Royals: Wed To The Prince: By Royal Command / The Princess and the Outlaw / The Prince's Secret Bride
By Royal CommandThe only way Lauren escaped from war-torn Sant'Rosa was to marry Guy, a sexy stranger, in a fake ceremony. Reunited with Guy later, they’re overwhelmed with desire! But Guy has news for her: their marriage was legal! What’s more he's really a prince and Lauren is obliged to marry him again – by royal command!The Princess and the OutlawPrincess Pippa Devereaux wasn’t known for controversy. So her brief romance with handsome tycoon Nic Lafitte had to end. But when a night of passion leads to a baby, somehow the royal and the Texan have to bring two worlds – and two families – together…The Prince’s Secret BridePrince Nico can’t just walk past when he sees a pregnant stranger needs his help, so he sweeps her back to his palace. Marisa brings out Nico’s protective instincts – feelings he thought he’d left behind. But with his realm being torn apart by war and rebellion, can Nico afford to fall in love with a girl he hardly knows?
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Royals: Wed to the Prince
By Royal Command
Robyn Donald
The Princess and the Outlaw
Leanne Banks
The Prince’s Secret Bride
Helen Conrad
Table of Contents
Robyn Donald
“I find you very attractive,” she hurried on, “but the idea of being married to you—if that’s what we are—is ridiculous. And I certainly don’t want an affair with you.”
“Really?” he said politely. “I can think of plenty of words to describe such a marriage, but ridiculous doesn’t come to mind. As for the affair—I thought we’d already had it.”
“We spent a few days together,” she corrected, gripped by intolerable anguish. Yet she had to send him out of her life. “I’m sorry, but a tropical fling is not expected to last beyond the tropics. I’ll always be grateful to you for saving my life, because I suspect that’s what you did.”
“Stop right there,” he advised with an inflection so deadly it chilled her into temporary paralysis. “If you’re telling me that you slept with me out of gratitude, I’ll just have to show you that you’re wrong.”
ROBYN DONALD can’t remember not being able to read and will be eternally grateful to the local farmers who carefully avoided her on a dusty country road as she read her way to and from school, transported to places and times far away from her small village in Northland, New Zealand. Growing up fed her habit. As well as training as a teacher, marrying and raising two children, she discovered the delights of romances and read them voraciously, especially enjoying the ones written by New Zealand writers. So much so that one day she decided to write one herself. Writing soon grew to be as much of a delight as reading — although infinitely more challenging — and when eventually her first book was accepted by Mills & Boon she felt she’d arrived home. She still lives in a small town in Northland, with her family close by, using the landscape as a setting for much of her work. Her life is enriched by the friends she’s made among writers and readers, and complicated by a determined Corgi called Buster, who is convinced that blackbirds are evil entities. Her greatest hobby is still reading, with travelling a very close second.
WHEN the hair on the back of Guy Bagaton’s neck lifted, he finished cracking a joke with the bartender before straightening to his full, impressive height and allowing his tawny gaze to drift casually across sand as white as talcum powder.
A woman was coming towards the bar, the fierce Pacific sun summoning blue flames from her hair as she emerged from the feathery shade of the coconut palms. Camouflaged by the woven side panels of the bar, Guy admired the way her crimson sarong set off bare white shoulders. On her the all-purpose cover-all looked coolly sophisticated, especially paired with frivolous sandals that emphasised long, elegant legs. Yet he’d be prepared to bet she hadn’t come to the resort to lie in the sun; in spite of the sarong and the erotic sway of her hips, she walked with purpose.
Guy’s body stirred in primal interest. ‘Who is that?’ he asked the bartender, pitching his voice so that it wouldn’t travel.
The barman looked up. ‘That’s Ms Lauren Porter—got in on the plane from Atu a couple of hours ago. She’s staying two nights.’
‘I see,’ Guy said without expression.
When the manager had rung Guy an hour previously, disturbed because their newest guest had broached her intention of visiting a mountain village, the name had rung bells somewhere in his mind. It hadn’t taken him long to trace the thin thread of memory to its source—a conversation a few months ago with one of his cousins, an elderly Bavarian princess who had a keen nose for gossip and a connoisseur’s eye for a good-looking man.
‘I noticed you talking to Marc Corbett and his charming wife,’ she said after one of her famous dinner parties. ‘I wonder if Paige knows that he keeps an English mistress.’
‘I doubt it,’ Guy said curtly. Paige Corbett had struck him as straightforward and very much in love with her husband, a magnate with varied interests and a reputation for honest dealing.
‘Not many people do; they are very discreet and never seen together, but of course you can’t stop gossip—someone always knows. She is a Miss Lauren Porter, who is long-legged and beautiful and English. She works in his business. Very clever, I’m told. She has been close to him for years now.’
