“So do we enter into a contract, my king?”

“You still think you have a choice, don’t you?” he said, cocking one brow at her. “Are you always this optimistic?”

“I always have a choice,” she replied.

She sensed rather than heard him as he came and stood behind her. Was it her imagination or did she feel the heat of his breath against her naked skin? A shimmer of awareness crept over her body.

“Then you are indeed fortunate,” he said close to the shell of her ear.

His voice held a whisper of a thousand words left unsaid. Ottavia closed her eyes and concentrated on remaining still. On simply absorbing his nearness and trying to separate out the individual reactions her body clamored with.

“A king does not have many choices,” he said, exposing a surprising insight into his mind.

***

Contract Wedding, Expectant Bride is part of the Courtesan Brides duet: Her pleasure is at his command!

Contract Wedding, Expectant Bride
Yvonne Lindsay

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A typical Piscean, USA TODAY bestselling author YVONNE LINDSAY has always preferred her imagination to the real world. Married to her blind-date hero and with two adult children, she spends her days crafting the stories of her heart and in her spare time she can be found with her nose in a book reliving the power of love, or knitting socks and daydreaming. Contact her via her website, www.yvonnelindsay.com.

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To my Writers in the Wild buddies,

and to Soraya Lane, with grateful thanks

for all your support and, at times

(yes, I’m looking at you, Soraya!),

goading and bullying, all of which get

me to “The End” with a happy sigh.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Extract

Copyright

One

He was here.

She knew it by the way the energy inside the tranquil island castle shifted and switched up a gear. Ottavia smoothed her gown over her curves for the fifteenth time that afternoon and told herself again that she wasn’t nervous. Not really. In her profession as a courtesan, she was accustomed to dealing with powerful men. Dealing with a king couldn’t truly be that different...could it?

The exquisite French Charles X ormolu clock on the mantelpiece continued to tick quietly, marking the seconds as they dragged by. But thankfully, she didn’t have to wait long. The ornate wooden doors leading into the high-ceilinged room swung open. Her stomach clenched in anticipation. A frisson of nerves shimmered down her spine. But, instead of the royal visage she’d expected to see, one of the king’s advisers—Sonja Novak—stood there instead.

The woman was, as usual, impeccably dressed in a Chanel suit and her iron gray hair was swept into an impossibly neat chignon. Her classically beautiful features were schooled into a bland expression that, as far as Ottavia could tell, was about as close as the senior member of King Rocco’s staff ever came to a smile.

“His Majesty will see you now.”

“I will see him here,” Ottavia replied as firmly as she could.

She should have known it would earn a particularly scathing look.

“Ms. Romolo, the King of Erminia summons you into his presence. Not the other way around.”

“Then His Majesty will be disappointed, won’t he?”

Dredging every last vestige of courage, Ottavia turned her back on the woman and directed her gaze out the window. She counted slowly, regulating her breathing and slowing her rapid heartbeat with each number—one, two, three... She was at seven before she heard the huff of outrage, closely followed by the brisk click of heels on the parquet floor. Then, blessed silence.

Ottavia allowed a small, triumphant smile to curve her lips. He would come to her. She knew it as certainly as she knew the carefully composed face that greeted her in the mirror each morning. She’d seen the expression in his eyes at their first meeting and recognized it immediately. Granted, she hadn’t been looking her best. Who did when they’d been held captive for several days without so much as a change of clothing? But, even dressed in the same traveling outfit she’d worn for almost a week, her face without makeup, she’d seen that look. He wanted her. And she had years of experience manipulating that want in the men she encountered.

Besides, he owed her. Not only had his sister kidnapped Ottavia, Princess Mila had had the cheek to steal Ottavia’s clothing and borrow her identity, pretending to actually be Ottavia as she took on the engagement with the courtesan’s current client. In the meantime, Ottavia had been held captive for several days until she’d been able to escape. Granted, she’d been held captive in a luxury suite in one of Erminia’s best hotels, but that didn’t excuse anyone from their part in what had happened. Then, when she’d rushed to the king to warn him what his sister was up to—in an attempt to muzzle her and keep her from speaking to the press, he’d also ordered her to be held captive. Not that it had helped. The story had gotten out anyway, even though Ottavia had done nothing to spread it. But the scandal had blown over eventually. And her clothing had finally been returned to her two weeks ago. So now only one obstacle remained—dealing with the king.

Ottavia rolled her shoulders in an attempt to loosen some of the tension that gripped her body but it was no use. It rankled to be at someone else’s mercy. She was a woman used to being in charge of her own life, one who made her own decisions. Helplessness did not sit comfortably on her softly rounded shoulders at all.

Ottavia was so engrossed in her thoughts, so bent on stoking the fire of indignation that burned angrily inside her, that she almost didn’t hear the doors behind her open again. She turned, instantly aware of the palpable presence of power that now filled the room. Despite her hard-won composure, she couldn’t help the visceral reaction that rocketed through her body at the sight of her king standing before her.

Taller than her by at least six inches, she was forced to look up into his unusual sherry-colored eyes. His body was still, but those eyes—they were alive. Not for the first time, she was reminded of a sleek jungle cat stalking its prey, waiting to pounce. The idea should have terrified her—instead, it sent an unexpected shimmer of heat rippling through her body.

But he wasn’t immune either, she noted with satisfaction. She saw the way his gaze was pulled to the column of her throat above the high neckline of her dress, then lower to where her beaded nipples made their presence known through the fine silk of her gown. Her lips curved in the slightest of smiles and she drew in a deep breath, one that made her breasts swell and rise gently.

Ottavia swooped into a graceful curtsy and bowed her head—she was more aware than most that you caught far more flies with honey—and remained beneath her king, waiting for his command to rise.

“Your deference is too little too late, Ms. Romolo,” he intoned, and his deep voice hummed through her body. “Rise.”

As she did so she looked up at him from beneath her long lashes, noted the firm set to his lips, the tiny lines that bracketed his mouth and the tension in his jaw. He was displeased. It was a risk she’d thought worth taking. Ottavia rose to her full height, squared her shoulders and held her tongue.

* * *

The woman stood in front of the window and he had to admire her strategy. Silhouetted by the filtered late afternoon light—every lush curve and gentle swell of her body limned with a golden glow—she was an eye-catching sight. But she had tangled with the wrong person if she thought positioning would give her any psychological leverage. He hadn’t ruled Erminia for the past fifteen years without learning an almost inhuman level of self-control. His duty to his country demanded no less.

Rocco stepped closer to her until there was a scant foot between them. To the courtesan’s credit, she didn’t so much as flicker an eyelash even though he knew damn well he was an intimidating presence—he’d spent his life working on making people believe it. And, no matter how angered or amused he might have been by her audacity in attempting to invoice him for her time spent as his captive, he certainly had no plans to show it.

He thrust a sheet of paper toward her.

“What is the meaning of this?” he growled.

“I believe even you must be familiar with the term invoice?” she said.

Her voice was low-pitched and perfectly modulated, rolling over him like a velvet touch, heightening his awareness of her on a physical level that took him by surprise. Was this how she plied her trade? he wondered. Seducing a man with her voice before using the other wiles she doubtlessly wielded with expertise? His lips curled in defiance. She would soon learn he was no simple mark easily swayed by a beautiful woman.

“You are my prisoner.” He rent the invoice in two and let the pieces drop to the floor at his feet. “You have no right to bill me for your time here. As my captive, you have no rights at all.”

She raised one perfectly plucked arch of an eyebrow in response.

“I beg to differ, Your Majesty. The way I see it, your family owes me a great deal.”

He had to admire her gall. There weren’t many who dared challenge him.

“We do? Enlighten me,” he demanded.

“There is the matter of my not being able to fulfill my contract because first your sister, and subsequently you, have kept me against my will. Like most of your subjects, I have financial responsibilities. I find myself unable to meet them when I am not paid for my time.”

Rocco let his gaze drift over the woman. It certainly was no hardship to do so. Her neck was long and graceful, tapering gently to sweetly feminine shoulders exposed by the cutaway sleeve line of the deceptively simple gown she wore. The ruby hue of the fitted dress complemented the softly tanned glow of her skin. Was she this color all over, he wondered, or did her skin pale in those enticing hidden areas?

She did not seem to appreciate having her words ignored. “You have treated me unfairly and you continue to do so,” she said. “Release me.”

There was passion beneath her words and a spark of fire in her eyes making them burn bright. He found he quite enjoyed needling a reaction out of her.

“Release you?” He watched her carefully as he paused and considered her request, and saw the flash of hope that sprang into her gaze. “I think not. I’m not finished with you yet.”

“Not finished?” she all but spluttered. “You never even started.”

“Ah yes, and there is the problem, Ms. Romolo. You have invoiced me for your time here. I imagine that has been calculated at your usual rate?”

She inclined her head with consummate grace and elegance.

“Then you would agree, wouldn’t you,” he continued smoothly, “that I am owed a discount for lack of services rendered.”

He stepped back and watched the unguarded flurry of emotion that caught her enchanting features. She composed herself quickly and drew in a shaky breath.

“Does Your Majesty wish to avail himself of my services?” she asked.

If she had asked him five minutes ago, he would have given her an emphatic no in response. This woman had caused him no end of trouble. If she had not accepted a contract to serve as temporary courtesan to King Thierry of Sylvain, both Rocco’s kingdom and Thierry’s could have been spared an endless amount of trouble.

Thierry had been, for several years prior, betrothed to Rocco’s sister, Mila, in an arranged marriage. Discovering her betrothed’s plans to avail himself of a courtesan had driven Mila to the reckless step of trading places with Ms. Romolo, so she could ensure her husband-to-be would take no lover other than herself. Her plan had worked—at first. But when he’d discovered her deception, Thierry had been incensed—and when the news had, somehow, leaked to the press, making them into a media spectacle, Thierry had called off the engagement entirely. It had taken a disastrous event to reunite Mila and Thierry...but finally they had reconciled and wed, and were now blissfully happy. It had all worked out in the end.

That didn’t make him any happier with Ottavia Romolo, though, without whom all of this could have been avoided. So no, he had never truly considered availing himself of any of her considerable charms. He’d been too busy wishing that she’d take herself to another country entirely and let them deal with the chaos she brought in her wake.

But now, with his senses tingling and his mind intrigued, he found himself considering a far more affirmative response.

“I haven’t decided yet,” he answered.

“Nor have I offered,” she countered.

Oh, she was good—valiantly holding on to her pride and dignity even while the threads of control of this situation escaped those long slender fingers. Heat burned low in his groin at the challenge she presented—and the temptation. His response to her both irritated and stimulated him. Much like the woman herself.

“You are mistaken if you think you have a choice, Ms. Romolo.”

She lifted her chin defiantly. “I always have a choice. I am glad you have destroyed my initial invoice,” she continued with a smile.

Rocco was surprised. Of all the things she could have said, he hadn’t expected that.

“I’m pleased to hear it,” he said. “But why?”

“Because, Sire, my price has gone up.”

Two

Silence stretched between them. Ottavia boldly stared straight into her king’s eyes, hoping that her anxiety would not show—that he wouldn’t sense that beneath the fall of the luxurious fabric of her gown her legs had turned to jelly.

His brows pulled together in a straight line, his sherry-colored eyes glowed like polished amber. Not the bright color so often associated with the fossilized gemstone, but a deeper hue. One that spoke of layers of complexity that she instinctively knew were synonymous with the powerful man standing before her. And he was powerful. As easily as he’d ordered her held here in this beautiful small palace—isolated on a stunning island in the middle of a lake—he could have her cast into a windowless prison for the rest of her days.

She realized she was holding her breath when tiny dark spots began to dance before her eyes. She allowed herself a shallow breath, then another but, as if she was mesmerized by his stare, her gaze remained locked with his. The spots receded slowly but her clearing vision did nothing to calm the wild hammering of her heart or the fear that plucked at her soul. Had she gone too far? She’d always fought to maintain the upper hand in all her relationships and every one had served its purpose in helping her achieve her final goal. While charm was usually her weapon of choice she had a feeling that King Rocco would run roughshod over such a tactic. He was not a man known for playing nice.

It galled her that he had so much power over her. Hadn’t she sworn that no man would ever make her decisions for her or control her life again? And yet, in this, she was effectively helpless. Work to your strengths, she reminded herself, and allowed her stance to soften. She allowed her lips to part, just slightly, and moistened them with the tip of her tongue. He’d noticed, she realized with a flare of satisfaction. His eyes had flickered to her mouth; his nostrils had flared ever so slightly on an indrawn breath.

She’d cast her bait, but had she hooked him?

“You had better be worth it,” he growled.

His voice was deep and slightly rough. As if he was fighting his own internal battle. Ottavia allowed herself a smile, lowering her eyelids slightly.

“So do we enter into a contract, my king?”

She lingered over the last two words, using every skill at her disposal to make them sound like a caress—a promise. She knew she’d failed when he threw his head back on a hearty laugh that transformed the seriousness of his face into something far more appealing. Something that pulled at her with a magnetic strength she’d never experienced before. Eventually he calmed.

“You still think you can control how this turns out, don’t you?” he said, cocking one brow at her. “Are you always this optimistic?”

“I am always in control of myself and my choices,” she replied.

Even as she said the words she knew they hadn’t always been true. Certainly not when she’d been fourteen and her mother’s latest lover had begun to show an unhealthy interest in her burgeoning figure. Even less when her mother had discovered that interest and Ottavia had overheard her mother haggling with her lover over how much he would be prepared to pay to have her.

She fought back a shudder. Those days were behind her. She’d taken control of her life that day. Made a conscious choice and resolved to never be at anyone’s mercy ever again.

Ottavia forced her thoughts into the present and recalculated her strategy. Perhaps King Rocco needed a little more enticement. She took a step back before turning and slowly walking closer to the windows that overlooked the gardens and the lake. If she hadn’t been so acutely attuned to the man she’d turned her back on she wouldn’t have heard the sharp intake of breath as he noticed the long sweep of her back, laid bare by the open cut of her gown. It was as if she could feel the heat of his gaze follow the line of her spine until it dipped into the deep V of fabric that covered the swell of her buttocks.

She sensed rather than heard him approach behind her. Was it her imagination or did she feel the heat of his breath against her naked skin?

“Then you are indeed fortunate,” he said close to the shell of her ear.

His voice held a whisper of a thousand words left unsaid. Ottavia closed her eyes and concentrated on remaining still. On simply absorbing his nearness without analyzing the individual reactions clamoring throughout her body.

“Fortunate?” she asked, her voice surprisingly husky.

“A king does not have many choices,” he said to her surprise.

“I would have thought that you had it all, Sire.”

The air behind her shifted—the heat that had smoldered against her suddenly gone—and she knew he’d stepped away. Because with those few words he’d said too much, perhaps? Slowly, she turned around. He stood on the other side of the room, his hands loosely clasped behind him as he stared at a portrait of his late father on the wall.

“I have a proposal for you, Ms. Romolo,” he said without looking at her. “It would behoove you to agree.”

“Just like that? Without knowing the terms?” she asked. “Without negotiating? I think not.”

“Do you negotiate everything?”

“I am a businesswoman.”

He spun to face her. “Is that what you call your...trade? A business?”

“What else would you call it?” she challenged.

The corner of his mouth quirked upward. Ottavia fought the urge to bristle. He was testing her. That much was obvious. If she was to get what she believed she was owed by him, she needed to hold on to every last thread of self-control that she possessed.

“Come here, Ms. Romolo.” He crooked a finger at her.

She would do as he’d commanded, but only because she wanted to, she told herself as she glided forward with all the elegance and poise she’d learned in the past fifteen years.

“Sire?” She bowed her head as she drew before him.

A low chuckle escaped him and she felt her own lips twitch in response.

“Subservience does not suit you.” With the point of one finger he tipped her chin up so she looked him in the eye again.

Her lips parted on a gasp as she recognized the sudden flare of hunger in his gaze. A gasp that he captured as he lowered his mouth to hers and took her lips in a kiss that stole every rational thought from her mind. Caught by surprise, she gave herself over to his touch, to his taste. To the plundering of his tongue as it delved into the moist recesses of her mouth. A sound, a growl from deep in his throat as she touched her tongue to his, sent unaccustomed desire unfurling through her body. Her blood heated, her insides clenched on a spear of need that completely took her breath away.

And then, just like that, it was over. She teetered slightly on her heels before gathering sufficient wits to steady herself. A swell of anger bubbled at the back of her mind. Outrage swiftly quelled the yearning that hummed through her veins as she realized he thought he had the right to simply take from her without permission. Disappointment followed hard on the heels of her anger. Here was another man who saw her as something to be used at his whim, and discarded.

She had to regain the upper hand once more, so she swallowed her indignation and smiled at the man standing opposite her.

“Sampling the merchandise?” she asked tartly.

* * *

Against his better judgment Rocco calmly smiled in response. No easy feat when a large percentage of his blood supply had headed due south in response to that kiss. He was beginning to see why the courtesan was in such high demand. She was addictive. Only one kiss and he wanted more. It had been so long since he’d indulged in something purely for his own pleasure. The needs of his country came first, always. But the country could hardly be harmed by him taking this opportunity to sate his desires. Maybe some good, satisfying, no-strings sex would help him clear his mind.

“You say your fee has gone up,” he started. “Perhaps you undervalued yourself to begin with?”

He could see his remark had startled her when she made no comment. Rocco pressed his advantage.

“I will avail myself of your services and in return I will pay that paltry invoice you sent to me—and then some.” He hesitated and tilted his head. Looking at her as if assessing a fine piece of art before continuing. “Name your price,” he snapped.

Ottavia named a sum that was astronomical compared to the invoice she’d sent him.

“You place a very high value upon your services, Ms. Romolo,” he said, torn between exasperation and amusement. She thought she could scare him away with her demands? Well, she had another think coming.

“To the contrary. I place a very high value on myself,” she replied.

But he’d caught the faint tremor in her voice. She knew she’d overstepped the mark with her ridiculous price.

“I will pay it.”

He watched as she reached one hand to play with a tendril of hair. Round and round her index finger she wound it, the almost childish gesture looking unaccountably adorable on such a sophisticated, elegant woman. She stopped suddenly, letting her hand drop to her side as if she’d just realized what she was doing and straightened her shoulders—a businesswoman once more. And yet, for that brief moment she’d been playing unconsciously with her hair, he had the feeling he’d seen the real woman behind the courtesan’s facade. Like everything else about her, it captivated him.

“Do we have an agreement?” he pressed.

“We have not discussed a term of length.”

“For that sum I should expect our contract to be open-ended,” he said, his exasperation clear.

“I’m sure you realize that would be counterproductive to my business,” she replied with a slight smile.

Once again, unexpected mirth mixed with irritation. She looked like a sensual goddess—one who promised no end of hedonistic delight—and yet she had a mind and acuity as sharp as any negotiator he’d ever come across. She was, in fact, unlike any woman he’d ever met before. It was as if she didn’t really care whether he wanted her or not—as if she’d be equally happy to walk away—and he found the concept captivating. Challenging.

There was nothing he liked better than a challenge.

“A month, then,” he said.

Even as he said it, he realized that spending a month with her, as appealing as it sounded, might be unrealistic. He couldn’t stay hidden in this retreat for too long—he had duties elsewhere requiring his attention...such as his hunt for a bride. But with his sister’s recent, and very happy, marriage to his country’s primary antagonist, surely he could allow himself a bit of a break, if he stayed in contact with the capitol city through email and phone.

“A month,” she repeated. “Very well. If you would allow me access to my cell phone and my computer, I will draw up the appropriate documentation and provide your people with my account details—” she cast a disdainful glance at the torn-up invoice on the floor “—again.”

“You do that,” he replied. “And I will see you, in my private chambers for a late dinner, at nine thirty this evening.”

He headed for the doors and paused before opening them. “And, Ms. Romolo?”

“Sire?”

“Don’t bother dressing for the occasion.”

Satisfied he’d managed to gain the upper hand and have the last word with the exasperating creature, Rocco let himself out the receiving room and headed down the corridor. Sonja Novak materialized by his side as he strode toward his office.

“Shall I arrange for the woman’s departure?” she asked as she fell in step with him.

“No.”

“No?”

“She will be staying here. With me. For the next month, or until I tire of her—whichever comes first.”

Somehow, he thought it would not be the latter.

“B-but—” Sonja started to protest.

Rocco halted in his tracks and fought back the urge to sigh heavily. Was there a woman left in Erminia who listened to him anymore? It seemed that everywhere he went women contradicted him. First his sister, then the courtesan and now his most trusted adviser. “I am still King of Erminia, am I not?”

“Of course you are.”

“Then I believe I am entitled to decide who will stay here as my guest. I know you have been at my right hand since my father died, and at his before that. But do not forget your position.”

She inclined her head. “I apologize, of course.”

“And yet I sense that you continue to think I’m making a mistake.”

“Keeping a courtesan is probably not the best decision when you’re trying to woo a bride.”

This time Rocco did sigh. “I am aware of that.” And once his bride was chosen, he fully intended to dedicate himself solely to her, with no outside affairs. But with that future awaiting him—a lifetime of uncertain happiness with a bride bound to him by duty rather than love—could he really be blamed for taking this chance to indulge himself while he was still free? “Now, is there anything else that urgently requires my attention?”

“Nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow,” Sonja admitted.

“By the way. Ms. Romolo is no longer my prisoner. Please ensure her electronic devices are returned to her and that she has access to the internet.”

“Is that wise?”

He gave her a look that spoke volumes as to his frustration that she should continue to question his authority. In response, Sonja bowed her iron gray head again and murmured her acquiescence.

“Thank you,” Rocco replied through clenched teeth and continued to his suite of rooms on an upper floor in the castle.

He strode through to his bedroom. The formal suit he’d worn for traveling home from Sylvain today felt like little more than a straitjacket. He ripped his red silk tie, woven with the Erminian heraldic coat of arms of a rearing white stallion, from beneath the starched white collar of his shirt and let it drop onto a chaise by the window. No doubt his valet—who he’d left in the palace in the capitol, preferring to see to his own needs here at the lake—would have had a fit if he could see the lack of respect Rocco had for his clothing. But, as each layer fell from his body, he felt a little more free, a little less like a king.

Naked, he grabbed a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt from his bureau and yanked them on together with socks and a well-worn pair of running shoes. If he didn’t get some exercise soon, he’d go mad, or at the very least, lose the temper he was famous for keeping such a tight rein on.

Today had been frustrating but he’d handled it—as he always did. But the next few hours were for him and him alone—well, as alone as one could be with a security detail shadowing your every step. Rocco pounded down the back stairs of the castle, ignoring the team as they trailed him, and set out on the castle driveway pumping his legs as hard as he could.

Ten kilometers later he was wrung through with sweat but only just beginning to breathe hard. He cut back his pace to a more leisurely jog and let his thoughts fill with the joy that had been incandescent on his sister’s face at her marriage to King Thierry just a day ago.

Rocco could still barely believe it had all gone ahead, especially after Thierry had called off the wedding. Without the unification of their countries, war along their border had seemed imminent—fed, no doubt, by the subversive movement that wanted Rocco removed from his throne and their pretender crowned in his place.

It was only months before that Rocco had even learned of this supposed pretender, who claimed to be an illegitimate child of Rocco’s father, the late king. The pretender’s name and identity was a closely held secret, but his movement had gained an uncomfortable number of followers, agitating for change even if it came at the cost of open war.

Erminia had tread a very fine line to avoid hostilities—especially with Andrej Novak, his head of the military and Sonja’s son, strongly advising they substantially increase the presence of their armed forces on the border. The situation had worsened after the scandal had broken of Mila’s actions, kidnapping Ms. Romolo and taking her place. And when Mila had flown to Sylvain personally to meet with Thierry and plead for another chance, only to be turned away, Rocco had expected armed conflict to begin within a matter of days. But then Mila was kidnapped while returning home to Erminia, and everything changed.

Rocco’s heart lurched in a way that had nothing to do with his exercise at the memory of those terrifying days when his sister had been missing, held captive in an abandoned fortress by men demanding that Rocco renounce the crown in exchange for Mila’s safe return. Thankfully, King Thierry and a covert operations unit managed to safely extract her, though with their focus on the princess, the kidnappers were able to flee, unidentified.

The thought of those kidnappers—and their political allies—along with the pressure they kept raising on Rocco to try to convince him to turn over his throne sent a bolt of anger through him that caused him to pick up his pace a little again. Behind him, he heard a collective groan from his security detail and he couldn’t help but smile. His team was fit and strong and fast, but he made it his goal to be equally so, and if he pushed them just a little bit more each time, then so much the better.

He needed every boost to his spirits he could get now that the political maneuvering of his enemies had created a new problem for him. Marry, or lose the throne. The very idea was so outmoded it was ridiculous. Of course he’d always planned to marry. He’d even, many years ago, been on the verge of becoming officially engaged. But Elsa, the young woman he’d met while in university, had shied away from his proposal. A commoner, she’d loathed constantly being under the microscope of media and the world at large when she accompanied him to state functions.

At least that had been her excuse. With the twenty-twenty vision of hindsight, Rocco could see that perhaps she simply hadn’t loved him enough. In which case, it was just as well their relationship had gone no further.

Which brought him squarely back to the predicament he now faced. In a year he would be thirty-five. According to an ancient law, only recently uncovered and exposed by his opponents in the country’s parliament, to remain monarch he needed to be married and have produced legally recognized offspring by the time of his thirty-fifth birthday. If not, he could be ejected from the throne—leaving it open for the pretender.

Rocco had been forced to do a great deal of soul-searching in the months since the threat had become so very real. Would he give up the throne voluntarily? Perhaps, if the new ruler could be relied upon to be a fair and reasonable man—one devoted to his people and the betterment of his country. But with Mila’s kidnapping, it had become abundantly clear that the pretender to Rocco’s birthright was not a benevolent man.

No, he had a duty to his people to defend his position and to see to it that the threat against them all was neutralized with the least harm done. And if that meant marrying a woman he barely knew, would possibly never love? Well, so be it. To that end, he’d asked his advisers to prepare a dossier of women suitable to assume the role of his consort. European princesses and women of noble birth abounded, as did the rumors of their behavior and sexual proclivity that, unfortunately, had narrowed his options. His principles meant too much to him for him to be able to accept a bride with a lower standard of behavior. Now, there was apparently a short list of only three.

Rocco slowed to a walk on the graveled driveway of the castle, his hands on his hips, his breathing heavy. His thoughts now looked ahead. Tonight, he’d planned to study the profiles he’d been provided with in more detail—to see if there was some spark of interest from him for the women presented.

A flash of color and a shadow of movement at an upstairs palace window caught his eye, reminding him that tonight he had an even more challenging event ahead of him. Despite the kilometers he’d run, despite the fact that weariness should be pulling at him, he felt invigorated, refreshed. Eager to get to the task at hand—if Ottavia Romolo could be called anything so mundane or simple as a task.

He’d take tonight. He’d luxuriate in her body, her allure. Tomorrow would be soon enough to face reality.

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.

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.

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