Princess Australia. Nicola Marsh

      There was no way she’d be popping into this guy’s room for a rendezvous, prince or not. She had a reputation to uphold in this place, not to mention the fact he unnerved her with that steady, blue-eyed stare.

      He shrugged. ‘Fine. I’m not surprised a beautiful woman like you would have plans.’

      Okay, so she could add charm to his list of impressive attributes.

      ‘Right,’ she said, suddenly flustered when he didn’t look away, her hands fiddling with the stress ball behind the desk. ‘We’ll talk about this more then, but let me tell you, I’m not happy about this situation. I don’t like lies, I don’t like subterfuge, and having you stay at our hotel is important for business.’

      On and on she babbled, hating the way his mouth curved deliciously at the corners, the way his eyes glinted with amusement, and the way she kept noticing inconsequential details like that.

      She was making a fool of herself, sounding like an uptight schoolmarm scolding a recalcitrant kid. She always did that when she was nervous, getting all defensive and huffy. Ella teased her about it. Sadly, she spent too much time these days on the defensive.

      ‘We’ll talk about this business later, then, Miss Telford.’

      ‘Call me Natasha,’ she said, a blush heating her cheeks for some inexplicable reason. Gee, it wasn’t like she was telling him to call her for a date or anything!

      ‘Dante.’

      His polite nod reaffirmed what she’d thought earlier: you could take the bad boy out of the prince but you couldn’t take the prince out of the bad boy.

      ‘See you at four-thirty.’

      She managed a tight smile, the type of smile that made her teeth ache with the effort. This cloak and dagger business with Dante reeked of trouble.

      Big trouble.

      And she’d had enough of that lately to last a lifetime.

      CHAPTER TWO

      DANTE cast subtle glances Natasha’s way while an efficient young woman checked him in.

      She intrigued him.

      He was used to subservience, deference and awe when people learned his identity, but the stunning brunette hadn’t batted an eyelid. In fact, she’d grown more prickly, tension radiating off her in palpable waves.

      She didn’t like him.

      That much was obvious, and he wanted to know why. Maybe she had a hang-up about wealth? Or maybe his title?

      No matter. The minute he’d set foot in the hotel, he’d known he would need the concierge onside if he was to perpetrate his plan. The fact the concierge was a gorgeous woman with caramel eyes, long legs and a fabulous body behind that frumpy dark green uniform just made his task all the easier.

      Not that he could rely on charming the woman to his way of thinking. If anything, she’d give him a hard time, he just knew it. Her little holier-than-thou speech had been a dead giveaway that Miss Natasha Telford wouldn’t stand for any hanky-panky. Not that he had any in mind. Not really…

      ‘Here’s your welcome pack, Mr Anders. The card for your room is inside. Enjoy your stay at Telford Towers.’

      He smiled his thanks at the young woman behind the check-in desk, grabbed his key and headed for the lifts.

      Of course, it wasn’t his fault he had to pass directly in front of the concierge’s desk again, and it definitely wasn’t his fault that the sexy concierge chose that exact moment to look up.

      He gave her his best smile, the one his mother said could rule Calida alone, and a half salute, enjoying the faint blush staining her cheeks.

      So, she wasn’t immune to a little charm after all?

      He’d have to remember that.

      His plan to remain anonymous on the first leg of his trip might depend on it.

      

      Natasha rifled through her wardrobe, flicking past formal dresses, sundresses, skirts and casual trousers before coming to rest on her favourite pair of jeans. At times like this, being super-organised—or obsessively tidy, as Ella liked to tease—was a definite plus. She’d dithered long enough.

      Sliding the worn denim off the hanger, she wriggled into them, noting with irony the only good thing Clay had left her with was a slimmer figure. Stressing out over what he’d cost her and her family had shed pounds by the bucketful, and she’d never been so thin.

      After slipping a fitted pink singlet top over her head, pulling her hair back in a low ponytail, fixing silver hoops in her ears and sliding her feet into black wedges, she stood back and stared in the floor-length mirror behind the door.

      Her favourite outfit, the type of outfit that made her feel good, that gave her confidence.

      Then why did she want to rip it off and pull a serious black dress over her head?

      You’re a fraud, that’s why.

      She poked her tongue out at her reflection, hating when her subconscious was right. No matter how casual she tried to dress, or how confident her clothes were supposed to make her feel, she was a mess.

      Dealing with Dante Andretti would’ve been hard enough without the runaway prince playing some weird rebel game where he wanted to hide his identity. The same identity she needed to shout from the rooftops to boost the hotel’s profile and, ultimately, save it.

      ‘Damn it,’ she muttered, dashing a slick of gloss across her lips and waving a mascara wand over her lashes, knowing it would take a heck of a lot more than a bit of make-up to give her a much needed boost.

      She needed the prince’s help.

      Apparently, he needed hers.

      Then why the awful, sinking feeling their needs were poles apart? Or, worse, she’d be coerced into putting his first…and all because of a charming smile and a pair of blue eyes that had haunted her memory since the first time she’d seen them in grainy print on a computer screen.

      Why couldn’t he be a boring, fuddy-duddy prince hell-bent on performing normal royal duties—like getting his face on every media outlet?

      Why was he masquerading as some sexy bad boy? Okay, so he couldn’t help the sexy part but, honestly, wasn’t he taking the whole rebel image a tad far? How did a guy like that own a pair of worn jeans anyway? Wouldn’t he wear perfectly pleated formal trousers all the time?

      And why did he specifically need her help to perpetrate whatever game he was playing?

      Determined to get answers to the questions swirling in her mind, Natasha picked up her keys and purse and headed for a rendezvous with a prince.

      

      Dante glanced around the cosy bar, surprised by the homey feel. He’d travelled the world, stayed in the best hotels and sampled the finest luxuries money could buy, yet something about this place tugged at him.

      The rich, mahogany coffee-tables and bar covering an entire back wall, the deep comfy armchairs in burgundy, the muted light from brass lamps and the scattering of antiques were nothing out of the ordinary. Yet together they created an ambience which beckoned like the privacy of his own room at the palace at the end of a long day.

      Suddenly it hit him—the privacy aspect of the room, the same comforting feeling he’d expect from a private lounge, not some hotel lobby bar. That was it. This room beckoned like his sitting room back home.

      Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to create this effect, to offer travellers a home away from home. Someone with taste, good business sense and a keen sense of what it felt like to belong.

      At that moment, Natasha walked into the room, and his desire to admire the decor went up in smoke.

      He