CHAPTER EIGHT
ROSIEWISHEDSHEwere somewhere else. Anywhere else but here, in this grand embassy dining room in Paris, feeling more awkward than she could ever remember feeling. Yet she had grown up on the periphery of the Monterossian palace, so she was used to fancy surroundings and knew how to feel relatively comfortable in them. But here she couldn’t get rid of the sense of being an outsider. An interloper.
Because she was.
Which presumably was why she’d been stuck down at the furthest end of a very long table and about as far from Corso as it was possible to be. She played with the linen napkin on her lap. Of course, she was always going to be seated at the unimportant end of the table! Unless she’d really been expecting to be at the King’s right hand—when that honour had been given to the French President’s wife, who was nodding her head in blissful agreement with everything Corso was saying.
Rosie tried to smile and listen to the conversation taking place around her. Talking was pretty impossible because her schoolgirl French didn’t extend much beyond asking where the bathrooms were. But the general hubbub of the evening was too loud for her to be able to concentrate on anything other than how utterly amazing Corso looked in his Monterossian military regalia, which made the most of his spectacular physique. The dark jacket hugged the broad width of his chest, its row of medals glinting in the guttering light of the candles.
Like every other woman in the room, she had curtseyed when he’d made his grand entrance and then wondered whether she’d imagined his eyes lingering on her as she’d sunk to the marble floor in her silken gown.
The wine was excellent, the food superb. Chandeliers like diamonds suspended in mid-air glittered down on silver cutlery, sparkling crystal, and low bowls of fragrant flowers, which scented the air with heady perfume. But all the pomp and splendour was wasted on her because all Rosie could think about was Corso—like a one-track song playing invasively inside her head.
She pushed away her dish ofÎles flottant—untouched mounds of soft meringue, floating in a sea of custard. Such a waste. What was thematterwith her? It was as though someone had flicked a switch, or cast a spell on her. As if she were in the middle of an enchantment—unable to prevent her gaze from straying to the man who was sitting at the top end of the table. And the mortifying thing was that Corso had actually caught her doing it. Several times, their gazes had locked and the last time it had happened she had flushed, causing the third or fourth secretary—or whatever his position in the embassy was—beside her to remark that they really should improve the air-conditioning in the building.
It didn’t help that she was wearing an outfit which made her feel exposed, even though it was probably one of the most modest in the room. A low-cut silvery fitted gown which skimmed her ankles, to allow the peep of gleaming silver stilettos. The stylist had assured Rosie that the dress really suited her and, on one level, she knew it did—she just wasn’t used to the brush of silk next to her skin, nor for a lavish borrowed sapphire and diamond necklace and earrings to sparkle like a firework display above her breasts and at her ears. Maybe that was the reason she had let her hair down for once. Usually, she preferred the thick tresses tamed and neat but tonight they tumbled in a newly washed sheen about her bare shoulders, allowing for some welcome concealment.
At least now the toasts and speeches had been made and the guests were following the King’s lead and rising from the table. Rosie waited until she was certain she wouldn’t be noticed, then slipped away from the banqueting hall, though the relief she had expected to find once back in her suite eluded her.
She sighed. She felt restless. Empty. As if some vital component of her life was missing. An image of flame-kissed hair and amber-flecked eyes taunted the edge of her consciousness—and she wondered how she was going to get any sleep tonight.
Kicking off the silver shoes, she removed the necklace and earrings and put them in the safe, before padding barefoot over to the window to stare out at the Eiffel Tower. Dominating the Parisian skyline, the enormous structure was lit with coloured lights, which were reflected on the wide stretch of the river Seine, and which flashed like fireworks into the bedroom.
She went into the bathroom to brush her teeth and was just thinking about getting undressed when she heard a light tap at the door. She frowned as she spat some peppermint foam into the sink. Who would come looking for her at this time of night? Would the embassy have thought to send up a cup of late-night hot chocolate? Unlikely.
She opened the door and her heart thudded because Corso was standing there, still in his military uniform. Vibrant and handsome and oozing sex appeal, the King of Monterosso was standing onherdoorstep. She should have felt nervous, or outraged, or indignant, or angry or... But she felt none of those things. The only thing which was fizzing through her veins was the overwhelming certainty that there was nobody else in the world she would rather see. But Corso must not know that. Definitely not. She must remain calm. In control. Maybe he was here to discuss an aspect of the exhibition he’d forgotten to mention earlier.
‘Goodness,’ she said coolly, clutching the door handle tightly for support and hoping he didn’t notice. ‘This is unexpected.’
For a moment Corso couldn’t bring himself to answer.
He hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off her during the formal dinner. Unassuming Rosie Forrester—who seemed to have become a thorn in his flesh. He’d registered her curvy body clothed in a gown the colour of starlight. He’d been mesmerised by the lustrous fall of hair cascading down around her shoulders and the alluring flush of pink in her cheeks. There had been a captivating air about her, which had set her apart from everyone else in the room—a watchfulness and solitude he had found completely mesmerising. Had that been deliberate? Was she aware that those wordless looks she’d been directing at him had made it impossible for him to concentrate on a word the French President’s wife had been saying? And now she was standing in front of him like some incandescent angel in her silver gown. ‘Can I come in?’ he questioned throatily.
‘Really?’ she verified, with a slightly bemused rise of her eyebrows.
Outraged that she should have the temerity to challenge a question which would have made any other woman melt, he glared. ‘Yes, really. Unless you wish to have this conversation with me on your doorstep, which would not only be extremely indiscreet in the circumstances—but also highly discourteous.’
‘Oh. We’re having a conversation, are we?’ she questioned, but she opened the door wider all the same, allowing him to step inside, and then closed it quietly behind him. She headed towards a tall lamp and switched it on in a very busy manner, before turning to look at him, her eyebrows still raised. ‘Okay. What do you want to talk about? The exhibition? The dinner? It all seemed to go very well tonight and I thought your speech was great, if that’s what you’re... Corso?’ The prattle of her nervous words halted and she looked at him in confusion, as if she had only just noticed the tension in his face and body. ‘Is something the matter?’
‘I just think we need to establish a few boundaries,’ he said unevenly. And since he was aware that visiting her room at close to midnight was almost certainly in direct breach of the boundaries he was about to propose, he moved as far away from her as possible.
‘Right,’ she said slowly, still with that faint look of perplexity. ‘Go on, then. Let’s hear them.’
For a moment Corso’s resolve faltered because, in the apricot light spilling from the lamp, her lips were parted and her eyes were glittering like dark stars. That unbelievable hair was brushing against her cheeks and he found himself wanting to use one of those pale, silken strands as an anchor. To wind it round his finger and use it to draw her face close to his, so that he could kiss her. He wanted to kiss her so much. Angrily, he pushed the thought away but traces of it lingered in his mind.
Was it seven years of self denial which made him answer her with such a marked lack of finesse? ‘It’s infuriating, but I can’t stop thinking about you.’
He saw her brief look of uncertainty before she shrugged. ‘Well, we go back a long way, don’t we?’
‘That’s not what I’m talking about.’
‘No. I guess not.’ Suddenly all the uncertainty was gone. Her gaze was clear and he was reminded of the focus she had demonstrated when she’d been showing him around the exhibition earlier. ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me exactly what it is youaretalking about.’
‘With pleasure.’ He could have kicked himself for his inappropriate choice of word as she stood there, bathed in the light from the Eiffel Tower. ‘It isn’t going to happen, Rosie.’
‘What isn’t?’
‘Please.’ He didn’t bother to keep the impatience from his voice. ‘We’re not teenagers. Let’s at least be honest with ourselves. We need to work and travel together and at the moment I’m not finding it particularly easy to do either.’