CHAPTER SIX
THETELEVISIONSTUDIOwas buzzing with activity and people were running around in every direction. Impossibly glamorous people in ripped jeans, jabbering in French and gesturing excitedly with their hands. Rosie felt another stab of apprehension as she glanced around.
‘Is it always like this?’ she asked nervously, twisting her fingers together and wishing the palms of her hands weren’t quite so sweaty.
The producer—who looked about twelve but was probably about the same age as her—shook his head. ‘It is because we have a king here,’ he said, giving a conspiratorial grin as he thumped his fist against his chest in a crude attempt to mimic a rapidly beating heart. ‘All the women—they want him to notice them. I think that they want to be his queen—despite the fact that we are a proud republic!’
Rosie looked up at the monitor, where Corso’s sculpted features dominated the screen, beneath which a small crowd of women were standing, watching him avidly. His skin glowed like old gold, his metallic eyes lashed with ebony and his dark hair lit with fire. She could see exactly why they were watching him because he reallydidlook like an old-fashioned matinee idol as he conducted the interview—but all she could think about was the ordeal which lay ahead. She was up next for her interview in front of the camera and already she was frozen with fear. Despite the make-up artist dabbing her brow every other second, it remained hot and clammy and her heart was pounding like mad beneath the horrible black dress they’d given her to wear.
Half sick with dread, she turned away from the monitor and walked carefully to the far end of the studio, desperate to be alone. For a moment she stood there in blissful solitude, drawing in ragged gulps of air as she tried to calm herself, though it did little to quell her spiralling fears. How could all those articles on deep breathing be so wrong, and how on earth had she ended uphere—in a Parisian television studio, waiting for one of France’s most respected art historians to quiz her about the ancient jewels of Monterosso?
She couldn’t do it.
Shewouldn’tdo it.
Already events had taken on the surreal air of a twisted fairy tale—but instead of a travelling in a souped-up pumpkin, she had been plucked from her cottage in the forest before being whisked by limousine to London, then flown to Paris on the King’s private jet. From the airstrip she had been taken to the Monterossian embassy on the fancy Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré to a suite of almost unimaginable splendour. She’d scarcely had time to brush her teeth before a scarily sophisticated stylist had turned up with a bunch of clothes for her to try on, which were the last thing Rosie would ever have chosen to wear herself. Silk, chiffon and leather were very definitelynother thing and she’d nearly passed out when she’d spotted a couple of the price tags.
Even worse was the accompanying lingerie because surely underwear was supposed to cover you up—rather than revealing more of her body than she was comfortable with. She had tried to refuse them, but, once again, had been overruled. It seemed that the palace was controlling everything—or rather, Corso was. He seemed to have been orchestrating things from a distance—and it was all too much. She felt like a puppet having its strings tweaked by an unseen master, which should have made her deeply indignant. So why did a scary shiver of excitement skate its way down her spine, every time she thought about it?
‘Rosie? Ah. Itisyou. Once again, I find you hiding in the shadows. This is getting to be a habit. Is it a deliberate ploy, I wonder? An attempt to force people to seek you out?’
Rosie tensed as Corso’s sardonic question rippled through the air like a brush of velvet and she turned to face him, resenting the sudden rush of awareness which sizzled through her as he walked across the studio floor to join her. She had convinced herself she was going to feel nothing but detachment when she saw him again, but her conviction was fast disappearing—melted away by the powerful heat of his presence. No man had a right to be this gorgeous, she thought despairingly. On the small screen he had been captivating—but up close he was positivelydistracting.
His dark designer suit hugged the contours of his muscular frame and he’d left the top two buttons of his silk shirt open, making him appear far more relaxed than usual. It was the first time she had spoken to him since arriving in France, because he’d been meeting with politicians and CEOs or so closely surrounded by his security people that nobody could get near him. She’d tried telling herself it was a bonus not to have to endure his company, or to have to gaze into the mocking distraction of his metallic gaze. The only trouble with that statement was that it wasn’t true.
‘I came over here because I wanted a little time on my own before my interview,’ she said pointedly.
But he refused to take the hint. ‘Are you ready?’ he questioned, jabbing a finger against the face of his watch. ‘They’ll be calling you in a minute.’
‘No,’ she mumbled, his effect on her forgotten as her throat grew dry with renewed panic at the thought of what she had to do. ‘If you want the truth, I’m nowhere near ready. If I could, I’d walk out of here right now. Get the earliest flight back to London and go back to my old life.’
She expected him to snub or berate her, or tell her to pull herself together, but maybe she had misjudged him. Because beneath the subdued light of the studio, the King’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
‘What’s the matter, Rosie?’ he questioned softly.
She wished he wouldn’t use that tone with her because it reminded her of the past, when he’d been kind to her. It made her feel vulnerable—and that was the last way she could afford to feel right now. ‘Is that a serious question?’ she demanded. ‘You mean, apart from the fact that I’m trussed up in this dull dress which makes me look so frumpy? Or that these shoes are so high that I can barely walk in them without risking a fracture?’
Corso frowned, because her self-assessment was so off the mark, it was almost laughable. When he’d walked into the studio today, he hadn’t recognised her. The inevitable ripple of excitement followed by total silence must have alerted her to the fact that the royal party had arrived, but Rosie’s back had remained turned to him, for she had been engrossed in reading something. Yet for once he had been prepared to overlook the huge breach of protocol. He remembered his gaze homing in on her, as if something outside his control were compelling him to do so—and that was unusual. Her black dress was deceptively simple, yet somehow it managed to emphasise her incredibly curvy shape, which reminded him of an old-fashioned movie star. Just as the high-heeled black shoes showcased a pair of beautifully toned legs, which gleamed beneath the studio lights. Her hair was caught back in an elegant chignon and, as he’d registered the few strands of palest blonde which had tumbled onto the slim column of her neck, he was hit by a powerful thunderbolt of something he didn’t recognise.
Because this really was Rosie.
A remarkably different Rosie from one he’d ever seen before.
And one who was completely out of her depth, he realised, with an unusual degree of insight.
‘You look sensational,’ he said slowly.
‘No, I don’t.’
Corso wondered what made him seek to reassure her further. The knowledge that a flurry of nerves had the potential to ruin her interview and garner adverse publicity for his tour? Possibly. Or maybe it was more fundamental than that. Because the truth was that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her and he couldn’t work out why. She’d been invading his thoughts at the most inappropriate moments. Those cushion-soft lips and cloud-grey eyes. Her defiance. Her compliance. Different sides of a woman who was fascinating him more than she should.
And yet her physical transformation from duckling to swan had only managed to highlight her inherent freshness and lack of guile—and since these were qualities he rarely came across in his daily life, shouldn’t he help preserve them?
‘Believe me when I tell you that you do. You look amazing,’ he contradicted. ‘And that perpetrating a negative attitude about yourself is a waste of time.’
‘It’s easy for you to talk.’
‘And just as easy for you to listen,’ he admonished sternly.