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Contract Wedding, Expectant Bride
by Yvonne Lindsay
One
He was here.
She knew it by the way the energy inside the tranquil island castle shifted and switched up a gear. Ottavia smoothed her gown over her curves for the fifteenth time that afternoon and told herself again that she wasn't nervous. Not really. In her profession as a courtesan, she was accustomed to dealing with powerful men. Dealing with a king couldn't truly be that different...could it?
The exquisite French Charles X ormolu clock on the mantelpiece continued to tick quietly, marking the seconds as they dragged by. But thankfully, she didn't have to wait long. The ornate wooden doors leading into the high-ceilinged room swung open. Her stomach clenched in anticipation. A frisson of nerves shimmered down her spine. But, instead of the royal visage she'd expected to see, one of the king's advisers-Sonja Novak-stood there instead.
The woman was, as usual, impeccably dressed in a Chanel suit and her iron gray hair was swept into an impossibly neat chignon. Her classically beautiful features were schooled into a bland expression that, as far as Ottavia could tell, was about as close as the senior member of King Rocco's staff ever came to a smile.
"His Majesty will see you now."
"I will see him here," Ottavia replied as firmly as she could.
She should have known it would earn a particularly scathing look.
"Ms. Romolo, the King of Erminia summons you into his presence. Not the other way around."
"Then His Majesty will be disappointed, won't he?"
Dredging every last vestige of courage, Ottavia turned her back on the woman and directed her gaze out the window. She counted slowly, regulating her breathing and slowing her rapid heartbeat with each number-one, two, three... She was at seven before she heard the huff of outrage, closely followed by the brisk click of heels on the parquet floor. Then, blessed silence.
Ottavia allowed a small, triumphant smile to curve her lips. He would come to her. She knew it as certainly as she knew the carefully composed face that greeted her in the mirror each morning. She'd seen the expression in his eyes at their first meeting and recognized it immediately. Granted, she hadn't been looking her best. Who did when they'd been held captive for several days without so much as a change of clothing? But, even dressed in the same traveling outfit she'd worn for almost a week, her face without makeup, she'd seen that look. He wanted her. And she had years of experience manipulating that want in the men she encountered.
Besides, he owed her. Not only had his sister kidnapped Ottavia, Princess Mila had had the cheek to steal Ottavia's clothing and borrow her identity, pretending to actually be Ottavia as she took on the engagement with the courtesan's current client. In the meantime, Ottavia had been held captive for several days until she'd been able to escape. Granted, she'd been held captive in a luxury suite in one of Erminia's best hotels, but that didn't excuse anyone from their part in what had happened. Then, when she'd rushed to the king to warn him what his sister was up to-in an attempt to muzzle her and keep her from speaking to the press, he'd also ordered her to be held captive. Not that it had helped. The story had gotten out anyway, even though Ottavia had done nothing to spread it. But the scandal had blown over eventually. And her clothing had finally been returned to her two weeks ago. So now only one obstacle remained-dealing with the king.
Ottavia rolled her shoulders in an attempt to loosen some of the tension that gripped her body but it was no use. It rankled to be at someone else's mercy. She was a woman used to being in charge of her own life, one who made her own decisions. Helplessness did not sit comfortably on her softly rounded shoulders at all.
Ottavia was so engrossed in her thoughts, so bent on stoking the fire of indignation that burned angrily inside her, that she almost didn't hear the doors behind her open again. She turned, instantly aware of the palpable presence of power that now filled the room. Despite her hard-won composure, she couldn't help the visceral reaction that rocketed through her body at the sight of her king standing before her.
Taller than her by at least six inches, she was forced to look up into his unusual sherry-colored eyes. His body was still, but those eyes-they were alive. Not for the first time, she was reminded of a sleek jungle cat stalking its prey, waiting to pounce. The idea should have terrified her-instead, it sent an unexpected shimmer of heat rippling through her body.
But he wasn't immune either, she noted with satisfaction. She saw the way his gaze was pulled to the column of her throat above the high neckline of her dress, then lower to where her beaded nipples made their presence known through the fine silk of her gown. Her lips curved in the slightest of smiles and she drew in a deep breath, one that made her breasts swell and rise gently.
Ottavia swooped into a graceful curtsy and bowed her head-she was more aware than most that you caught far more flies with honey-and remained beneath her king, waiting for his command to rise.
"Your deference is too little too late, Ms. Romolo," he intoned, and his deep voice hummed through her body. "Rise."
As she did so she looked up at him from beneath her long lashes, noted the firm set to his lips, the tiny lines that bracketed his mouth and the tension in his jaw. He was displeased. It was a risk she'd thought worth taking. Ottavia rose to her full height, squared her shoulders and held her tongue.
* * *
The woman stood in front of the window and he had to admire her strategy. Silhouetted by the filtered late afternoon light-every lush curve and gentle swell of her body limned with a golden glow-she was an eye-catching sight. But she had tangled with the wrong person if she thought positioning would give her any psychological leverage. He hadn't ruled Erminia for the past fifteen years without learning an almost inhuman level of self-control. His duty to his country demanded no less.
Rocco stepped closer to her until there was a scant foot between them. To the courtesan's credit, she didn't so much as flicker an eyelash even though he knew damn well he was an intimidating presence-he'd spent his life working on making people believe it. And, no matter how angered or amused he might have been by her audacity in attempting to invoice him for her time spent as his captive, he certainly had no plans to show it.
He thrust a sheet of paper toward her.
"What is the meaning of this?" he growled.
"I believe even you must be familiar with the term invoice?" she said.
Her voice was low-pitched and perfectly modulated, rolling over him like a velvet touch, heightening his awareness of her on a physical level that took him by surprise. Was this how she plied her trade? he wondered. Seducing a man with her voice before using the other wiles she doubtlessly wielded with expertise? His lips curled in defiance. She would soon learn he was no simple mark easily swayed by a beautiful woman.
"You are my prisoner." He rent the invoice in two and let the pieces drop to the floor at his feet. "You have no right to bill me for your time here. As my captive, you have no rights at all."
She raised one perfectly plucked arch of an eyebrow in response.
"I beg to differ, Your Majesty. The way I see it, your family owes me a great deal."
He had to admire her gall. There weren't many who dared challenge him.