tion id="u090fc4f8-07f0-561b-ac2a-8b09ca3cc92f">
Step behind the hotel room doors of the Chatsfield, London…
Abandoned by the harem for the wedding-that-never-was, Libby Lancaster finds herself room-less at the Chatsfield. Making the best of a bad situation, she dons her cousin’s glamorous gala dress and designer heels for a night of being not-Libby! Just this once, good-girl Libby is unleashing her inner bad girl and a night of sin with wickedly sexy Prince Lucaj is just what she needs! But what will happen when the clock strikes twelve on her one-night fantasy?
The Prince in the Royal Suite
Susan Stephens For the team at Harlequin Mills & Boon. Your enthusiasm fires me.
Contents
He noticed the girl in the bar right away. She was sitting on her own with her back to the entrance, so she wasn’t looking out for friends or for her husband or for her lover, and her elegant though tense back view didn’t give him the impression of someone who regularly frequented high-end bars on their own. He strolled in to take a closer look. They had a history of sorts, though he doubted she’d remember him. She’d been too involved at the front desk when he’d arrived, trying to work out why the sumptuous Chatsfield Hotel, renowned as a haven of efficiency and discretion, had got her room reservation so badly wrong. She’d drawn his attention for a number of reasons. She was quite unlike his usual type, in that she was naturally attractive, with mussed up hair, and an open, make-up-less face, but it was her manner that had really impressed him. The way she handled disappointment after a long journey when she discovered that she didn’t have a room at the hotel, had showed restraint and a high level of diplomacy. And now she really intrigued him, because the chain store clothes were gone, and in their place was a simple outfit that screamed money. She had transformed into a butterfly in less than an hour. Who wouldn’t be curious about that? *** Privilege. Wealth. Status. And above all confidence. That was what set the Chatsfield hotel guests apart, Libby concluded. Catching sight of herself in the gilded mirror above the grand Edwardian bar, she almost laughed out loud to see she fit in so well – but only because she was wearing her cousin’s clothes. It was amazing what a change of look could do, and it amused her to think that she could change from mouse to vamp with nothing more than a few yards of cleverly engineered silk and a pair of stiletto heels. She curbed the desire to laugh, guessing a peel of unrestrained laughter might not go down too well in the studied opulence of the hotel bar. She’d caused enough consternation in the Chatsfield for one day. There had been some confusion about her room. More accurately, no hotel room had been reserved for Libby as she had been promised, because the wedding she was here to attend was off. Around the time Libby was scoring the last economy seat on the flight to London – right at the back of the plane between two very large men – the bride had done a bunk and the groom had too, leaving Libby one giant step behind everyone else in the bridal party. Libby had missed her flight to pick up the alterations to her cousin Lucinda’s couture outfits, and then there’d been a mix-up with Libby’s suitcase, which had gone ahead with Lucinda and the rest of the oddly named ‘harem’. The hen party group for this most high-profile of weddings thought it was hysterically funny to call themselves this, simply because the now scandalously missing groom, was a sheikh. Lucinda was a close friend of the bride Tahara – also scandalously missing – so there would be no meeting up in London for some girly time as previously planned, before returning to Sheikh Sayed’s fabulous desert kingdom of Zeena Sara. And now the hens had moved on again, from the Chatsfield, where the wedding was to have been held, to Monte Carlo where, according to the latest text from Lucinda who needed her new couture outfits NOW, the bride’s friends were drowning their sorrows over the cancellation of the wedding in pink champagne. The desk staff had been open-mouthed when Libby had politely explained who she was. ‘But we thought we’d got rid of the harem,’ a smartly dressed girl behind the front desk had whispered, not so discreetly to her friend. ‘What are we going to do with her?’ A muttered discussion had followed. Apparently, only the hotel’s ‘emergency room’ was free. Covert glances at Libby suggested the desk clerks thought that would soon put her off, but Libby had stood her ground. She had to sleep somewhere tonight, and the emergency room sounded fine to her. It would be cheap, at least – cheaper, anyway – so she could afford it. It soon became obvious that the staff at the Chatsfield had assumed that ‘the harem’ was part of the sheikh’s pick ‘n’ mix selection, and Libby was the penny sweet that got left behind. Nothing could be further from the truth. Hard-working, a little dated, and forced to scrimp and save best described Libby. She worked for her cousin Lucinda who, the instant Libby had returned home from university, had begged for help sorting out her life. In return for accompanying Lucinda around the world on what was a whirlwind social agenda, Libby received a small wage, though most times Lucinda forgot to pay her, and as Libby had been orphaned as a child and brought up by Lucinda’s parents, she didn’t like to ask Lucinda for money. Studying Business Management at university had taken up the small legacy Libby’s parents had left her, and she had no other means of support, so working for Lucinda was an opportunity to get something on her CV, and she had fallen willingly into the role of Lucinda’s gofer. As soon as she had showered in her tiny bathroom at the Chatsfield, Libby had called Lucinda to check on her suitcase. ‘As it’s in Monte Carlo, I was wondering –’ She got no further. Lucinda might be scatty,
