Kandy Shepherd - Crown Prince's Chosen Bride

‘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.