The Prince's Convenient Bride

by Robyn Donald

  Her face blank, Jacoba avoided his gaze and stared over his shoulder. He didn’t move until she gave him a puzzled glance, and when he smiled he saw a flash of fire in her smoky grey eyes.

  ‘Relax,’ he murmured. ‘We’re in love, remember?’

  Colour flared in her exquisite ivory skin and her generous mouth compressed. Without giving her time to speak, he swung her into the dance. He’d been taught to waltz by his French mother, a severe taskmistress. Someone equally as proficient had taught Jacoba Sinclair ; gracefully, she followed him, lifting her beautiful face to his with an expression that simulated the dazed, heady sensation of first love.

  Except for her eyes, guarded and wary as those of a hunted animal.

  After half a minute he said, ‘Why did you insist on leading the guy?’

  She sent him another glance, grey eyes challenging through the screen of thick black lashes. Marco’s body tightened and the hunter within sprang into alertness; he damned near missed a step. No doubt mindful of the director’s instructions, she summoned a smile that promised pure seduction—swift and startled and yearning, so radiant that for a dangerous moment he wished it was genuine and meant only for him.

  Until he remembered that she was Hawke Kennedy’s on-again, off-again lover. He didn’t share, and he had no intention of stealing her from Kennedy, who was a friend of his brother Gabe’s.

  Yet his body, already aroused by her closeness, was aching with carnal hunger.

  ‘Someone has to lead,’ she said, an intriguingly husky note enlivening the crisp words.

  ‘And he wasn’t capable?’

  Another flash of fire in her great, smouldering eyes revealed her reluctance to talk to him. ‘He needs lessons in taking the man’s part,’ she said, then folded her lips together, the flush deepening along her sculptured cheekbones.

  So she hadn’t deliberately made that a double entendre. And although her accent had been overlaid by an English intonation, he said, ‘You’re a New Zealander.’

  Something shadowed her eyes, but it disappeared before he could fathom it out. ‘Born and bred,’ she returned lightly.

  ‘From this area?’

  Her shoulder moved beneath his hand as she shrugged. ‘No, I’m an effete northerner.’

  Marco had already met instances of the friendly rivalry between the two islands that made up the small country. ‘From Auckland ?’

  Her mouth curved as though she were letting him in on a wickedly exciting secret. He had to remind himself—and his far too co-operative body—that she was acting.

  ‘Even further away,’ she said cheerfully. ‘The winterless north, where frosts are a rarity and the humidity is a killer.’

  ‘I’ve never been there.’

  Amusement glimmered in her eyes. They weren’t pure grey; gold flecks glinted in the depths like precious metal in a matrix. Forcing himself to be objective, Marco still found himself marvelling at her beauty; he was surprised that Hawke found it impossible to be faithful to her, and wondered why she put up with the man’s well-publicised affairs. She looked too confident, too aware of her own worth to play such a drearily resigned role.

  If she belonged to him, he’d be faithful.

  And where the hell had that come from? He was always faithful to his lovers until they parted.

  He’d let her stunning face and the feel of her in his arms get to him; she probably stayed with Hawke because he was rich enough to pay again and again for his infidelities.

  Perhaps something of his thoughts showed in his face because she glanced away and her reply was cool and guarded. ‘It’s a glorious part of New Zealand, but then I’m biased.’

  ‘We’re all prone to bias,’ he said, his voice cynically amused.

  Jacoba wondered what had summoned that dismissive irony in his tone; it was reflected in his translucent eyes, so piercing a blue that they seemed to cut right through the armour of self-possession she’d carefully constructed around her inner self.

  He went on smoothly, ‘Perhaps you could show your part of New Zealand to me one day.’

  His words checked her smooth glide across the floor, but when he automatically tightened his grip she picked up the rhythm again without faltering, her face inscrutable.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said evenly, and smiled again. ‘One day.’

  She seemed to be looking into his eyes, but her gaze was fixed on his brows, and when he bent his head she looked away again.

  Adrenalin pumped through her in a flood of energy. Over one broad shoulder, she caught sight of the director, motioning the other dancers onto the floor. He was grinning, so presumably he was getting what he wanted.

  Why had poor Sean come down with that wretched bug? He was perfectly safe, so much in love with his new wife that he couldn’t see any other woman.

  Whereas the prince was terrifyingly attractive, and her body seemed to have developed a mind of its own, aching with a curious, expectant longing. In fact, she realised with a small spasm of shock, she wasn’t acting.

  This acute physical response, this intense awareness, was real. She wanted Prince Marco Considine and her body was making sure she knew it.

  The director began to make circles in the air, nodding and gesticulating.

  ‘I think he wants us to pivot,’ she said, looking up into Marco’s face as though he were her only hope of salvation. ‘Can you do that?’

  Without answering he swept her closer against his lean muscular body and whirled her around, forcing her to lie against him, her thigh against his as the dancers opened out to give them room.

  A shaft of wild sensation shot like velvet lightning from her breasts to the soft juncture between her legs. She shivered at the betrayal from within.

  ‘Cold?’ the prince murmured, holding her a little away so that he could look into her face.

  Cold? He knew she wasn’t cold—that she was on fire, burning with awareness, every nerve on tiptoe, every cell eager and alert, with that sensuous pleasure spreading through her like warm, smooth honey.

  How could eyes the colour of ice gleam with fire? A gasp escaped her when he bent his head and kissed her forehead.

  The momentary touch of his lips set bells ringing in a glorious, exciting peal, blocking out the sound of her mother’s voice, urgent and afraid. Never, never admit you’re Illyrian. Don’t even have anything to do with them. It is the only way you will stay safe. Promise me!

  Dimly she knew that the cameraman was getting everything, but the intrusive, all-seeing lens barely registered. Flooded by pleasure, she closed her eyes—also not in the script—and rested her head a second on the prince’s shoulder, finding some sort of obscure female comfort in his sheer size and strength.

  ‘Bloody brilliant,’ the director shouted robustly, breaking the spell. ‘OK, keep going.’

  And they did, until much later the ski lift delivered them down the snow-clad slopes. The promise of dawn glowed pale pink above the mountains to the east. Clad in practical trousers and a jacket, Jacoba yawned, exhausted yet still over-stimulated by the man who stood beside her.

  She’d crash soon, she knew; this feverish excitement would fade as soon as she reached the refuge of her room.

  Until then she’d have to be professional and distant. It should be easy. It always had been before.

  But the memory of her mother’s warnings, her terrible fear that someone would one day discover their secrets, warned her not to drop her guard.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ALTHOUGH the shoot must have been boring for him, Marco Considine didn’t seem at all tired. He stood beside her, somehow blocking out the rest of the crowd, who were mostly quiet now apart from the odd muttered comment.

  Covertly examining him in the waning light of the moon, Jacoba noted that although the arrogant framework of his face seemed more pronounced, his raw animal vitality was still potent.

  Someone gave a prodigious yawn and, like sheep, everyone else followed.

  Except the prince. Shivering, Jacoba
looked away, unseeing eyes skimming over the eternal contours of the mountains across the lake. The long night had imprinted Marco Considine intimately on her senses. She knew the way his body flexed when he guided her around the dance floor; she’d never forget his faint, masculine scent and her elemental reaction to it.

  He was at once completely familiar and totally alien.

  Whenever she was reminded of the advertising campaign, she thought with frightening bleakness, she’d remember just how strangely safe she’d felt in his arms—and how threatening that security was.

  A short distance away, several buses and a car waited.

  ‘This way,’ Marco said, taking Jacoba’s arm when she hesitated.

  Jacoba tensed. ‘The director—’

  ‘There’ll be another car for Zoltan,’ Marco said calmly. He inclined his head towards the road, where a vehicle was approaching. ‘There it is.’

  Some implacable note in his voice warned her that further objections wouldn’t be sensible, so she went obediently towards the first vehicle. She didn’t care if he offended the director.

  The Lodge driver opened a door, nodding to the prince. ‘Morning, sir,’ he said. ‘Morning, Sinclair. Everything go well?’

  ‘I hope so,’ the prince said, and slid into the rear seat beside Jacoba without touching her.

  Be sensible—he’s had enough of touching you, she thought crossly, trying to curb her racing pulses as the car set off towards the Lodge. Even if he felt this fierce, primal attraction, Marco Considine was far too sophisticated to make any move with a driver in front.

  After what seemed a lifetime of fighting off men who saw her as beautiful prey, she should be grateful for his restraint. So although she was almost painfully conscious of the silent man beside her, she kept her mind blank and her eyes fixed on the road ahead until the Lodge appeared, sprawled elegantly beside the black waters of the lake.

  Marco insisted on escorting her to her room, even inserting her key. ‘I’m not that tired,’ she protested, but it was oddly sweet to be cosseted.

  He gave her a laconic smile and handed the key back to her. ‘You are. There are shadows under those misty eyes, and slight hollows beneath your cheekbones.’

  His tone was amused, yet she saw a glint beneath his lashes that sent a shiver of agitated excitement through her. And even if she’d missed it, there was an air about him, a prowling, predatory sexuality that lifted every tiny hair on her skin.

  Hastily, before she left it too long and fell into a silence she couldn’t control, she said, ‘I know Zoltan’s already thanked you for stepping in, but I—and my toes—are truly grateful. It would have been a lot longer session if you hadn’t offered your services.’

  He shrugged. ‘Somewhere in that lot of extras he’d have found someone who could dance. Which makes me wonder why the stand-in was hired, as he so manifestly can’t.’

  Because he was Zoltan’s boyfriend. But in spite of the director’s attitude, Jacoba wasn’t going to make trouble for him. ‘He’s the right height—there aren’t many men who’d qualify, and none in the extras.’

  An inclination of the prince’s dark head could have indicated agreement. Or not; Jacoba suspected that very little got past that cool, keen gaze.

  He handed her the key. ‘It’s been an interesting night.’

  Firmly squashing a wild impulse to ask him if he’d be at the Lodge when she woke, Jacoba gave him a sleepy smile and walked into her suite. Turning, she said, ‘Thank you. Goodnight.’

  His eyes narrowed. For a taut, reckless moment she thought he was going to kiss her; her heart raced in wild, delicious anticipation, until his expression hardened and he stepped back. ‘Goodnight, Jacoba.’

  Before she did something stupid and completely out of character—like putting out her hand to draw him into the room—she closed the door and leaned against it, her pulse thudding as though she’d barely escaped from some great danger.

  She’d wondered if he felt the same dark enchantment that possessed her; now she knew he did, and the knowledge was dazzling, exhilarating—and scary as hell. For the first time in her life she wished she were less cautious. Every female instinct she possessed told her that he’d be a superb lover—and if instinct hadn’t come to the party, she reminded herself waspishly, she’d heard enough about his prowess between the sheets.

  And on the beach, and in the shower…

  Years before, she’d been on a shoot with a girl suffering the aftermath of an affair with Prince Marco Considine . Poor thing, she’d been dumped—in the nicest possible manner—when she’d inadvertently let slip that she loved him. The prince, it seemed, had made it obvious right from the start that he didn’t want the responsibility of being loved.

  And as well as being commitment-phobic, he was Illyrian…

  Yawning, Jacoba went through her nightly routine before sinking into bed. However, she had to banish frankly carnal thoughts from her wayward mind before she could relax enough to let sleep claim her. And her last thought was a vague, barely articulated question.

  Surely, after all these years and the death of the dictator who’d ruled Illyria, her mother’s warnings about danger from the country of their birth were no longer applicable to her and her sister…?

  ‘How do you do it?’

  Jacoba looked up from her fruit and muesli. Although well after midday, the Lodge had provided her with breakfast on the flagged terrace outside her room. ‘What?’

  Mere Tanipo gave a disparaging glance at the crumbs from her own slice of toast. ‘Eat so much and stay so slim.’

  ‘Genes and exercise,’ Jacoba told her, admiring the way the landscape designer had managed to give each room a private terrace while still taking in the superb lake and mountain views.

  Her companion sighed. ‘And how do you manage to look so good with no make-up, your hair dragged back into a pony-tail that only a kid should ever wear, and six hours sleep?’

  ‘Sheer luck.’ Jacoba’s tone was light. She retied the belt of her white wrap around her slim waist. ‘You should have a glass of skim milk to back up that toast; protein keeps you going. And some fruit will help too.’

  Mere frowned before hastily relaxing her brow. ‘You sound like my mum.’

  ‘Listen to your mum,’ Jacoba said cheerfully. ‘It’s amazing how much they know. My mother used to say, “Eat breakfast like a prince, lunch like a merchant and dinner like beggar.” It works.’

  The other girl looked past her shoulder, her eyes widening. ‘Speaking of princes,’ she said in a hushed voice, giving Jacoba a mischievous glance, ‘yours has just walked into sight, striding across the lawn as though he owns the world and everything in it.’

  The prickle of sensation between her shoulders had already warned Jacoba. ‘He isn’t my prince,’ she said firmly, hoping the heat in her cheeks didn’t translate into colour.

  Her companion gave a snort of laughter. ‘He’d like to be! That was very obvious last night.’ She got to her feet and said, ‘I have to pack. See you, Jacoba, and thanks for all the advice.’

  ‘It was nothing,’ Jacoba said uncomfortably.

  ‘It was not,’ Mere corrected. ‘I feel a lot better—and so will Mum—about going overseas now you’ve suggested I contact your agent. Thanks so much.’

  She left in a rush, leaving Jacoba trying to finish her muesli while her nerves strummed feverishly. When Prince Marco stopped beside the table, she let her eyes drift upwards.

  Her first thought shocked her. What would he look like without the well-cut jeans and the Sea Island cotton shirt that matched his eyes exactly, its subtle check emphasised by a stripe three shades lighter than his olive skin?

  Even as she thrust away the image of him naked, her mind supplied the answer.

  He’d look magnificent—like a god, the sleek musculature she’d noticed through his clothes coiling beneath supple, gleaming skin…

  ‘Good morning,’ she said, thankful for the small courtesies that eased day-to-day commun
ication. Her voice sounded prim, a little too carefully composed, but that was better than the helpless eagerness she was repressing.

  ‘Jacoba.’ He surveyed her face with a smile that hovered between irony and an experienced worldliness. ‘May I join you?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said automatically.

  Marco Considine lowered his powerful length into the opposite chair and regarded her with his unsettling blue eyes.

  ‘I hope I didn’t frighten your friend away,’ he said drily.

  ‘No, she has to catch a plane.’ If they could stick to this sort of conversation she’d be fine.

  ‘She was the one in the white gown—the ingénue as opposed to your sophisticate,’ he said.

  Horrified by an ugly twinge of jealousy because he’d remembered Mere, she said colourlessly, ‘Yes.’

  ‘When do you fly out?’

  Where was this going? She suspected Marco Considine didn’t go in for idle chit-chat.

  After a second’s hesitation, she said, ‘This afternoon.’ She glanced at the watch on her wrist. ‘In three hours, actually.’

  He leaned back in his chair. ‘I’m going on to Tahiti for a week.’

  ‘How nice,’ she responded cautiously.

  ‘Come with me.’

  The straightforward proposition sliced her composure into ribbons. It also hurt some hidden, vulnerable part of her; in his glance she saw nothing but cool speculation, as though she was something pretty he wanted and could afford, a thing to play with and then discard once the novelty wore off.

  Outraged, she hid her seething emotions with a slight smile. ‘You’re very kind,’ she said calmly, ‘but no thanks.’ She wasn’t some glamorous, brainless sex toy willing to trade her body for a short passionate interlude.

  He kept her pinned with that uncomfortably penetrating gaze. ‘Are you in love with Hawke Kennedy?’

  ‘You’re being intrusive,’ she said crisply, despising him for believing the gossip about her relationship with the man she thought of as her closest friend—the only other person in the world apart from her sister, Lexie, who knew their background.