Читать книгу Contract Wedding, Expectant Bride - Yvonne Lindsay - Страница 9

Three

Ottavia tore her eyes from the vision of male strength and vigor below on the driveway. Her fingers trembled as she let go of the curtain and shifted out of view. How was it possible that he was even more attractive to her dressed in activewear than he had been in his formal suit only an hour or so ago? He’d never looked less regal, or more physically appealing. There was an unconscious raw energy swirling around him, quite different from the power he’d so deliberately wielded when they’d talked earlier.

Ha, talked. That almost made their conversation sound as if it had been civilized when the undercurrents that had run between them had been almost primal. Ottavia sighed, unused to this sensation that twisted and turned inside her. Unused to feeling this level of attraction for any man. In fact, she’d always actively avoided it.

Yes, she knew most people assumed that because she was a courtesan she was a body for hire and that sexual desire was part of the package, but that was never true. Not on her side. And while she knew many of her clients were physically drawn to her, sex was never a part of her role in her clients’ lives—she had very strict rules about that. She never took a client on without making those rules supremely clear. Whenever a man disagreed, she simply walked away. Sexual intimacy with her was not something she would permit anyone to buy ever again.

Those who agreed to her terms had the benefit of her company and experience for the duration of their contract—knowing that her role was to make their lives as comfortable and happy as she possibly could.

She’d be the ear that listened to them at the end of an arduous day. The consoling voice when they suffered. The consummate hostess with the utmost discretion. But not their lover, no matter what enticements they offered to change her mind.

Honestly, she’d never even been tempted. She made an unofficial policy of avoiding contracts with men who she found attractive. It was simpler—cleaner—not to blur that line, to be able to focus on her companion’s needs without getting distracted by her own desires. Even when she’d negotiated her contract with King Thierry of Sylvain, who was unquestionably a handsome and appealing man, she had remained unaroused. She couldn’t feel any true attraction to him when the correspondence they had shared prior to their planned rendezvous had made it clear that his priority was to learn from her how to build a strong marriage with his future bride.

That helped her to keep her physical desires away from her work. Always, there was the reminder that she was an impermanent feature in her clients’ lives. She was there to amuse, or entertain, or soothe, or instruct...for a while. But never was she there to stay. So she was always tuned in to her clients, aware of whatever steps she needed to take to be the perfect companion, to match their needs and requirements. But never, never had she felt like this.

It was as though her skin was too tight for her body, as if every nerve buzzed with anticipation.

A sharp rap sounded at the door to her room, making her jump. She fought to compose herself and felt a flash of annoyance as Sonja Novak let herself into the room without waiting for Ottavia’s call of consent. Sonja was followed by a footman, dressed in the staff’s standard uniform of a navy suit and tie. Ottavia’s eyes swiftly took in the items the footman carried.

Her laptop and her phone. Relief flooded her. Finally, she would have access to the outside world.

“Your devices,” Sonja said coldly as she gestured to the footman to put them on the delicate writing desk. “King Rocco has directed that you be given access to the castle Wi-Fi and the printer on this floor. The password to the internet has already been installed on your computer and you have been added to the castle network. You will find a printer in the business suite at the end of the corridor.”

“Thank you,” Ottavia said graciously, even though she’d have much rather commented along the lines of “about time,” instead.

“I sincerely hope His Majesty’s trust in you is not misplaced,” Sonja remarked as the footman exited the room.

“Misplaced? Why should it be?”

“You’re hardly what I would call trustworthy, are you? Always selling yourself to the highest bidder? How can we be certain you won’t abuse your...position here?”

A flame of anger licked to life inside Ottavia, but she kept it banked down. It wouldn’t do to show this woman how much her remark insulted. But then, maybe that had been Sonja Novak’s intention all along?

“We?” Ottavia repeated. Did others join the woman in her concerns? Sonja declined to answer. Ottavia met the other woman’s hard glare with a gentle smile. “If I could have some privacy now, please...?”

For the second time that day, Ottavia turned her back on her. She knew it was a dangerous move. In battle, one never turned one’s back to the enemy, but she had no wish to engage in any further conversation. The entire time Ottavia had been held here, the king’s adviser had made it more than clear that she felt Ottavia should never have sullied the glorified air of the castle.

“Ms. Romolo, you may think that now you are no longer a prisoner here you have the upper hand over me, but you are mistaken. Don’t push me, or you will regret it. And do not, under any circumstances, betray King Rocco’s trust in you.”

“You can let yourself out,” Ottavia responded.

It was only once the door snicked quietly closed behind her that Ottavia allowed herself to relax. She huffed out a breath of air and eagerly reached for her phone. There’d be messages she needed to attend to. She thumbed the power button but was frustrated by a completely blank screen. Flat, obviously. Never mind, in her suitcase were her chargers.

She retrieved the chargers and plugged in both her phone and her laptop. Her heart sank when she saw how many voice mails were stored on her phone. She listened to each one, her heart aching. Her cheeks were wet with tears by the last. Ottavia sighed and put her phone down on the table with a shaking hand. Should she call Adriana now?

Her heart said yes even while her mind cautioned no. Evenings were always the worst; a call now could leave Adriana’s caregiver with a wealth of stress for the night. No, the morning would be better.

Steeling herself against her heart’s plea, Ottavia placed her phone on her bedside table and turned instead to her laptop. As she opened it, Ottavia wondered if her computer had been examined during the time they’d held it. No doubt. Her phone, too. Well, she had nothing to hide, she thought with a surge of frustration for the position she had been forced into.

Forced into for now, yes, but not to stay. The reminder echoed through her mind. Yes, King Rocco had held her captive here for some time, but she was here now of her own volition. Her own choice. And she had a job to do.

A small smile curved her lips as she booted up the laptop and opened a contract template, swiftly keying in the necessary data, highlighting some sections, deleting others. When she was satisfied she had everything within the contract that she needed, she sent the document to print. Her lips formed a grim line when she saw the palace printer installed in her printer queue, its presence confirming that, yes, they had been into her computer. At least she kept no sensitive data on here relating to her previous client base.

Ottavia let herself out of her room to search for the business suite. Even as she opened the door and stepped out into the richly carpeted corridor she felt as if she was doing something wrong—as if she was still a prisoner, but now on the verge of escape. There was an irony in that, she realized. A deep irony. The contract would ensure there was no escape for her for a while at least, and strangely, that didn’t bother her as much as it should.

Perhaps it had something to do with the contents of the contract—if Rocco didn’t agree then she would be on her way north, home. Her contract, her choices, her safeguards. Would her sovereign agree? A piece of her hoped not, knowing that she’d have a much easier time regaining her hard-won composure if she was away from the king and the unwelcome and irresistible attraction she felt for him. But then another part of her—a part she didn’t want to examine too closely—wanted to see just how far that attraction would take them both...

The business suite Sonja Novak had mentioned was exactly where she’d said it would be. Even though it had clearly irritated the woman to give Ottavia the freedom of the castle, or at least this floor, she’d done what she’d been instructed to do. Freedom was a relative thing, however. Ottavia didn’t doubt for a second that she was under surveillance. The discreetly placed cameras around the room and at intervals on the corridor made that abundantly clear.

The knowledge made her take her time—sauntering across the room and inspecting the equipment there, before going to the printer and lifting the sheets neatly stacked on the tray. She idly flicked through the printed pages, even though she knew exactly what they said, then separated them into the two sets and secured each with clips from a dish on a nearby desk. Then, with a nod of satisfaction she returned to her room.

It was still early evening and she had plenty of time before her nine thirty rendezvous with the king. What should she wear? What was it he’d said? Don’t bother dressing for the occasion? She smiled. She knew what he expected and she would deliver exactly what he’d asked for. After all, wasn’t that what she did best? Deliver on men’s expectations?

A slightly bitter taste filled her mouth. Their expectations, yes, but always, always, on her terms, and her king may find that getting what he asked for was another thing entirely.

* * *

Rocco turned as he heard the knock on his door. Nine thirty. Perfect timing.

“Enter!”

The door swung wide to admit his courtesan. A thrill of anticipation raced through him, making him feel even more invigorated than he had after his run. The sensation rapidly turned to shock as he let his eyes drift over the woman standing in the doorway. Gone was the sensuous drift of silk over skin. Gone was the perfectly arranged swath of hair falling over her shoulders. Gone was the makeup that had accentuated her fascinating gray-green eyes and the slope of her sculpted cheekbones. Even her lips were denuded of any tint of color.

As the surprise faded, humor pulled from deep inside him. So, she’d taken his words literally and hadn’t dressed for the occasion. The last thing he’d expected was for her to turn up in, however, was yoga pants and a faded and stretched T-shirt with a scruffy pair of sneakers on her feet. Even her hair was pulled back in a ponytail so tight that it gave him a headache just looking at it.

And yet, she’d failed to obscure her natural beauty and grace or the way the well-washed fabric of the oversize shirt slipped off one shoulder, exposing the sinfully delectable curve of her shoulder and a hint of the shadow of her collarbone. What was it about her that could cause something as simple as the play of light and shadow on her skin to send his senses into overdrive? He relished finding out.

“Your Majesty,” she greeted him, dipping into a curtsy.

It should look incongruous, dressed as she was, and yet her movements were so smooth, so flowing, she still managed to convey a lithe, sensual elegance.

“Ms. Romolo, please let’s not carry on this farce that you respect me or my position.”

She rose and lifted her chin as she met his gaze. “But I do respect your position, Sire.”

The deliberate omission, making it clear that she did not respect him, stood like an elephant in the room between them. Rocco was not one to ignore a gauntlet laid down so blatantly.

“But not me.”

“In my experience, respect is earned. On a personal level, outside of your role as my king, I hardly know you and, to be totally honest, my experiences with you to date have not exactly been positive.”

So, she wasn’t afraid to beard the lion in his own den. He had to admire her courage—there weren’t many so bold in his household—even if the words themselves did little to calm the alternate exasperation and desire that battled for dominance every time he was within a meter of her.

“I always do what is best for my people. That is not always what is best for the individual.”

Her eyelids swept down, obscuring her gaze. “And for yourself, Sire? Do you ever do what is best for you?”

He didn’t answer as a timer went off in another room.

“That will be our dinner.”

She looked around, apparently expecting members of his staff to come out and serve them. When no one appeared, her gaze shifted back to him—a question clear in her eyes.

“Here in my personal chambers, I prefer to live privately—without staff. I’ve prepared the meal for us,” he said by way of explanation.

“You cook?”

Astonishment colored her words and her expression—a fact in which Rocco took deep satisfaction. For once, it seemed, he had the capacity to shock and surprise her.

“Cooking relaxes me. I don’t do it often.”

“And you are in need of relaxation?”

“It’s been a hectic few weeks.”

Ottavia nodded. “It must have been terrifying for you when your sister was kidnapped.”

“You heard about that?”

“I had no access to television or newspapers, but while your staff is very loyal to you, they also love your sister. I gleaned what I could from their conversation.”

Heads should roll over her revelation. The privacy and security of the royal family was paramount, now more than ever. But could he really blame the people who had practically raised him and Mila for being visibly concerned for his sister’s safety?

“Clearly my staff needs a reminder about the nondisclosure statements in their contracts,” he said, but his tone was more rueful than grim.

“Speaking of contracts—?”

“Not now.” He gestured to the binder she clutched in one hand. “Leave that here. First, food.”

Without waiting to see if she followed, he walked across the sitting room and through an arch to the compact but well-appointed kitchen, where he’d prepared the seafood marinara that was his favorite dish. He carried the platter out through the open French doors onto a balcony that overlooked the topiary garden and goldfish ponds. In daylight, even from here on the third floor, he could occasionally catch glimpses of bright orange as the fish swam among the water lily pads. But right now, with a purple tinged sunset kissing the horizon, the grounds below were a tapestry of shadows.

He set the dish on the ready-laid table and reached for the sparkling wine settled in the sweating ice bucket. The cork shot off with a satisfying pop and he was reminded of the court sommelier’s instruction that sparkling wine should always be opened making no more than the sound of a woman’s sigh. And, yes, just like that, desire flooded him again—making him all too aware of the figure that hovered in the doorway. Did she sigh? he wondered. Or did she moan while in the throes of passion? He’d find out soon enough.

“Take a seat,” he instructed, gesturing to the chair opposite.

“Thank you,” she replied.

She remained silent while he dished up for them both. A fact that both surprised and pleased him. He appreciated that she, too, enjoyed peaceful quiet and didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with endless, needless chatter.

“Bon appétit,” he said and lifted a monogrammed crystal flute in her direction. “To our first dinner together.”

She mirrored his action and their glasses clinked, the sound a promise on the air between them.

“And to you being a halfway decent cook,” she murmured before taking a sip of the wine.

She closed her eyes as she swallowed, her lips parting on a soft sigh of appreciation. Rocco fought back a groan. He had his answer, and it was even more enticing than he’d expected. Her eyes flicked open, catching him staring at her, and he saw her pupils dilate in response to his scrutiny.

Ever so deliberately, she took another sip of the sparkling wine before putting her glass down on the table.

“Very nice,” she commented and picked up her napkin to dab softly at her lips.

“From my own vineyard,” he said, attempting a nonchalance he was far from feeling. Ottavia Romolo made him feel young, made him want to be foolish, made him want to feel things he had kept a tight rein on for far, far too long.

“Did you blend the wine yourself?”

“No, my vintner had full control over this vintage,” he acceded.

“But you have blended your own, haven’t you?”

Had she researched him? Even if she had, he couldn’t imagine where she could have found that detail. “Yes,” he replied. “I have. It’s not commonly known.”

“But it’s something you enjoy, isn’t it?” she pressed.

“How could you tell?”

She smiled and he felt it as though it was a caress.

“The tone of your voice, the look in your eyes. You have a lot of tells, Sire.”

He didn’t like the thought of that. “Then I must school myself to be more careful. It wouldn’t do for everyone to know what I’m thinking or how I feel.”

“I can imagine that would get you into all sorts of trouble.”

She’d said it with a straight face, but he sensed the humor behind her words. She was gently poking fun at him, encouraging him to poke fun at himself, making him relax almost in spite of himself. He could begin to see why she was successful at her role. She listened, she observed—and just now, when she spoke, it was both worth listening to and, strangely, exactly what he wanted to hear at the same time.

Suddenly he regretted serving their meal before studying their contract. He wanted it signed and the deal done so he could explore his attraction to her further. Attraction? Hell, he just wanted to explore her. Wanted to lose himself in the tresses of her hair, to sink into the welcoming curves of her body, to slake the hunger that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with physical appetite.

He watched as she sampled the meal he’d created, politely feigning obliviousness to the turmoil in his mind. Everything about this woman made him want to forget his responsibilities and to live in the moment. To breathe her in until nothing else existed but the two of them. The ember of an idea that had begun to simmer at the back of his mind earlier today began to flare a little brighter.

To be a balanced monarch one needed to lead a balanced life—and there was one part of his life that had been lacking ever since his relationship with Elsa had ended. He’d had liaisons, sure, but no relationships. No one to off-load to at the end of a difficult day. No one to share hopes and dreams for the future. He wouldn’t have that with Ottavia Romolo under her contract as his courtesan, he reminded himself. But perhaps that contract could be amended—expanded into something that would give him everything he craved.

“This is quite delicious,” she said, interrupting his thoughts.

He watched as she speared a succulent prawn on the end of her fork and swirled up a ribbon of pasta. He swallowed against the sudden obstruction in his throat.

“You sound surprised,” he commented.

“A king who cooks, and cooks well? Who wouldn’t be?”

Cooking was an outlet for him. One he indulged in less often than he’d like to. A bit like everything else that gave him pleasure.

“Do you cook?” he countered.

“A little.”

“Perhaps you will prepare a meal for me one day.”

“Perhaps,” she acknowledged with a slight bow.

His eyes were instantly drawn to the slender line of her neck, exposed by the high ponytail that currently strangled her hair. His fingertips itched to stroke her, just there beneath her earlobe. To discover if she’d shiver with delight beneath his touch. He clamped his hand tight around his fork and reached with the other for another sip of his wine. It made no difference. The urge to touch her remained. Thank goodness he was a strong man, one who’d learned to keep a tight rein on impulse and to project control at all times. But once, just once, it would be nice to be able to simply let go.

Maybe, once they’d signed her damned contract, he would.