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
