The Prince in the Royal Suite. Susan Stephens

scrimp and save best described Libby. She worked for her cousin Lucinda who, the instant Libby had returned home from university, had begged for help sorting out her life. In return for accompanying Lucinda around the world on what was a whirlwind social agenda, Libby received a small wage, though most times Lucinda forgot to pay her, and as Libby had been orphaned as a child and brought up by Lucinda’s parents, she didn’t like to ask Lucinda for money. Studying Business Management at university had taken up the small legacy Libby’s parents had left her, and she had no other means of support, so working for Lucinda was an opportunity to get something on her CV, and she had fallen willingly into the role of Lucinda’s gofer.

      As soon as she had showered in her tiny bathroom at the Chatsfield, Libby had called Lucinda to check on her suitcase. ‘As it’s in Monte Carlo, I was wondering –’

      She got no further. Lucinda might be scatty, but she had a heart as big as Texas. ‘Of course – wear anything of mine you like. What about that navy silk shift? You’d look amazing in it, Lib – and we’re almost the same shoe size, aren’t we?’

      ‘You sure you don’t mind?’

      ‘Well, you can hardly go round in public in a towelling robe and hotel slippers. And promise me right now Libby Lancaster, that you’re not going to spend the evening in your room. I feel so bad about asking you to collect those alterations, and then you missing the flight. You were ok, though? You did buy a First Class seat like I told you to?’

      ‘You know I’d never waste your money like that.’

      ‘Then wear the dress – I command it!’ Lucinda had insisted. ‘And then keep it. And the shoes – there are some amazing heels in there.’

      ‘If you’re sure.’

      ‘Does the queen wear blue knickers?’

      ‘Luce, I’ve got no idea –’

      ‘Enjoy! You deserve a treat working for me, Lib. Just make sure you get out of that room tonight. Understood?’

      ‘Aye aye cap’n.’

      So, that was how she came to be putting on a front, along with wearing a king’s ransom in designer clothes. After Lucinda’s call, she had padded back into the bedroom where Lucinda’s monogrammed suitcase awaited her. She had opened it reverently, knowing exactly what was in there, having packed it herself.

      There was one big problem. Libby’s underwear was hanging on the washing line over the bath, and Lucinda’s selection of skimpy thongs would cut her in two, while her boobs stood no chance of being safely contained within the scraps of ribbon and lace that constituted a bra in Lucinda-land.

      Go commando?

      Yes, it had been that, or stay in her room. And what had she promised Lucinda?

      The dress Lucinda had suggested slithered out of its folds of tissue paper like a ready-made promise of glamour and excitement and she had hardly dared to put it on, imagining she was bound to stick a heel through the hem, or spill something sticky down it –

      But as there was no alternative…

      She would just have to be careful, Libby had assured herself, breathless with excitement, as she had stepped carefully into the whisper of silk.

      And it felt wonderful. She even stood taller, held her stomach in and put her shoulders back, as Lucinda was always telling her to do. It was impossible to wear a dress like this and hide in a corner, Libby reflected as she smoothed the night-dark silk. She had to act the part. She had to have confidence. The dress gave her no option. She’d pinned up her long, glossy black hair in her version of a messy up-do, slicked on some lip balm and a spritz of scent, and then braced herself to look in the full-length mirror in her bedroom, hoping for a change for the better.

      There had been a change.

      She had turned from a mouse to, well, a guinea pig, maybe. You couldn’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, as dear old granny used to say.

      She had decided that was quite enough procrastination for one night, but just in case this new version of Libby Lancaster failed to make the grade in the public part of the hotel, she had stuffed one of the complimentary hotel magazines into her bag so she had something to hide behind. Then, fingering the four-leaf clover she always wore on a slim chain round her neck, she drew in a deep, steadying breath, silently promising both her mother, who had given her the four-leaf clover, and Lucinda, who had lent her the clothes, that she wouldn’t let either of them down.

      Once she was down in the lobby, the shadowy interior of the bar called to her. And, surprise, surprise, she was drawn to a shadowy corner, which was her usual cop-out when Lucinda and friends were living it large. But tonight something crazy had happened. Maybe it was the shoes? Libby reflected, sticking one foot out to take a look. They certainly made her walk differently. They made her feel confident. Lucinda was right about the heels, they were gorgeous, and they deserved a proper outing, so instead of heading for that shadowy corner, she had sashayed right up to the bar and plonked herself down there, on the only unoccupied stool.

      No problem, she told herself for the umpteenth time as her heart pounded with anxiety. She would soon calm down. No-one here knew her from Adam, so she had a completely clean sheet and a fabulous wardrobe of clothes, so why not act as if she had all the confidence in the world? She could be Lucinda for the night.

      ‘Would you like a drink madam?’

      ‘Um… Er…’ So much for confidence! She had fallen at the first hurdle. Heating up under the barman’s patient stare, she scanned the ranks of bottles, searching for inspiration. Half of the drinks she’d never heard of, and the rest looked more like food colouring than something she’d want to ingest in a gulp.

      ‘Lemonade please? With a dash of lime?’

      Great start. Lucinda would have asked for champagne – and not by the glass, either. As it turned out, positive thinking wasn’t enough to stop her heating up with embarrassment, and she couldn’t risk perspiring in this dress –

      ‘Your drink, madam…’

      ‘Thank you.’ It was in a fancy glass. She downed it in one. She needed something to do with her hands to stop wringing them.

      ‘You look agitated,’ a deep, faintly accented voice observed. ‘Can I buy you a top up?’

      ‘Agitated?’

      Spinning round on her bar stool, Libby promptly snapped the cocktail stick she’d been torturing in half. Confident and in charge, she reminded herself firmly, swallowing deep as she took her first look at the owner of the chilli chocolate voice.

      ‘Was that a white wine spritzer?’ he asked.

      Her mouth was still open, she realised, shutting it quickly. The man was devastating – off the scale attractive. His smile alone lit up the room, but in a sultry, candlelit way. And he towered over her.

      She was sitting down, Libby reminded herself sensibly. Of course he was towering over her. But he was one big, powerful-looking man…

      ‘Yes…? No?’ he prompted. ‘The drink?’ he said pleasantly.

      He was a couple of years older than she was – maybe thirty. And he was still angling that bad-boy smile. And, no, she wasn’t going to look over her shoulder to see if he was talking to someone else. She had to have more confidence than that.

      ‘White wine spritzer, wasn’t it?’

      ‘No. Sorry – what I mean to say is, I’m drinking lemonade with a dash of lime.’

      ‘Lemonade and lime, please,’ he asked the barman, ‘and a Scotch for me, please.’

      Nice manners. But had she agreed to this?

      Libby rapidly rejigged her brain cells to take in the dark, flashing eyes, thick, wavy black hair, and totally disreputable stubble of the man who was wearing snug-fitting jeans, highly polished boots, and a beautifully tailored jacket that