‘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 he
re,’ 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—’
‘I think our meeting will be brief. I have some more sightseeing to do—I’ve booked a jet boat on the harbour. Perhaps another time I could sample your cake?’ He would make certain there would be another time.
‘I can see that a cake wouldn’t have the same appeal as a jet boat,’ she said, with a smile that showed him she did not take offence. ‘What else have you seen of Sydney so far?’ she asked.
‘The usual tourist spots,’ he said. ‘I’ve been to the Opera House, Bondi Beach, climbed the Sydney Harbour Bridge.’
‘They’re all essential. Though I’ve never found the courage to do the bridge climb. But there’s also a Sydney tourists don’t get to see. I recommend—’
‘Would you show me the Sydney the tourists don’t see? I would very much like your company.’
The lovely food director’s eyes widened. She hesitated. ‘I...I wonder if—’
He was waiting for her reply, when a slender, dark-haired young woman swept into the room. Tristan silently cursed under his breath in his own language at the interruption. She immediately held out her hand to him.
‘You must be Mr Marco? I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting—the traffic was a nightmare. I’m Eliza Dunne.’
For a moment he made no acknowledgment of the newcomer’s greeting—and then he remembered. He was using Marco as a surname when it was in fact his second given name. He didn’t actually have a surname, as such. Not when he was always known simply as Tristan, Crown Prince of Montovia.
CHAPTER TWO
GEMMA CLOSED HER eyes in sheer relief at Eliza’s well-timed entrance. What a lucky escape. Despite all her resolve not to act on impulse when it came to men, she’d been just about to agree to show Tristan around Sydney.
And that would have been a big mistake.
First, Party Queens had a rule of staff not dating clients. The fact that Andie had broken the rule in spectacular fashion by falling in love with and marrying their billionaire client Dominic Hunt was beside the point. She, Gemma, did not intend to make any exceptions. The business was too important to her for her to make messy mistakes.
But it wasn’t just about the company rules. If she’d said yes to Tristan she could have told herself she was simply being hospitable to a foreign visitor—but she would have been lying. And lying to herself about men was a bad habit she was trying to break. She found Tristan way too appealing to pretend that being hospitable was all it would be.
‘Thank you for taking care of Mr Marco for me, Gemma,’ Eliza said. ‘The traffic was crazy—insane.’
‘Gemma has looked after me very well,’ Tristan said, again with that faint hint of a bow in her direction.
Her heart stepped up a beat at the awareness that shimmered through her.
‘She hasn’t plied you with cake or muffins or cookies?’ asked Eliza with a teasing smile.
‘The cake isn’t baked yet,’ Gemma said. ‘But I have cookies and—’
‘Perhaps another cake, another time,’ Tristan said with a shrug of those broad shoulders, that charming smile. ‘And I could give you chocolate in return.’
The shrug. The accent. Those blue, blue eyes. The Montovian chocolate.
Yes! her body urged her to shout.
No! urged her common sense.
‘Perhaps...’ she echoed, the word dwindling away irresolutely.
Thankfully, Eliza diverted Tristan’s attention from her as she engaged him in a discussion about final guest numbers for his party.
Gemma was grateful for some breathing space. Some deep breathing to let her get to grips with the pulse-raising presence of this gorgeous man.
‘I’ll let you guys chat while I check on my cake,’ she said as she went back around the countertop.
She slipped into the pink oven mitts and carefully opened the oven door. As she turned the pan around, she inhaled the sweet-sharp aroma of the cake. Over the years she had learned to gauge the progress of her baking by smell. Its scent told her this cake had a way to go. This kind of solid mud cake needed slow, even cooking.
That was what she’d be looking for in a man in future. A slow burn. Not instant flames. No exhilarating infatuation. No hopping into bed too soon. Rather a long, slow getting to know each other before any kind of commitment—physical or otherwise—was made. The old-fashioned word courtship sprang to mind.
She’d managed six months on her own. She was in no rush for the next man. There was no urgency. Next time she wanted to get it right.
Still, no matter what she told herself, Gemma was superaware of Tristan’s presence in her kitchen. And, even though he seemed engrossed in his conversation with Eliza, the tension in the way he held himself let her know that he was aware of her, too. The knowledge was a secret pleasure she hugged to herself. It was reassuring that she could still attract a hot guy. Even if there was no way she should do anything about it.
She scraped clean her mixing bowl and spoon and put them in the dishwasher while keeping an ear on Tristan and Eliza’s conversation about the party on Friday and an eye on Tristan himself. On those broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips, on the long legs she imagined would be lean and hard with muscle.
Catching her eye, he smiled. Her first instinct was to blush, then smile back. For a long moment their gazes held before she reluctantly dragged hers away and went back to the tricky task of finely slicing strips of candied lemon peel.
Okay, she wasn’t in dating exile any more. There was no law to say she couldn’t flirt just a little. But she had spent six months fine-tuning her antennae to detect potential heartbreak. And there was something about this handsome Montovian that had those antennae waving wildly with a message of caution. They detected a mystery behind his formal way of speaking and courteous good manners. It wasn’t what he’d said but what he hadn’t said.
Then there was the fact Tristan was only here for a few days. To be a good-looking tourist’s vacation fling was not what she needed in order to launch herself back into the dating pool. She had to be totally on guard, so she wouldn’t fall for the first gorgeous guy who strolled into her life.
She’d learned such painful lessons from her relationship with Alistair. It had been love at first sight for both of them—or so she’d thought. Followed by an emotional rollercoaster that had lasted for eighteen months. Too blinded by desire, love—whatever that turbulent mix of emotions had been—she’d only seen the Alistair she’d wanted to see. She had missed all the cues that would have alerted her he wasn’t what he’d sworn he was.
She’d heard the rumours before she’d started to date him. But he’d assured her that he’d kicked his cocaine habit—and his reputation as a player. When time after time he’d lapsed, she’d always forgiven him, given him the one more chance he’d begged for. And then another. After all, she’d loved him and he’d loved her—hadn’t he?
Then had come the final hurt and humiliation of finding him in the bathroom at a party with a so-called ‘mutual friend’. Doing her as well as the drugs. Gemma doubted she’d ever be able to scour that image from her eyes.
On her first day back in the dating world she wasn’t going to backtrack. Tristan was still a mystery man. He had perhaps not been completely honest about himself and was on vacation from a faraway country. How many more strikes against him could there be?
But, oh, he was handsome.
Eliza had suggested that Tristan follow her into her office. But he turned towards Gemma. ‘I would like to speak to Gemma again first, please,’ he said, with unmistakable authority.
Eliza sent Gemma a narrow-eyed, speculative glance. ‘Sure,’ she said to Tristan. ‘My office is just around the corner. I’ll wait for you there.’
Gemma could hear the sound of her own heart beating in the sudden silence of the room as Eliza left. Her mouth went dry as Tristan came closer to face her over the countertop.
His gaze was very direct. ‘So, Gemma, you did not get a chance to answer me—will you show me your home town?’
It took every bit of resolve for her not to run around to the other side of the countertop and babble, Of course. How about we start right now?
Instead she wiped her suddenly clammy hands down the sides of her apron. Took a deep breath to steady her voice. ‘I’m sorry, Tristan. But I...I can’t.’
He looked taken aback. She got the distinct impression he wasn’t used to anyone saying no to him.
He frowned. ‘You are sure?’
‘It wouldn’t be...appropriate,’ she said.
‘Because I am a client?’ he asked, his gaze direct on hers.
She shifted from foot to foot, clad in the chef’s clogs she wore in the kitchen. ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s company policy.’
Just for a moment, did disappointment cloud those blue eyes? ‘That is a shame. As I said, I would very much enjoy your company.’
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