their Party Queens spouses had come along. Jake had been Tristan’s best man at his wedding to Gemma.
But Natalia didn’t want any questions about their connection. ‘You, of course, were on the bride’s side.’
‘I went to university with Eliza. Since then I’ve done business with her party planning company.’
‘I met her quite recently,’ Natalia said.
Eliza had been one of Gemma’s bridesmaids at her brother’s spectacular wedding in the grand cathedral the previous year. Just the kind of wedding her parents intended for her. Dread squeezed her at the very thought. Marriage Montovian royal-style seemed more like a trap than a gateway to happy-ever-after.
‘Eliza’s lovely, and she seems so happy.’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘And Jake’s a good guy.’
Natalia had devised a cover story for her alter ego, but it didn’t go very deep. Stalling, she gulped some champagne as she tried to keep the details straight in her mind.
Hot Guy seemed to have no such hesitation. He transferred his glass to his left hand and offered his right. ‘Finn O’Neill,’ he said, by way of introduction.
Natalie stared at him, spluttered over her champagne, and coughed. Then she quickly recovered herself. ‘I’m sorry, I—’
‘You were startled by my name? Don’t worry. You’re not the first and I’d lay a hefty bet you won’t be the last. Irish father; Chinese grandfather and Italian grandmother on my mother’s side.’
So that was where those exotic good looks came from. ‘No. I...er...’ She started a polite fib, then thought better of it. To conceal her identity she was being forced to fib. No need to do so unnecessarily. ‘Yes, I was surprised. Your name doesn’t match your looks. Not like the Irish guys I’ve met, that is.’
‘I’m a fine example of Australia’s multicultural population,’ he said lightly.
He was a fine example of a male.
Before she could dig herself in any further, she took his hand in a firm shake. ‘Natalie Gerard,’ she said. Natalie seemed a less memorable name than Natalia; Gerard was her father the King’s name. She actually didn’t have a surname—she was simply known as Natalia, Princess of Montovia.
‘By the sound of your accent, you’re English,’ he said.
‘Er...yes,’ she said.
She didn’t like to lie. But she’d promised her family not to blow her cover to anyone, in case of leaks to the media. Princess Heartbreaker in disguise at a wedding would be the kind of thing they liked to pounce on. So lie she must—though she’d rather think of it as tactical evasion.
Thank heaven for the English-born tutor married to a Montovian woman who had taught her perfectly accented English from the time she’d started to speak her first words. She also spoke impeccable German, French and Italian, with passable Spanish. So for today she would be English.
‘Do you live here?’ Finn asked.
She shook her head. ‘Sadly I’m just visiting on vacation. I wish it were longer. Sydney is fabulous.’
‘Spring is a good time to visit,’ he said.
‘Yes, it is,’ she said. ‘I’m loving it here.’
Just plain Natalie, a tourist, had spent the last three days riding the ferries, visiting the beaches, taking in a concert at the Opera House. She’d revelled in her freedom and anonymity—even though her two bodyguards were always at a discreet distance. As they were here now, masquerading as waiters.
Perhaps Finn had snagged the champagne from one of them. She was so used to the constant presence of household staff and bodyguards she scarcely noticed their presence.
‘Where do you live in England?’ Finn asked.
‘London,’ she said.
The royal family had a house in Mayfair, where she’d lived for a while when she was studying. Until the paparazzi had snapped her staggering out of a nightclub after one too many cocktails and she’d been recalled in disgrace to the palace before she’d been able to finish her degree in architecture.
‘Whereabouts in London?’ he said. ‘I visit there quite often.’
No need to get too specific... Natalia chose to answer the second part of his question instead. ‘What takes you to London?’
‘My import/export business,’ he said.
Which could, she thought, mean anything.
‘What do you do?’ he said.
Nothing she could share with him. Being Princess of Montovia was pretty much a full-time role. She wasn’t allowed to be employed—rather had thrown herself into charity work.
Her main occupation was with the charity she’d started, which auctioned worn-once designer clothes and accessories donated by her and others in her circle to benefit her particular interest—the promotion of education for girls wherever they lived in the world.
Her online fashion parades and auctions had taken off way beyond anything she’d anticipated. Donations of fashion items now came from wealthy aristocrats and celebrities from all over Europe. Bids came from all around the world. The administration was undertaken by volunteers, so profits went straight to where they were needed. She was proud of what she had achieved through her own initiative. But that had nothing to do with Natalie Gerard.
The fact was, she’d been destined for a strategic marriage rather than a career. Especially after the tragic accident nearly three years ago that had robbed Montovia of her older brother Carl and his family, and pushed her up to second in line to the throne after Tristan, now Crown Prince.
Her life had changed radically after the tragedy, with her parents now obsessed with maintaining the succession to the throne. She’d had to work within their restrictions, not wanting to add to their intense grief in mourning their son and two-year-old grandson, still reeling from her own grief, not to mention the outpouring of grief throughout the country.
But she was beginning to weary of doing everything by the royal rules. She wanted her own life.
She couldn’t share any of that with Finn. Instead she aimed for impartial chit-chat. ‘I work in fashion,’ she said.
That wasn’t too much of a stretch of the truth. Organising her high-end fashion auctions was a job, if not a paid one.
‘Retail or wholesale?’
‘Retail.’
Her role often required several changes of formal clothing a day. That involved a lot of shopping in the fashion capitals of Europe. In fact, that had kicked off her idea for the auctions—she and other people in the public eye were expected by fashion-watchers to appear at functions in a different outfit each time. That meant expensive garments were often only worn once or twice.
‘You fit the part.’
