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.
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
