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Corso waited for Rosie’s reaction, his impatience growing when still she didn’t speak. Because didn’t part of him—a big part—want her to rebuke him? To ask why he had slipped from her suite without fanfare and demand to know what he was going to do next? Or even to complain about him sending an aide to escort her here instead of going to find her himself. Because wouldn’t that have given him the chance to snap back that she had no right to make demands on him, that she should know her place?
But she didn’t. She spoke not one word. Just subjected him to a coolly speculative stare, which was doing dangerous things to his blood pressure. She was very controlled, he thought, with reluctant admiration. And she handled herself very well, looking bizarrely at home in these lavish surroundings, despite wearing the most outrageously old jeans and sweater.
‘You say nothing,’ he observed.
‘I am waiting for your lead, Your Royal Highness.’ Her answer was demure but he couldn’t mistake the tinge of mockery which underpinned it. ‘Isn’t that the correct procedure?’
‘To hell with procedure,’ he said, unable to prevent himself from walking across the room and pulling her into his arms. He looked down into the silvery gleam of her eyes and saw her pupils darken and his body responded instantly. ‘You’ve been away much too long.’
‘I’ve been...’ Her breathing had quickened. ‘I’ve been working at the museum all day, which is, after all, what I’m being paid to do. We’ve had a gratifying number of people through the door, just in case you’re interested.’
‘Yet you chose to walk alone in the Jardin des Tuileries afterwards, rather than join your colleagues for a drink?’ he mused. ‘Was Phillipe very disappointed by that, do you think?’
She frowned. ‘How do you know what I did, and what does Phillipe have to do with anything?’
He shrugged, his fingers straying beneath her sweater to encounter the warmth of flesh beneath, wanting to distract her with his touch rather than admit that he had been bothered by an uncharacteristic twist of jealousy. ‘I had a couple of my bodyguards keep an eye on you.’
‘Ah!’ She tilted her chin to look at him. ‘You mean you’ve been spying on me?’
‘Don’t be absurd,’ he growled. ‘You are a member of my party and therefore warrant my protection.’
‘Isn’t that—?’
But his kiss suppressed the rest of her words, though he wasn’t particularly seeking to silence her—he was simply overcome by a need to connect with her again, and as quickly as possible. He wanted her. Very badly. And judging from the hunger of her own kiss, she was feeling exactly the same way. Her fingers were rubbing frantically through his hair. He could feel the stony jut of her nipples which crowned the soft globes of her breasts. The frenetic beat of his heart, as she pressed against him. All that soft, sweet flesh beneath the deliberately casual clothes she had chosen—yet didn’t that subliminal message of independence make him want her even more?
And suddenly Corso wanted to behave wildly—to shrug off the weight of all the duties which had consumed him these past years. To forget the control and restraint and frustration he had imposed upon himself. To smash through the veneer of politeness which governed every move he made. He didn’twantto be civilised, and take her to the giant arena of his bed. He wanted recklessness and excitement. He wanted to do it to her here. Now. On the floor. And if the truth were known, he wasn’t sure if he could make it as far as the bed in his current state of arousal.
It feels this imperative because I’m making up for lost time, he told himself as he tumbled them down onto the Persian rug. But his hand was unsteady as he eased down the zip of her jeans and slid them off to reveal a pair of plain black panties, which were strangely sexy. Moving over the satin of her thighs, he traced his finger over the moist gusset and she quivered as he delved beneath the sensible underwear to find her hot bud.
‘Corso!’ she gasped as he began to strum her aroused flesh.
‘Corso, what?’ he demanded silkily, but her eyes had closed and he didn’t think she’d even heard him. He liked the fact that her thighs had parted and she was looking as helpless as he felt. He bent his head to her lips, his mouth devouring hers with a hunger which felt elemental as he continued to move his hand against her. Within seconds she was orgasming—moaning his name and writhing beneath him. The scent of her sex was heavy in the air as, with his free hand, he slid down his own zip. He reached for the protection which had been discreetly delivered to his suite earlier, but his fingers were shaking like a drunk’s as he lay back on the silken carpet.
And suddenly Rosie was on her knees beside him, smoothing the condom over his erect shaft, and he felt as if he might shatter before he was even inside her. He pulled her on top, so that she was straddling him, and he groaned as she began to ride him. Her eyes were open and they met his gaze unflinchingly and for once he didn’t want to look away.
He couldn’t look away.
It had never felt like this before. As if the very act of having sex was the lifeblood on which he depended. As if his body needed to feel the heat of hers from the inside. He wanted to know every inch of her. Was it possible to want something at the same time as resenting its power over you? he wondered fleetingly as he she tipped her head back and began to moan, and that was when he let go completely.
When he had recovered his strength, he assumed the dominant position, but even that was not enough to satisfy his carnal hunger as he orgasmed for a second time. The third time left him dazed and utterly replete—and it was only when they were sitting at opposite ends of a steaming bathtub that Corso gave voice to his thoughts.
‘I wasn’t expecting this,’ he said.
She tucked a wet strand of hair behind her ear. ‘You mean...the sex?’
‘Yes, Rosie,’ he replied gravely. The bald word seemed hopelessly inadequate for what had just taken place between them, but he refused to give her false hope by correcting her. ‘The sex.’
There was a pause before she answered, a shy smile curving her lips. ‘Nor me.’
Life could throw all kinds of things at you, he thought as she lapsed into a contented silence, but it was how you dealt with them which ultimately determined your success, or failure. So much hinged on his forthcoming trip to New York. Things he’d been pushing to the back of his mind, but which had come to haunt him during the hours before dawn, when he’d woken with his heart pounding, his brow wet with sweat, his quest to find his half-brother hazy and nebulous. He still hadn’t decided whether or not to initiate a meeting, because to do so could set off a ticking time-bomb. Uncovering the dark secret at the heart of his parents’ marriage had taken a lot of discreet detective work but Corso had refused to share his discoveries with anyone else—even the aide who had been with him for longer than he could remember. The fact that it was his secret—and his alone—had allowed him to shrug off the nagging fear that the press might get hold of it. How could they? Nobody could talk to them, because nobody knew.
And the press could always be distracted, couldn’t they?
The idea flew into his mind with the blinding certainty of a brainwave and he found himself thinking that the timing of this unforeseen affair could ultimately help his cause. Could his brief relationship with Rosie Forrester provide a smokescreen for the task which lay ahead—and throw any potentially curious journalists off the scent?
And what if that hurts her? nagged the voice of his conscience.
How could it? She’d known from the start that this was only ever going to be temporary. He’d told her so himself, even citing the type of woman he would one day marry. Wouldn’t she be honoured if he legitimised their relationship by refusing to hide it away? She might not have any long-term future with him, but she would never be able to say that he had been ashamed of her.
