CHAPTER SEVEN
‘I’MWAITINGFORmy guided tour, Rosie.’
A pair of dark brows were raised in arrogant query and Rosie’s smile was nervous as Corso stood in front of her, looking mouth-wateringly delectable in his dark designer suit. With a minimum of fanfare, he’d arrived at the Musée des Antiquités moments before and been escorted straight into the exhibition room where she’d been working with Phillipe le Clerc, the museum’s curator, for most of the day.
She tried to steady her suddenly ragged breathing, but it wasn’t easy. None of this was easy. It was the first time she’d seen him since he’d driven her back from the TV studios yesterday afternoon, when for a moment the sexual tension between them had been so heightened that she’d thought he was about to kiss her.
Corso?
Kiss her?
Her?
How sad was that? As if Corso—having the pick of any woman he wanted—would choose to get intimate with her. Deciding she needed to put as much space as possible between them for the sake of her own sanity, she had slunk upstairs when they’d arrived back at the embassy. Then she had busied herself preparing for the upcoming exhibition, before picking at the meal she’d asked to be delivered to her room—a request which seemed to perplex the French maid who had delivered it. As if nobody in their right mind would choose to eat their dinner off a tray.
But she couldn’t hide away from Corso for ever—especially not when he was towering above her beneath the bright lights of the museum, a faintly impatient look glinting from between his narrowed eyes as he demanded her attention. Bobbing a small curtsey in an attempt to highlight their difference in status, she produced her most efficient smile. ‘I’m sure Monsieur le Clerc is far more qualified to show you around than I am,’ she said. ‘He is, after all, one of the greatest experts on ancient Mediterranean jewellery in all of Europe.’
‘But it is you I want,’ emphasised Corso—his silky command enough to make Phillipe melt away into the background, with a very Gallic shrug.
The King’s words were distracting—his presence even more so. Suddenly Rosie felt as if she were alone with him again. As if they were the only two people in the world—even though the usual phalanx of guards were standing a respectful distance away. But that was the undeniable power of the man. He had the ability to make everyone else seem like shadows around him. And that was nothing new. She had always recognised that quality in him. What had changed washer—and the effect he was having on her. Despite her having elected to wear the most sensible components of her wardrobe, her body was reacting in ways she couldn’t seem to control. Beneath the sawn-off linen trousers and silk shirt, her skin felt sensitised and prickly. Her breasts seemed to have acquired a new and alarming life of their own—their tips pressing uncomfortably against her new bra—and there was that distracting curl of heat again, low in her belly.
She needed to get a grip of herself before she did something stupid. She was supposed to be doing a job of work for him, that was all.
That was all.
‘Very well,’ she said crisply. ‘Let me show you around. We’ve made some changes to the order of the display cases.’
Indicating he should follow her, Rosie started at the first glass-covered case, beneath which were a set of small bracelets, intricately inlaid with amethyst, turquoise and lapis lazuli. ‘We’ve decided to show the pieces chronologically,’ she explained. ‘And since the collection isn’t very big we were able to contain it all within this one space, which makes it very accessible for the public. Look. These are the bracelets which were made for Queen Aurelia when she was just a baby—though it’s doubtful if she ever wore them. See how tiny they are.’
But her professionalism dissolved the moment Corso stepped closer to study the contents of the display case and Rosie felt a terrifying desire to reach out and touch him. To run her fingertips over the shaded jut of his jaw to see how rough it felt.
She cleared her throat as they made their way towards the next exhibit. ‘As we move through the room,’ she said quickly, ‘we can see the magnitude and size of her jewellery collection increasing—culminating in the precious suite she was given on her marriage and then on the birth of her first child.’ She paused. ‘But we saved the best for last, which isn’t jewellery at all. Because here we have the only known statue of the young Queen—probably carved during the first year of her marriage. It’s...it’s beautiful, isn’t it? So incredibly clear, and detailed. It’s almost as if she’s here with us.’
Corso inclined his head, admiring her fluency and knowledge and noticing the way her face came to life when she spoke about the ancient artefacts—her features filled with fire and passion.
With an effort, he dragged his attention back to the statue. He had seen it before—many times, for it had been languishing in airtight storage in Monterosso for years—but here it seemed to assume a special poignancy when assembled with the burial jewels. It seemed to emphasise the terrible awareness of hindsight, knowing the shadow of death was already hovering over the young Queen. He wondered, if he were to die now, what his lasting legacy would be and whether the brother he was seeking would choose to inherit the heavy mantle of the throne. Had he made Monterosso as good as he possibly could? Wiping out some of the damage done to it in the past? Had he done the best he could?
Suddenly he thought about his mother, unprepared for the shaft of pain which clenched at his heart. His recent discovery of an illegitimate brother made an already complicated relationship with his past even more so—and usually, he controlled access to his memories with steely rigidity. But not so now. Was it Rosie’s familiarity, or the strangely informal relationship he’d once shared with her, which made him want to confide in her the secrets he carried with him, despite knowing how misguided such a confidence would be?
Attempting to quash the muddle of his thoughts, he asked a question to which he already knew the answer. ‘How old would the Queen have been when this was modelled?’
‘Twenty-five.’
‘The same age as you,’ he observed.
‘Well, yes.’
He heard her miss a beat—as if she was surprised he’d remembered, or that he had deigned to mention it. ‘And by then she had already given birth to one child and was pregnant with the second,’ he continued.
‘That’s right.’
There was a pause and afterwards he found himself wondering what made him ask a question which had no relevance at all. ‘Haven’t you ever wanted to marry and have a family of your own, Rosie?’
He saw her face working awkwardly, as if he had put her on the spot.
‘I’m not a big fan of the institution,’ she said, at last. ‘I’ve seen very few examples which make me want to rush to join in.’
‘Not even your own parents?’