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myself. But I did my best to please him—to make my mother happy.’ She wrinkled her neat, straight nose. ‘Why am I telling you all this? I’m sure you must find it boring.’
    â€˜You could never be boring, Gemma,’ he said. ‘I know that about you already.’
    It was true. Whether or not she’d cast some kind of witch’s spell over him, he found everything about her fascinating. He wanted nothing more than to find out all about her. Just for today, the rest of his life was on hold. It was just him and Gemma, alone in the curious intimacy of a boat in the middle of Sydney Harbour. Like a regular, everyday date of the kind that would not be possible for him once he was back home.
    â€˜Are you sure you want to hear more of my ordinary little story?’ she asked, her head tilted to one side.
    â€˜Nothing could interest me more.’
    She could read out loud the list of ingredients from one of her recipes and he’d hang on every word, watching the expressions flit across her face, her dimples peeking in and out. Although so far there didn’t appear to be a lot to smile about in her story.
    The good-looking dark-haired waiter came to clear their coffee cups and plates. Gemma looked up and smiled at him as she asked him to leave the fruit. Tristan felt a surge of jealousy—until he realised the waiter was more likely to be interested in him rather than her . Gemma thanked him and praised the chef.
    After the waiter had left, she leaned across the table to Tristan. Her voice was lowered to barely above a whisper. ‘It feels weird, having people I know serve me,’ she said. ‘My instinct is to jump up and help. I’m used to being on the other side of the kitchen door.’
    Tristan had been used to people serving him since he was a baby. An army of staff catered to the royal family’s every need. He’d long ago got used to the presence of servants in the room—so much that they’d become almost invisible. When he went back he would have a hand-picked private staff of his own to help him assume his new responsibilities as crown prince.
    The downside was that there was very little privacy. Since his brother had died every aspect of his life had been under constant, intense scrutiny.
    Gemma returned to her story. ‘Inevitably, when I was a teenager I clashed with my stepfather. It made my mother unhappy. I was glad to leave home for uni—and I never went back except for fleeting visits.’
    â€˜And your father?’
    â€˜You mean my birth father?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜He died before I was born.’ Her voice betrayed no emotion. It was as if she were speaking about a stranger.
    â€˜That was a tragedy.’
    â€˜For my mother, yes. She was a ski instructor in the French resort of Val d’Isère, taking a gap year. My father was English—also a ski instructor. They fell madly in love, she got pregnant, they got married and soon after he got killed in an avalanche.’
    â€˜I’m sorry—that’s a terrible story.’
    Skiing was one of the risky sports he loved, along with mountaineering and skydiving. The castle staff was doing everything it could to wean him off those adrenaline-pumping pastimes. He knew he had to acquiesce. The continuity of the royal family was paramount. His country had lost one heir to an accident and could not afford to lose him, too.
    But he railed against being cosseted. Hated having his independence and choice taken away from him. Sometimes the price of becoming king in future seemed unbearably high. But duty overruled everything. Tragedy had forced fate’s hand. He accepted his inheritance and everything that went with it—no matter the cost to him. He was now the crown prince.
    Gemma made a dismissive gesture with her hands. ‘I didn’t know my father, so of course I never missed him. But he was the love of my mother’s life. She was