Contract Wedding, Expectant Bride
- -
- 100%
- +
“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.
Four
Ottavia watched him carefully as they completed their meal. While, outwardly at least, her king appeared no different than any other man, she had the sense that beneath the facade lay another man entirely. Oh, sure, she knew that, logically, beneath the elegant trappings of his finely woven cotton shirt and expertly cut trousers was a magnificent male body. You couldn’t watch the way he moved and not realize that. Besides, she’d seen him come back from his run today. Seen the way his sweat-soaked T-shirt had clung to every muscle across his shoulders and his chest, seen the powerful bulge of strength in his arms. And then there’d been the fit of his shorts as he bent and stretched out those well-developed thighs.
At that memory, she reached for her wine and took a long sip, letting the cool bubbling liquid soothe the heat and dryness that had suddenly become apparent in her throat. Yes, she told herself. He was a truly prime specimen of all that was beautiful in the male form. But that power could be as dangerous as it was attractive. She wondered again how he’d react to the terms of her contract. Part of her still wished he would refuse to sign and send her on her way. But another part, the woman she kept a tight rein on—the one who found King Rocco of Erminia a tantalizing prospect dangled before her—hoped he’d accept them, or even try to renegotiate.
A thread of longing tightened deep inside her, making her inner muscles clench in anticipation. She fought the sensation, telling herself it was as ridiculous as it was unexpected. She, the queen of personal constraint, did not allow herself to be so affected by any man, least of all this one.
Perhaps it was some variant on Stockholm syndrome, she told herself, allowing a ripple of amusement to tease her mouth into a smile. There, that was better. If she could laugh at herself, laugh at her situation, then she could most definitely overcome any physical yearning that threatened to derail what was, essentially, her job. Which brought her back to the contract.
It made her nervous to spend time with him without the parameters between them fully outlined. She placed her fork down on her plate and shifted anxiously in her seat. King Rocco was quick to notice.
“Something wrong?”
“Nothing,” she answered a little too swiftly. “At least not with your cooking.”
“Then, what is it?”
“I...” She hesitated and weighed her words carefully before deciding she had nothing to lose except the money he’d pay her. “I find myself in a situation that I am unaccustomed to, to be honest.”
“What, dinner with me?”
“Essentially, yes.”
“I’m just a man.”
She laughed softly. “You really think so?”
“Okay, so I’m a king. But that’s what I am, not who I am.”
His words gave her pause. Made her wonder, how many people actually knew him for who he was? Did anyone?
“Who you are is not important to me,” she said, but even as the words fell from her lips, she knew them for a lie. She needed to regain the upper hand in this situation, and quickly. “Except, perhaps, as a client. Which brings me to our contract. Now you’ve eaten perhaps we can get down to business.”
“If you insist,” he answered before wiping his mouth with his napkin and dropping the cloth on the table.
His chair scraped along the tiled floor as he stood up and came around to her side of the table to help her from her chair.
“Thank you,” she acknowledged.
“Take a seat inside, I’ll bring the wine.”
“Wine?”
“Negotiations are so much better when done over a drink, don’t you think?”
He smiled at her, but she saw that his humor didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Who said I’ll be negotiating?” she replied, then turned her back on him, walked into the sitting room and picked up her file.
The king was not far behind her.
“I always negotiate,” he said, handing her refilled flute to her.
“Everything?”
“Ah, yes. You have me there. When necessary, I decree.”
Nerves tightened around her stomach, making her regret that last forkful of marinara. Her hand trembled as she opened the binder and took out one copy of her contract.
“This is my contract. The extent of my services is listed in the schedule at the rear.”
“Your...services. Right.”
He leaned forward and tugged the papers from her fingers. At the brush of his hand against hers, another tremor rippled through her, making the papers shake. His eyes sharpened and he gave her a long considering look before casually crossing one leg over the other and taking a sip of champagne.
“You seem nervous,” he stated. “Why is that?”
She needed to own this tension between them. Accept it and move on. “It’s not every day I do business with a member of the royal family let alone the head of our nation.”
“But you have had many influential clients, have you not?”
“I do not discuss my past clientele. Ever.”
“Commendable. I’m sure your discretion is vital to your success and your continued employment.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” she said, uncomfortable with the track he was taking despite her efforts to keep things on a straight course. “Please, if you would read the contract and sign it, then we can commence.”
“By all means, I look forward to that.”
She forced herself to relax against the plush sofa and slowly sipped her wine as he flicked through the introductory paragraphs of her contract. His dark brows pulled together as he concentrated on each clause. She couldn’t stand this any longer. She got up and moved about the room, looking around with interest at the personal items he had on display. Ones that reflected the man himself. There was a strong suggestion of how important his family was to him, with small collections of photos, both formal and informal, clustered here and there. She also noticed a large bookcase was packed with books. Thrillers mostly, with the occasional book on politics or social policy.
She was surprised he’d chosen for them to meet in a room that was so very much his. Ottavia respected the need for him to be guarded about the personal side of his life. In the current age of media frenzy every time a public persona put a foot wrong, there was immediate backlash. And this king in particular could not afford any backlash right now. She wasn’t an idiot. She knew that there were fractures in his parliament, and she’d heard the rumors that there were some who did not appreciate him as their ruler. If anyone had to keep himself squeaky-clean it was the man on the other side of the room. Which begged the question—why had he demanded she remain here at the castle?
She started in surprise as she heard the slap of papers on the coffee table in front of him. King Rocco stood abruptly and sought her out.
“This is your contract for me?” he said, his voice the epitome of steely calm.
But Ottavia sensed the carefully controlled fury beneath his words. Her contract was not what he’d anticipated. Not at all. She made no apology for that. Instead, she merely inclined her head in affirmation.
“There is something missing,” her king pressed.
“Missing? No, I don’t think so. That’s my standard contract.”
He scoffed, clearly doubting her word—but at least he didn’t flat out call her a liar. “What about intimacy?” His question was blunt and to the point.
“Intimacy, Sire? I expect our conversations and our time together will be extremely intimate, and you can rest assured that no matter what is said, it will remain between us and us alone.”
“Don’t play games with me,” he growled, coming toward her with a light in his eyes that sent a shiver down her spine.
She fought the urge to flee, instead standing her ground and responding as levelly as she could.
“I do not play games, although we could make games a part of clause 6.2 if you so desire. I’m told I make a fair tennis partner and I’ve been known to win a hand or two at poker.”
His hands curled around her upper arms. His grip was not so hard as to mark her skin, but there was no way she could easily pull free. Beneath his palms she felt fire in his touch. Fire that matched the heat in his gaze and the heightened color on his cheeks.
“I’m not talking about tennis and you know that.”
“Then I am at a loss,” she said, still striving to keep her voice level even as her heart raced in her chest and her breath began to come in short, sharp inhalations.
King Rocco bent his face to hers. “Sex, my courtesan. Hot, lusty, physical, sweaty, satisfying sex.”
Ottavia locked her knees so that her legs might stop their trembling. Yet despite all her efforts, her body caught aflame with each syllable he enunciated so carefully and slowly.
“Um, that’s not in the contract. In fact, I’m sure you read the part where it explicitly mentions that sex is not permitted.”
“A mistake, surely? Especially when it’s quite clear that your body was made for pleasure. Yours...and mine.”
His face was closer to hers now—his breath a puff of air against her as he bent and inhaled her scent at the curve of her neck. She couldn’t hold back the tremor that rocked her. Braced herself for the touch of his mouth against her skin. Every nerve in her body stretched taut and she felt the rush of desire and need pool low and deep in her belly.
Ottavia drew in a short breath, attempting to pull her thoughts together, to formulate an appropriate response—to hold firm to her rules. She lived by rules. They kept her safe. Kept her sane. But safety and sanity were hard to cling to when breathing in the scent of the cologne he wore—an enticing blend of sandalwood, lemon and some spice she couldn’t quite discern. The very thought should be abhorrent to her and yet her body told her otherwise.
“Ottavia?” he prompted, his lips now so close to her skin she could feel the heat of them.
She held herself rigid, determined not to lose ground by pulling away but equally determined not to give in to the lure of what his touch promised. If she gave in, she’d be giving too much of herself. With him nothing would be simple and she very much doubted that she’d be able to walk away at the end of their specified time together with any part of her psyche intact. And she had to be strong. She had to be whole. For Adriana if not for herself.
“There will be no sex,” she managed to say through trembling lips. “There never is.”
She rocked as he abruptly let her go.
“What do you mean there never is? You are a courtesan, are you not? What is that if not a mistress and all that entails?”
Frustration and puzzlement warred for supremacy on his handsome visage—frustration winning in the end. Ottavia took a sip of her drink and dragged her ragged thoughts back together.
“As set out in the schedule attached to the contract, you can see that I have a double degree in economics and fine arts. I am well versed in protocol and etiquette and I am a consummate hostess. I can discuss financial matters, whether they relate to worldwide economies or personal households. I can advise on art, literature and discuss the merits of the great poets and philosophers to whatever lengths you desire. I can host your guests and ensure that they want for nothing during their time under your roof. I can provide company, solace, humor and I give a mean foot rub.”
She paused and drew another breath. “I do not have sex.”
“That’s preposterous! Everyone has sex.”
“Perhaps that is true of most people. Not me.”
King Rocco shoved a hand through his hair. “You mean you’ve never had sex with any of your clients, ever?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“And these other men...? Your previous clients? They agreed to that?”
“They did.”
“And they were happy with that?” A frown now creased his brow.
“They were.”
“I find that very hard to believe.”
Ottavia tried not to smile at the exasperation in his tone but it was clear that she’d failed when the frown on his forehead deepened.
“What’s so funny? Are you playing a trick on me?” he demanded imperiously.
“No tricks, Your Majesty. Yes, there have been men who have requested sex as part of their contract. My answer has always been no. They’ve either accepted my terms, or called off the arrangement. There is no other option, Sire.”
He huffed a sigh of irritation. “Enough with the formal address. When we’re alone, you’re to call me Rocco, do you understand?”
“But, Sire, you seem unwilling to sign the contract. Without that, why would we ever be alone?”
“We will be alone because I accept your terms, Ms. Romolo.”
“Y-you do?”
“I do. On one condition.”
A sinking feeling assailed her. “And that is?”
“That the contract be open to, shall we say, amendment, provided that both parties are willing.”
It sounded reasonable enough the way he said it. But reasonable did not explain the grim determination in the lines of his face or the single-minded purpose that reflected in his eyes. If anything had become clear to her in her dealings with her king it was that the man was nothing if not determined.
Still, his phrasing gave her the ultimate control in the end, didn’t it? Both parties had to be willing to make amendments, and there was no way she was going to change her stance on this. She would not be coerced. She would not be forced ever again.
“Fine,” she said firmly and reached to collect the contract from where he’d dropped it, together with her binder that still sat on the coffee table. “I’ll make the appropriate changes and resubmit the documents to you in the morning.”
“No.” King Rocco moved to stand beside her and took the papers from her hand. “You have a pen?”
She nodded, then removed the pen she kept inside her folder and silently handed it to him.
He took it from her and gave her another of those unwavering looks. “We will make the addendum here and now.”
Rocco sat back down and riffled through the contract pages, pausing only to initial each page before reaching the final one and adding a new clause in bold, heavy strokes of the pen and initialing that, also. Then, he struck his signature at the bottom of the page before reaching for the second copy of the contract and repeating the exercise.
The whole time he did so, Ottavia remained rooted to the spot. She wondered if he hadn’t somehow laid a clever trap for her in gaining her acceptance of the new clause. But, as she’d rationalized to herself, all she had to do was refuse to alter her terms.
How tricky could that be?
Once he’d finished, he stood up and offered her his seat. The contracts spread out on the table before her, but all she could focus on was how the residual heat of his body on the leather chair permeated the fabric of her yoga pants and seared the back of her thighs.
“Ms. Romolo? Is there a problem?” he prompted from behind the chair.
She steeled herself to pick up the pen. It didn’t seem to matter what he touched, he left a lingering impression of himself behind. She quickly flicked through the contract pages, adding her initials to his and quickly scanning the newly added clause. It seemed innocuous enough and made it quite clear that the agreement of both parties, in writing, would be sought and recorded before any amendments were made with such amendments to include sexual intimacy and other duties that may arise from time to time.
Ottavia looked up. “Other duties? Would you like to specify what you mean by that?”
He shrugged. “Who knows what may come up? We can agree upon them when they arise.”
Despite having the distinct impression he was holding something back, Ottavia bent her head and reread his addition. Basically, it still came down to the both of them being in agreement. All she had to do was disagree and she had her out. Pushing aside the anxious niggle that hovered in the back of her mind, she initialed next to his handwriting and added her signature.
There. It was done.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.