Crown Prince's Chosen Bride
The People’s Princess!Chef Gemma Harper is on a dating break, so the last thing she needs is gorgeous stranger Tristan tempting her into a fling…especially when he’s revealed as the Crown Prince of Montavia!Gemma knows forever isn’t possible with duty-bound Tristan, but swept off her feet by this charismatic prince, she’s determined to make every moment count. And when Tristan throws out the royal rule-book, a happy-ever-after could be within Gemma’s grasp…if only she’s brave enough to say ‘I do’!
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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.
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
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.’
