Contract Wedding, Expectant Bride

“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.