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‘You were the one who told me I needed to change my image,’ she mumbled. ‘How is that going to do anything for my confidence?’
‘Surely you’re able to take a little constructive advice,’ he came back coolly. ‘You’ve got to start believing in yourself, Rosie. As of now. The camera has the power to pick up every single one of your insecurities and magnify them—and that won’t do you any favours.’
‘If that’s supposed to be encouraging, I’d hate to hear you being negative,’ she said moodily.
Corso had almost forgotten what it was like for someone to speak to him as an equal—even though she would never be hisrealequal. Nonetheless, her words provoked an unexpected flicker of a smile as he fixed his gaze on the high-heeled black shoes which made her legs look so deliciously long. ‘If you really can’t walk in those,’ he added, ‘then I can offer my arm to support you.’
‘I’m twenty-five, not a hundred and five! I don’t think I’ve quite reached the stage of needing to use you as a crutch, Corso—though obviously I’m extremely grateful for the offer.’
But she smiled and it was the first time he had seen a genuine smile from her in a long time. It split through the intervening years like a knife ripping through a closed curtain, taking him by surprise. As did the sudden punch of his heart and the rush of something shockingly potent which was making his blood grow heated. Something he recognised with confusion and annoyance—because he’d never wanted her that way in the past.
I don’t want to desire her, he told himself angrily.
I don’t want to desire anyone, until the time is right.
His focus must be on finding his brother.Not on how much he would like to spread open Rosie Forrester’s soft thighs and put his head between them and lick her until she was crying out his name.
With an effort, he adopted the mask of indifference which usually came so easily to him and flicked another glance at his watch. ‘They’re calling you. Just go in there and give it everything you’ve got. I’ll wait for you in the car out front.’
She blinked at him. ‘You’ll wait for me?’ she verified slowly. ‘But the King waits for nobody.’
‘Don’t labour the point, Rosie,’ he drawled. ‘We can share a car back to the embassy. It makes perfect sense. If we save on fuel, it’s so much better for the planet.’
His lazy words were so unexpected that Rosie giggled and she saw people turning to look at them, as if startled by the sound. Come to think of it, she was pretty startled herself—given her current state of nerves. She watched hungry female eyes following Corso as he swept from the studio and, as his entourage moved quickly to surround him, she warned herself never to join their adoring ranks. She mustn’t start thinking he was funny, or sexy, or clever.
But maybe his words had been more comforting than she’d realised because her panic seemed to have evaporated as she sat down to face the interviewer. It helped that the niche arts programme had relatively modest audience figures and that the questioner knew loads about her dad. Which meant she was able to speak with genuine passion about the exquisite pearls and beaten gold jewellery which he’d discovered all those years ago. She spoke for longer than she’d anticipated and felt almost high with relief when finally she exited the studio. She felt more confident now in the skyscraper heels, and the heady atmosphere of springtime Paris helped lift her mood even further.
The TV studios were situated eight kilometres outside the city centre and she could hear birds singing amid the dark pink blooms of the horse-chestnut trees which lined the street. Bathed in bright sunshine, she looked around without much expectation, doubtful Corso would have hung around for this long and deciding that maybe she should walk for a while before taking the Metro back to the embassy. But no, there was the dark-windowed royal limousine parked by the edge of the pavement, the turquoise and purple of the Monterossian flag fluttering proudly on the gleaming black bonnet.
A member of the King’s security detail stepped forward to open the door for her and Rosie slid inside, the fitted dress making her movements unusually cautious and slow. The door clicked shut to enclose her and her heart began to hammer as her eyes became accustomed to the dim light and she became aware of Corso’s shadowed presence on the seat beside her, writing something by hand in a notebook.
He’d told her he would be here—so it was no big surprise—yet his impact on her was shockingly visceral. Suddenly she was glad she was sitting down. His muscular body was so powerful. His shoulders were so broad. Even the fingers which held his pen were gorgeous. What would it be like if those long fingers were stroking their way over her skin—lightly grazing her burning flesh? Her throat dried as his gaze washed over her and, to her horror, she realised she had started to tremble. Was it that which made her blurt out the first stupid thing which came into her head?
‘You waited.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘I said I would.’
‘I know, but...’
‘But what, Rosie?’ She heard the faint edge of exasperation in his voice. ‘You don’t consider me to be a man of my word?’
Rosie realised she had no idea what kind of man he was because most of the things she knew about Corso were things she’d read or heard from other people, and everyone knew that hearsay was unreliable. Yet she remembered the younger version very well. The Crown Prince whose mother had died. Who had hidden all his pain and grief behind an impenetrable mask, because that blanketing of emotion had been demanded of him—by his father, and by his royal destiny. Had that been the moment when the first layers of cynicism had started building around him, separating him from other people, or was that just inevitable when you inherited a throne and people always wanted something from you?
‘Actually, Idobelieve you’re a man of your word,’ she said, the words more fervent than she had intended.
Corso was silent as he studied the gleam of her lips, for he was unused to receiving such heartfelt praise. Yet he had sought her good opinion of him, hadn’t he? Now he found himself wondering why—and why he had dismissed his bemused aides to sit waiting in his limousine while Rosie Forrester finished her interview, he who had never waited for a woman in his life.
He knew why. It was obvious from the tension which was thrumming in the air between them, so powerful that he felt he could have reached out and touched it.
Desire.
Inexplicable, intense and unpredictable.
He might have successfully kept his sexual hunger at bay for the last seven years—but that didn’t mean he didn’t recognise it when it came along to hit him with the force of a sledgehammer. He stared unseeingly out of the window as the limousine began to move through the traffic, his thoughts coming thick and fast. Inheriting the throne had been a double-edged sword. First had come his realisation of the damage done to his country by his father’s greed—and later still, the discovery of his duplicity and its grim legacy. Sickened by the revelations and determined to repair the destruction the late King had wrought, Corso had decided to wholeheartedly embrace celibacy, like the knights of old. Because women were a distraction and extra demands on his time were something he didn’t need.
He had banished desire from his life through sheer effort of will and a determination not to be sucked in by its sweet promise. Employing a masochistic element of self-control, he had allowed himself a brief sense of satisfaction at successfully banishing the carnal needs of his body. It was as though he had acquired a special immunity against sexual hunger. But that hunger was washing over him now and it was taking him prisoner. Unremitting and unrelenting—it flooded through his veins like a rich rush of honey. It felt unbearably sweet to be alone in the back seat of a car with Rosie Forrester and he wondered if it was curiosity which had made him take this potentially risky step, or just his body’s yearning to feel properly alive again.
He observed her stiff posture as she sat beside him. The way she kept crossing and uncrossing her legs, before resting her hands on her knees. She was probably trying to blot up the stickiness of her palms, but all she was doing was drawing his attention to her luscious thighs. And even though they were demurely covered in black linen, he couldn’t stop thinking about the soft flesh beneath and how much he would like to press his fingers against it.
