Crown Prince's Chosen Bride (8 page)

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

A
S
T
RISTAN
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 back 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.

She stopped for him to catch up. Her eyes narrowed. ‘I hope you didn't let me win on purpose in some chivalrous gesture?'

‘No. You are a fast swimmer. It was a fair race.'

He was very competitive in the sports he played. Being bested by a woman was something new, and he respected her skill. But how could a Montovian, raised in a country where the snow-fed lakes were cold even in midsummer, compete with someone who'd grown up in a beachside city like Sydney?

‘I used to race at school—but that was a long time ago. Now I swim for fun and exercise. And relaxation.' She looked at him as if she knew very well that he was not used to being beaten. ‘You'd probably beat me at skiing.'

‘I'm sure you'd challenge me,' he said. ‘Weren't both your parents ski instructors?'

‘Yes, but I've only ever skied in Australia and New Zealand. Skiing in Europe is on my wish list—if I ever get enough time away from Party Queens to get there, that is.'

Tristan uttered something non-committal in reply instead of the invitation he wished he could make. There was nothing he would like better than to take her skiing with him. Show her the family chalet, share his favourite runs on his favourite mountains, help her unwind après-ski in front of a seductively warm log fire... But next winter, and the chance of sharing it with Gemma, seemed far, far away.

The sand was warm underfoot as he walked along the beach with her, close enough for their shoulders to nudge against each other occasionally. Her skin was cool and smooth against his and he found it difficult to concentrate on anything but her, difficult to clear his mind of how much he wanted her—and could not have her.

He forced himself to look around him. She'd brought him to an idyllic spot. The vegetation that grew up to the sand was full of birdlife. He saw flashes of multi-coloured parrots as they flew through the trees, heard birdsong he couldn't identify.

‘How could you say Sydney is not like living in a resort when a place like this is on your doorstep?' he asked.

‘I guess you
would
feel like you were on vacation if you lived around here,' she said. She waved her hand at the southern end of the beach. ‘Manly, which seems more like a town than a suburb, is just around the bay. You can hire a two-man kayak there and paddle around to here with a picnic. It would be fun to do that sometime.'

But not with him. He would be far away in Montovia, doing his duty, honouring his family and his country. No longer master of his own life. ‘That would be fun,' he echoed. He could not bear the thought of her kayaking to this beach with another man.

She sat down on the sand, hugging her knees to her chest. He sat down next to her, his legs stretched out ahead. The sun was warm on his back, but a slight breeze kept him cool.

‘Did you wonder why this beach is called Store Beach?' she asked.

‘Not really. But I think you are going to tell me.'

‘How did you get to know me so quickly?' she asked, her head tilted to one side in the manner he already found endearing.

‘Just observant, I guess,' he said.
And because he was so attracted to her.
He wanted to know every little thing about her.

‘There must be a tour guide inside me, fighting to get out,' she joked.

‘Set her free to tell me all about the beach,' he said. This sea nymph had bewitched him so thoroughly that sitting on a beach listening to the sound of her voice seemed like heaven.

‘If you insist,' she said with a sideways smile. ‘Behind us, up top, is an isolation hospital known as the Quarantine Station. Stores for the station were landed here. For the early settlers from Europe it was an arduous trip of many months by sailing ship. By the time some of them got here, they had come down with contagious illnesses like smallpox. They were kept here—away from the rest of Sydney. Some got better...many died.'

Tristan shuddered. ‘That's a gruesome topic for a sunny day.'

‘The Quarantine Station closed after one hundred and fifty years. They hold ghost tours there at night. I went on one—it was really spooky.'

Her story reminded Tristan of what a very long way away from home he was. Even a straightforward flight was twenty-two hours. Any kind of relationship would be difficult to maintain from this distance—even if it were permitted.

‘If I had time I would like to go on the ghost tour, but I fear that will not be possible,' he said.

Had he been here as tourist Tristan Marco, executive of a nebulous company that might or might not produce chocolate, he would have added,
Next time I'll do the ghost tour with you.
But he could not in all fairness talk about ‘next time' or ‘tomorrow.' Not with a woman to whom he couldn't offer any kind of relationship beyond a no-strings fling because she had not been born into the ‘right' type of family.

‘We should be heading back to the boat for lunch,' she said. ‘I'm looking forward to being a guest for the awesome menu I planned. Swimming always makes me hungry.'

He stood up and offered her his hand to help her. She hesitated, then took it and he pulled her to her feet. She stood very close to him. Tristan took a step to bring her even closer. Her hair was still damp from the sea and fell in tendrils around her face. He smoothed a wayward strand from her cheek and tucked it around her ear. He heard her quick intake of breath at his touch before she went very still.

She looked up at him without saying a word. Laughter danced in her eyes and lifted the corners of her lovely mouth. He kept his hand on her shoulder, and she swayed towards him in what he took as an invitation. There was nothing he wanted more than to kiss her. He could not resist a second longer.

He kissed her—first on her adorable dimples, one after the other, as he had longed to do from the get go. Then on her mouth—her exquisitely sensual mouth that felt as wonderful as it looked, warm and welcoming under his. With a little murmur that sent excitement shooting through him, she parted her lips. He deepened the kiss. She tasted of chocolate and salt and her own sweet taste. Her skin was cool and silky against his, her curves pressed enticingly against his body.

All the time he was kissing her Tristan, knew he was doing so under false pretences. He was not used to deception, had always prided himself on his honesty. He wanted more—wanted more than kisses—from this beautiful woman he held in his arms. But he could not deceive her any longer about who he really was—and what the truth meant to them.

* * *

Tristan was kissing her—seriously kissing her—and it was even more wonderful than Gemma had anticipated. She had wanted him, wanted
this
, from the time she had first seen him in her kitchen. Her heart thudded in double-quick time, and pleasure thrummed through her body.

But she was shocked at how quickly the kiss turned from something tender into something so passionate that it ignited in her an urgent hunger to be closer to him. Close, closer...as close as she could be.

She had never felt this wondrous sense of connection and certainty. That time was somehow standing still. That she was meant to be here with him. That this was the start of something life-changing.

They explored with lips and tongues. Her thoughts, dazed with desire, started to race in a direction she had not let them until now.
Could
there be a tomorrow for her and Tristan? Why had she thought it so impossible? He wasn't flying back to the moon, after all. Long distance could work. Differences could be overcome.

Stray thoughts flew around her brain, barely coherent, in between the waves of pleasure pulsing through her body.

Tristan gently bit her bottom lip. She let out a little sound of pleasure that was almost a whimper.

He broke away from the kiss, chest heaving as he gasped for breath. She realised he was as shocked as she was at the passion that had erupted between them. Shocked and...and shaken.

Gemma wound her arms around his neck, not wanting him to stop but glad they were on a public beach so that there would be no temptation to sink down on the sand together and go further than kisses. She gave her frantic antennae their marching orders. This. To be with him. It was all she wanted.

‘Tristan...' she breathed. ‘I feel like I'm in some wonderful dream. I...I don't want this day to end.'

Then she froze as she saw the dismay in his eyes, felt the tension in his body, heard his low groan. She unwound her arms from around his neck, crossed them in front of her chest. She bit her lip to stop her mouth from trembling. Had she totally misread the situation?

‘You might not think that when you hear what I have to say to you.' The hoarse words rushed out as if they'd been dammed up inside him and he could not hold on to them any longer.

She couldn't find the words to reply.

‘Gemma. We have to talk.'

Did any conversation
ever
go well when it started like that? Why did those four words, grouped together in that way, sound so ominous?

‘I'm listening,' she said.

‘I have not been completely honest with you.'

Gemma's heart sank to the level of the sand beneath her bare feet. Here it came. He was married. He had a girlfriend back home. Or good old
I'm not looking for commitment.

Those antennae were now flopped over her forehead, weary and defeated from trying to save her from her own self-defeating behaviour.

She braced herself in readiness.

A pulse throbbed under the smooth olive skin at his temple. ‘My family business I told you about...?'

‘Yes?' she said, puzzled at the direction he was taking.

‘It isn't so much a
business
as such...'

Her stomach clenched. The wealth. The mystery. Her sense that he was being evasive. ‘You mean it's a...a criminal enterprise? Like the mafia or—?'

He looked so shocked she would have laughed at his expression if she'd had the slightest inclination to laugh. Or even to smile.

‘No. Not that. You've got it completely wrong.'

She swallowed against a suddenly dry throat. ‘Are you...are you a spy? From your country's intelligence service? If so, I don't know what you're doing with me. I don't know anything. I—'

The shock on his face told her she'd got that wrong, too.

‘No, Gemma, nothing like that.'

He paused, as if gathering the strength to speak, and then his words came out in a rush.