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 smiled and waved her over, mesmerised by the sway of her slim hips in poured-on denim, the way the lamplight highlighted the toffee tints in her hair, and how her overall outfit combined sassy casual with an innate elegance. Though he guessed that had more to do with the woman inside the clothes than the garments themselves.
Natasha Telford, quite simply, took his breath away.
Now he only hoped she had an open mind to go along with his plan.
‘Glad you could make it,’ he said, rising to his feet and pulling out a chair.
‘No problems.’ She inclined her head in thanks and sat down, gesturing to a waiter behind the bar. ‘What would you like?’
‘Espresso, please.’ And a healthy dollop of your co-operation.
‘Make that two,’ she said, smiling at the waiter in a way that made Dante’s pulse roar.
Why couldn’t she give him one of those smiles? Was the young guy a flame?
He studied her carefully, watching for a flushing of cheeks, a coy expression, a change in body language, but he came up blank. In fact, while he’d been making a few irrational leaps of thought it looked like she’d been studying him just as intently. By the slight frown marring her smooth forehead, he’d come up lacking.
‘So what did you want to discuss?’
She sat ramrod-straight, her hands clasped firmly in her lap, a determined look on her face, and Dante had a sneaking suspicion his plan was about to hit a major snag in the form of one beautiful wet blanket.
‘I need your help.’
‘So you said earlier.’
Her caustic tone didn’t inspire much confidence and he ploughed on, choosing his words carefully.
‘My visit to your country is multi-faceted. Official duties, fostering foreign relations and a family visit. Everyone knows the prince will be staying at your hotel and for how long. What they don’t know is that I’ve arrived on schedule, assumed a different identity and will have my secretary ring to say I’ve been delayed by a week. So during that week I wish to remain anonymous.’
‘Why didn’t you let me know your need for anonymity when you booked?’
Good question; he just couldn’t give her an honest answer. How could he explain to a woman he barely knew that the spur of the moment decision had as much to do with a desperate need to escape as his desire to spend time with a nephew he’d hardly seen?
‘My extra week here is impromptu and I need some time out from my duties.’
She raised an eyebrow, a delicate gesture that made him smile. Somehow, he knew there was nothing delicate about Natasha Telford. She came across as a vision of feminine loveliness…with a backbone of steel beneath.
‘I see.’
By the tiny frown creasing her brow, he seriously doubted that.
‘For family reasons?’
‘Uh-huh.’
Natasha sat back in the armchair and fixed the prince with a suspicious glare, wondering if he thought she were completely stupid.
Guys like him didn’t flit around countries trying to hide their identity for ‘family reasons’. They did the whole cloak and dagger thing for floozies, mistresses or whatever the name was for their hidden love interests.
The prince must have a secret lover, someone he didn’t want the press to get wind of, and that had to be the real reason behind this elaborate farce.
So what? It wasn’t any of her business. As long as he came out of the closet—so to speak—at the end of the week, she’d still get the much-needed publicity boost for the Towers. And, after playing along with His Sneaky Highness, she had every intention of milking his royal presence for every cent he was worth.
‘You don’t look too impressed.’
Silently cursing her expressive face, Natasha said, ‘What you do in the next week is no concern of mine.’
‘That’s where
