Gemma gazed up at him. She couldn’t mask the longing in her eyes—an emotion Tristan knew must be reflected in his own.

“I should go,” she said in a low, broken voice. “People will notice we’ve left the room. There might be talk that the prince is too friendly with the party planner. It … it could get awkward.” She went to turn from him.

Everything in Tristan that spoke of duty and denial and loyalty to his country urged him to let her walk away.

But something even more urgent warned him not to lose his one chance with this woman for whom he felt such a powerful connection. If he didn’t say something to stop her, he knew he would never see her again.

He couldn’t bear to let her go—no matter the consequences.

Tristan held out his hand to her. “Stay with me, Gemma,” he said.

Crown Prince’s Chosen Bride
Kandy Shepherd

www.millsandboon.co.uk

KANDY SHEPHERD swapped a career as a magazine editor for a life writing romance. She lives on a small farm in the Blue Mountains near Sydney, Australia, with her husband, daughter and lots of pets. She believes in love at first sight and real-life romance—they worked for her! Kandy loves to hear from her readers. Visit her at www.kandyshepherd.com.

To Cathleen Ross,

in gratitude for your friendship!

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

USING AN OLD-FASHIONED wooden spoon and her favourite vintage-style ceramic bowl, Gemma Harper beat the batter for the cake she was baking to mark the end of her six months’ self-imposed exile from dating.

Fittingly, the cake was a mixture of sweet and sour—a rich white chocolate mud cake, flavoured with the sharp contrast of lemon and lime. For Gemma, the six months had been sweet with the absence of relationship angst and tempered by sour moments of loneliness. But she’d come out of it stronger, wiser, determined to break the cycle of choosing the wrong type of man. The heartbreaking type.

From now on things would be different, she reminded herself as she gave the batter a particularly vigorous stir. She would not let a handsome face and a set of broad shoulders blind her to character flaws that spelled ultimate doom to happiness. She would curb the impulsiveness that had seen her diving headlong into relationships because she thought she was in love with someone she, in fact, did not really know.

And she was going to be much, much tougher. Less forgiving. No more giving ‘one last chance’ and then another to a cheating, lying heartbreaker, unworthy of her, whose false promises she’d believed.

She was twenty-eight and she wanted to get married and have kids before too many more years sped by.

‘No more Ms Bad Judge of Men,’ she said out loud.

It was okay to talk to herself. She was alone in the large industrial kitchen at the converted warehouse in inner-city Alexandria, the Sydney suburb that was headquarters to her successful party planning business. Party Queens belonged to her and to her two business partners, Andie Newman and Eliza Dunne. The food was Gemma’s domain, Andie was the creative genius and Eliza the business brain.

After several years working as a chef and then as a food editor on magazines, in Party Queens Gemma had found her dream job. Going into partnership with Andie and Eliza was the best decision she’d ever made. And throwing herself headlong into work had been the best thing she could have done to keep her mind off men. She would do anything to keep this business thriving.

Gemma poured the batter into a high, round pan and carefully placed it into a slow oven, where it would cook for one and a half hours. Then she would cover it with coconut frosting and garnish it with fine curls of candied lemon and lime peel. Not only would the cake be a treat for her and her partners to share this afternoon, in celebration of the end of her man-free six months, it was also a trial run for a client’s wedding cake.

Carefully, she settled the cake in the centre of the oven and gently closed the oven door.

She turned back to face the island countertop, to find she was no longer alone. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood just inside the door. She gasped, and her hand—encased in a hot-pink oven mitt—went to her heart.

‘Who are you and how the heck did you get in here?’ she asked, her voice high with sudden panic.

Even through her shock she registered that the intruder was very handsome, with a lean face and light brown hair. Just her type. No. No longer her type—not after six months of talking herself out of that kind of very good-looking man. Especially if he was a burglar—or worse.

She snatched up a wooden spoon in self-defence. Drips of cake batter slid down her arm, but she scarcely noticed.

The man put up his hands as if to ward off her spoon. ‘Tristan Marco. I have a meeting this morning with Eliza Dunne. She called to tell me she was caught in traffic and gave me the pass code for the door.’

The stranger seemed about her age and spoke with a posh English accent laced with a trace of something else. Something she couldn’t quite place. French? German? He didn’t look Australian. Something about his biscuit-coloured linen trousers, fine cream cotton shirt and stylish shoes seemed sartorially European.

‘You can put down your weapon,’ he said, amusement rippling through his voice.

Gemma blushed as she lowered the wooden spoon. What good would a spoon have been against a man taller than six foot? She took a deep breath in an attempt to get her heart rate back to somewhere near normal. ‘You gave me quite a shock, walking in on me like that. Why didn’t you press the buzzer?’

He walked further into the room so he stood opposite the island counter that separated them. This close she noticed vivid blue eyes framed by dark brows, smooth olive skin, perfect teeth.

‘I’m sorry to have frightened you,’ he said in that intriguing accent and with an expressive shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘Ms Dunne did not tell me anyone else would be here.’

Gemma took off her oven mitts, used one to surreptitiously wipe the batter dribbles from her arm and placed them on the countertop.

‘I wasn’t frightened. It’s just that I’m on my own here and—’ now wasn’t that a dumb thing to say to a stranger? ‘—Eliza will be here very soon.’

‘Yes, she said she would not be long,’ he said. His smile was both charming and reassuring. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting her. We have only spoken on the phone.’

He was gorgeous. Gemma refused to let the dangerous little fluttering of awareness take hold. She had just spent six months talking herself out of any kind of instant attraction. She was not going to make those old mistakes again.

‘Can I help you in the meantime?’ Gemma asked. ‘I’m Gemma Harper—one of Eliza’s business partners.’

To be polite, she moved around the countertop to be nearer to him. Realising she was still in her white chef’s apron, she went to untie it, then stopped. Might that look as if she was undressing in front of this stranger?

She gave herself a mental shake. Of course it wouldn’t. Had six months without a date made her start thinking like an adolescent? Still, there was no real need to take the apron off.

She offered him her hand in a businesslike gesture that she hoped negated the pink oven mitts and the wielding of the wooden spoon. He took it in his own firm, warm grip for just the right amount of time.

‘So you are also a Party Queen?’ he asked. The hint of a smile lifted the corners of his mouth.

‘Yes, I’m the food director,’ she said, wishing not for the first time that they had chosen a more staid name for the business. It had all started as a bit of a lark, but now, eighteen months after they had launched, they were one of the most popular and successful party planning businesses in Sydney. And still being teased about being Party Queens.

‘Did you...did you want to see Eliza about booking a party?’ she asked cautiously. To her knowledge, the steadfastly single Eliza wasn’t dating anyone. But his visit to their headquarters might be personal. Lucky Eliza, if that was the case.

‘Yes, I’ve been planning a reception with her.’

‘A reception? You mean a wedding reception?’

The good ones were always taken. She banished the flickering disappointment the thought aroused. This guy was a stranger and a client. His marital status should be of no concern to her. Yet she had to admit there was something about him she found very attractive beyond the obvious appeal of his good looks. Perhaps because he seemed somehow...different.

‘No. Not a wedding.’ His face seemed to darken. ‘When I get married, it will not be me arranging the festivities.’

Of course it wouldn’t. In her experience it was always the bride. It sometimes took the grooms a while to realise that.

‘So, if not a wedding reception, what kind of reception?’

‘Perhaps “reception” is not the right word. My English...’ He shrugged again.

She did like broad shoulders on a man.

‘Your English sounds perfect to me,’ she said, her curiosity aroused. ‘Do you mean a business reception?’

‘Yes and no. I have been speaking to Eliza about holding a party for me to meet Australians connected by business to my family. It is to be held on Friday evening.’

It clicked. ‘Of course!’ she exclaimed. ‘The cocktail party at the Parkview Hotel on Friday night.’ It was now Monday, and everything was on track for the upscale event.

‘That is correct,’ he said.

‘I manage the food aspect of our business. We’re using the hotel’s excellent catering team. I’ve worked with them on devising the menu. I think you’ll be very happy with the food.’

‘It all looked in order to me,’ he said. ‘I believe I am in capable hands.’

Everything fell into place. Tristan Marco was their mystery client. Mysterious because his event had been organised from a distance, by phone and email, in a hurry, and by someone for whom Eliza had been unable to check credit details. The client had solved that problem by paying the entire quoted price upfront. A very substantial price for a no-expenses-spared party at a high-end venue. She, Eliza and Andie had spent quite some time speculating on what the client would be like.

‘You are in the best possible hands with our company,’ she reassured him.

He looked at her intently, his blue eyes narrowed. ‘Did I speak with you?’ he said. ‘I am sure I would have remembered your voice.’

She certainly would have remembered his.

Gemma shook her head. ‘Eliza is our business director. She does most of our client liaison. You are not what we—’ She clapped her hand to her mouth. Put a zip on it, Gemma.

‘Not what you what?’ he asked with a quizzical expression.

‘Not...not what we expected,’ she said. Her voice trailed away, and she looked down in the direction of his well-polished Italian shoes.

‘What did you expect?’

She sighed and met his gaze full on. There was no getting out of this. She really needed to curb her tendency to blurt things out without thinking. That was why she worked with the food and Eliza and Andie with the clients.

‘Well, we expected someone older. Someone not so tall. Someone heavier. Someone perhaps even...bald. With a twirling black moustache. Maybe...maybe someone like Hercule Poirot. You know...the detective in the Agatha Christie movies?’

Someone not so devastatingly handsome.

Thank heaven, he laughed. ‘So are you disappointed in what you see?’ He stood, arms outspread, as if welcoming her inspection.

Gemma felt suddenly breathless at the intensity of his gaze, at her compulsion to take up his unspoken offer to admire his tall, obviously well-muscled body, his lean, handsome face with those incredibly blue eyes, the full sensual mouth with the top lip slightly narrower then the lower, the way his short brown hair kicked up at the front in a cowlick.

‘Not at all,’ she said, scarcely able to choke out the words. Disappointed was not the word that sprang to mind.

‘I am glad to hear that,’ he said very seriously, his gaze not leaving hers. ‘You did not know me, but I knew exactly what to expect from Party Queens.’

‘You...you did?’ she stuttered.

‘Party Queens was recommended to me by my friend Jake Marlowe. He told me that each of the three partners was beautiful, talented and very smart.’

‘He...he did?’ she said, her vocabulary seeming to have escaped her.

Billionaire Jake Marlowe was the business partner of Andie’s husband, Dominic. He’d been best man at their wedding two Christmases ago. Who knew he’d taken such an interest in them?

‘On the basis of my meeting with you, I can see Jake did not mislead me,’ Tristan said.

His formal way of speaking and his charming smile made the compliment sound sincere when it might have sounded sleazy. Had he even made a slight bow as he spoke?

She willed herself not to blush again but without success. ‘Thank you,’ was all she could manage to say.

‘Jake spoke very highly of your business,’ Tristan said. ‘He told me there was no better party-planning company in Sydney.’

‘That was kind of him. It’s always gratifying to get such good feedback.’

‘I did not even talk with another company,’ Tristan said with that charming smile.

‘Wow! I mean...that’s wonderful. I...we’re flattered. We won’t let you down, I promise you. The hotel is a perfect venue. It overlooks Hyde Park, it’s high end, elegant and it prides itself on its exemplary service. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much marble and glamour in one place.’

She knew she was speaking too fast, but she couldn’t seem to help it.

‘Yes. The first thing I did was inspect it when I arrived in Sydney. You chose well.’ He paused. ‘I myself would prefer something more informal, but protocol dictates the event must be formal.’

‘The protocol of your family business?’ she asked, not quite sure she’d got it right.

He nodded. ‘That is correct. It must be upheld even when I am in another country.’

‘You’re a visitor to Australia?’ Another piece of the puzzle fell into place. The phone calls had all come from Queensland, the state to the north of New South Wales. Where Jake Marlowe lived, she now realised.

‘Yes,’ he said.

She still couldn’t place the accent, and it annoyed her. Gemma had studied French, German and Italian—not that she’d had much chance to practise them—and thought she had a good ear.

‘What kind of business does your family run?’ she asked.

That was another thing the Party Queens had wondered about as they’d discussed their mystery client. He was still a mystery.

* * *

Tristan was still too bemused by the vision of this cute redhead wearing bright pink oven mitts and wielding a wooden spoon as a weapon to think straight. He had to consider his reply and try not to be distracted by the smear of flour down her right cheek that seemed to point to her beautiful full mouth. While he’d been speaking with her, he’d had to fight the urge to lean across and gently wipe it off.

Should he tell her the truth? Or give the same evasive replies he’d given to others during his incognito trip to Sydney? He’d been here four days, and no one had recognised him...

Visiting Australia had been on his list to do before he turned thirty and had to return home to step up his involvement in ‘the business’. He’d spent some time in Queensland with Jake. But for the past few days in Sydney, he had enjoyed his anonymity, relished being just Tristan. No expectations. No explanations. Just a guy nearing thirty, being himself, being independent, having fun. It was a novelty for him to be an everyday guy. Even when he’d been at university in England, the other students had soon sussed him out.

He would have to tell Party Queens the truth about himself and the nature of his reception sooner or later, though. Let it be later.

Gemma Harper was lovely—really lovely—with her deep auburn hair, heart-shaped face and the shapely curves that the professional-looking white apron did nothing to disguise. He wanted to enjoy talking with her still cloaked in the anonymity of being just plain Tristan. When she found out his true identity, her attitude would change. It always did.

‘Finance. Trade. That kind of thing,’ he replied.

‘I see,’ she said.

He could tell by the slight downturn of her mouth that although she’d made the right polite response, she found his family business dull. More the domain of the portly, bald gentleman she’d imagined him to be. Who could blame her? But he didn’t want this delightful woman to find him dull.

He looked at the evidence of her cooking on the countertop, smelled something delicious wafting from the oven.

‘And chocolate,’ he added. ‘The world’s best chocolate.’

Now her beautiful brown eyes lit up with interest. He’d played the right card.

‘Chocolate? You’re talking about my favourite food group. So you’re from Switzerland?’

He shook his head.

‘Belgium? France?’ she tried.

‘Close,’ he said. ‘My country is Montovia. A small principality that is not far from those countries.’

She paused, her head tilted to one side. ‘You’re talking about Montovian chocolate?’

‘You know it?’ he asked, surprised. His country was known more for its financial services and as a tax haven than for its chocolate and cheese—undoubtedly excellent as they were.

She smiled, revealing delightful dimples in each cheek. He caught his breath. This Party Queen really was a beauty.

‘Of course I do,’ she said. ‘Montovian chocolate is sublime. Not easy to get here, but I discovered it when I visited Europe. Nibbled on it, that is. I was a backpacker, and it’s too expensive to have much more than a nibble. It’s... Well, it’s the gold standard of chocolate.’

‘I would say the platinum standard,’ he said, pleased at her reaction.

‘Gold. Platinum. It’s just marvellous stuff,’ she said. ‘Are you a chocolatier?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I am more on the...executive side of the business.’ That wasn’t stretching the truth too far.

‘Is that why you’re here in Sydney? The reason for your party? Promoting Montovian chocolate?’

‘Among other things,’ he said. He didn’t want to dig himself in too deep with deception.

She nodded. ‘Confidential stuff you can’t really talk about?’

‘That’s right,’ he said. He didn’t actually like to lie. Evade—yes. Lie—no.

‘Don’t worry—you’d be surprised at what secrets we have to keep in the party business,’ she said. ‘We have to be discreet.’

She put her index finger to her lips. He noticed she didn’t wear any rings on either hand.

‘But the main reason I am in Sydney is for a vacation,’ he said, with 100 per cent truthfulness.

‘Really? Who would want a vacation from Montovian chocolate? I don’t think I’d ever leave home if I lived in Montovia,’ she said with another big smile. ‘I’m joking, of course,’ she hastened to add. ‘No matter how much you love your job, a break is always good.’

‘Sydney is a marvellous place for a vacation. I am enjoying it here very much,’ he said.

And enjoying it even more since he’d met her. Sydney was a city full of beautiful women, but there was something about Gemma Harper that had instantly appealed to him. Her open, friendly manner, the laughter in her eyes, those dimples, the way she’d tried so unsuccessfully to look ferocious as she’d waved that wooden spoon. She was too pretty to ever look scary. Yet according to his friend Jake, all three of the partners were formidably smart businesswomen. Gemma interested him.

‘March is the best time here,’ she said. ‘It’s the start of autumn down-under. Still hot, but not too hot. The sea is warm and perfect for swimming. The school holidays are over. The restaurants are not crowded. I hope you’re enjoying our lovely city.’ She laughed. ‘I sound like I’m spouting a travel brochure, don’t I? But, seriously, you’re lucky to be here at this time of year.’

The harbourside city was everything Tristan had hoped it would be. But he realised now there was one thing missing from his full enjoyment of Sydney—female company. The life he’d chosen—correction, the life he had had chosen for him—meant he often felt lonely.

‘You are the lucky one—to live in such a beautiful city on such a magnificent harbour,’ he said.

‘True. Sydney is great, and I love living here,’ she said. ‘But I’m sure Montovia must be, too. When I think of your chocolate, I picture snow-capped mountains and lakes. Am I right?’

‘Yes,’ he said. He wanted to tell her more about his home but feared he might trip himself up with an untruth. His experience of life in Montovia was very different from what a tourist might find.

‘That was a lucky guess, then,’ she said. ‘I must confess I don’t know anything about your country except for the chocolate.’

‘Not many people outside of Europe do, I’ve discovered,’ he said with a shrug.

And that suited him fine in terms of a laid-back vacation. Here in Sydney, half a world away from home, he hadn’t been recognised. He liked it that way.

‘But perhaps our chocolate will put us on the map down-under.’

‘Perhaps after your trip here it will. I think...’

She paused midsentence, frowned. He could almost see the cogs turning.

‘The menu for your reception... We’ll need to change the desserts to showcase Montovian chocolate. There’s still time. I’ll get on to it straight away.’ She slapped her hand to her mouth. ‘Sorry. I jumped the gun there. I meant if you approve, of course.’

‘Of course I approve. It’s a very good idea. I should have thought of it myself.’ Only devising menus was quite out of the range of his experience.

‘Excellent. Let me come up with some fabulous chocolate desserts, and I’ll pass them by you for approval.’

He was about to tell her not to bother with the approval process when he stopped himself. He wanted to see her again. ‘Please do that,’ he said.

‘Eliza shouldn’t be too much longer—the traffic can’t be that bad. Can I take you into our waiting area? It’s not big, but it’s more comfortable than standing around here,’ she said.

‘I am comfortable here,’ he said, not liking the idea of her being in a different room from him. ‘I like your kitchen.’ All stainless steel and large industrial appliances, it still somehow seemed imbued with her warmth and welcome.

Her eyes widened. They were an unusual shade of brown—the colour of cinnamon—and lit up when she smiled.

‘Me, too,’ she said. ‘I have a cake in the oven, and I want to keep an eye on it.’

He inhaled the citrus-scented air. ‘It smells very good.’

She glanced at her watch. ‘It’s a new recipe I’m trying, but I think it will be delicious. I don’t know how long you’re planning to meet with Eliza for, but the cake won’t be ready for another hour or so. Then it has to cool, and then I—’

‘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.’

‘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.

‘It’s near Manly, which is a beachside suburb—the start of our wonderful northern beaches. Store Beach is a secluded beach accessible only from the water. I’m sure you and your...uh...date will like it.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘In the meantime, it’s only ten o’clock. We can set up for morning tea or coffee now, if you’d like?’

‘Coffee would be good,’ he said. Sydney had surprised him in many ways—not least of which was with its excellent European-style coffee.

Gemma gave the table setting another tweak and then stepped away from it. ‘All that’s now lacking is your guest. Are we picking her up from another wharf, or is she already on board?’

‘She’s already on board,’ he said.

‘Oh...’ she said. ‘Is she—?’ She turned to look towards the passageway that led to the living area and bedrooms.

‘She’s not down there,’ he said.

‘Then where—?’

He sought the correct words. ‘She...she’s right here,’ he said.

‘I don’t see anyone.’ She frowned. ‘I don’t get it.’

He cleared his throat. ‘You are my guest for lunch, Gemma.’

She stilled. For a long moment she didn’t say anything. Tristan shifted from foot to foot. He couldn’t tell if she was pleased or annoyed.

‘Me?’ she said finally, in a voice laced with disbelief.

‘You said there was a rule about you not spending time outside of work with clients. So I arranged to have time with you while you were officially at work.’

Her shoulders were held hunched and high. ‘You...you tricked me. I don’t like being tricked.’

‘You could call it that—and I apologise for the deception. But there didn’t seem to be another way. I had to see you again, Gemma.’

She took a deep intake of breath. ‘Why didn’t you just ask me?’

‘Would you have said “yes”?’

She bowed her head. ‘Perhaps not.’

‘I will ask you now. Will you be my guest for lunch on board the Argus?’

She looked down at the deck.

He reached out his hand and tilted her chin upwards so she faced him. ‘Please?’

He could see the emotions dancing across her face. Astonishment. A hint of anger. And could that be relief?

Her shoulders relaxed, and her dimples made a brief appearance in the smoothness of her cheeks. ‘I guess as you have me trapped on board I have no choice but to say “yes”.’

‘Trapped? I don’t wish you to feel trapped...’ He didn’t want to seem arrogant and domineering—job descriptions that came with the role of crown prince. His brother had fulfilled them impeccably. They sat uncomfortably with Tristan. ‘Gemma, if this is unacceptable to you, I’ll ask the captain to turn back to Lavender Bay. You can get off. Is that what you want?’

She shook her head. ‘No. That’s not what I want. I...I want to be here with you. In fact, I can’t tell you how happy I am there’s no other woman. I might have been tempted to throw her overboard.’

Her peal of laughter that followed was delightful, and it made him smile in response.

‘Surely you wouldn’t do that?’

She looked up at him, her eyes dancing with new confidence. ‘You might be surprised at what I’m capable of,’ she murmured. ‘You don’t know me at all, Tristan.’

‘I hope to remedy that today,’ he said.

Already he knew that this single day he’d permitted himself to share with her would not be enough. He had to anchor his feet to the deck so he didn’t swing her into his arms. He must truly be bewitched. Because he couldn’t remember when he’d last felt such anticipation at the thought of spending time with a woman.

‘Welcome aboard, Gemma,’ he said—and had to stop himself from sweeping into a courtly bow.

CHAPTER FOUR

GEMMA COULDN’T STOP SMILING—in relief, anticipation and a slowly bubbling excitement. After all that angst, she was Tristan’s chosen date for the romantic lunch. She was the one he’d gone to so much effort and expense to impress. The thought made her heart skitter with wonder and more than a touch of awe.

She’d joked about casting spells, but something had happened back there in her kitchen—some kind of connection between her and Tristan that was quite out of the ordinary. It seemed he had felt it, too. She ignored the warning of the insistent twitching of her antennae. This magical feeling was not just warm and fuzzy lust born from Tristan’s incredible physical appeal and the fact that she was coming out of a six-month man drought.

Oh, on a sensual level she wanted him, all right—her knees were still shaky just from the touch of his hand gripping hers as he’d helped her across the gangplank. But she didn’t want Tristan just as a gorgeous male body to satisfy physical hunger. It was something so much deeper than that. Which was all kinds of crazy when he was only going to be around for a short time. And was still as much of a mystery to her as he had been the day they’d met.

For her, this was something more than just physical attraction. But what about him? Was this just a prelude to seduction? Was he a handsome guy with all the right words—spoken in the most charming of accents—looking for a no-strings holiday fling?

She tried to think of all those ‘right’ reasons for staying away from Tristan but couldn’t remember one of them. By tricking her into this lunch with him, he had taken the decision out of her hands. But there was no need to get carried away. This was no big deal. It was only lunch. It would be up to her to say no if this was a net cast to snare her into a one-night stand.

She reached up and kissed him lightly on the cheek in an effort to make it casual. ‘Thank you.’

She was rewarded by the relief in his smile. ‘It is absolutely my pleasure,’ he said.

‘Does Eliza know?’ she asked. Had her friend been in on this deception?

Tristan shook his head. ‘I didn’t tell her why I wanted you on board. I sense she’s quite protective of you. I didn’t want anything to prevent you from coming today.’

Of course Eliza was protective of her. Andie, too. Her friends had been there to pick up the pieces after the Alistair fallout. Eliza had seemed impressed with Tristan, though—impressed with him as a client...maybe not so impressed with him as a candidate for Gemma’s first foray back into the dating world. He was still in many ways their Mr Mystery. But she could find out more about him today.

‘I did protest that I wasn’t really needed,’ she said, still secretly delighted at the way things had turned out. ‘Not when there are a chef and a waiter and a crew on the boat.’

‘I’m sure the bonus I added to the Party Queens fee guaranteed your presence on board. She’s a shrewd businesswoman, your partner.’

‘Yes, she is,’ Gemma agreed. No wonder Eliza hadn’t objected to Gemma’s time being so wastefully spent. How glad she was now that Eliza had insisted she go. But she felt as though the tables had been turned on her, and she wasn’t quite sure where she stood.

She looked up at Tristan. Her heart flipped over at how handsome he was, with the sea breeze ruffling his hair, his eyes such a vivid blue against his tan. He looked totally at home on this multi-million-dollar boat, seemingly not impressed by the luxury that surrounded them. She wondered what kind of world he came from. One where money was not in short supply, she guessed.

‘I...I’m so pleased about this...this turn of events,’ she said. ‘Thrilled, in fact. But how do we manage it? I...I feel a bit like Cinderella. One minute I’m in the kitchen, the next minute I’m at the ball.’

He seemed amused by her flight of fancy, and he smiled. What was it about his smile that appealed so much? His perfect teeth? The warmth in his eyes? The way his face creased into lines of good humour?

‘I guess you could see it like that...’ he said.

‘And if I’m Cinderella...I guess you’re the prince.’

His smile froze, and tension suddenly edged his voice. ‘What...what do you mean?’

Gemma felt a sudden chill that was not a sea breeze. It perplexed her. ‘Cinderella... The ball... The prince... The pumpkin transformed into a carriage... You know...’ she said, gesturing with her hands. ‘Don’t you have the story of Cinderella in your country?’

‘Uh...of course,’ he said with an obvious relief that puzzled her. ‘Those old fairytales originally came from Europe.’

So she’d unwittingly said the wrong thing? Maybe he thought she had expectations of something more than a day on the harbour. Of getting her claws into him. She really was out of practice. At dating. At flirting. Simply talking with a man who attracted her.

‘I meant... Well, I meant that Cinderella meets the prince and you...well, you’re as handsome as any fairytale prince and... Never mind.’

She glanced down at her white sneakers, tied with jaunty blue laces. Maybe this wasn’t the time to be making a joke about a glass slipper.

Tristan nodded thoughtfully. ‘Of course. And I found Cinderella in her kitchen...’

She felt uncomfortable about carrying this any further. He seemed to be making too much effort to join in the story. His English was excellent, but maybe he’d missed the nuances of the analogy. Maybe he had trouble with her Australian accent.

‘Yes. And talking of kitchens, I need to talk to the chef and—’ She made to turn back towards the door that led inside the cabin.

Tristan reached out and put his hand on her arm to stop her.

‘You don’t need to do anything but enjoy yourself,’ he said, his tone now anything but uncertain. ‘I’ve spoken to your staff. They know that you are my honoured guest.’

He dropped his hand from her arm so she could turn back to face him. ‘You said that? You called me your “honoured guest”?’ There was something about his formal way of speaking that really appealed to her. His words made her want to preen with pleasure.

‘I did—and they seemed pleased,’ he said.

Party Queens had a policy of only hiring staff they personally liked. The freelance chef on board today was a guy she’d worked with in her restaurant days. But it was the Australian way to be irreverent... She suspected she might be teased about this sudden switch from staff to guest. Especially having lunch in the company of such an exceptionally good-looking man.

‘They were pleased I’m out of their hair?’ she asked.

‘Pleased for you. They obviously hold their boss in high regard.’

‘That’s nice,’ she said, nodding.

Hospitality could be a tense business at times, what with deadlines and temperamental clients and badly behaving guests. It was good to have it affirmed that the staff respected her.

‘What about lunch?’ she said, indicating the direction of the kitchen. ‘The—?’

Tristan waved her objections away. ‘Relax, Gemma.’ A smile hovered at the corners of his mouth. As if he were only too aware of how difficult she found it to give up control of her job. ‘I’m the host. You are my guest. Forget about what’s going on in the kitchen. Just enjoy being the guest—not the party planner.’

‘This might take some getting used to,’ she said with a rueful smile. ‘But thank you, yes.’

‘Good,’ he said.

‘I’m not sure of one thing,’ she said. ‘Do you still want me as your tour guide? If that’s the case, I need to be pointing out some sights to you.’

She turned from him, took a few steps to the railing and looked out, the breeze lifting her hair from her face.

‘On the right—oh, hang on...don’t we say “starboard” on a boat? To starboard are the Finger Wharves at Walsh Bay. The configuration is like a hand—you know, with each wharf a finger. The wharves are home to the Sydney Theatre Company. It’s a real experience to go to the theatre there and—’

‘Stop!’

She turned, to see Tristan with his hand held up in a halt sign. His hands were attractive, large with long elegant fingers. Yes, nice hands were an asset on a man, too. She wondered how they would feel—

She could not go there.

Gemma knew she’d been chattering on too much about the wharves. Gabbling, in fact. But she suddenly felt...nervous in Tristan’s presence. And chatter had always been her way of distancing herself from an awkward situation.

She spluttered to a halt. ‘You don’t want to know about the wharves? Okay, on the left-hand side—I mean the port side—is Luna Park and...’

Tristan lowered his hand. Moved closer to her. So close they were just kissing distance apart. She tried not to look at his mouth. That full lower lip...the upper lip slightly narrower. A sensual mouth was another definite asset in a man. So was his ability to kiss.

She flushed and put her hand to her forehead. Why was she letting her thoughts run riot on what Tristan would be like to kiss? She took a step back, only to feel the railing press into her back. It was a little scary that she was thinking this way about a man she barely knew.

‘There’s no need for you to act like a tour guide,’ he said. ‘The first day I got here I took a guided tour of the harbour.’

‘But you asked me to show you the insider’s Sydney. The Wharf Theatre is a favourite place of mine and—’

‘That was just a ploy,’ he said.

Gemma caught her breath. ‘A ploy?’

‘I had to see you again. I thought there was more chance of you agreeing to show me around than if I straight out asked you to dinner.’

‘Oh,’ she said, momentarily lost for words. ‘Or...or lunch on the harbour?’

Her heart started to thud so hard she thought surely he must hear it—even over the faint thrumming of the boat’s motor, the sound of people calling out to each other on the cruiser that was passing them, the squawk of the seagulls wheeling over the harbour wall, where a fisherman had gutted his catch.

‘That is correct,’ Tristan said.

‘So...so you had to find another way?’ To think that all the time she’d spent thinking about him, he’d been thinking about her.

For the first time Gemma detected a crack in Tristan’s self-assured confidence. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his white trousers. ‘I...I had to see if you were as...as wonderful as I remembered,’ he said, and his accent was more pronounced.

She loved the way he rolled his r’s. Without that accent, without the underlying note of sincerity, his words might have sounded sleazy. But they didn’t. They sent a shiver of awareness and anticipation up her spine.

‘And...and are you disappointed?’

She wished now that she’d worn something less utilitarian than a T-shirt—even though it was a very smart, fitted T-shirt, with elbow-length sleeves—and sneakers. They were work clothes. Not ‘lunching with a hot guy’ clothes. Still, if she’d had to dress with the thought of impressing Tristan, she might still be back at her apartment, with the contents of her wardrobe scattered all over the bed.

‘Not at all,’ he said.

He didn’t need to say the words. The appreciation in his eyes said it all. Her hand went to her heart to steady its out-of-control thud.

‘Me neither. I mean, I’m not disappointed in you.’ Aargh, could she sound any dumber? ‘I thought you were pretty wonderful, too. I...I regretted that I knocked back your request for me to show you around. But...but I had my reasons.’

His dark eyebrows rose. ‘Reasons? Not just the company rules?’

‘Those, too. When we first started the business, we initiated a “no dating the clients” rule. It made sense.’

‘Yet I believe your business partner Andie married a client, so that rule cannot be set in concrete.’

‘How did you know that?’ She answered her own question, ‘Of course—Jake Marlowe.’ The best friend of the groom. ‘You’re right. But Andie was the exception.’ Up until now there had been no client who had made Gemma want to bend the rules.

‘And the other reasons?’

‘Personal. I...I came out of a bad relationship more...more than a little wounded.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ His eyes searched her face. ‘And now?’

She took a deep breath. Finally she had that heartbeat under control. ‘I’ve got myself sorted,’ she said, not wanting to give any further explanation.

‘You don’t wear a ring. I assumed you were single.’ He paused. ‘Are you single?’

Gemma was a bit taken aback by the directness of his question. ‘Very single,’ she said. Did that sound too enthusiastic? As if she were making certain he knew she was available?

Gemma curled her hands into fists. She had to stop second guessing everything she said. Tristan had thought she was wonderful in her apron, all flushed from the heat of the oven and without a scrap of make-up. She had to be herself. Not try and please a man by somehow attempting to be what he wanted her to be. She’d learned that from her mother—and it was difficult to unlearn.

Her birth father had died before she was born and her mother, Aileen, had brought Gemma up on her own until she was six. Then her mother had met Dennis.

He had never wanted children but had grudgingly accepted Gemma as part of a package deal when he’d married Aileen. Her mother had trained Gemma to be grateful to her stepfather for having taken her on. To keep him happy by always being a sweet little girl, by forgiving his moody behaviour, his lack of real affection.

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?’

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