Men In Uniform: Captivated By The Prince. Lynn Raye Harris
their brand-new brides. Whether they’re living
luxuriously in London or flying by private jet
to their glamorous European villas, these
arrogant, commanding tycoons need wives,
and they’ll have them—by Christmas!
Don’t miss any of the exciting stories available
this month from Harlequin Presents EXTRA:
Hired: The Italian’s Convenient Mistress
by Carol Marinelli
The Spanish Billionaire’s Christmas Bride
by Maggie Cox
Claimed for the Italian’s Revenge
by Natalie Rivers
The Prince’s Arranged Bride
by Susan Stephens
SUSAN STEPHENS was a professional singer before meeting her husband on the Mediterranean island of Malta. In true Modern Romance style they met on Monday, became engaged on Friday and married three months later. Susan enjoys entertaining, travel and going to the theatre. To relax she reads, cooks and plays the piano, and when she’s had enough of relaxing she throws herself off mountains on skis or gallops through the countryside singing loudly.
For Steve, my hero.
CROWN PRINCE ALESSANDRO BUSSONI OF FERARA narrowed amber eyes in lazy speculation as he continued to stare at the brightly lit stage. ‘She’d do.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
There was no emotion in the question. The man sitting next to the Prince on the top table at the lavish Midsummer ball wore the carefully controlled expression of a career diplomat, and had a voice to match. Thin and lugubrious, with sun-starved features, it would have been impossible for Marco Romagnoli to provide a sharper contrast to his employer, and Crown Prince Alessandro’s blistering good looks were supported by one of the brightest minds in Europe, as well as all the presence and easy charm that was his by right of birth.
‘I said she’d do,’ the Prince repeated impatiently, turning a compelling gaze on his aide-de-camp. ‘You’ve paraded every woman of marriageable age before me, Marco, and failed to tempt me once. I like the look of this girl—’
And it was a lot more than just her stunning appearance, Alessandro acknowledged silently as his glance went back to the stage. The girl possessed an incredible energy not dissimilar to his own—an energy that seemed to leap out from the gaudily dressed performance area and thump him straight in the chest.
All he had to offer her was a cold-blooded business deal, but…His sensuous mouth curved in a thoughtful smile. In this instance mixing business with pleasure might not be such a bad thing.
‘Are you serious, Your Royal Highness?’ Marco Romagnoli murmured, taking care not to alert their fellow diners.
‘Would I joke about so serious a matter as my future wife? Alessandro demanded in a fierce whisper. ‘She looks like fun.’
‘Fun, sir?’ Marco Romagnoli leaned forward to follow his employer’s eyeline. ‘You are talking about the singer with the band?’
‘You find something wrong with that?’ the Prince demanded, swivelling round to level a challenging gaze on his aide’s face.
‘No, sir,’ Marco returned in a monotone, knowing the Prince would brook no prejudice based on flimsy face-value evidence. ‘But if I may ask an impertinent question…?’
‘Ask away,’ Alessandro encouraged, his firm mouth showing the first hint of amusement as he guessed the way Marco’s mind was working.
‘She’d do for what, exactly, sir…? Only she’s rather—’
‘Luscious? Bold? Striking? In your face? What?’ the Prince prompted adjusting his long legs as if the enforced inactivity was starting to irk him.
‘All of those,’ Marco suggested uncomfortably, his glance flashing back to the stage, where Emily Weston was well into her third number and clearly had the affluent, well-oiled crowd eating out of her hand. ‘I can see that a young lady like that holds a certain attraction for—’ Marco Romagnoli eased his fingers under a starched white collar that seemed to be on the point of choking him.
‘Go on. Don’t stop now,’ Prince Alessandro encouraged, reining in his amusement.
Taking a few moments to rethink his approach, the usually unflappable courtier replied carefully, ‘Well, sir, I can see she’s a beauty, and undoubtedly perfect for certain activities. But you surely can’t be thinking—’
‘You mean I should bed her, not wed her?’ Alessandro suggested dryly, as he looked back to where Emily had the microphone clutched between both hands for a slow number, looking as if she was about to devour it.
‘I couldn’t have put it better myself, sir. In my opinion such an ill-judged match would only create more problems than it would solve.’
‘I disagree,’ the Crown Prince of Ferara countered, ‘and nothing you can say will persuade me that the girls you have paraded before me would fill the role any better—or vacate it without causing problems.’
He paused, and took another long look at the stage. ‘As it is not my intention to break any hearts, Marco, this is the perfect solution. I want a straightforward business deal and a short-term bride—’
‘Short-term, sir?’
Alessandro turned to answer the disquiet so clearly painted across the other man’s face.
‘I know,’ he said, leaning closer to ensure they were not overheard. ‘You’re thinking of all the other implications such an arrangement would entail—I would expect nothing less of you, my old friend.’
The Prince’s companion grew ever more troubled. Even if he could have shed the role of cautious professional advisor, Marco Romagnoli had known Alessandro from the day of his birth, and was considered an honorary member of the royal family.
‘I wouldn’t wish to see anyone take advantage of you, sir,’ he said now, with concern.
‘I shall take good care to ensure that none of the parties involved in my plan is taken advantage of,’ Alessandro assured him. ‘Thanks to our country’s archaic legislation I can think of no other way to solve the problem of succession. If my father is to have his wish and retire I must marry immediately. It’s obvious to me that this young woman has spirit. When I put my proposition to her I think she will have an instant grasp of the advantages that such a match can bring to both of us.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Marco agreed reluctantly, flinching visibly as Emily launched into a raunchy upbeat number.
‘I have seen enough, Marco,’ the Prince said, reclaiming his aide’s attention. ‘And I like what I see. Please advise the young lady that Alessandro Bussoni wishes to talk with her after the performance tonight. No titles,’ he warned. ‘And if she asks, just say I have a proposition to put to her. And don’t forget to ask her name,’ he added as, without another word, Marco Romagnoli rose to his feet.
After the show, Emily Weston, the singer with the band, was having a tense debate over the phone with her twin sister Miranda.
‘Well, how do you deal with them?’ she demanded, shouldering the receiver to scoop up another huge blob of cleansing cream from her twin’s industrial-sized pot.
‘Who do you mean?’ Miranda snuffled between ear-splitting sneezes.
‘Stage Door Johnnies—’
Miranda’s summer cold symptoms dissolved into laughter. ‘Stage Door Whosies?’