Crown Prince's Chosen Bride

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‘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 (#ulink_29b7cd91-7c37-575c-8949-bc170c42c2bd)

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?’