‘You think I am so easily replaceable?’
‘Everyone is replaceable,’ he said wryly. ‘Even kings.’
‘Even you, Corso? Surely not!’
Corso was tempted to tell her not to talk to him like that. He didn’t want fire and feistiness, or teasing. He wanted her to be greedy and calculating. He wanted her to help reinforce his prejudices about women, which were deeply engrained—especially now. He didn’t need her words to remind him of a different time, when life had seemed so simple. When he had been able to regard her as something close to a friend.
But it wasn’t friendship he was feeling now. It was lust, pure and simple.
His gaze travelled over her. Her sweater was plain, her jeans faded—but the cheap clothes failed to conceal the fact that her body was strong and healthy. Or that her firm curves had obviously been acquired through hard work and natural exercise—not from narcissistic hours spent gazing at her own reflection in the mirror of a gym. Her thick hair was as pale as the dawn and the soft dimple in her cheek oddly compelling. But that kind of thinking was deeply unhelpful.He needed to concentrate on her inadequacies, not on the way she was inexplicably turning him on.
‘We also need to find you some new clothes,’ he said abruptly.
‘You’re assuming I have nothing appropriate of my own?’
‘I really have no idea,’ he drawled. ‘Do you?’
Rosie glowered. Of course she didn’t have anything suitable for an international royal trip. Her railway uniform and the casual clothes she favoured when she wasn’t working would hardly go down a storm. Why, she only owned one dress and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn it.
‘Sorry, I’m fresh out of diamonds and lace!’
‘You won’t need those for TV. Simple works best for television.’
‘Television?’she echoed, sitting bolt upright. ‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘Careful, Rosie—my aides might not take kindly to you casting doubts on my sanity.’
‘Corso.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Listen.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘I can’t possibly go on TV. I don’t have any experience.’
‘You’ve got the only experience anyone ever needs. You know your subject, don’t you? You know all about your father...’ There was a faint crack in his voice, before he recovered his velvety delivery. ‘And all the treasures he unearthed,’ he concluded.
‘It isn’t as simple as that. How can I possibly go on television? Me, of all people! I’m not a media personality—I’m a railway worker. I serve cups of tea and sandwiches on the train.’
‘Don’t worry. These days everybody gets their ten minutes of fame. We’ll make sure you get a crash course in media training before we throw you to the lions.’
‘Corso—’
‘Rosie, I really don’t have time for this.’ He gave an impatient click of his fingers. ‘If I feed your fear, it will only grow. I’ll see you in Paris. My office will be in touch about the arrangements.’
He was staring at her pointedly and Rosie realised that the door had silently opened and Ivana was standing on the threshold, waiting to escort her from the premises, like a gatecrasher at a party. Her face hot, she rose to her feet, picking up her helmet and dripping cagoule. Her hand was shaking, she realised—and not just because Corso had ended the conversation so abruptly. Nor even because he’d high-handedly announced that he was going to provide her with a brand-new wardrobe. No, it was nothing to do with that. It was all to do withhim. With his gleaming eyes and flame-kissed hair and a hard body which no amount of fancy clothes could disguise. How dared he make her want him like this?
Outside, she unchained her bicycle and stared up at the enormous first-floor windows of his offices, in time to see a silhouetted figure appear. It was too shadowy to be able to make out his features with any degree of clarity, but the hard-bodied frame was unmistakably that of the King as he stared down at her. She waited for him to lift his hand in a wave of acknowledgement—but no such sign came and she felt an undeniable twist of disappointment as he turned away from the window, as if dismissing her.
Rosie’s heart raced as she wheeled her bike away. Didn’t he realise how difficult it would be for someone like her to go on television, wearing stuff somebody else had chosen? Maybe that was the kind of magnanimous gesture which would thrill a certain kind of woman—but that woman wasn’t her. She wasn’t going to act like some grateful Cinderella, if that was what he was expecting. She would accept what she was given in a very grown-up way and afterwards she would hand everything back—borrowed clothes for a borrowed life. She would conduct herself appropriately because she knew how—she’d watched how royal circles operated often enough. And she would work her socks off, because she’d never been afraid of hard work.
Somehow—she wasn’t sure how—she would overcome her fears and be an asset to Monterosso and its people. She would bring pride to the Forrester name. All she needed to do was to focus on the big prize which awaited her, which would liberate her and Bianca from the constant worry of debt and give their mother the type of home they thought she’d lost for ever.
Most important of all, she would keep her desire for Corso hidden.
Actually, she was going to do more than that. She would trample it ruthlessly underfoot, until it was nothing but a dusty memory of her own stupidity.
Somehow that seemed like the biggest ask of all.