The Prince's Convenient Bride

by Robyn Donald

  Zoltan said hastily, ‘Of course. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better go and supervise a few things.’ He smiled at Jacoba. ‘Have fun.’

  Jacoba summoned a cool smile while her eyes warned the prince off.

  Amusement curved but didn’t soften his beautiful mouth. ‘How long will you be?’

  Acutely aware that people around them were covertly listening, she told him, hoping that he’d take the hint and go, knowing that he wouldn’t.

  ‘I’ll wait,’ he said.

  Furious and alarmed, Jacoba left the set. Fragments of her conversation with Lexie the previous night bobbed around in her mind. Had their mother any reason to be so insistent that they hide the secret of their birth? Or was it just a fancy fixed in a tired, pain-racked woman who’d once feared so much for the lives of herself and her two small children that she’d hidden with them on the other side of the world?

  Whatever, Jacoba didn’t want any further involvement with Marco Considine , prince of Illyria. It was too dangerous, and not just because he was Illyrian. He made her feel too much, turned her into a woman of sensual needs that shocked and dismayed her.

  If he wasn’t prepared to take her far from subtle hints, she’d just have to freeze him off.

  Somewhere deep inside, an amused part of her wondered how she was going to do that. Whenever he touched her, she went into meltdown—and he knew it. Deliberately, she took her time about changing, hoping that when she emerged he’d be gone.

  Yet when she came out of the makeshift dressing room in jeans and a white T-shirt, her hair scraped back from her face and with no more make-up than a brush of lip gloss, she wasn’t surprised to see him waiting, talking once more to Zoltan. Chagrined by the wilful excitement churning her stomach, she felt the slow burn that signalled the birth of desire.

  He looked up the second she appeared and said something to the director before striding across the floor with the forbidding determination of a conqueror, relentless and decisive, his pale eyes fixed on her face as though claiming a trophy of war.

  A chill of apprehension cooled her. Because they were being watched, she allowed herself a reserved smile. Although he returned it, she sensed his unyielding determination, and the hand that caught her elbow gripped a moment before relaxing.

  ‘How do you manage to look elegant in jeans and a T-shirt?’ he asked, steering her towards the exit.

  ‘It’s standard uniform for models,’ returned ironically. ‘Like the big bag.’

  He examined it, swinging from her arm. ‘What do you carry in it? The rest of your wardrobe?’

  ‘Just about,’ admitted. By then they were outside in the cool, sea-scented ambience of Auckland’s dusk. ‘What do you want?’ she asked baldly.

  His straight black brows drew together. ‘We’re going out to dinner.’

  The compelling intensity of his gaze made her heart compress painfully in her chest. ‘I don’t think that would be a good idea,’ she said carefully.

  He didn’t pretend not to know what she was talking about; instead his fingers tightened around her arm as they approached a rough patch of pavement. ‘I want to apologise for my boorish behaviour yesterday.’

  ‘We’ll take it as given,’ said. ‘Thank you. And I’m sorry too—I shouldn’t have let it go so far.’

  ‘Tell me about it over dinner,’ he suggested, relaxing his grip.

  ‘No.’

  There, she’d said it. The word in all its ugly baldness hung in the air.

  ‘I think you should,’ he said calmly, but something in his voice tightened her skin apprehensively. ‘So far you’ve been the consummate professional. Why start behaving like a prima donna now? It could rebound on you.’

  ‘That sounded rather too much like a threat for me to be comfortable with it,’ said, fencing as openly as she could.

  ‘Clearly you’ve forgotten, so I’ll just refresh your mind. We’re having dinner on a yacht,’ he said smoothly, ‘followed by a reception and a cruise on the harbour with a hundred other people.’

  ‘I didn’t agree to…’ She stopped. ‘This is business?’

  ‘Of course.’ He frowned. ‘It was all last-minute, but you should have known. Did your agent not contact you?’

  Jacoba bit her lip. ‘She might have faxed through this morning,’ she admitted. ‘Or emailed. I didn’t check anything before I left.’ should be running for the hills like a hunted doe; instead, she was trapped.

  In spite of the prompting of her inner caution, a suspicious glow of excitement licked across her skin. The drab industrial estate suddenly seemed lit by colour and life, the heavy air perfumed by anticipation. Jacoba wasn’t in the least surprised when they turned a corner and in front of them a rambling rose—so gnarled and old it probably no longer had a name—bloomed with scarlet explosions against an ugly fence of rusty corrugated iron. A car waited at the kerb, its driver sitting patiently inside.

  ‘I can’t go dressed like this,’ she said.

  ‘Of course not,’ he told her, a note of irony in his voice. ‘Clothes are waiting in the yacht.’

  Judging them to be just outside hearing range of the car, Jacoba stopped and fixed him with a glare. It was a mistake; he was watching her with a quizzical amusement that attacked her resistance. ‘How?’ she demanded.

  ‘The wardrobe people organised it—I believe you patronise a particular designer here who knows your measurements. She had a dress she knew would be suitable, and her staff found accessories. And I’m sure you’ve got cosmetics in that bag of yours.’

  Although fanatical about skin care, Jacoba never wore make-up unless she was on show. However, she believed in being prepared for anything.

  ‘Yes,’ she said reluctantly, and let herself be ushered into the car.

  As it eased away from the kerb, Marco told her, ‘There’s been plenty of interest in the video, and with a lot of the fashion-week crowd still here it was decided to capitalise on their presence to start the publicity ball rolling, if you’ll excuse the cliché.’

  It made sense…

  The yacht was huge. Marco noticed her looking around with interest as they walked from the dock onto the deck. ‘It’s not mine,’ he said. ‘I prefer yachts with sails. This was built for a man who wanted comfort.’ He paused, then added, ‘Actually, it was built more for his wife and her friends than for him.’

  A note in his voice startled her. She looked up at his profile, hard-edged against the lights of the hotel behind. Yes, it had been one of slight contempt.

  An interesting man, Prince Marco Considine —raised in luxury, with the heritage of a long and illustrious array of princes in his bloodline, head of a huge enterprise, yet clearly he didn’t think much of people who indulged in this sort of billionaire’s showing off.

  He caught her looking at him. His mouth hardened, and his eyes narrowed. A swift pulse of awareness made her stumble; his hand came out and caught her, and for a moment she was held against his lean, big body.

  The violence of her reaction shocked her. Eyes widening endlessly, she stiffened her lax bones. His hands on her arms tightened a fraction.

  ‘Your move,’ he said.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  HER move? A reckless rush of hunger shocked Jacoba; if all it took to breach her defences was his casual touch, she was in real danger of losing her head.

  But there was nothing casual in Marco’s intent gaze, and although he held her loosely she sensed a territorial imperative working inside him. It wasn’t personal, she rationalised feverishly; his ancestors had held their lands and riches with an iron grip and a slashing sword, and no doubt that instinct to possess was hereditary.

  And he wouldn’t take the initiative. He’d said he’d wait for her surrender, and the cool confidence that gleamed from his eyes told her he was sure he’d eventually get it.

  It took every ounce of pride and will-power to say, ‘Let me go, please.’

  He released her immediately, but when he guided her into a huge, elabo
rately decorated saloon every sense sharpened into acute alertness. She felt as though he was herding her towards some unknown trap.

  A servant appeared. Marco said, ‘Please take Sinclair to the stateroom that’s been organised for her.’

  The man nodded. ‘This way, madam.’

  On a silent sigh of relief, she followed the Steward into another over-decorated room.

  ‘If there’s anything you need,’ he said, indicating a bell push, ‘please call for the maid.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Once he’d left she examined the clothes on the bed. No concessions to seafaring here! Her favourite designer had come up trumps with a serious dinner dress the exact colour of her hair. Long sleeves gave it an air of modesty belied by the deep V of its wrap-over front. High sandals, completely impractical and cut to display elegant ankles and narrow feet, picked up the glint of gold in the heavy crimson silk.

  Someone had pinned a flamboyant fake rose to one side of the neckline. Jacoba smiled wryly, recalling the little rambler that had scented the air of the drab industrial estate. On the dressing table a flask of perfume persuaded her to sniff; it was subtly rose-scented with an undernote of exotic, sinful seduction.

  No indication of a name or manufacturer—so this was almost certainly the reason for the campaign.

  She sprayed it onto her wrists, waited a few seconds then held it to her nose. Rich and sensuous, it hinted at spices, but the aura of roses gave it a sumptuously romantic warmth that lingered in her consciousness as she put on her make-up, emphasising her eyes, downplaying her mouth. The occasion called for a looser, more relaxed hairstyle, so she left her hair down, grateful for its natural waves.

  After dressing, she gave a moment’s intent consideration to her reflection. The fire Marco had lit with his touch still smouldered, burning away her composure, but she’d have to resist it. Pride wouldn’t let her give herself to Marco on the terms he’d laid down.

  A knock at the door of the stateroom straightened her shoulders. Heart skipping a beat, she went across and opened the door.

  Darkly distinguished and compelling in evening clothes, Marco stood outside with a security guard in close attendance.

  ‘Bling,’ he said succinctly, and when she hesitated, he added with an irony that didn’t match the sudden glitter in his eyes, ‘All the way from London.’

  Her gaze skimmed across the famous name on the box he carried. ‘Come in.’

  Marco said, ‘Wait here,’ to the man beside him.

  The security guard looked as though he’d like to protest, but one look at the prince’s profile stopped whatever he’d been going to say. He stepped out into the hallway.

  That effortless authority was probably just as useful to Marco as his brilliant brain and potent charm, other weapons in his powerful armoury.

  ‘Earrings, I think, and possibly the bracelet,’ he said, opening the casket. ‘Or the ring.’

  ‘Certainly not both,’ returned coolly. ‘I hope there’s no tiara.’

  ‘Not on this occasion.’

  ‘That ring looks as though it should only be worn to a coronation.’

  ‘Think impact,’ he advised, and startled her by slipping the huge, heart-shaped diamond onto her finger.

  Without looking at him she picked up the earrings, obviously made to match. Flawless diamonds clustered in a semi-circle, from which hung another heart-shaped gem, so dazzling that she blinked.

  ‘Good choice,’ he said on a note that made her look up sharply.

  Although his eyes were hooded and unreadable, colour warmed her cheekbones and she hastily transferred her gaze back to the jewels in her hand.

  Marco went on, ‘The stones were chosen for their superb clarity, and I believe the tint is Silver Cape .’

  ‘Bling indeed,’ said tonelessly and turned to the mirror, holding the earrings up to her lobes with hands that shook slightly. ‘Too much, I think. The ring is enough.’

  He came to stand behind her, so tall she felt small and fragile against him. The magnificent stones sparkled and shone, testament to man’s desire to deck his woman with the best the world could offer. They felt heavy in her hands, and cold, as cold as the glacier-blue eyes of the man who stood looking at them.

  ‘No, they’re perfect,’ he said, lips twisting in irony. ‘For our purposes tonight, anyway. Stand still—I’ll put them on.’

  Jacoba’s protest died unspoken; she stood without breathing while he slid the hooks through. His movements were deft and sure, and he smelled of soap, she realised feverishly—a citrus tang that mingled with the faint, compelling scent that was his alone, cleanly masculine, wildly exciting, and forbidden.

  ‘There,’ he said and stepped back, his face arrogant and uncompromising, the stark, autocratic framework closed against her. His eyes narrowed and he examined her with a detachment all the more chilling for being spiked by sexual awareness.

  ‘Will I do?’ she asked, and could have kicked herself for coming out with such an inane question. His sheer physical magnetism scrambled the circuits in her brain, temporarily turning her into a halfwit.

  ‘Surely you don’t need my reassurance that you look exquisite?’ His smile was coolly intimidating. ‘Perfect, in fact. Expensive, polished, seductive yet gracious. The dress displays every one of your considerable assets, and those diamonds will make every woman who sees you hope that if she buys the perfume some of that glamour will rub off on her. You should sell millions of litres.’

  ‘That’s why you hired me. I try to give satisfaction,’ she said crisply, stupidly hurt by his tone, and walked out of the room with her head held so high it made her neck ache.

  Back in the ornate saloon, she watched him pour two glasses of champagne. For a few moments she was able to appreciate the way his austere evening clothes showed off his broad shoulders and narrow hips and long legs. Her body sprang to life, hot with a tide of desire that sang through her in an enticing flood.

  Marco lifted his glass said coolly, ‘Here’s to triumphant success.’

  Of course, he was speaking about the ad campaign! Yet something in his tone, his eyes, brought another tide of heat to her skin. She sipped the wine, pretending to savour it. ‘Success,’ she said neutrally. ‘It’s a huge gamble, though, a new perfume.’

  ‘Indeed it is, but this one should make it. Do you like it?’

  ‘If it’s the one left in the stateroom—’

  ‘It is,’ he inserted.

  ‘Then yes, I like it very much. What’s its name?’

  He shrugged. ‘For some reason the publicists believe it’s not a good idea to reveal that just yet. Shall we eat?’

  No doubt the yacht had a dining room to match the main saloon, but they dined in a smaller, slightly more casual area. However, the expensive interior decorator who’d ‘done’ this yacht had stamped it with his—or her—trademark of over-the-top opulence, so that even casual meant overwhelming.

  Jacoba looked at her plate with dismay; her appetite, normally hearty, had deserted her.

  ‘Is there something wrong with the food?’ Marco asked blandly.

  ‘No, it’s delicious.’ forked up a mouthful of seared tuna and forced it down her unwilling throat.

  He glanced at her glass of wine, untouched except for the first sip. ‘You’re not drinking?’

  ‘I rarely do,’ she told him honestly. ‘I don’t have any head for alcohol.’

  His brows lifted. ‘Wise woman, then, not to try to achieve one.’ He paused, before asking, ‘Do you use any substitute?’

  For a moment Jacoba thought she’d heard him wrong. But his formidable expression told her that, although he’d phrased it tactfully, what he’d meant was, Do you use drugs?

  If she admitted to it, would he offer her some?

  ‘No.’ Her voice was icy with disgust.

  ‘Good.’ His eyes uncomfortably penetrating, he held her gaze for a few seconds longer than necessary.

  If I had lied, she thought, he’d know.
>
  A dangerous man…

  She said thoughtfully, ‘How about you?’

  And was delighted when his brows shot up in unregulated surprise. However, he recovered his composure instantly. ‘No,’ he said on a dry note. ‘I’ll admit to some excess drinking when I was young and stupid at university, but that’s the extent of it. I prefer my brain in its normal state.’

  She nodded. ‘So now that’s out of the way,’ she said sweetly, ‘what shall we talk about?’

  ‘You choose. Your favourite film star? Rock musician? Designer?’

  He must, like so many people, think that, because she had a face the camera loved, she was shallow! Furious with him—and with herself for being upset—she told him about the book she’d just finished.

  He’d read it too. And had strong ideas about it. Five minutes later she realised she was enjoying the stimulation of defending her opinions against the quick thrust of his powerful intellect.

  Gradually she relaxed as they both made sure the conversation didn’t veer towards the personal. He was interesting; no, more than that, he was intriguing, his swift, take-no-prisoners intelligence sharpening his views. She soon found herself laughing at a terse comment about a person she’d met and disliked.

  Not that he was malicious, or gossiped, but he made no bones about his opinions. With him she felt exhilarated, more alive than she’d ever been, so that the strict control she’d always preserved was relaxed.

  Yet all the time she was acutely, almost painfully aware of his physical charisma—the potent male grace expressed in his long, deft hands, the way white cuffs contrasted with his bronze skin, the crease of his cheeks when he laughed, the fan of unfairly long lashes across the sweeping, dramatic cheekbones…

  Oh, hell! she thought, panicked into silence.

  It wasn’t fair. He was everything she should avoid—a primal threat to her peace of mind, a ruthless mogul and an Illyrian, and she wanted him so much her mouth dried and her body ached with a delicious mixture of desire and exhilarated anticipation.

  He glanced at his watch and said, ‘We have ten minutes before the first guests start to arrive. Do you want to freshen up?’