Crown Prince's Chosen Bride (11 page)

‘What would make you happy, Tristan?'

‘Right now? To be alone with my beautiful Party Queen. To be allowed to explore what...what we feel for each other. Like an everyday guy and his girl. That would make me happy.' He shrugged. ‘But it cannot be.'

There was no such thing as happiness in marriage for Montovian royalty.

This sea nymph had totally bewitched him. He had not been able to stop thinking about her. Coming up with one scheme after another that would let him have her in his life and explore if she might be the one who would finally make him want to marry—and discarding each as utterly impossible.

‘I...I would like that, too,' she said. ‘To be with you, I mean.'

He took both her hands in his and pulled her to him. She sighed—he could not tell if it was in relief or surrender—and relaxed against him. He put his arms around her and held her close. She laid her head on his shoulder, and he dropped a kiss on her sweetly scented hair.

Then he released her and stepped back. ‘We cannot risk being compromised if someone comes in,' he explained. ‘The last thing we want is press speculation.'

‘I...I didn't realise that your life was under such scrutiny,' she said.

‘That is why I wanted to be incognito. We could not have had that day together otherwise. I do not regret keeping the truth from you, Gemma. I do not regret that day. Although I am sorry if I hurt you.'

She had abandoned the obsessive pleating of the bow on her dress. But her hands fluttered nervously. Looking into her face, he now understood what it meant to say that someone had her heart in her eyes.

She felt it, too.
That inexplicable compulsion, that connection. His feelings for Gemma might be the most genuine emotions he had ever experienced. Not
love
at first sight. He didn't believe that could happen so quickly. But something powerful and intense. Something so much more than physical attraction.

‘We...we could have another day...together,' she said cautiously, as if she were testing his reaction.

‘What do you mean?'

‘We could have
two
days. I'm offering you that chance. You don't leave until Monday morning. All day Saturday and Sunday stretch out before us.'

She was tempting him almost beyond endurance. ‘You would want us to spend the weekend together knowing it could never be more than that? Not because I don't
want
it to be more, but because it would never be allowed?'

‘Yes. I do want that. I...I ache to be with you. I don't want to spend a lifetime regretting that I didn't take a chance to be with you. I keep trying to talk sense to myself—tell myself that I hardly know you; that you're leaving. But at some deep, elemental level I feel I
do
know you.' She shook her head. ‘I'm not explaining this very well, am I?'

‘I understand you very well—for it is how I also feel. But I do not want to hurt you, Gemma.'

‘And I certainly don't want to get hurt,' she said. ‘Or hurt
you
, for that matter. But I don't want to be riddled with regret.'

‘Remember in three months' time I must announce my engagement to a suitable bride. I cannot even offer to take you as my mistress—that would insult both you and the woman who will become my wife. I will not cheat on her. I will
not
have a marriage like that of my parents.'

‘I understand that. Understand and admire you for your honesty and...and moral stance. I'm offering you this time with me, Tristan, with no strings attached. No expectations. Just you and me together. As we will never be allowed to be again.'

He was silent for a moment too long. Common sense, royal protocol—all said he should say no. If the press found out it would be a disaster for her, uncomfortable for him. The Playboy Prince label would be revived. While such a reputation could be laughed off, even admired, for the second or third in line to the throne, it was deeply inappropriate for the crown prince and future king.

Gemma looked up at him. She couldn't mask the longing in her eyes—an emotion Tristan knew must be reflected in his own. Her lovely, lush mouth trembled.

‘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 away 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 stronger urged him not to lose his one chance to be with this woman with 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. ‘I accept your invitation to spend this time together.'

CHAPTER ELEVEN

N
EXT
MORNING
,
in
the grey light of dawn, Tristan turned to Gemma, who was at the wheel of her car. ‘Where exactly are you taking me?'

‘We're heading west to my grandmother's house in the Megalong Valley in the Blue Mountains. She died a few years ago, and she left her cottage to me and my two cousins. We use it as a weekender and for vacations.'

‘Is it private?'

‘Utterly private. Just what we want.'

He and Gemma had plotted his escape from the hotel in a furtive whispered conversation the previous night, before they had each left the annexe room separately to mingle with his guests. There had been no further contact with each other until this morning.

While it was still dark, she had driven to his hotel in the city and parked her car a distance away. He had evaded his bodyguards and, with his face covered by a hoodie, had met her without incident. They had both laughed in exhilaration as she'd gunned the engine and then floored the accelerator in a squeal of tyres.

‘The valley is secluded and rural—less than two hundred people live there,' Gemma said. ‘You might as well be ten hours away from Sydney as two. The cottage itself is on forty acres of garden, pasture and untamed bushland. We can be as secluded as we want to be.'

She glanced quickly at him, and he thrilled at the promise in her eyes. This was a relaxed Gemma, who had pulled down all the barriers she'd put up against him. She was warm, giving—and his without reservation for thirty-six hours.

‘Just you and me,' he said, his voice husky.

‘Yes,' she said, her voice laced with promise. ‘Do you think there's any chance your goons—sorry, your bodyguards—could find us?'

‘I was careful. I left my laptop in my suite and I've switched off my smartphone so it can't be tracked. But I did leave a note to tell them I had gone of my own free will on a final vacation and would be back late Sunday night. The last thing we want them to think is that I've been kidnapped and start a search.'

‘Is kidnapping an issue for you?' Her grip visibly tightened on the steering wheel.

‘It is an issue for anyone with wealth. The royal children are always very well guarded.'

‘I'm not putting you at risk, am I? I...I couldn't bear it if I—'

‘Here, the risk is minimal. Please do not concern yourself with that. We are more at risk from the media. But I checked that no one was lurking about at my hotel.'

‘Can you imagine the headlines if they did find us?
Playboy Prince in Secluded Love Nest with Sydney Party Planner
.'

Tristan rather liked the concept of a love nest. ‘They would most likely call you a
sexy
party planner.'

Gemma made a snort of disgust, then laughed. ‘I'll own sexy. Or how about:
Playboy Prince Makes Aussie Conquest
? They'll want to get the local angle in, I'm sure.'

‘You could also be
Mystery Redhead
?' he suggested.

He found he could joke about the headlines the press might make about his life—there had been enough of them in the past. Now he was crown prince he did not want to feature in any more. He appreciated the effort Gemma was making to preserve their privacy.

They made up more outrageous headlines as Gemma drove along the freeway until Sydney was behind them.

‘Are you going to unleash your inner tour guide and tell me about the Blue Mountains?' Tristan asked as the road started to climb.

‘How did you know I was waiting for my cue?' she said.

‘Please, go ahead and tell me all I need to know—plus
more
than I need to know,' he said.

‘Now that I've been invited...' she said, with a delightful peal of laughter.

Tristan longed to show her Montovia some day—and pushed aside the melancholy thought that that was never likely to happen. He had thirty-six hours with her stretching ahead of him—bonus hours he had not thought possible. He would focus his thoughts on how he could make them special for her.

‘They're called the Blue Mountains because they seem to have a blue haze over them from a distance, caused by the eucalypt oil from the trees,' she said.

‘I didn't know that,' he said.

‘Don't think of them as mountains like Montovian mountains. Australia is really old, geologically, and the mountains would have been underwater for millions of years. They're quite flat on top but very rugged. There are some charming small towns up there, and it's quite a tourist destination.'

It wasn't that he found what she was saying boring. On the contrary, visiting Australia had long been on his ‘to do' list. But Tristan found himself getting drowsy.

For the last three nights he had slept badly, kept awake by thoughts of Gemma and how much he wanted her to be part of his life. Now she was next to him and they were together. Not for long enough, but it was more than he could have dreamed of. For the moment he was content. To drift off to the sound of her voice was a particular kind of joy...

When he awoke, Gemma was skilfully negotiating her car down a series of hairpin bends on a narrow road where the Australian bush grew right to the sides.

‘You've woken just in time for our descent into the valley,' she said. ‘Hold on—it's quite a twisty ride.'

The road wound through verdant rainforest and huge towering indigenous trees before emerging onto the valley floor. Tristan caught his breath in awe at the sight of a wall of rugged sandstone mountains, tinged red with the morning sun.

‘It's magnificent, isn't it?' she said. ‘You should see it after heavy rain, when there are waterfalls cascading down.'

The landscape alternated harshness with lush pastures dotted with black and white cattle. There was only the occasional farmhouse.

‘Do you wonder why I'm driving so slowly?' Gemma asked.

‘Because it's a narrow road?' he ventured.

‘Because—ah, here they are. Look!'

A group of kangaroos bounded parallel to the road. Tristan wished he had a camera. His smartphone was switched off, and he didn't dare risk switching it back on.

‘You have to be careful in the mornings and evenings not to hit them as they cross the road.' She braked gently. ‘Like that—right in front of the car.'

One after the other the kangaroos jumped over a low spot in the fence and crossed the road. Halfway across, the largest one stopped and looked at him.

‘He is as curious about me as I am about him,' Tristan whispered, not wanting to scare the creature. ‘I really feel like I am in Australia now.'

‘I promised you kangaroos in the wild, and I've delivered,' Gemma said with justifiable triumph.

While he could promise her nothing.

* * *

As Gemma showed Tristan around the three-bedroom, one-bathroom cottage, she wondered what he really thought of it. He was, after all, used to living in a castle. The royal castle of Montovia was splendid—as befitted the prosperous principality.

Her internet research had showed her a medieval masterpiece clinging to the side of a mountain and overlooking a huge lake ringed by more snow-topped mountains. Her research had not shown her the private rooms where the family lived, but even if they were only half as extravagant as the public spaces Tristan had grown up in, they would be of almost unimaginable splendour.

And then there was a summer palace, at the other end of the lake. And royal apartments in Paris and Florence.

No doubt wherever he lived, he was waited on hand and foot by servants.

But she would not be intimidated. She was proud of her grandma's house—she and her cousins would probably always call it that, even though it was now their names on the deed of ownership.

She loved how it had been built all those years ago by her grandfather's family, to make the most of the gun-barrel views of the escarpment. To a prince it must seem very humble. But Gemma would never apologise for it.

Tristan stood on the wide deck her grandfather had added to the original cottage. It looked east, to the wall of the escarpment lit by the morning sun, and it was utterly private. No one could see them either from the neighbouring property or from the road.

Tristan put his arm around her to draw her close, and she snuggled in next to him. No more pretence that what they felt was mere friendship. She'd known when she'd invited him to spend his final weekend with her what it would lead to—and it was what she wanted.

Tristan looked at the view for a long time before he spoke. ‘It's awe-inspiring to see this ancient landscape all around. And to be able to retreat to this charming house.'

She should have known that Tristan would not look down his princely nose at her beloved cottage.

‘I've always loved it here. My grandmother knew what the situation was with my stepfather and made sure I was always welcome whenever I wanted. Sometimes I felt it was more a home than my house in Sydney.'

He turned to look back through the French doors and into the house, with its polished wooden floors and simple furnishings in shades of white.

‘Was it like this when your grandmother had it? I think not.'

‘Good guess. I loved my grandma, but not so much her taste in decorating. When I inherited with my cousins Jane and John—they're twins—I asked Andie to show us what to do with it to bring it into the twenty-first century. Not only did she suggest stripping it back to the essentials and painting everything we could white, but she used the house as a makeover feature for the magazine. We got lots of free help in return for having the house photographed. We put in a new kitchen and remodelled the bathroom, and now it's just how we want it.'

‘The canny Party Queens wave their magic wands again?'

‘You could put it like that.'

He pulled her into his arms. ‘You're an amazing woman, Gemma Harper. One of many talents.'

‘Thank you, Your Highness. And to think we're only just getting to know each other... I have many hidden talents you have yet to discover.'

‘I've been keeping
my
talents hidden, too,' he said. ‘But for no longer.'

He traced the outline of her mouth with his finger, the light pressure tantalising in its unexpected sensuality. Her mouth swelled under his touch, and she ached for him to kiss her there. Instead he pressed kisses along the line of her jaw and down to the sensitive hollows of her throat. She closed her eyes, the better to appreciate the sensation. How could something so simple ignite such pleasure?

She tilted back her head for more, but he teased her by planting feather-light kisses on her eyelids, one by one, and then her nose.

‘Kiss me properly,' she begged, pressing her aching mouth to his.

He laughed deep in his throat, then deepened the kiss into something harder and infinitely more demanding. She wound her arms around his neck to pull him closer, craving more. Her antennae thrummed softly—not in warning but in approval. She wanted him. She needed him. He was hers. Not forever, she knew that. But for
now
.

This was the first time she had walked into a less-than-ideal relationship with her eyes wide open. It was her choice. With Tristan she had not been coerced or tricked. She just hoped that when the time came she would be able to summon the inner strength to let him go without damage to her heart and soul—and not spend a lifetime in futile longing for him.

But she would not think of that now. Her mind was better occupied with the pleasure of Tristan's mouth, his tongue, his hands skimming her breasts, her hips.

He broke away from the kiss so he could undo the buttons of her shirt. She trembled with pleasure when his fingers touched bare skin. He knew exactly what he was doing, and she thrilled to it.

‘I haven't shown you around outside,' she said breathlessly. ‘There are horses. I know you like horses. More kangaroos maybe...'

Oh!
He'd pulled her shirt open with his teeth. Desire, fierce and insistent, throbbed through her. She slid his T-shirt over his head, gasped her appreciation of his hard, muscular chest.

He tilted her head back to meet his blue eyes, now dark with passion. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? The only sight I'm interested in is you.
All of you.
'