Cinderella: Hired by the Prince / The Sheikh's Destiny: Cinderella: Hired by the Prince / The Sheikh's Destiny

Logically, it shouldn’t make one whit of difference that he was royal, but it did, and she felt used and stupid and very much like a star-struck teenager. All that was needed was the paparazzi. Images of headlines flashed through her head—Crown Prince of Cepheus Takes Stupid, Naive Australian Lover—and as she neared the boat she couldn’t help casting a furtive glance over her shoulder to check the thought had no foundation.

It didn’t—of course it didn’t. There was only Ramón, kneeling on the deck, calmly sealing the ends of new ropes.

He glanced up and saw her coming. He smiled a welcome, but she was too sick at heart to smile back.

For a few wonderful days she’d let herself believe this smile could be for her.

She felt besmirched.

‘I’ve just come back to get my things,’ she said flatly before he had a chance to speak.

‘You’re leaving?’ His eyes were calmly appraising.

‘Of course I’m leaving.’

‘To go where?’

‘I’ll see if I can get a temporary job here. As soon as I can get back to Australia I’ll organize some way of repaying the loan.’

‘There’s no need for you to repay…’

‘There’s every need,’ she flashed, wanting to stamp her foot; wanting, quite badly, to cry. ‘You think I want to be in your debt for one minute more than I must? I’ve read about you on the Internet now. It doesn’t matter whether anyone died or not. You were a prince already.’

‘Does that make a difference?’ he asked, still watchful, and his very calmness added to her distress.

‘Of course it does. I’ve been going to bed with a prince,’ she wailed, and the couple on board their cruiser in the next berth choked on their lunch time Martinis.

But Ramón didn’t notice. He had eyes only for her. ‘You went to bed with me,’ he said softly. ‘Not with a prince.’

‘You are a prince.’

‘I’m just Ramón, Gianetta.’

‘Don’t Gianetta me,’ she snapped. ‘That’s your bedroom we slept in. Not the owner’s. Here I was thinking we were doing something illicit…’

‘Weren’t we?’ he demanded and a glint of humour returned to his dark eyes.

‘It was your bed all along,’ she wailed and then, finally, she made a grab at composure. The couple on the next boat were likely to lose their eyes; they were out on stalks. Dignity, she told herself desperately. Please.

‘So I own the boat,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’m a prince. What more do you know of me?’

‘Apparently very little,’ she said bitterly. ‘I seem to have told you my whole life story. It appears you’ve only told me about two minutes of yours. Apparently you’re wealthy, fabulously wealthy, and you’re royal. The Internet bio was sketchy, but you spend your time either on this boat or fronting some charity organisation.’

‘I do more than that.’

But she was past hearing. She was past wanting to hear. She felt humiliated to her socks, and one fact stood out above all the rest. She’d never really known him.

‘So when you saw me you thought here’s a little more charity,’ she threw at him, anger making her almost incoherent. ‘I’ll take this poverty-stricken, flour-streaked muffin-maker and show her a nice time.’

‘A flour-streaked muffin-maker?’ he said and, infuriatingly, the laughter was back. ‘I guess if you want to describe yourself as that…Okay, fine, I rescued the muffin-maker. And we did have a nice time. No?’

But she wasn’t going there. She was not being sucked into that smile ever again. ‘I’m leaving,’ she said, and she swung herself down onto the deck. She was heading below, but Ramón was before her, blocking her path.

‘Jenny, you’re still contracted to take my boat to Cepheus.’

‘You don’t need me…’

‘You signed a contract. Yesterday, as I remember—and it was you who wanted it signed before we came into port.’ His hands were on her shoulders, forcing her to meet his gaze, and her anger was suddenly matched with his. ‘So you’ve been on the Internet. Do you understand why I have to return?’

And she did understand. Sort of. She’d read and read and read. ‘It seems your uncle and cousin are dead,’ she said flatly. ‘There’s a huge scandal because it seems your cousin wasn’t married after all, so his little son can’t inherit. So you get to be Crown Prince.’ Even now, she couldn’t believe she was saying it. Crown Prince. It was like some appalling twisted fairy tale. Kiss a frog, have him turn into a prince.

She wanted her frog back.

‘I don’t have a choice in this,’ he said harshly. ‘You need to believe that.’ Before she could stop him, he put the back of his hand against her cheek and ran it down to her lips, a touch so sensuous that it made a shiver run right down to her toes. But there was anger behind the touch—and there was also…Regret? ‘Gianetta, for you to go…’