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CHAPTER TEN
WHENROSIEWOKEnext morning, she wondered if she’d dreamt the whole thing. She opened her eyes. The unshuttered windows showed a cloudy spring day, the Eiffel Tower looking more sombre without its night-time glitter of flashing lights. Last night it had looked like an extravagant fairground illumination. Today it was just a giant grey construction of metal.
She looked around the bedroom, as if searching for evidence that Corso had been here last night, making delicious love to her. Or, more accurately, introducing her to sex. Because there was a big difference between the two, and only a fool would forget that.
But there was nothing of him to be seen. The military jacket was no longer hanging on the back of a chair—nor the scarlet striped dark trousers lying in a hastily discarded heap at the side of the bed. Not a single sign that the King of Monterosso had been there. She licked her lips, because his presence still permeated the room all the same. She could detect his faint scent on her skin. And inside she was warm and aching from where he had been deep inside her.
She must have fallen asleep because she hadn’t heard him leave. There had been no farewell kiss. No promises made, or awkward conversation before he took his leave. Should she be grateful for that? She picked up her watch, which was lying on the locker beside the bed, and saw it was just gone seven.
Now what?
More than anything she needed to get ready to go to work, so she lifted the phone to ask for coffee to be delivered to her suite. It arrived accompanied by the most delicious croissant she’d ever tasted—at least she’d got her appetite back—and soon she was feeling a bit more like herself, rather than someone who had temporarily lost sight of her place in the world. But as Rosie showered and dressed in another museum-suitable outfit, she couldn’t help mulling over the surprising things Corso had told her last night. About taking a vow of chastity—which was essentially what it amounted to—after she’d confided what she’d overheard all those years ago. And then pouring his redirected energy into polishing the tarnished reputation of his beloved country and putting it back on track.
She didn’t want to hang around the embassy, looking as though she were waiting or expecting something—because surely it would be easier if she just made herself scarce. Less embarrassing that way. She didn’t want Corso to feel responsible for her, or to worry about how she was going to react. She wasn’t going to blush, or sulk, or melt into a heap when he swept through the embassy with his entourage. She was going to take what had happened completely in her stride. She was going to be modern. After all, Paris was one of the most sophisticated places in the world—so why not allow herself to be influenced by it?
Noticed only by a couple of staff, she slipped from the residence and caught the Metro to the Jardin des Tuileries and went inside the museum to look for Phillipe. She found him in the office, his head bent over one of the Parisian broadsheets, and he looked up and smiled as she entered, that lock of dark hair flopping attractively into one eye.‘Bonjour,’he murmured as he pointed to the paper. ‘Have you seen this?’
She hadn’t. Rosie blinked with surprise as she peered over his shoulder. On the front page was a photo of her, next to one of Corso—both taken at last night’s dinner, when she’d been only half aware of a photographer capturing the embassy event for posterity. It was hard to recognise herself. The designer clothes and the jewels glittering at her ears and throat made her look like an expensive stranger. And herhair. Would she really have worn it that way if she’d realised it was going to tumble to her waist and look so untamed?
‘What does it say?’ she asked Phillipe.
He scanned the text. ‘It talks about the King’s plans for closer ties between our two countries. It mentions at some length your family’s long-standing relationship with the da Vignola line and remarks on how beautiful you are.C’est vrai, chérie,’ he affirmed, when she made a muffled sound of protest. ‘You are. And then it talks about the exhibition, and that we will be open later this morning.’ He smiled. ‘I think we are going to be very busy today, Rosie.’
Phillipe wasn’t exaggerating and there was a long line in place before the doors had even opened. But Rosie was furious with herself for feeling a distinct air of disappointment as the day wore on. She kept looking up to scan the entrance, or making an excuse to go to the front desk so she could peer outside and see if the King’s car was anywhere to be seen. But it wasn’t. And neither was he.
They closed at six and Phillipe invited her to join him and the other staff for a celebratory glass of champagne in a bar around the corner, but Rosie refused. She honestly didn’t think she could paste a bright smile to her face any longer and she certainly didn’t feel like celebrating.
She wished she were back in her little cottage in the woods but, since that wasn’t on the cards, at least she could go back to her suite at the embassy and come to terms with the fact that last night had been a one-off. A big mistake—at least, on Corso’s part. He was probably regretting having broken his sexual fast with her, rather than someone amazing and well connected, and famous. But the last thing she was going to do was to fixate on the King. She needed to remind herself that this was the first time she’d ever been in Paris and to make the most of it, because a few weeks from now and she’d be back on the railway.
Pulling out her guidebook, she went for a walk in the Tuileries gardens, thinking how peaceful it was to have this beautiful space, right in the middle of one of the busiest cities in the world. Yet somehow, the sight of the tulips and frothy blossom and the stunning pink of the Judas trees gave the place an air of something unbearably poignant. Whatwasit about springtime which made people start thinking about love? wondered Rosie. Love was nothing but a word. A stupid word. People bandied it around and used it when it suited them, for all kinds of reasons. A random stranger had said it to her mother and because of that she’d given away all her life savings. Her dad had loved his work and because of that, he had taken a risk which had ultimately killed him.
Pushing her troubled thoughts away, she strolled around the gardens until the light began to fade, before catching the Metro—and when she arrived back inside the embassy it was to see Rodrigo, the King’s aide, heading towards her, a resolute expression on his face.
‘The King requests your company, Miss Forrester,’ he said, before she’d even had a chance to take her coat off.
‘When?’
‘Now.’
‘I need to change first,’ she said calmly, refusing to be intimidated by Rodrigo’s faint frown. She wasn’t a well-trained dog who would go running whenever the King whistled! More than that, she wanted to be in control. To impose something of her own agenda onto what was happening, rather than fall in with everything Corso wanted. Because suddenly she was scared. Scared of the way he could make her feel—and even more scared of what could happen if she allowed herself to fall for him.
That was never going to happen.
Because she must never allow it to happen.
‘I will wait,’ Rodrigo said repressively, standing sentry outside her door.
Rosie took as long as she dared to remove the fine wool trousers and silk shirt she’d worn for work, deliberately rejecting all the other gorgeous clothes hanging inside her wardrobe. She didn’t want to wear anything the stylist had chosen. Not now, in her downtime—before a face-to-face with a man she should never have had sex with. She needed to look like herself. Tofeellike herself. Which was why she pulled on a pair of faded jeans and teamed them with an ancient sweater she’d knitted during one of those long winter’s nights at the hospital, when her father had been lying in his coma.
Rodrigo hadn’t moved from his position outside her door, the narrowing of his eyes his only reaction to her dressed-down appearance. As she followed him to the King’s suite on the first floor, Rosie felt like a prisoner being escorted to the cells. But the room he showed her into was nothing like a cell—its gilded splendour indicating the importance of its inhabitant, who stood silhouetted against the window as he stared down at the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. He turned round as he heard them enter and Rosie’s heart gave a powerful leap as she met the gleam of his eyes and memories of last night came rushing back in an erotic flood.
‘Miss Forrester, Your Royal Highness,’ murmured the King’s aide.
‘Yes, I can see that for myself,’ said Corso impatiently. ‘Leave us now, Rodrigo, will you? I don’t wish to be disturbed until I give the order. Understand?’
‘Perfectly, my liege.’
There was silence even after Rodrigo had slipped from the room and the two of them just remained staring at each another, as if it were the first time they’d ever met.
