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 real 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