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
