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‘You’re afraid of storms?’ he said, thinking quite weirdly of her soft warm body burrowing into him for comfort.Burrowingwas a thing he discouraged in women, or he would have if any had shown the desire to do so.
He’d grown to be a good judge of women who wanted sex without the window dressing, which was useful because there were a lot of women who wanted the window dressing, especially a crown. Marco was under no illusions he was the optional extra; it was the status he represented they wanted.
The women he shared a bed with had one thing in common: they were all happy with sex on equal terms. They were discreet and if their lives and careers got a little boost from the media speculation of being seen with him, that seemed fair.
Kate reacted to his sympathy as though he’d just insulted her. ‘I am fine with storms,’ she lied, accompanying her words with a chin-jutting glare.
At that moment she’d have chopped off a finger and not admitted it hurt. She would not admit to any weakness because she had just discovered a weakness she had not seen coming.
It wasn’t on a par with discovering you were adopted, but it still came as bad news to realise that she was susceptible to the waves of hot male magnetism he oozed.
But she was, and the discovery made her feel horribly self-aware, and, yes, vulnerable too. More vulnerable than meeting your boss in a granny nightie could explain away.
This was far worse, far deeper, an awareness of vulnerability of the body that the acres of cotton concealed. She was more aware of her body than she had ever been. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, conscious of the feeling of congestion low in her pelvis.
It rocked her to her core to have a fresh set of preconceptions challenged, to realise that it actually was possible to lust after someone you really didn’t instinctively like.Likingwas not necessary in an employer-employee relationship and luckily that was the only relationship there was ever going to be here.
‘Goodnight.’
Looking at the closed door, he pondered the extraordinary fact that he had just been reprimanded by an employee, but employee didn’t seem the right description—this woman clearly had no concept of hierarchy.
CHAPTER THREE
MARCOHADHOPEDhis father could be coaxed into showing some interest, but so far his response had been vague at best. Marco pretended not to notice the multiple hints the conversation was over and continued to push his theme.
‘You’ll agree that primogeniture is outdated...?’ he asked, throwing the question over his shoulder as he walked towards the window. ‘That a male taking precedence over an older sister is wrong.’
‘I’d offer you tea, but—’
‘It’s fine. I don’t want tea.’ He resisted the temptation to point out he didn’t like tea and had never drunk the stuff in his thirty-two years.
The King sighed and regarded his son with an attitude of resignation. His only child never had been able to take a hint and once he got an idea into his head he was exhaustingly relentless. ‘I hear what you are saying, Marco, but is it worth upsetting people?’
‘Upsetting?’
His father sighed again. ‘The council, you know they won’t like it, Marco. They have strong opinions on tradition.’
Marco smiled, biting his tongue to prevent himself saying of how little interest thecouncil’sopinion was to him and where he would have loved to suggest, politely of course, they could shove their opinions in anatomical detail.
‘The opinion poll I put out there shows quite clearly that the public at large won’t have a problem with this. The figures—’
The King held out a hand to halt the flow of information. ‘If you say so.’
‘So you agree in principle, Father, that Freya should be given precedence over any son I might have?’
‘Of course. Are you thinking of getting married again, then? That’s good...a kingshouldbe married. Without your mother’s support...’ The King caught his son’s eyes and his voice trailed away.
‘I won’t be King for many years,’ Marco pointed out swiftly. This at least was one decision he could push down the road. ‘And when I am you can be sure I will fulfil all my obligations.’ He might be considered a maverick by the palace courtiers who worshipped tradition basically because it was good for them, but Marco had been brought up to respect the role he had been born into. He loved and had pride in his country, and he accepted that one day marriage would be necessary.
And when it came there would be no tragic rerun. The next time, his bride would know that while respect, liking and hopefully great sex would be part of their contract, love would not be.
Unless of course he fell in love... A gleam of self-contempt filtered into his heavy-lidded stare as he contemplated this very unlikely possibility.
If that had been going to happen it would have by now. If he were capable of falling in love it would have been with Belle. The guilt hit him as it always did, clutching like an icy fist in his belly when he thought of his dead wife. The woman who had died before she had lived—and the life she’d shared with him had been some sort of half-life.
If she hadn’t married him, she would still be alive.
Itshouldhave worked. They had been friends long before they had become engaged. He’dlikedher, and surely liking and respect, two people who had similar viewpoints on the important subjects on life, were a more solid basis for marriage than some unrealistic fantasy based on a temporary hormonal reaction.
