The Rich Man's Royal Mistress

Straight black brows drew together. ‘Indeed,’ he drawled after a tense second. ‘Thank you, Melissa—or should I call you Your Highness?’

‘No,’ she said, without trying to smooth her tone. ‘That’s Gabe’s title, not mine.’

One dark brow rose. ‘But you are officially a princess of Illyria.’

Reluctantly she nodded. ‘It’s just a courtesy title because I happen to be Gabe’s sister. The real Princess of Illyria is Ianthe, because she is our cousin Alex’s wife.’ She hesitated, then asked, ‘Would you mind not telling anyone here about it?’

His broad shoulders lifted a little. ‘If you don’t want them to know, of course I won’t tell them,’ he said. ‘But New Zealanders are quite forgiving of foreign royalty, you know. Your real Princess Ianthe is one of us, after all.’

In her most colourless tone she insisted, ‘I’m not royalty.’

He ignored that. ‘Tell me what an Illyrian princess—even one majoring in management—is doing working at the Shipwreck Bay Lodge in New Zealand.’

Her head came up. ‘Plenty of princesses work for their living.’

‘Not usually those who can boast an ancestry as old as Europe, scattered with the names of every royal house that’s existed since the beginning of the millennium.’ Green eyes narrowed and intent, he surveyed her. ‘And one with two brothers who have the power and money to cocoon you in luxury. So why aren’t you enjoying all that wealth and privilege can offer you?’

The cynical note in his voice rocked her poise. She knew Hawke Kennedy’s story—he’d left school as soon as he could, worked in the construction business for a couple of years, then made a fortune in property development in the Pacific area before broadening his financial interests and conquering the world.

If she said she wasn’t interested in living an aimless, self-indulgent life, she’d just sound smug. So she shrugged and said flippantly, ‘Because boredom’s not my thing.’

‘Very worthy.’ His beautifully sculpted mouth curved in a coolly quizzical smile. ‘But hotel management? I’d have thought you’d have chosen a career more in keeping with your position in society—a career that gave you plenty of time off for house parties and travel.’

‘Until a month ago I had no position in society,’ she returned crisply. ‘Yes, my grandfather was the Grand Duke of Illyria, but both he and the ruling prince were killed fighting the usurper. The first thing the dictator did once he was in power was abolish all titles and withdraw citizenship from everyone who’d managed to escape. America granted my father refugee status, and he lived and died plain Mr Considine. I was born Melissa Considine, and that’s who I am still.’

Her tone should have silenced him, but Hawke kept on probing. ‘However, your brothers are now both citizens of Illyria, and Gabe is Grand Duke—third in importance to Prince Alex after his small son.’

‘Alex is very persuasive,’ she admitted wryly. ‘Once he’d been crowned, he persuaded us all to renew citizenship, and then convinced Gabe to accept the title of Grand Duke, which automatically made Marco a prince and me a princess. It means nothing to anyone except the Illyrians.’

His hooded gaze sent an odd tingle through her, but all he said was, ‘I’ve no doubt you’ll carry it off very well.’

The practised compliment chafed her pride. Appalled, she realised she wanted much more from him than meaningless flattery. ‘It doesn’t change who I am, or what I am.’

A cynical smile curved his hard mouth, but he left the subject. ‘So tell me why the sister of two of the most respected commercial brains in the world is planning a career in hospitality.’

Although an inner caution warned her to be circumspect, she opted for the truth—mainly, she admitted reluctantly, driven by a desire to make him understand her. ‘Like Alex and my brothers, I want to help Illyria regain prosperity and peace. We can earn overseas currency through tourism, but the industry will have to be managed very carefully so that we don’t lose what makes Illyria special.’

He inclined his dark head. ‘Exclusive lodges in the mountains.’

‘Yes.’ Dangerously pleased that he’d understood, she smiled.

‘It makes sense. And of course with your brothers to back you, success is assured.’

Over the years Melissa had learned to hide her shyness with a veneer of composure, but for some unfathomable reason Hawke Kennedy had only to look at her to crack her normally self-sufficient mask.

Still, she wasn’t going to let him insinuate that she wasn’t capable of carrying out her plans. ‘Given hard work and some luck, I hope so,’ she said evenly. ‘Is there anything else you need?’

‘No, that’s it for now,’ he said, an undercurrent of amusement in his tone chipping away even more of her poise.

‘I hope you enjoy your meal,’ she said automatically, before escaping to the corridor, huddled in the tattered remains of her poise.

Halfway to the kitchen her steps slowed. In front of one of the big windows overlooking the lake, she stopped to give her racing heart and jumping nerves time to slow down.

Fixing her gaze on the sombre symphony of mountains and lake outside, she blew out a long, shaking breath. Of all the coincidences in the world, this had to be the most incredible! She’d known Hawke for several years; he was a friend of her older brother, Gabe—although she didn’t think they’d seen much of each other lately. His buccaneering good looks and formidable presence always made a powerful impression on her, but instinct warned her to keep her distance. The first time she’d met those enigmatic green eyes she’d known she’d be no match for him.

And he’d treated her with a kind of avuncular friendliness that made her feel very young and raw and totally lacking in sex appeal.

Which she was, compared to the model in his life—the exquisite Jacoba Sinclair, who seemed not to care about his occasional brief affairs with other women. Melissa had no illusions about her own looks.

A year previously she’d danced with Hawke at the wedding of one of her French cousins. She’d accepted his invitation only because to refuse would have been flagrantly rude.

A few months before, he’d broken a young actress’s heart, callously discarding her after a whirlwind affair to go back to his off-again, on-again mistress. The poor woman had tried to commit suicide, and for a few weeks her tragic, beautiful face had been in all the tabloids. Hawke had remained silent about the affair and eventually the fuss had died down, but it left a sour taste in Melissa’s mouth.

She despised philanderers.

So it had been a huge shock to feel a silkily sensuous shudder tighten her skin when his arms closed around her and he swung her onto the dance floor. She’d parried his coolly satirical observations with a few inconsequential words and kept her eyes averted from his speculative green gaze. Of course he’d danced like a dream, holding her close enough to brush against the lean, honed strength of his big body, yet far enough away to tantalise a part of her into eager, forbidden awareness.

It had been a ridiculously overblown response; with two extremely handsome brothers she was accustomed to male beauty.

Yet five minutes ago in the royal suite exactly the same thing had happened again, and to her shock she realised that the lazily seductive tune they’d danced to on that romantic Provençal night was winding sinuously through her mind.

Melissa blinked fiercely, forcing herself to banish the memory of a candlelit château ballroom and the heavy, sensuous perfume of roses. She pressed the palms of her hands to her eyes, then opened them and stared angrily at the dark bulk of the mountain across the lake, dotted now with tiny twinkling lights as the snow-groomers worked.

‘All right, so he’s gorgeous,’ she muttered, horrified to find that her voice slurred the words as though she were drunk. She dragged in a deep, deliberate breath. ‘And he’s taller than you, which has to be a bonus.’

Not many men were.

And gorgeous wasn’t exactly the right word to describe Hawke Kennedy. Oh, he pleased her eyes—‘Too much,’ she muttered—but his boldly chiselled features were more forceful and intimidating than handsome.

Something about him set alarm bells jangling through her in primal, instinctive response. He looked like a man who’d make a very bad enemy.

Well, not precisely alarm bells—more a rush of adrenalin that kindled a volatile, reckless fire deep in the pit of her stomach.

His strong impact had a lot to do with his height and his powerful, athletic presence, but it was more basic than that. She’d met other men as tall without even a tingle of awareness. Melissa shivered, foolishly letting herself recall the romantic waltz they’d shared.

In spite of her antagonism, for the first time in her life she’d felt sexy and light, like someone made dizzy by champagne. Her mind had spun, and she’d been glad he hadn’t kept talking, because it was all she could do to keep her feet moving and her face composed.

And when she’d looked up into his tough, compelling face she’d realised his eyes were a dark, disturbing green lit by gleaming starbursts of gold around the pupils.

That had been a year ago, yet she still remembered every sharp, astonished perception, each addictive shaft of sensation.

Which was humiliating, because when the dance was over Hawke had smiled at her, thanked her without trying to hide the note of irony in his voice, and delivered her to her group, staying to chat for a few minutes.

Then the next dance had been announced, and he’d left them. Five minutes later she’d seen him with a luscious American divorcée. He’d been smiling again, but this was an entirely different smile. Cool yet dazzling, dangerously intent, its predatory glint had made Melissa realise just how detached he’d been with her.

A fierce, bleak envy had consumed her and she’d had to look away. So of course she’d tried very hard to forget him, yet the effect he’d had on her hadn’t faded; sometimes she even dreamed about him.

How stupid was that!