Contract Wedding, Expectant Bride. Yvonne Lindsay

Even her lips were denuded of any tint of color.

      As the surprise faded, humor pulled from deep inside him. So, she’d taken his words literally and hadn’t dressed for the occasion. The last thing he’d expected was for her to turn up in, however, was yoga pants and a faded and stretched T-shirt with a scruffy pair of sneakers on her feet. Even her hair was pulled back in a ponytail so tight that it gave him a headache just looking at it.

      And yet, she’d failed to obscure her natural beauty and grace or the way the well-washed fabric of the oversize shirt slipped off one shoulder, exposing the sinfully delectable curve of her shoulder and a hint of the shadow of her collarbone. What was it about her that could cause something as simple as the play of light and shadow on her skin to send his senses into overdrive? He relished finding out.

      “Your Majesty,” she greeted him, dipping into a curtsy.

      It should look incongruous, dressed as she was, and yet her movements were so smooth, so flowing, she still managed to convey a lithe, sensual elegance.

      “Ms. Romolo, please let’s not carry on this farce that you respect me or my position.”

      She rose and lifted her chin as she met his gaze. “But I do respect your position, Sire.”

      The deliberate omission, making it clear that she did not respect him, stood like an elephant in the room between them. Rocco was not one to ignore a gauntlet laid down so blatantly.

      “But not me.”

      “In my experience, respect is earned. On a personal level, outside of your role as my king, I hardly know you and, to be totally honest, my experiences with you to date have not exactly been positive.”

      So, she wasn’t afraid to beard the lion in his own den. He had to admire her courage—there weren’t many so bold in his household—even if the words themselves did little to calm the alternate exasperation and desire that battled for dominance every time he was within a meter of her.

      “I always do what is best for my people. That is not always what is best for the individual.”

      Her eyelids swept down, obscuring her gaze. “And for yourself, Sire? Do you ever do what is best for you?”

      He didn’t answer as a timer went off in another room.

      “That will be our dinner.”

      She looked around, apparently expecting members of his staff to come out and serve them. When no one appeared, her gaze shifted back to him—a question clear in her eyes.

      “Here in my personal chambers, I prefer to live privately—without staff. I’ve prepared the meal for us,” he said by way of explanation.

      “You cook?”

      Astonishment colored her words and her expression—a fact in which Rocco took deep satisfaction. For once, it seemed, he had the capacity to shock and surprise her.

      “Cooking relaxes me. I don’t do it often.”

      “And you are in need of relaxation?”

      “It’s been a hectic few weeks.”

      Ottavia nodded. “It must have been terrifying for you when your sister was kidnapped.”

      “You heard about that?”

      “I had no access to television or newspapers, but while your staff is very loyal to you, they also love your sister. I gleaned what I could from their conversation.”

      Heads should roll over her revelation. The privacy and security of the royal family was paramount, now more than ever. But could he really blame the people who had practically raised him and Mila for being visibly concerned for his sister’s safety?

      “Clearly my staff needs a reminder about the nondisclosure statements in their contracts,” he said, but his tone was more rueful than grim.

      “Speaking of contracts—?”

      “Not now.” He gestured to the binder she clutched in one hand. “Leave that here. First, food.”

      Without waiting to see if she followed, he walked across the sitting room and through an arch to the compact but well-appointed kitchen, where he’d prepared the seafood marinara that was his favorite dish. He carried the platter out through the open French doors onto a balcony that overlooked the topiary garden and goldfish ponds. In daylight, even from here on the third floor, he could occasionally catch glimpses of bright orange as the fish swam among the water lily pads. But right now, with a purple tinged sunset kissing the horizon, the grounds below were a tapestry of shadows.

      He set the dish on the ready-laid table and reached for the sparkling wine settled in the sweating ice bucket. The cork shot off with a satisfying pop and he was reminded of the court sommelier’s instruction that sparkling wine should always be opened making no more than the sound of a woman’s sigh. And, yes, just like that, desire flooded him again—making him all too aware of the figure that hovered in the doorway. Did she sigh? he wondered. Or did she moan while in the throes of passion? He’d find out soon enough.

      “Take a seat,” he instructed, gesturing to the chair opposite.

      “Thank you,” she replied.

      She remained silent while he dished up for them both. A fact that both surprised and pleased him. He appreciated that she, too, enjoyed peaceful quiet and didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with endless, needless chatter.

      “Bon appétit,” he said and lifted a monogrammed crystal flute in her direction. “To our first dinner together.”

      She mirrored his action and their glasses clinked, the sound a promise on the air between them.

      “And to you being a halfway decent cook,” she murmured before taking a sip of the wine.

      She closed her eyes as she swallowed, her lips parting on a soft sigh of appreciation. Rocco fought back a groan. He had his answer, and it was even more enticing than he’d expected. Her eyes flicked open, catching him staring at her, and he saw her pupils dilate in response to his scrutiny.

      Ever so deliberately, she took another sip of the sparkling wine before putting her glass down on the table.

      “Very nice,” she commented and picked up her napkin to dab softly at her lips.

      “From my own vineyard,” he said, attempting a nonchalance he was far from feeling. Ottavia Romolo made him feel young, made him want to be foolish, made him want to feel things he had kept a tight rein on for far, far too long.

      “Did you blend the wine yourself?”

      “No, my vintner had full control over this vintage,” he acceded.

      “But you have blended your own, haven’t you?”

      Had she researched him? Even if she had, he couldn’t imagine where she could have found that detail. “Yes,” he replied. “I have. It’s not commonly known.”

      “But it’s something you enjoy, isn’t it?” she pressed.

      “How could you tell?”

      She smiled and he felt it as though it was a caress.

      “The tone of your voice, the look in your eyes. You have a lot of tells, Sire.”

      He didn’t like the thought of that. “Then I must school myself to be more careful. It wouldn’t do for everyone to know what I’m thinking or how I feel.”

      “I can imagine that would get you into all sorts of trouble.”

      She’d said it with a straight face, but he sensed the humor behind her words. She was gently poking fun at him, encouraging him to poke fun at himself, making him relax almost in spite of himself. He could begin to see why she was successful at her role. She listened, she observed—and just now, when she spoke, it was both worth listening to and, strangely, exactly what he wanted to hear at the same time.

      Suddenly