Crown Prince's Chosen Bride. Kandy Shepherd
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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.