The Prince's Pleasure. Robyn Donald

      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