The Prince's Pleasure

“Perhaps you could get a stick and draw a line down the beach on the boundary. I promise I won’t cross it.”

“But how much can I trust your promise?”

Alexa knew she’d regret letting her normally even temper get the better of her, but at this moment it exhilarated her. “Enjoy the rest of your stay in New Zealand.” With a brisk little air she held out her hand.

Luka’s long fingers closed around hers. As his mouth branded her skin Alexa crossed a hidden boundary into wild, unknown territory.

She yanked her hand back. White-faced, grabbing for composure, she said shakily, “Is that how you say goodbye in Dacia?”

“That’s how we say I want you very much in Dacia,” he drawled. “But you already knew that. And you want me, too. I hope you find it as irritating as I do.”

She swallowed. “I’m going. Goodbye.”

His laugh was low and unamused, totally cynical. “I think we’ll see each other again.”

“Not if I see you first,” she shot back.

ROBYN DONALD has always lived in Northland in New Zealand, initially on her father’s stud dairy farm at Warkworth, then in the Bay of Islands, an area of great natural beauty where she lives today with her husband and an ebullient and mostly Labrador dog. She resigned her teaching position when she found she enjoyed writing romances more, and now spends any time not writing in reading, gardening, traveling and writing letters to keep up with her two adult children and her friends.

The Prince’s Pleasure

Robyn Donald

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

THE hotel events organiser burst into the drab staff cloakroom with all the drama of a star going nova, her frown easing dramatically when she saw the woman there.

‘Alexa! Thank heavens!’ she cried. ‘I was afraid you weren’t going to be able to make it. This wretched flu has struck down just about every waiter with security clearance.’

‘Hi, Carole,’ Alexa Mytton said cheerfully, smoothing sheer black pantyhose up her long legs. ‘I didn’t know I had security clearance.’

Carole looked a little self-conscious. ‘With all the high-powered bankers in Auckland for this conference—not to mention the Prince of Dacia’s security man, who is driving us crazy—head office insisted we run checks on everyone,’ she said. ‘You’re as clean as a whistle, of course.’

Something in her voice alerted Alexa. ‘Did you mention that I’m a photographer?’

A grimace distorted Carole’s perfectly made-up face. ‘No, because paranoia reigns! I could see I didn’t have a hope of convincing the Prince’s man that you’re an up-and-coming studio photographer, not one of the dreaded paparazzi!’

Five years previously, when Carole had owned the top restaurant in the city, she’d hired Alexa as part-time help. A first-year university student, with no family and no money, Alexa had been grateful for the job, and still enjoyed helping her former boss in emergencies.

‘Security men are paid to be paranoid,’ she said cheerfully, straightening up to pull a long black skirt over her head. She patted the material over her slender hips and shrugged into a classical white shirt.

‘He’s not too bad, I suppose.’ Carole surveyed Alexa with a professional eye. ‘I thought you might have stopped taking casual work.’

‘No, I’m still saving for that trip to Italy to research my grandfather.’

‘Tell me when you’re planning to go so I can take you off the roster.’

Alexa’s long fingers flew as she buttoned up the shirt. Laughing, she said, ‘It’ll be another couple of months. But even if I had the tickets I’d have jumped at the chance to see the Grand Duke Luka of Dacia close up.’ Opening her wide ice-grey eyes to their fullest extent, she batted long black lashes and simpered. ‘He’s not a regular visitor to unfashionable countries like New Zealand, so this might be my only chance to admire the gorgeous face that’s sold so many millions of magazines and newspapers.’

Carole leaned forward, her voice dropping into a confidential purr. ‘Mock all you like, but he’s a seriously, seriously beautiful man.’

‘Let’s hope I can control my awe and fascination enough not to tip the crayfish patties over him.’

Oh, to be twenty-three again, Carole thought, before remembering what it had been like to ride that rollercoaster of emotions. But it would be great to look twenty-three again! Not that she’d ever come up to Alexa’s standard. With her warm Mediterranean colouring of cream skin and copper hair the younger woman glowed like an exotic flower in the cramped, utilitarian confines of the room.

‘Not patties,’ Carole corrected briskly. ‘They went out with the fifties. Did the Italian university have any information about your grandfather?’

Alexa shrugged. ‘A big fat nothing so far.’ Skillfully and swiftly she began to plait her thick hair into a neat roll at the back of her head. ‘Either they won’t give out information, or my Italian is so bad they didn’t understand my letter!’

‘That’s a shame,’ Carole said with brisk sympathy, glancing down at the clipboard she carried. She looked up to add, ‘By the way, dishy though he certainly is, Luka of Dacia is no longer Grand Duke. Since his father died a year or so ago he’s the hereditary Prince of Dacia, sole scion of the ancient and royal house of Bagaton.’

Alexa searched in her bag for a tube of lipgloss. ‘What do I call him if he says something to me?’

‘Your Royal Highness the first time, and then sir.’ Carole sighed. ‘It doesn’t seem fair, does it? For a man to have it all—power, money and looks. Oh, and intelligence.’

Alexa laughed. ‘Intelligence? Come off it, the man’s a playboy.’

‘He didn’t get to be head of one of the top banks in the world without brains.’

‘The fact that his royal daddy set the bank up might just have had something to do with that,’ Alexa suggested drily, producing the tube from its hiding place in the bottom of her bag. ‘If the gossip columns and royal-watchers of the world are right, the Prince simply hasn’t got enough time to be a high-flying banker. He’s too busy wining, dining and bedding fabulous women all over the globe.’

Carole grinned. ‘Just wait till you see him. He’s—well, he’s overwhelming.’

‘I haven’t been able to open a magazine or newspaper for the past ten years without being overwhelmed by photographs of him. I agree—he’s sinfully good-looking if you like them tall, dark and frivolous.’

‘Frivolous he is not, and photographs don’t do him justice. Whatever the definition of charisma, he’s over-flowing with it. And trouble.’ Abruptly sobering, Carole went on, ‘Overseas photographers have already approached several of the staff with outrageous offers.’

‘I knew I should have brought a camera—I could have hidden it down my front, James Bond style,’ Alexa said, skimming her generous mouth with colour. ‘One photograph of him carousing with bankers would probably finance my trip to Europe.’

‘You’re not big enough to hide anything much there. Neat, but not overblown, that’s you. Have you got a camera with you?’

Alexa shook her head. ‘Didn’t seem tactful.’

‘You’re so right,’ the older woman said, adding thoughtfully, ‘The Prince of Dacia is not a man I’d like to cross.’

The hand wielding the lipstick suddenly still, Alexa met Carole’s shrewd eyes in the mirror. ‘A puffed-up playboy princeling, is he? Full of his own importance?’

‘Far from it, according to those who’ve dealt with him. The staff say he’s lovely.’

‘But?’ Alexa finished applying the gloss and snapped the case shut, scanning her reflection. She looked up and said quickly, ‘Don’t answer that—I’m sorry I asked. I know you have to be discreet.’

Carole said thoughtfully, ‘He’s the sort of man you notice, and it’s not just the overwhelming combination of a handsome face, a great body and a height of about six foot four! It comes from inside him.’

Intrigued by the older woman’s unusual gravity, Alexa turned her head. ‘What does?’

‘Charisma, I suppose. I saw him talking to the manager, being welcomed to the hotel—the sort of thing he’s probably done thousands of times before. But there was no sign of boredom.’

Alexa’s brows rose. ‘They train royalty from childhood in that sort of PR. They probably have lessons in charm, and how to control the facial muscles!’

‘I know, yet I’ll bet my paua pearls he’s no aristocratic figurehead. I got the impression that simmering beneath that very worldly surface there was a kind of fierce energy. He looks powerful.’

‘So did King Kong. Now you’ve made him sound interesting.’

Carole shrugged. ‘Unfortunately, not just to you. If someone starts asking questions about him, or for information about his movements, tell Security.’

Pulling a disgusted face, Alexa dropped the lipgloss into her bag. ‘I will.’

‘And thanks again for stepping into the breach.’ Carole glanced at her watch. ‘Help—I’d better go! If you get into trouble, smile—it’s a killer, your smile.’

‘It won’t work if I ruin someone’s designer outfit,’ Alexa said pragmatically. ‘I’ve been practising a demure, respectful expression all afternoon. Thank heavens a cocktail party’s nowhere near as arduous as a silver service dinner.’

Carole shuddered. ‘As of five minutes ago we’ve got a full muster of waiters for the banquet. Pray that it stays like that! Come on, I’ll take you down. You might get a chance to use your Italian.’ She opened the door to the corridor. ‘Apparently Dacian has close similarities.’

Alexa had learned Italian at school and later, after her parents’ death, at university, preparing for the day she’d go to Italy and find her grandfather’s grave—perhaps even discover family there.

Of course an illegitimate granddaughter might not be welcome, but it would ease some inner loneliness just to know that she wasn’t entirely on her own in the world.

During the turmoil of last-minute preparations, Alexa gave her respectful, self-effacing smile another couple of work-outs before she picked up a silver salver exquisitely decorated with tiny, tasty oyster savouries. Holding it steady, she set off into the room where the most powerful and influential people in the financial world, and their wives or mistresses—with a sprinkling of important politicians and local dignitaries—were meeting for drinks before dinner.

There she circulated slowly, careful not to let her interest in the women’s clothes get in the way of her job.

She was covertly eyeing one trophy wife, clad in what appeared to be almost transparent scarlet clingwrap, when an autocratic female voice commanded from behind, ‘Waitress, this way, please.’

Alexa’s helpful, obliging smile slipped a fraction. There was always one snag.

Lovely, and superbly dressed, the snag was definitely not a trophy wife. She had a conscious air of power, Alexa decided as she eased her way through the crowd.

‘Are those made with oysters?’ the woman asked.

Alexa smiled, demure, self-effacing, and answered, ‘Yes, they are,’ as she proffered the salver.

Smiling up at the man beside her, the woman said in an entirely different tone, ‘Do try these, sir—they’re a New Zealand speciality. We consider our Bluff oysters to be the finest in the world!’

‘A big claim,’ a deep, cool male voice responded with courteous confidence.

Alexa stole a glance through her lashes at an exquisitely tailored dinner suit that revealed wide shoulders, lean hips and long, strongly muscled legs.

Aha, she thought flippantly, the charismatic, much-photographed Prince Luka Bagaton of Dacia. And every bit as handsome as his photographs! The superbly chiselled features made an instant impact, as did a mouth that managed to combine beauty, strength and formidable self-discipline.

And then her eyes met his. Tawny-gold, the colour of frozen fire, they surveyed her with unsparing assessment.

Alexa stiffened as though she’d been measured, judged, and found wanting, and the salver in her hands quivered. Carole had chosen the right word for that formidable, potent aura of compelling maleness and authority. Prince Luka of Dacia was overwhelming—a devastating prince of darkness.

Heart juddering against her breastbone, Alexa concentrated on holding the salver steady while he took a savoury in a long, elegant hand.

‘Thank you,’ he said in that controlled voice with its fascinating slight accent.

Although Alexa had intended to step away without looking at him, her gaze flicked up to be captured by eyes gleaming with mockery. Yet a flare lightened their golden depths as the Prince of Dacia’s bold warrior’s face hardened into ruthlessness.

‘Thank you, that’s all we need.’ The woman’s voice, crisply territorial, slashed across Alexa’s startled silence.

With a brief, meaningless smile she turned away, took two steps and offered the salver to the next group.

Nobody had told her that charisma burned, she thought once she drew breath again. Ridiculously, she felt as though the Prince’s brutally emphatic energy had reached out and claimed her, branding her with a mark of possession that scarred her all the way to her soul.

Striving desperately to recall her sense of humour, she ordered herself not to be so idiotic. He’d looked at her; she’d looked at him. And, being a strongly visual person, she’d overreacted to the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen!

Shaken, still tautly aware of the Prince in the middle of the room, she avoided his area and kept her gaze well away until everyone obeyed some unspoken signal and trooped into the banqueting hall.

Much later, when her shift was over and she was heading for the staff cloakroom, Carole appeared, looking slightly less harried. ‘The banquet went off really well—so far, so good,’ she said on a quick, relieved note. ‘What did you think of the Prince?’

‘Grand Duke suited him better—he’s entirely too grand,’ Alexa said, aiming for her usual blithe tone and just missing. ‘Who’s his minder?’

‘The stunning blonde? Sandra Beauchamp, the under-secretary for something or other. Apparently she’s an old flame.’

Repressing a stark stab of primitive emotion she would not dignify with the name of envy, Alexa drawled, ‘Old? She wouldn’t like to hear that.’

Carole gave her a sharp woman-to-woman grin. ‘Warned you off, did she? I don’t blame her—she’d be mad not to try for another chance with him. So, what did you think of him?’

Alexa hoped an ironic smile hid her erratic emotions. ‘He’s a fabulous man, like something out of a fairy story—one of the dark and dangerous ones.’

‘He gave a fantastic after-dinner speech—funny, moving, intelligent and short!’

‘I hope he paid the writer lots.’

‘Methinks I detect a note of cynicism,’ Carole said as they turned towards the service lift. ‘Don’t you approve of the monarchy?’

How could she say that Prince Luka had made such an impact on her she couldn’t think straight? It sounded foolishly impetuous, like falling in love at first sight.

Alexa shrugged. ‘As an institution I think it’s probably on its way out, but our lot have done pretty well by us, so who am I to tell the Dacians how to run their country? If they like their Prince, that’s fine. And I gather he’s doing great things for them with his bank.’

Pressing the button to call the lift, Carole said in an awed voice, ‘The bank uses the Dacian crown jewels as security.’

Suddenly tired, Alexa covered a yawn. ‘Crown jewels?’ she said vaguely. ‘Oh, yes, I remember—don’t they have fabulous emeralds?’

‘And the rest! Literally worth a prince’s ransom.’ The lift slid to a halt in front of them, doors opening. ‘Have you got your car?’ Carole asked, jabbing the button to keep the doors apart.

Alexa shook her head. ‘It’s in dry dock. Something to do with the radiator, I think. Whatever, it made funny noises.’

‘Then take a taxi—and keep the receipt because you’ll be reimbursed.’

‘I’ll drop it off or post it to you. Goodnight.’

After the lift had whirred Carole upwards Alexa took the next one down to the ground floor, but one glance at the foyer changed her mind about trying to get a taxi there.

People were pouring out, taxis leaving as soon as they’d arrived, doormen moving fast to clear the crowd. Not to worry—the nearest taxi rank was only a couple of hundred yards away, just around the corner of a well-lit street. And as the hotel car park opened onto the same street there’d be enough passing traffic to make it perfectly safe.

Slinging her bag over her shoulder, Alexa set off, shivering slightly because it had rained while she’d been offering delicious food to the rich and powerful.

Down in the basement car park, in the restricted area, Luka of Dacia stood beside the anonymous car his agent had hired and listened courteously to his head of security.

‘At least let me follow you in another car,’ Dion said urgently. ‘I don’t like anything about this—why do they want you to go alone to meet them?’

Luka said calmly, ‘These men have been fighting a desperate war for the past twenty years—a war that’s turned brother against brother, father against son. I don’t imagine they trust anyone any more.’ He understood their behaviour. His life had been built on a lack of trust.

‘That’s no reason to put yourself in their power,’ Dion expostulated angrily. ‘Luka, I beg of you, think again! Your father would never have permitted you to take such a risk.’

‘My father judged risks differently from you.’

Dion said in exasperation, ‘Your father would have risked everything for Dacia. This is not for Dacia—these people are nothing to you—their Pacific island is as far from Dacia as any place can be. Let them fight their futile war until they’re all dead!’

Luka’s brows rose but his voice was crisp and abrupt as he said, ‘Somehow I don’t think it’s quite as simple as that. Apart from my obvious neutrality, they must have a reason to choose me as an intermediary between them and their opponents.’

‘What possible reason can they have?’

‘That’s what I plan to find out. These people aren’t rebels—they are the elected government of Sant’Rosa. So they’re not going to kill or kidnap me. And apart from the humanitarian aspects I have also to consider that although their country may be in ruins now it has the largest copper mine in the Asian Pacific region, not to mention other extremely valuable minerals, and the possibility of a flourishing tourist industry. Good pickings for the bank.’

Dion, who knew perfectly well that it was the humanitarian aspects that had persuaded his Prince, said angrily, ‘Why ask for this secret meeting late at night and alone?’

‘Possibly because they don’t want to lose face. If tonight leads to further discussions between the two factions on Sant’Rosa, and if I can persuade them to accept some sort of protocol for peace, the Bank of Dacia can help them rebuild their economy. By ensuring their prosperity, I can help promote ours.’ He paused, then added coolly, ‘My father would have thought any—every—sacrifice worth that.’

Dion’s frown deepened at the complete determination in his Prince’s voice. ‘Let me come with you,’ he said, knowing it was hopeless. ‘No one will know I’m there.’

‘I will know,’ Luka said inflexibly. ‘I gave them my word I’d go alone, and I intend to keep it.’ He looked down at the man he called friend and demanded, ‘Give me your word you won’t do anything to jeopardise this meeting.’

Dion met the Prince’s hard eyes with something like anguish. ‘You have it,’ he said stiffly, and stood back, holding the door open to let his ruler into the car.

Luka slid behind the wheel, his face sombre as he turned the key and heard the engine purr into life. Although he was early for the meeting, he was also a stranger to Auckland, so in spite of memorising the route he’d probably make enough wrong turnings to use up the extra hour.

Putting the car into gear, he eased it out of the parking bay and through the car park, slid his card into the slot and waited for the grille to roll back.

A security man posted there gave him a keen look and a respectful nod—another instance of the meticulous attention to detail by the conference planners.

The wet street appeared deserted, but his eyes narrowed when he saw a woman striding towards the corner; adrenalin pumped through him as he noticed the two men coming up behind her, leashed violence smoking around them like an aura. They were taking care not to make a noise—hunters with prey in their sights.

Luka’s hand thudded onto the horn and he stamped on the accelerator. The stalked woman jumped and whirled, mouth opening in a scream he could hear even over the squealing tyres and revving engine. By the time he’d driven across the footpath between her and the men she’d backed into the wall, hands in front of her in a classic posture of self-defence.

Trained? No, but ready to defend herself, Luka guessed with approval, himself expert in a lethal martial art. He leapt out of the car, but the two men were already sprinting across the street.

Luka ignored them. ‘Are you all right?’ he demanded harshly.

The street lamp revealed a face he recognised, a face that had lodged like a burr in his mind since she’d offered him a savoury before dinner. A highly appropriate offering, he’d thought then—oysters for sexual stamina. He’d looked into eyes, like a blast of winter set between black lashes and brows, and wanted her with a violence that startled and irritated him.

‘I’m fine, thanks to you,’ she said, the words coming clumsily.

Although she was pale her wide, soft mouth was held under tight discipline. Unwillingly Luka admired her self-control even while some part of him wondered what she’d look like when she lost it.

Wild; those fantastic ice-grey eyes half hidden by heavy eyelids, her hair tossed and tumbled like skeins of copper silk… The flush of passion would turn her skin to peaches and cream, and her mouth would soften into a sensuous welcome.

To take his mind off that purely male speculation—and the stir it created in his body—he suggested quietly, ‘You can drop your hands now. You’re quite safe.’

They fell to her sides. She managed a rapid, set smile and said, ‘Thank you.’

‘For what?’

Her teeth bit into her bottom lip for a moment before she answered, ‘For getting involved.’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘Some people don’t,’ she said, dragging a sharp breath into her lungs.

Luka wrenched his gaze from the extremely interesting lift and fall of her breasts. In a voice he realised was too harsh, he demanded, ‘Who are you, and just what are you doing in a back street at this time of night?’

‘I’m Alexa Mytton,’ she answered, stiffening as her chin came up, ‘and I’m going to the taxi rank around the corner.’

‘Why not ask one of the doormen to get you a cab?’

So he’d recognised her. Something warm and satisfied, a kind of purr of femininity, smoothed over Alexa. Afraid she’d fall apart if she relaxed, she straightened her shoulders and said quickly, ‘I’m not a guest at the hotel. Thanks very much for being so quick to respond. I’ll—I’ll go now and get a taxi.’

‘I’ll walk there with you,’ he said with a crisp purpose that warned her he wasn’t going to leave her there alone.