The Prince's Pleasure. Robyn Donald
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“Perhaps you could get a stick and draw a line down the beach on the boundary. I promise I won’t cross it.”
“But how much can I trust your promise?”
Alexa knew she’d regret letting her normally even temper get the better of her, but at this moment it exhilarated her. “Enjoy the rest of your stay in New Zealand.” With a brisk little air she held out her hand.
Luka’s long fingers closed around hers. As his mouth branded her skin Alexa crossed a hidden boundary into wild, unknown territory.
She yanked her hand back. White-faced, grabbing for composure, she said shakily, “Is that how you say goodbye in Dacia?”
“That’s how we say I want you very much in Dacia,” he drawled. “But you already knew that. And you want me, too. I hope you find it as irritating as I do.”
She swallowed. “I’m going. Goodbye.”
His laugh was low and unamused, totally cynical. “I think we’ll see each other again.”
“Not if I see you first,” she shot back.
ROBYN DONALD has always lived in Northland in New Zealand, initially on her father’s stud dairy farm at Warkworth, then in the Bay of Islands, an area of great natural beauty where she lives today with her husband and an ebullient and mostly Labrador dog. She resigned her teaching position when she found she enjoyed writing romances more, and now spends any time not writing in reading, gardening, traveling and writing letters to keep up with her two adult children and her friends.
The Prince’s Pleasure
Robyn Donald
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER ONE
THE hotel events organiser burst into the drab staff cloakroom with all the drama of a star going nova, her frown easing dramatically when she saw the woman there.
‘Alexa! Thank heavens!’ she cried. ‘I was afraid you weren’t going to be able to make it. This wretched flu has struck down just about every waiter with security clearance.’
‘Hi, Carole,’ Alexa Mytton said cheerfully, smoothing sheer black pantyhose up her long legs. ‘I didn’t know I had security clearance.’
Carole looked a little self-conscious. ‘With all the high-powered bankers in Auckland for this conference—not to mention the Prince of Dacia’s security man, who is driving us crazy—head office insisted we run checks on everyone,’ she said. ‘You’re as clean as a whistle, of course.’
Something in her voice alerted Alexa. ‘Did you mention that I’m a photographer?’
A grimace distorted Carole’s perfectly made-up face. ‘No, because paranoia reigns! I could see I didn’t have a hope of convincing the Prince’s man that you’re an up-and-coming studio photographer, not one of the dreaded paparazzi!’
Five years previously, when Carole had owned the top restaurant in the city, she’d hired Alexa as part-time help. A first-year university student, with no family and no money, Alexa had been grateful for the job, and still enjoyed helping her former boss in emergencies.
‘Security men are paid to be paranoid,’ she said cheerfully, straightening up to pull a long black skirt over her head. She patted the material over her slender hips and shrugged into a classical white shirt.
‘He’s not too bad, I suppose.’ Carole surveyed Alexa with a professional eye. ‘I thought you might have stopped taking casual work.’
‘No, I’m still saving for that trip to Italy to research my grandfather.’
‘Tell me when you’re planning to go so I can take you off the roster.’
Alexa’s long fingers flew as she buttoned up the shirt. Laughing, she said, ‘It’ll be another couple of months. But even if I had the tickets I’d have jumped at the chance to see the Grand Duke Luka of Dacia close up.’ Opening her wide ice-grey eyes to their fullest extent, she batted long black lashes and simpered. ‘He’s not a regular visitor to unfashionable countries like New Zealand, so this might be my only chance to admire the gorgeous face that’s sold so many millions of magazines and newspapers.’
Carole leaned forward, her voice dropping into a confidential purr. ‘Mock all you like, but he’s a seriously, seriously beautiful man.’
‘Let’s hope I can control my awe and fascination enough not to tip the crayfish patties over him.’
Oh, to be twenty-three again, Carole thought, before remembering what it had been like to ride that rollercoaster of emotions. But it would be great to look twenty-three again! Not that she’d ever come up to Alexa’s standard. With her warm Mediterranean colouring of cream skin and copper hair the younger woman glowed like an exotic flower in the cramped, utilitarian confines of the room.
‘Not patties,’ Carole corrected briskly. ‘They went out with the fifties. Did the Italian university have any information about your grandfather?’
Alexa shrugged. ‘A big fat nothing so far.’ Skillfully and swiftly she began to plait her thick hair into a neat roll at the back of her head. ‘Either they won’t give out information, or my Italian is so bad they didn’t understand my letter!’
‘That’s a shame,’ Carole said with brisk sympathy, glancing down at the clipboard she carried. She looked up to add, ‘By the way, dishy though he certainly is, Luka of Dacia is no longer Grand Duke. Since his father died a year or so ago he’s the hereditary Prince of Dacia, sole scion of the ancient and royal house of Bagaton.’
Alexa searched in her bag for a tube of lipgloss. ‘What do I call him if he says something to me?’
‘Your Royal Highness the first time, and then sir.’ Carole sighed. ‘It doesn’t seem fair, does it? For a man to have it all—power, money and looks. Oh, and intelligence.’
Alexa laughed. ‘Intelligence? Come off it, the man’s a playboy.’
‘He didn’t get to be head of one of the top banks in the world without brains.’
‘The fact that his royal daddy set the bank up might just have had something to do with that,’ Alexa suggested drily, producing the tube from its hiding place in the bottom of her bag. ‘If the gossip columns and royal-watchers of the world are right, the Prince simply hasn’t got enough time to be a high-flying banker. He’s too busy wining, dining and bedding fabulous women all over the globe.’
Carole grinned. ‘Just wait till you see him. He’s—well, he’s overwhelming.’
‘I haven’t been able to open a magazine or newspaper for the past ten years without being overwhelmed by photographs of him. I agree—he’s sinfully good-looking if you like them tall, dark and frivolous.’
‘Frivolous he is not, and photographs don’t do him justice. Whatever the definition of charisma, he’s over-flowing with it. And trouble.’ Abruptly sobering, Carole went on, ‘Overseas photographers have already approached several of the staff with outrageous offers.’
‘I knew I should have brought