‘You’d better come in, I suppose.’
‘I am bowled over by your enthusiastic invitation,’ he drawled sarcastically.
‘Nobody’s forcing you to come in, Corso,’ she said, but so quietly that he almost missed it and, since he wanted something from her, he was prepared to overlook her rudeness.
Dipping his head, Corso entered the cottage, narrowly missing an overhanging beam, straightening up to find himself standing in the smallest room he had ever seen, and he looked around, curious to see how she lived.
Modestly, it would seem. His sources had told him as much but the evidence of his own eyes spoke volumes. The woodland setting of the cottage was perfect, but its interior suggested that money was scarce. A small, battered sofa with shiny arms. On an equally small table—next to her discarded cycling helmet—stood a vase filled with a yellow sunburst of daffodils—a quintessentially English touch. But it was the vase which captured his attention more than the spring flowers, for it was decorated in different shades of blue—the distinctive pottery for which Monterosso was renowned. One of his country’s more wholesome trades, he thought bitterly—before turning his attention to Rosie herself. And now it was his turn to be surprised and not just because she was regarding him with that same unwelcoming stare. She had unzipped her bulky waterproof jacket so that it was flapping open and he found himself taken aback by the glimpse of abundant curves which lay beneath. And Corso swallowed.
What had happened to her?
Gone were the angular lines and skinny ribs of her boyish frame and in their place was the swell of generous bosom, demurely covered in a navy-blue sweater on which was embroidered a tiny red logo of a train. Her legs—once bony—were now slender and shapely, despite the workmanlike fabric of her trousers. But it wasn’t just her physical appearance which had changed. This was a Rosie he didn’t recognise, for the look on her face was almost...insolent.
She would never have looked at him like that before yet somehow her defiance was heating his blood. He could feel the sudden quickening of his pulse and his mind began to stir with forgotten memories of how delicious sex could be, before he curtailed his errant thoughts. Hadn’t he embraced celibacy for the last seven years, ruthlessly sublimating his healthy libido with hard work and exercise? It had been a long time since he had allowed the warm curl of lust to fire his blood and that was the way he had wanted it.
So why the hell was he thinking this way about someone as unsuitable as Rosie Forrester?
His throat dried.
Because denial created hunger. And in the end, wouldn’t a starving man sooner devour the hunk of dry bread lying on the table before him, than hold out for a banquet which might never materialise?
So dial it down. Be pleasant. Formal. Remind her—and yourself—of the natural order of things. ‘How are you, Rosie?’ he questioned, with the same polite distance he might use if he were greeting someone standing in the official line during the opening of a sardine factory.
‘Honestly? I’m confused. Bewildered, even.’ She shrugged. ‘If you must know, I’m wondering why you’re here. Why the King of Monterosso has turned up on my doorstep without any kind of warning.’
Corso frowned. Shouldn’t she be displaying a little more excitement than this? He had been expecting to have been offered a very English cup of tea—which he would almost certainly have refused—and to have been invited to sit on one of the uncomfortable-looking pieces of furniture. He hadn’t been anticipating this cool reception on her part, despite the awkwardness of their last meeting.
She had changed, he thought, before wondering why he’d ever thought otherwise. Of course she had.
They had all changed.
His mouth hardened.
Seven years was a long time.
‘I need a favour,’ he said.
Rosie was careful to keep her expression neutral, though inside she wasn’t feeling a bit like that—and for once it wasn’t worry about her mother, or fear of the future which was making her pulse race. An unfamiliar sense of disorientation was unsettling her and it had nothing to do with the shock of protocol being blown away by the King’s surprise appearance. It had nothing to do with his lofty position in the world and everything to do with the man himself.
Because Corso Andrea da Vignola had somehow acquired the ability of making the humble dimensions of her cottage shrink even further. It felt as if the walls had started closing in on her. She was finding it difficult to breathe, or think, or concentrate. It was impossible to look anywhere other than at him, yet she had no desire to look anywhere else.
Her gaze drank in the angled planes of his sculpted features and aristocratic cheekbones, as if she needed to commit them to memory. The arrogant curve of his sensual lips and metallic blaze of his eyes. She’d always been aware that his body was strong and powerful—his physical prowess was legendary—but suddenly it wasn’t easy to be quite so objective about it. With a sudden flash of insight, Rosie understood why women used to swoon whenever he was around. Why their faces would contort with desire when they thought he wasn’t looking.
Her heart skipped an uncomfortable beat. Had she too fallen victim to his allure after years of being immune to it? Was she fated to join the bloated ranks of women who desired him, who humiliated themselves in their desire to get him to bed them, or wed them?
She gave herself a mental shake. No, she was not. Only a fool would wander down that path. She needed an urgent encounter with reality and to remember their last encounter, when all traces of the old Corso seemed to have vanished. He had been cold and cruel, accusing her of jealousy when she’d told him what she’d overheard. He had looked her up and down as if she were something unpleasant he’d found clinging to the sole of his boots. And then he’d dismissed her—making her feel small and inconsequential—before the night had descended into total chaos. His father had died unexpectedly and Corso had been pronounced King, right before her eyes. The ball had ended abruptly and the whole country had been plunged into mourning.
On her flight back to England the next day, Rosie had wondered if Corso had gone ahead and spent the night with Tiffany anyway, because hadn’t she read somewhere that people found comfort in sex, during times of intense grief? But if he had, there had been no apparent consequences. No baby and certainly no wedding. Tiffany Sackler had gone on to marry some hedge-fund manager and was living between Manhattan and the Hamptons. And if occasionally Rosie had seen articles about Corso in newspapers, which took great pains to report that he remained resolutely single, she genuinely hadn’t cared.
She needed to remember that she was a different person now. She was seven years older and had cut her ties with him and his homeland completely. She had grown up—in all ways. Physically, she had been a late developer, but at twenty, her body had suddenly filled out. Almost overnight she’d stopped being skinny and gawky and had acquired curves and she’d had to get used to having breasts, and hips. She had found a job she enjoyed, even if it didn’t pay quite as much as she would like. But she supplemented her income with extra workandshe was almost at the end of a perfectly respectable online arts degree, even though she hadn’t been able to utilise it yet. She had made something of herself and didn’t have to hang onto his every word, or agree with him, or bow down to him. She didn’t even have to talk to him if she didn’t want to. She wasn’t his subject and she owed him nothing.
Nothing.Not even the cowering deference which he probably thought was his due.
‘I did you a favour once before and you threw it back in my face,’ she reminded him.
‘That was wrong of me.’ He hesitated, like a person who was about to use unfamiliar phraseology. ‘I was—am—very grateful to you.’
Her gaze was suspicious. ‘Really?’