Princess Australia. Nicola Marsh
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masters.
Natasha took a deep breath, closed her eyes and tried to refocus. What on earth was she doing? So the guy looked like every woman’s fantasy come to life—since when did she have time to ogle guys, let alone lose her concentration on the job?
Especially at a time like this!
Mentally slapping herself for letting her long-dormant hormones get the better of her in that one, glorious moment when he strode into the foyer, she exhaled and opened her eyes, ready to march out onto the street and haul the prince into her hotel the minute his limo pulled up.
Being antsy was getting the better of her and making her think all sorts of crazy things, like how much she’d like to walk up to the sexy bad boy and ask in her best, sultriest voice, ‘Can I help you?’
He saved her the trouble.
‘I need your help.’
Natasha quickly smoothed her cuff over her watch—she really had to stop glancing at it every five seconds—and fixed her professional welcoming smile in place. However, her smile froze when she looked up and locked gazes with the bad boy.
Clear blue eyes.
Almost aquamarine, the mesmerising colour of the Great Barrier Reef on a sunny day.
A colour imprinted in her memory banks, considering it was the only stand-out feature she could remember from the prince’s fuzzy picture.
‘Miss Telford, is it?’
The bad boy glanced at her name tag before returning his gaze to her face. A face flushed with heat at the realisation that she really must be losing the plot if she thought for one second that this scruffy, wind-tossed guy could be the Prince of Calida.
She really needed a day off to unwind. Badly.
‘Yes, that’s right. What can I do for you?’
Apart from bustle you out of here and get ready for the most important meeting of my life.
‘Plenty, hopefully.’
He rested his forearms on the desk, and she tried not to stare at the way his biceps bunched at the simple action.
Oh boy, maybe she needed to change her whole non-dating policy. It had been eighteen months since the Clayton disaster, and she hadn’t been out with a guy since, preferring to concentrate on fixing the mess Clay had lumbered her family with.
Resisting the urge to take a peek over his shoulder towards the door in case the prince snuck in without her seeing, she said, ‘Do you have a reservation, sir? If not, perhaps I can arrange it with someone at Check-in and we can discuss your needs later?’
‘No, I need this sorted now, and you’re just the woman I want.’
His low, gravelly voice sent an unexpected shiver down her spine, and her smile faltered as he fixed her with a penetrating stare.
Those eyes…that colour…no way!
It couldn’t be.
His voice dropped lower as he leaned across the desk barely inches from her face, enveloping her in a heady scent that reminded her of hot cross buns: warm and sweet and cinnamon. Yum.
‘I think you’ve been expecting me. I’m Dante Andretti.’
Natasha gripped the desk to steady her wobbly legs.
This couldn’t be happening.
No way could this guy be the prince.
‘The Prince of Calida,’ he added as an afterthought, the corners of his mouth lifting in a small, sexy smile which did strange things to Natasha’s insides, things she’d never felt before, things she had no right to experience now.
He was the prince.
This…this…rebel was the man she’d pinned all her hopes on for saving her father’s business?
Lord help her.
‘Is there a problem, Miss Telford?’
Swallowing her first response of ‘you bet your sweet butt there is’, she said, ‘Not at all, Your Highness.’
‘Ssh!’ He shook his head vigorously and put an index finger to his lips, like some second-rate spy. ‘Someone might hear you.’
‘And that might be a problem because…?’ Her voice held a slight tinge of hysteria, and she took a few steadying breaths.
This was crazy. It had to be one of those stupid Candid Camera stunts where her dad and Ella would leap out at any moment and say ‘Gotcha!’
She’d expected the prince to arrive in a stretch limo; this guy had revved in on a motorbike.
She’d expected the prince to have an entourage of bodyguards; this guy was solo.
She’d expected a stiff upper lip, hair-slicked-back pompous ass, and this guy was laid back, ruffled and very, very sexy.
Way too sexy.
‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not advertising my identity and I’d like to keep it that way.’
Natasha sighed, wishing for one ounce of the kind of saint-like patience that Ella demonstrated when she sat for hours in front of a plant to sketch it. ‘I’m not following this. You’re booked in under your real name but you don’t want anyone to know you’re here?’
He snapped his fingers under her nose, his smile broadening. ‘Exactly.’
No, no, no!
Natasha wanted to stamp her feet like one of her rock-star guests having a tantrum.
This wouldn’t do. She needed to broadcast the prince’s presence in her hotel to the world, and he wanted to keep it a secret? Was the guy out of his mind?
‘Is there a security problem? Something I should know about?’ Like why you’ve turned up here looking like a jeans model and spouting a whole lot of nonsense?
‘No problem. But I would like a chance to talk further. Like I said, I need your help while I’m here. Let me check in, and perhaps we can meet when you’ve finished your shift, yes?’
‘No!’
Natasha lowered her voice, deriving some satisfaction from the surprised glint in those too-blue eyes. Good. Let him see how it felt to be on the receiving end of a few surprises for once. She’d had her quota for the day.
‘No?’
Schooling her face into what she hoped was a professional mask, she said, ‘What I meant was I’m busy here for the next few hours. It will be a while before I finish up.’ ‘No matter.’ He waved his hand as if her answer meant little, and she suddenly realised that though this guy didn’t look like a prince he had the commanding mannerisms down pat. ‘I will wait. I’m booked in as Dan Anders.’
Her mouth twitched, the first time she’d felt like smiling since this crazy, prince-impersonating-a-bad-boy had strode into her hotel.
‘Nice pseudonym.’
He shrugged, and she stared at those muscles again, the way they bunched and shifted beneath the cotton T-shirt, and she wondered if they felt as firm as they looked.
‘Dante Andretti, Dan Anders. I chose something similar not to confuse myself.’
His self-deprecating grin displayed a row of even white teeth, made more startling by his sensational tan.
She knew pictures often didn’t do their subjects justice. In the prince’s case, he should have the royal photographer shot.
The guy was gorgeous, impressively so. And for a girl who had sworn off guys after Clay that was saying something.
So she wasn’t blind. She could look, couldn’t she? Like window shopping; you didn’t have to touch—oops, she meant buy—the merchandise!