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Gemma gazed up at him. She couldn’t mask the longing in her eyes—an emotion Tristan knew must be reflected in his own.
“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 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 more urgent warned him not to lose his one chance with this woman for 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.
www.millsandboon.co.uk
KANDY SHEPHERD swapped a career as a magazine editor for a life writing romance. She lives on a small farm in the Blue Mountains near Sydney, Australia, with her husband, daughter and lots of pets. She believes in love at first sight and real-life romance—they worked for her! Kandy loves to hear from her readers. Visit her at www.kandyshepherd.com.
To Cathleen Ross,
in gratitude for your friendship!
Contents
Cover
Introduction
Title Page
About the Author
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
EPILOGUE
Extract
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
USING AN OLD-FASHIONED wooden spoon and her favourite vintage-style ceramic bowl, Gemma Harper beat the batter for the cake she was baking to mark the end of her six months’ self-imposed exile from dating.
Fittingly, the cake was a mixture of sweet and sour—a rich white chocolate mud cake, flavoured with the sharp contrast of lemon and lime. For Gemma, the six months had been sweet with the absence of relationship angst and tempered by sour moments of loneliness. But she’d come out of it stronger, wiser, determined to break the cycle of choosing the wrong type of man. The heartbreaking type.
From now on things would be different, she reminded herself as she gave the batter a particularly vigorous stir. She would not let a handsome face and a set of broad shoulders blind her to character flaws that spelled ultimate doom to happiness. She would curb the impulsiveness that had seen her diving headlong into relationships because she thought she was in love with someone she, in fact, did not really know.
And she was going to be much, much tougher. Less forgiving. No more giving ‘one last chance’ and then another to a cheating, lying heartbreaker, unworthy of her, whose false promises she’d believed.
She was twenty-eight and she wanted to get married and have kids before too many more years sped by.
‘No more Ms Bad Judge of Men,’ she said out loud.
It was okay to talk to herself. She was alone in the large industrial kitchen at the converted warehouse in inner-city Alexandria, the Sydney suburb that was headquarters to her successful party planning business. Party Queens belonged to her and to her two business partners, Andie Newman and Eliza Dunne. The food was Gemma’s domain, Andie was the creative genius and Eliza the business brain.
After several years working as a chef and then as a food editor on magazines, in Party Queens Gemma had found her dream job. Going into partnership with Andie and Eliza was the best decision she’d ever made. And throwing herself headlong into work had been the best thing she could have done to keep her mind off men. She would do anything to keep this business thriving.
Gemma poured the batter into a high, round pan and carefully placed it into a slow oven, where it would cook for one and a half hours. Then she would cover it with coconut frosting and garnish it with fine curls of candied lemon and lime peel. Not only would the cake be a treat for her and her partners to share this afternoon, in celebration of the end of her man-free six months, it was also a trial run for a client’s wedding cake.
Carefully, she settled the cake in the centre of the oven and gently closed the oven door.
She turned back to face the island countertop, to find she was no longer alone. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood just inside the door. She gasped, and her hand—encased in a hot-pink oven mitt—went to her heart.
‘Who are you and how the heck did you get in here?’ she asked, her voice high with sudden panic.
Even through her shock she registered that the intruder was very handsome, with a lean face and light brown hair. Just her type. No. No longer her type—not after six months of talking herself out of that kind of very good-looking man. Especially if he was a burglar—or worse.
She snatched up a wooden spoon in self-defence. Drips of cake batter slid down her arm, but she scarcely noticed.
The man put up his hands as if to ward off her spoon. ‘Tristan Marco. I have a meeting this morning with Eliza Dunne. She called to tell me she was caught in traffic and gave me the pass code for the door.’
The stranger seemed about her age and spoke with a posh English accent laced with a trace of something else. Something she couldn’t quite place. French? German? He didn’t look Australian. Something about his biscuit-coloured linen trousers, fine cream cotton shirt and stylish shoes seemed sartorially European.
‘You can put down your weapon,’ he said, amusement rippling through his voice.
Gemma blushed as she lowered the wooden spoon. What good would a spoon have been against a man taller than six foot? She took a deep breath in an attempt to get her heart rate back to somewhere near normal. ‘You gave me quite a shock, walking in on me like that. Why didn’t you press the buzzer?’
He walked further into the room so he stood opposite the island counter that separated them. This close she noticed vivid blue eyes framed by dark brows, smooth olive skin, perfect teeth.
‘I’m sorry to have frightened you,’ he said in that intriguing accent and with an expressive shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘Ms Dunne did not tell me anyone else would be here.’
Gemma took off her oven mitts, used one to surreptitiously wipe the batter dribbles from her arm and placed them on the countertop.
‘I wasn’t frightened. It’s just that I’m on my own here and—’ now wasn’t that a dumb thing to say to a stranger? ‘—Eliza will be here very soon.’
‘Yes, she said she would not be long,’ he said. His smile was both charming and reassuring. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting her. We have only spoken on the phone.’
He was gorgeous. Gemma refused to let the dangerous little fluttering of awareness take hold. She had just spent six months talking herself out of any kind of instant attraction. She was not going to make those old mistakes again.
‘Can I help you in the meantime?’ Gemma asked. ‘I’m Gemma Harper—one of Eliza’s business partners.’
To be polite, she moved around the countertop to be nearer to him. Realising she was still in her white chef’s apron, she went to untie it, then stopped. Might that look as if she was undressing in front of this stranger?
She gave herself a mental shake. Of course it wouldn’t. Had six months without a date made her start thinking like an adolescent? Still, there was no real need to take the apron off.
She offered him her hand in a businesslike gesture that she hoped negated the pink oven mitts and the wielding of the wooden spoon. He took it in his own firm, warm grip for just the right amount of time.
‘So you are also a Party Queen?’ he asked. The hint of a smile lifted the corners of his mouth.
‘Yes, I’m the food director,’ she said, wishing not for the first time that they had chosen a more staid name for the business. It had all started as a bit of a lark, but now, eighteen months after they had launched, they were one of the most popular and successful party planning businesses in Sydney. And still being teased about being Party Queens.
‘Did you...did you want to see Eliza about booking a party?’ she asked cautiously. To her knowledge, the steadfastly single Eliza wasn’t dating anyone. But his visit to their headquarters might be personal. Lucky Eliza, if that was the case.
‘Yes, I’ve been planning a reception with her.’
‘A reception? You mean a wedding reception?’
The good ones were always taken. She banished the flickering disappointment the thought aroused. This guy was a stranger and a client. His marital status should be of no concern to her. Yet she had to admit there was something about him she found very attractive beyond the obvious appeal of his good looks. Perhaps because he seemed somehow...different.
‘No. Not a wedding.’ His face seemed to darken. ‘When I get married, it will not be me arranging the festivities.’
Of course it wouldn’t. In her experience it was always the bride. It sometimes took the grooms a while to realise that.
‘So, if not a wedding reception, what kind of reception?’
‘Perhaps “reception” is not the right word. My English...’ He shrugged again.
She did like broad shoulders on a man.
‘Your English sounds perfect to me,’ she said, her curiosity aroused. ‘Do you mean a business reception?’
‘Yes and no. I have been speaking to Eliza about holding a party for me to meet Australians connected by business to my family. It is to be held on Friday evening.’
It clicked. ‘Of course!’ she exclaimed. ‘The cocktail party at the Parkview Hotel on Friday night.’ It was now Monday, and everything was on track for the upscale event.
‘That is correct,’ he said.
‘I manage the food aspect of our business. We’re using the hotel’s excellent catering team. I’ve worked with them on devising the menu. I think you’ll be very happy with the food.’
‘It all looked in order to me,’ he said. ‘I believe I am in capable hands.’
Everything fell into place. Tristan Marco was their mystery client. Mysterious because his event had been organised from a distance, by phone and email, in a hurry, and by someone for whom Eliza had been unable to check credit details. The client had solved that problem by paying the entire quoted price upfront. A very substantial price for a no-expenses-spared party at a high-end venue. She, Eliza and Andie had spent quite some time speculating on what the client would be like.
‘You are in the best possible hands with our company,’ she reassured him.
He looked at her intently, his blue eyes narrowed. ‘Did I speak with you?’ he said. ‘I am sure I would have remembered your voice.’
She certainly would have remembered his.
Gemma shook her head. ‘Eliza is our business director. She does most of our client liaison. You are not what we—’ She clapped her hand to her mouth. Put a zip on it, Gemma.
‘Not what you what?’ he asked with a quizzical expression.
‘Not...not what we expected,’ she said. Her voice trailed away, and she looked down in the direction of his well-polished Italian shoes.
‘What did you expect?’
She sighed and met his gaze full on. There was no getting out of this. She really needed to curb her tendency to blurt things out without thinking. That was why she worked with the food and Eliza and Andie with the clients.
‘Well, we expected someone older. Someone not so tall. Someone heavier. Someone perhaps even...bald. With a twirling black moustache. Maybe...maybe someone like Hercule Poirot. You know...the detective in the Agatha Christie movies?’
Someone not so devastatingly handsome.
Thank heaven, he laughed. ‘So are you disappointed in what you see?’ He stood, arms outspread, as if welcoming her inspection.
Gemma felt suddenly breathless at the intensity of his gaze, at her compulsion to take up his unspoken offer to admire his tall, obviously well-muscled body, his lean, handsome face with those incredibly blue eyes, the full sensual mouth with the top lip slightly narrower then the lower, the way his short brown hair kicked up at the front in a cowlick.
‘Not at all,’ she said, scarcely able to choke out the words. Disappointed was not the word that sprang to mind.
‘I am glad to hear that,’ he said very seriously, his gaze not leaving hers. ‘You did not know me, but I knew exactly what to expect from Party Queens.’
‘You...you did?’ she stuttered.
‘Party Queens was recommended to me by my friend Jake Marlowe. He told me that each of the three partners was beautiful, talented and very smart.’
‘He...he did?’ she said, her vocabulary seeming to have escaped her.
Billionaire Jake Marlowe was the business partner of Andie’s husband, Dominic. He’d been best man at their wedding two Christmases ago. Who knew he’d taken such an interest in them?
‘On the basis of my meeting with you, I can see Jake did not mislead me,’ Tristan said.
His formal way of speaking and his charming smile made the compliment sound sincere when it might have sounded sleazy. Had he even made a slight bow as he spoke?
She willed herself not to blush again but without success. ‘Thank you,’ was all she could manage to say.
‘Jake spoke very highly of your business,’ Tristan said. ‘He told me there was no better party-planning company in Sydney.’
‘That was kind of him. It’s always gratifying to get such good feedback.’
‘I did not even talk with another company,’ Tristan said with that charming smile.
‘Wow! I mean...that’s wonderful. I...we’re flattered. We won’t let you down, I promise you. The hotel is a perfect venue. It overlooks Hyde Park, it’s high end, elegant and it prides itself on its exemplary service. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much marble and glamour in one place.’
She knew she was speaking too fast, but she couldn’t seem to help it.
‘Yes. The first thing I did was inspect it when I arrived in Sydney. You chose well.’ He paused. ‘I myself would prefer something more informal, but protocol dictates the event must be formal.’
‘The protocol of your family business?’ she asked, not quite sure she’d got it right.
He nodded. ‘That is correct. It must be upheld even when I am in another country.’
‘You’re a visitor to Australia?’ Another piece of the puzzle fell into place. The phone calls had all come from Queensland, the state to the north of New South Wales. Where Jake Marlowe lived, she now realised.
‘Yes,’ he said.
She still couldn’t place the accent, and it annoyed her. Gemma had studied French, German and Italian—not that she’d had much chance to practise them—and thought she had a good ear.
‘What kind of business does your family run?’ she asked.
That was another thing the Party Queens had wondered about as they’d discussed their mystery client. He was still a mystery.
* * *
Tristan was still too bemused by the vision of this cute redhead wearing bright pink oven mitts and wielding a wooden spoon as a weapon to think straight. He had to consider his reply and try not to be distracted by the smear of flour down her right cheek that seemed to point to her beautiful full mouth. While he’d been speaking with her, he’d had to fight the urge to lean across and gently wipe it off.
Should he tell her the truth? Or give the same evasive replies he’d given to others during his incognito trip to Sydney? He’d been here four days, and no one had recognised him...
Visiting Australia had been on his list to do before he turned thirty and had to return home to step up his involvement in ‘the business’. He’d spent some time in Queensland with Jake. But for the past few days in Sydney, he had enjoyed his anonymity, relished being just Tristan. No expectations. No explanations. Just a guy nearing thirty, being himself, being independent, having fun. It was a novelty for him to be an everyday guy. Even when he’d been at university in England, the other students had soon sussed him out.
He would have to tell Party Queens the truth about himself and the nature of his reception sooner or later, though. Let it be later.
Gemma Harper was lovely—really lovely—with her deep auburn hair, heart-shaped face and the shapely curves that the professional-looking white apron did nothing to disguise. He wanted to enjoy talking with her still cloaked in the anonymity of being just plain Tristan. When she found out his true identity, her attitude would change. It always did.
‘Finance. Trade. That kind of thing,’ he replied.
‘I see,’ she said.
He could tell by the slight downturn of her mouth that although she’d made the right polite response, she found his family business dull. More the domain of the portly, bald gentleman she’d imagined him to be. Who could blame her? But he didn’t want this delightful woman to find him dull.
He looked at the evidence of her cooking on the countertop, smelled something delicious wafting from the oven.
‘And chocolate,’ he added. ‘The world’s best chocolate.’
Now her beautiful brown eyes lit up with interest. He’d played the right card.
‘Chocolate? You’re talking about my favourite food group. So you’re from Switzerland?’
He shook his head.
‘Belgium? France?’ she tried.
‘Close,’ he said. ‘My country is Montovia. A small principality that is not far from those countries.’
She paused, her head tilted to one side. ‘You’re talking about Montovian chocolate?’
‘You know it?’ he asked, surprised. His country was known more for its financial services and as a tax haven than for its chocolate and cheese—undoubtedly excellent as they were.
She smiled, revealing delightful dimples in each cheek. He caught his breath. This Party Queen really was a beauty.
‘Of course I do,’ she said. ‘Montovian chocolate is sublime. Not easy to get here, but I discovered it when I visited Europe. Nibbled on it, that is. I was a backpacker, and it’s too expensive to have much more than a nibble. It’s... Well, it’s the gold standard of chocolate.’
‘I would say the platinum standard,’ he said, pleased at her reaction.
‘Gold. Platinum. It’s just marvellous stuff,’ she said. ‘Are you a chocolatier?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I am more on the...executive side of the business.’ That wasn’t stretching the truth too far.
‘Is that why you’re here in Sydney? The reason for your party? Promoting Montovian chocolate?’
‘Among other things,’ he said. He didn’t want to dig himself in too deep with deception.
She nodded. ‘Confidential stuff you can’t really talk about?’
‘That’s right,’ he said. He didn’t actually like to lie. Evade—yes. Lie—no.
‘Don’t worry—you’d be surprised at what secrets we have to keep in the party business,’ she said. ‘We have to be discreet.’
She put her index finger to her lips. He noticed she didn’t wear any rings on either hand.
‘But the main reason I am in Sydney is for a vacation,’ he said, with 100 per cent truthfulness.
‘Really? Who would want a vacation from Montovian chocolate? I don’t think I’d ever leave home if I lived in Montovia,’ she said with another big smile. ‘I’m joking, of course,’ she hastened to add. ‘No matter how much you love your job, a break is always good.’
‘Sydney is a marvellous place for a vacation. I am enjoying it here very much,’ he said.
And enjoying it even more since he’d met her. Sydney was a city full of beautiful women, but there was something about Gemma Harper that had instantly appealed to him. Her open, friendly manner, the laughter in her eyes, those dimples, the way she’d tried so unsuccessfully to look ferocious as she’d waved that wooden spoon. She was too pretty to ever look scary. Yet according to his friend Jake, all three of the partners were formidably smart businesswomen. Gemma interested him.
‘March is the best time here,’ she said. ‘It’s the start of autumn down-under. Still hot, but not too hot. The sea is warm and perfect for swimming. The school holidays are over. The restaurants are not crowded. I hope you’re enjoying our lovely city.’ She laughed. ‘I sound like I’m spouting a travel brochure, don’t I? But, seriously, you’re lucky to be here at this time of year.’
The harbourside city was everything Tristan had hoped it would be. But he realised now there was one thing missing from his full enjoyment of Sydney—female company. The life he’d chosen—correction, the life he had had chosen for him—meant he often felt lonely.
‘You are the lucky one—to live in such a beautiful city on such a magnificent harbour,’ he said.
‘True. Sydney is great, and I love living here,’ she said. ‘But I’m sure Montovia must be, too. When I think of your chocolate, I picture snow-capped mountains and lakes. Am I right?’
‘Yes,’ he said. He wanted to tell her more about his home but feared he might trip himself up with an untruth. His experience of life in Montovia was very different from what a tourist might find.
‘That was a lucky guess, then,’ she said. ‘I must confess I don’t know anything about your country except for the chocolate.’
‘Not many people outside of Europe do, I’ve discovered,’ he said with a shrug.
And that suited him fine in terms of a laid-back vacation. Here in Sydney, half a world away from home, he hadn’t been recognised. He liked it that way.
‘But perhaps our chocolate will put us on the map down-under.’
‘Perhaps after your trip here it will. I think...’
She paused midsentence, frowned. He could almost see the cogs turning.
‘The menu for your reception... We’ll need to change the desserts to showcase Montovian chocolate. There’s still time. I’ll get on to it straight away.’ She slapped her hand to her mouth. ‘Sorry. I jumped the gun there. I meant if you approve, of course.’
‘Of course I approve. It’s a very good idea. I should have thought of it myself.’ Only devising menus was quite out of the range of his experience.
‘Excellent. Let me come up with some fabulous chocolate desserts, and I’ll pass them by you for approval.’
He was about to tell her not to bother with the approval process when he stopped himself. He wanted to see her again. ‘Please do that,’ he said.
‘Eliza shouldn’t be too much longer—the traffic can’t be that bad. Can I take you into our waiting area? It’s not big, but it’s more comfortable than standing around here,’ she said.
‘I am comfortable here,’ he said, not liking the idea of her being in a different room from him. ‘I like your kitchen.’ All stainless steel and large industrial appliances, it still somehow seemed imbued with her warmth and welcome.
Her eyes widened. They were an unusual shade of brown—the colour of cinnamon—and lit up when she smiled.
‘Me, too,’ she said. ‘I have a cake in the oven, and I want to keep an eye on it.’
He inhaled the citrus-scented air. ‘It smells very good.’
She glanced at her watch. ‘It’s a new recipe I’m trying, but I think it will be delicious. I don’t know how long you’re planning to meet with Eliza for, but the cake won’t be ready for another hour or so. Then it has to cool, and then I—’