the role of crown prince. Tristan had never resented not being the heir. He had never been sure if he had an unquestioning allegiance to the old ways in order not to challenge the archaic rules that restricted the royal family's existence even in the twenty-first century. One onerous rule in particular...

‘Will it bring more responsibility?' Gemma asked. ‘Will you be more involved in the chocolate side of things?'

For a moment he wasn't sure what she meant. Then he remembered how he had deliberately implied that chocolate was part of his family's business.

‘More the finance and managerial side,' he said. And everything else it took to rule the country.

‘I'm sure you will rise to the challenge and do a wonderful job,' she said.

He frowned. ‘Why do you say that, Gemma, when we scarcely know each other?'

Her eyes widened. ‘Even in this short time I'm convinced of your integrity,' she said. ‘I believe you will want to honour your brother's memory by doing the best job you can.'

His integrity.
Short of downright lying, he had been nothing but evasive about who he was from the moment they'd met. How would she react when she found out the truth?

The longer he left it, the worse it would be.

He turned to face her. ‘Gemma, I—'

Gemma suddenly got up from her deckchair, clutching her hat to her head against a sudden gust of wind. ‘We're passing across the Heads.'

‘The Heads?'

‘It's the entrance from the ocean to Sydney Harbour, guarded by two big headlands—North Head and South Head. But, being exposed to the Pacific Ocean, the sea can get rough here, so prepare for a rocky ride ahead.'

CHAPTER SEVEN

T
RISTAN
HAD
PLANNED
with military precision in order to make this day with Gemma happen. But one important detail had escaped his plan.

He cursed his inattention with a blast of favourite curse words. Both relatively sheltered when they'd been conscripted to the military, he and his brother had expanded their vocabulary of new and interesting words with great glee. He had never lost the skill.

Gemma was standing beside him at the bow of the
Argus
. ‘Do I detect some choice swearing in Montovian?' she asked with a teasing smile.

‘Yes,' he said, still furious with himself.

‘Can you translate for me?'

‘No,' he said.

‘Or tell me what it was all about?'

Exasperated, he waved his hand to encompass the view. ‘Look at this place—Store Beach...even more perfect than you said it would be.'

‘And there's a problem with that?'

The
Argus
had dropped anchor some one hundred metres from shore. The beach was more what he would call a bay, with a sheltered, curving stretch of golden sand. Eucalypt trees and other indigenous plants grew right down to where the sand started. The water rippled through shades of azure to wash up on the beach in a lacy white froth. The air was tangy with salt and the sharp scent of the eucalypts. It took no stretch of the imagination to feel as if they were on a remote island somewhere far away.

‘Not a problem with the beach,' he said. ‘It's difficult to believe such a pristine spot could be so close to a major city.'

‘That's why we chose Store Beach for your lunch date,' she said. ‘And, being midweek, we've got it all to ourselves. So what's the problem?'

‘It's hot, the water looks awesome, I want to swim. But I didn't think to bring a swimsuit—or order one for you.'

Her eyebrows rose. ‘For me?
Order
a swimsuit for me?'

‘Of course. You would not have known to bring one as you thought you would be working. There is a concierge at my hotel—I should have asked her to purchase a choice of swimsuits for you.'

Gemma's brows drew together in a frown. ‘Are you serious?'

‘But of course.'

‘You are, aren't you?' Her voice was underscored with incredulity.

‘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.