Rosie rose from the little desk which was shoved next to the wardrobe in the cottage’s only bedroom. It was all very well to be bullish when she was talking to Bianca, but now she was filled with an overwhelming sense of dread at the thought of what lay ahead. She stared down at the discreetly expensive card he’d given her. It said simply: Corso of Monterosso, and next to his name was a phone number. All she had to do was to ring him.
But it took ages for her to pluck up the courage and, in the meantime, she procrastinated. She went over to the big house to check that everything was in place for Lucio Corsini’s visit, before the temporary housekeeper, chef and butler arrived to cater for the tycoon’s weekend party.
And that was another thing. Her cottage accommodation was provided free in return for keeping an eye on the property of the wealthy Sicilian. How would Lucio react when she told him she intended to be absent for a whole month while she waltzed off with the King of Monterosso?
Before she had time to change her mind, Rosie grabbed her phone and tapped out the number he’d given her, holding her breath as she prepared herself for the velvety onslaught of his voice. But instead of getting Corso, it went straight to one of his assistants, who introduced herself as Ivana.
‘The King would like you to come in and see him in person.’
‘But, I—’
‘The embassy is in Belgrave Square,’ continued Ivana, with the calm delivery of a woman who never deviated from her boss’s wishes. ‘I understand that you work in London, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Just tell me what time suits and I’m sure we can work something into His Majesty’s schedule. And please don’t worry about transport. We can easily send a car to pick you up.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Rosie grimly. Imagining a royal car turning up at the Paddington train depot! What on earth would all her co-workers say if they saw the Monterossian flag fluttering on the bonnet? ‘I’ll make my own way.’
Which was how she found herself cycling through the drizzle to the quiet tree-lined streets of Belgravia the following afternoon. Past the imposing houses she rode before chaining her bike to a railing outside the beautiful, white-stuccoed building which housed the Monterossian embassy, where the two burly-looking men who guarded the entrance stared at her askance. But Rosie didn’t care. So what if she was dripping rainwater onto their pristine marble floor, or was already getting hot and sweaty beneath her waterproof jacket? Corso had demanded toseeher—so see her he would, warts and all.
Nevertheless, she felt sticky and crumpled as she was shown to the King’s grand suite of offices on the first floor, past sleek women and equally sleek men who didn’t lift their gazes from their computer screens. Over an endless expanse of pale wood she walked until at last she was shown into the inner sanctum of the monarch’s office and, to her surprise, Corso was alone.
He sat behind a monster of a desk—ancient, carved blackwood by the look of it—and her attention was captured by a crystal paperweight which threw vivid rainbow light across the polished surface. Behind him were a couple of exquisite paintings of Monterosso—one depicting the silvery shimmer of the iconic lake which edged the country’s capital and the other a landscape view of the wild mountain range which lay to the north of the country. She didn’t want to feel a jab of nostalgia but there it was, all the same.
And when Rosie could distract her gaze no longer, she allowed it to fall on the flame-haired man who was leaning back in his chair, studying her with amusement quirking the edges of his lips, as if he was perfectly aware that she’d been trying to look anywhere other than at him. She couldn’t deny that he looked delectable—or that the roof of her mouth had dried with instant desire, but hopefully she disguised her reaction well enough with a small, forced smile.
At first glance, his dark suit, pale shirt and a tie of amber silk made him seem the embodiment of the contemporary man, but a portrait of one of his ancestors on a nearby wall and the identical glint in Corso’s eyes reminded her of his background. He was privileged. Ruthless and powerful. He didn’t care about her, or her feelings. He just wanted what suited him.
That was how royal dynasties managed to survive.
And to dominate.
‘Rosie,’ he purred, and she could hear the satisfaction in his voice. ‘Why don’t you remove that dripping garment and come and sit down?’
She didn’t want to sit down. She didn’t want to be here, but her skin was tingling as if she were standing in front of a naked flame and so she peeled off her sopping cagoule and hung it on the back of the chair. Sinking into the surprisingly comfortable seat on the other side of the desk, she looked at him questioningly. ‘I gather you wanted to see me in person?’
‘I did. And I will take your presence here as acceptance.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You will do as I ask?’
‘Yes. I’ve spoken to my sister and she thinks...’ She shrugged. ‘We both think I should accept your offer.’
‘Excellent.’
Rosie opened her lips to speak, but she was finding it harder to replicate Bianca’s demand than she’d imagined. ‘But on one condition.’
‘On one condition,’ he repeated, only now his voice had taken on an edge of something she didn’t recognise. ‘And what might that be, I wonder?’
‘I want more,’ she blurted out into the awkward silence which followed his question.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘More?’ he echoed unhelpfully.
‘Money.’ She tried not to flinch as she saw contempt hardening his features. ‘I... I want more money.’
Corso felt a slow rush of anger invading his blood—but the feeling was underpinned with something else. Something he hadn’t expected, nor wanted to feel—and that was a deep sense of disappointment. Because yes, he had pushed hard to get Rosie Forrester to agree to his offer—but he had justified his behaviour with the knowledge that, ultimately, his generosity would benefit her family. She was her father’s daughter after all, and part of him had hoped Lionel’s liberal attitude might have percolated down to his younger daughter. Had he imagined that she might regard him as a person, rather than just a symbol of power and wealth? That, having had time to think about the many benefits his offer would bring, she might also wish to accompany him for old times’ sake, and even be grateful for his intervention? Yes. Stupidly enough, he had.
Silently, he cursed his foolish idealism, focussing on her true nature as a way of sidelining the sudden stab to his heart. Why, she was as avaricious as any other woman he’d ever met! And perhaps not quite as clever as she imagined. Wasn’t she aware that her attitude would destroy any lingering traces of affection he’d held for her? Yet in many ways it was easier to be angry with her than to desire her. And definitely easier to concentrate on her blatant greed, rather than the brother who awaited him in New York.
The brother whose very existence is a testament to the sham of your parents’ supposedly perfect marriage.
‘How much do you want?’ he demanded harshly, but at this she blushed and the brief flicker of hurt which clouded her grey eyes was confusing. He shook his head in frustration. She ought to make up her mind about the part she was trying to play. About whether she wanted to come over as acquisitive or sensitive. About who she really was.
‘Er, I haven’t quite worked it out yet,’ she prevaricated.