THE CHINA on the trolley rattled a little as Melissa Considine pushed it along the wide glassed-in corridor that gave privacy to the royal suite. Biting her lip, she slowed down, hoping that the guest in the most palatial rooms in the extremely exclusive lodge wasnât a stickler for punctuality.
Most of the guests sheâd met since starting her internship at this fabulous place in New Zealandâs Southern Alps had been very pleasant, but sheâd discovered that people who should know better could be condescending, haughty and just plain ill-mannered.
And that the staff who served them had to take all that in their stride.
âAlthough thereâs a subtle but obvious difference between rudeness and abuse,â the manager explained during the orienting session, âNew Zealanders, including those paid to serve the rich and influential, have a very good sense of their own dignity. Donât take abuse from anyoneâand that includes the chef!â
A wry smile curved Melissaâs lips. Her mother, whoâd made sure her children appreciated the prestige that went with the famous name of Considine, borne by the ruling house of Illyria for a thousand years or so, had also been insistent on exquisite manners and true grace. Sheâd have been shocked out of her elegant shoes by some of the stories her daughter had heard in the lodge staff-room.
But Melissa was five minutes late, so if the man in the royal suite complained sheâd be politely deferential and apologetic, even if she had to bite her tongue.
She stopped at the heavy wooden door and knocked.
âCome in,â a male voice said from the other side.
On sudden full alert, Melissa froze. She knew that voiceâ¦
The command was repeated, this time with an undertone of impatience. âCome in.â
Melissa swallowed to ease a suddenly dry throat, and used her key to open the door. Keeping her gaze on the trolley, she pushed it into the room and stopped just inside, heart skipping nervously.
Nothing happened. After a couple of uncomfortable seconds she looked up. Her pulse lurched into agitated urgency.
Big, totally dominant, the man silhouetted against the windows didnât move. The long southern dusk had tinted the lake and the mountains behind in subtle shades of blue and grey, but he was concentrating on the papers in his hand.
It was Hawke Kennedyâsheâd know him anywhere. Melissa fought back the feverish excitement that roared into life from nowhere.
With a decisive movement he flicked the papers together and put them into a briefcase on the nearby table. Only then did he look up.
His tough, arrogantly featured face didnât alter, but she registered the change in his amazing eyes the moment he recognised herâabout a second after heâd started his cool, deliberate survey. Stupidly, she was pleased, even though she knew Hawke probably hadnât met many women tall enough to look him almost straight in the eyesâexcept for a ravishing model he was occasionally seen with.
Knowing herself to be far from ravishing, Melissa straightened her shoulders and said tonelessly, âDinner, sir.â
âWell, well, well,â he said softly. âMelissa Considine. No, as of a couple of weeks agoâPrincess Melissa Considine of Illyria, only sister of the Grand Duke of Illyria. What the hell are you doing pushing a dinner trolley two stops past the furthest ends of the earth?â
âIâm an intern here,â she said stiffly, irritated and embarrassed by the heat in her cheeks.
How did he know that her older brother, Gabe, had had his right to their ancestorsâ title confirmed by their cousin, the ruling prince? Illyria was a small realm on the Mediterranean coast and the ceremony had been private, of interest only to Illyrians.
Beneath lifted black brows, Hawkeâs green gaze travelled from her face to the trolley sheâd pushed in front of her like a shield. A slow throb of sensation reverberated through Melissa like the roll of distant drums.
In a voice textured by sardonic inflection, he enquired, âYouâre doing an internship in waiting on hotel guests? What do your brothers think of that?â
âIâm doing a masterâs in management. This is part of it.â Flustered, she folded her lips firmly together. It was none of his business what she was doing there.
Another long, considering stare sent prickles across her skin. âWaiting on guests?â
She allowed irony to tinge her smile. âItâs good for me to find out what itâs like at the coalface.â
Of course he picked up on the subtle criticism. His lashes drooped, lending a saturnine cast to his features.
In response, more colour burned along the high cheekbones Melissa had inherited from a mediaeval Slavic princess. Reminding herself that he was a guest, she added hurriedly, âBut this isnât normally part of my job. Iâm filling in for one of the staff whoâs ill.â