Contract Wedding, Expectant Bride

by Yvonne Lindsay

  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 re
al 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.