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Princess Australia
Nicola Marsh
For the real princesses in my life.
Thanks for your warmth, your friendship and the many laughs we share.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
‘I WANT a crate of soda, a monster bowl of hot chips and a triple layered choc-fudge banana-split sundae. Got that? And make it snappy!’
Natasha Telford glared at the back of Australia’s youngest pop star as he strutted towards the lift after snapping his order at her. She surreptitiously squeezed a stress ball under the concierge’s desk while wishing she could rip a few more slashes into the upstart’s trendy torn T-shirt.
How old Harvey did this job on a daily basis she’d never know.
As a kid growing up in Telford Towers, she’d thought the concierge had the most glamorous job in the world. Until this week, when she’d had to fill in while Harvey had his hip replacement. Giving polite tourists directions to Melbourne’s famous sites she could handle. It was the sulky, rude, demanding famous—especially young punks barely out of school—she could politely strangle.
Speaking of famous, the Prince of Calida was due any second, and she cast a quick, assessing look around the lobby, ensuring everything was in place. The demanding little snot of a pop star could wait for his sundae. She had a bigger guy to impress, namely Dante Andretti, soon to be crowned monarch of a tiny principality off Italy’s west coast, if the info she’d gleaned off the Net was accurate.
The lobby looked perfect, from its polished marble floor to gleaming brass-trimmed check-in desk, its plush chocolate-brown sofas and muted antique lamps with the stunning floral bouquets ordered on a daily basis arranged strategically throughout.
Natasha smiled, infused with the same pride she experienced every day she entered the Towers. She loved this place. Every last square inch of it. And she’d do anything to make sure it stayed in the family. Anything.
‘So when’s His Uptightness due?’
Natasha’s smile broadened as she whirled around and came face to face with Ella Worchester, her best friend.
‘Don’t call him that. He’s probably a really nice guy,’ she said, rearranging a pile of maps, a box of theatre tickets and a credenza of tourist flyers for the umpteenth time. Her nerves were working overtime, and if the prince didn’t arrive soon she’d go into serious meltdown.
Ella rolled her eyes and stuck her ink-stained hands in the pockets of her low-slung denim hipsters. ‘Yeah, I bet he’s a real prince.’
Natasha ignored Ella’s cynicism as she usually did. Right now, a prince was exactly what she needed—or, more accurately, what the Towers needed.
‘Do you know much about him?’
Not enough. And that was what had her worried.
Usually, she knew everything about the VIPs staying at the hotel. It was her job. In this case, even more vital than usual. Telford Towers needed the prince’s presence, like, yesterday.
Natasha shrugged. ‘Only what I’ve gleaned off the Net, which isn’t much. There was a whole heap of geographical stuff about Calida, a tiny bit about the royal family and that’s about it.’
‘Is he cute?’ Ella stuck out a slender hip in a provocative pose, and Natasha laughed.
‘Couldn’t tell much from the pic on the website. Too small.’
‘You wouldn’t be holding out on me by any chance?’ Ella’s teasing tone elicited more laughter and Natasha held up her hands in surrender.
‘Give me a break. From what I could see, the guy was trussed up like a turkey in some fancy-schmancy uniform, had his hair slicked back in army fashion and looked like he couldn’t crack a smile if his life depended on it. There, satisfied?’
Though there was one thing that had stood out in the prince’s picture.
His eyes.
Beautiful, clear blue eyes that had leapt off her computer screen and imprinted on her brain.
She’d always had a thing for guys’ eyes, believing in the whole ‘windows to the soul’thing. Pity she hadn’t read the real motivation behind Clay’s eyes. It would’ve saved her a lot of heartache, and would’ve avoided putting her family in the invidious position of losing the one thing that meant everything, courtesy of her greedy ex.
‘Well, don’t let him boss you around, okay? You’re only filling in for Harvey; doesn’t mean you have to take anything from anyone, prince or not.’
Natasha squeezed Ella’s hand. ‘The prince is important for business, and I’ll treat him like I treat the rest of the customers. With respect, care and—’
‘Yeah, yeah. Save the spiel for someone who hasn’t heard it a million times before.’ Ella held up her hand, though her fond grin underlined the lack of malice in her words. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I have a gardening column to write and a few more botanical drawings to do before lunch.’
‘Coffee at Trevi’s, usual time?’ By then, she’d definitely need a caffeine hit.
‘Sounds great. See you at five.’
Ella gave her a cheeky wave and sauntered away, a slim, tall figure in head-to-toe denim with her short, shaggy auburn bob swinging in sync with her steps.
Her best friend was stunning, enjoyed life and had energy to burn, while Natasha felt like a worn facecloth wrung dry. Stress did that to a person, the type of stress that dogged her every waking moment, and unfortunately most of her sleeping ones too. Little wonder she looked so pale next to her vibrant friend.
Glancing at her gold and silver link watch—the one her dad had given her for her twenty-first, years before money had become a problem for them—she wondered why the prince was late. Most of the VIPs she usually dealt with had their itineraries scheduled to the last second and she assumed royalty would be more pedantic than most.
Especially a prince who looked like he couldn’t crack a smile, if that tiny pic on the Net had been any indication.
At that moment, a gleaming black Harley roared to a stop outside the front door, and Natasha nibbled nervously on her bottom lip, hoping Alan the doorman would get the noisy thing valet-parked as soon as possible. First impressions counted, and she desperately needed to make this one count with the prince.
After another nervous glance at her watch, and more subtle rearranging of the tourist brochures stacked on the concierge desk, she glanced up in time to see the Harley’s rider stride through the glass doors.
And her mouth went dry.
The guy looked like a walking advertisement for Bad Boys Inc: tall, over six feet, with broad shoulders