Contract Wedding, Expectant Bride - Yvonne Lindsay

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quite delicious,” she said, interrupting his thoughts.

      He watched as she speared a succulent prawn on the end of her fork and swirled up a ribbon of pasta. He swallowed against the sudden obstruction in his throat.

      “You sound surprised,” he commented.

      “A king who cooks, and cooks well? Who wouldn’t be?”

      Cooking was an outlet for him. One he indulged in less often than he’d like to. A bit like everything else that gave him pleasure.

      “Do you cook?” he countered.

      “A little.”

      “Perhaps you will prepare a meal for me one day.”

      “Perhaps,” she acknowledged with a slight bow.

      His eyes were instantly drawn to the slender line of her neck, exposed by the high ponytail that currently strangled her hair. His fingertips itched to stroke her, just there beneath her earlobe. To discover if she’d shiver with delight beneath his touch. He clamped his hand tight around his fork and reached with the other for another sip of his wine. It made no difference. The urge to touch her remained. Thank goodness he was a strong man, one who’d learned to keep a tight rein on impulse and to project control at all times. But once, just once, it would be nice to be able to simply let go.

      Maybe, once they’d signed her damned contract, he would.

       Four

      Ottavia watched him carefully as they completed their meal. While, outwardly at least, her king appeared no different than any other man, she had the sense that beneath the facade lay another man entirely. Oh, sure, she knew that, logically, beneath the elegant trappings of his finely woven cotton shirt and expertly cut trousers was a magnificent male body. You couldn’t watch the way he moved and not realize that. Besides, she’d seen him come back from his run today. Seen the way his sweat-soaked T-shirt had clung to every muscle across his shoulders and his chest, seen the powerful bulge of strength in his arms. And then there’d been the fit of his shorts as he bent and stretched out those well-developed thighs.

      At that memory, she reached for her wine and took a long sip, letting the cool bubbling liquid soothe the heat and dryness that had suddenly become apparent in her throat. Yes, she told herself. He was a truly prime specimen of all that was beautiful in the male form. But that power could be as dangerous as it was attractive. She wondered again how he’d react to the terms of her contract. Part of her still wished he would refuse to sign and send her on her way. But another part, the woman she kept a tight rein on—the one who found King Rocco of Erminia a tantalizing prospect dangled before her—hoped he’d accept them, or even try to renegotiate.

      A thread of longing tightened deep inside her, making her inner muscles clench in anticipation. She fought the sensation, telling herself it was as ridiculous as it was unexpected. She, the queen of personal constraint, did not allow herself to be so affected by any man, least of all this one.

      Perhaps it was some variant on Stockholm syndrome, she told herself, allowing a ripple of amusement to tease her mouth into a smile. There, that was better. If she could laugh at herself, laugh at her situation, then she could most definitely overcome any physical yearning that threatened to derail what was, essentially, her job. Which brought her back to the contract.

      It made her nervous to spend time with him without the parameters between them fully outlined. She placed her fork down on her plate and shifted anxiously in her seat. King Rocco was quick to notice.

      “Something wrong?”

      “Nothing,” she answered a little too swiftly. “At least not with your cooking.”

      “Then, what is it?”

      “I...” She hesitated and weighed her words carefully before deciding she had nothing to lose except the money he’d pay her. “I find myself in a situation that I am unaccustomed to, to be honest.”

      “What, dinner with me?”

      “Essentially, yes.”

      “I’m just a man.”

      She laughed softly. “You really think so?”

      “Okay, so I’m a king. But that’s what I am, not who I am.”

      His words gave her pause. Made her wonder, how many people actually knew him for who he was? Did anyone?

      “Who you are is not important to me,” she said, but even as the words fell from her lips, she knew them for a lie. She needed to regain the upper hand in this situation, and quickly. “Except, perhaps, as a client. Which brings me to our contract. Now you’ve eaten perhaps we can get down to business.”

      “If you insist,” he answered before wiping his mouth with his napkin and dropping the cloth on the table.

      His chair scraped along the tiled floor as he stood up and came around to her side of the table to help her from her chair.

      “Thank you,” she acknowledged.

      “Take a seat inside, I’ll bring the wine.”

      “Wine?”

      “Negotiations are so much better when done over a drink, don’t you think?”

      He smiled at her, but she saw that his humor didn’t quite reach his eyes.

      “Who said I’ll be negotiating?” she replied, then turned her back on him, walked into the sitting room and picked up her file.

      The king was not far behind her.

      “I always negotiate,” he said, handing her refilled flute to her.

      “Everything?”

      “Ah, yes. You have me there. When necessary, I decree.”

      Nerves tightened around her stomach, making her regret that last forkful of marinara. Her hand trembled as she opened the binder and took out one copy of her contract.

      “This is my contract. The extent of my services is listed in the schedule at the rear.”

      “Your...services. Right.”

      He leaned forward and tugged the papers from her fingers. At the brush of his hand against hers, another tremor rippled through her, making the papers shake. His eyes sharpened and he gave her a long considering look before casually crossing one leg over the other and taking a sip of champagne.

      “You seem nervous,” he stated. “Why is that?”

      She needed to own this tension between them. Accept it and move on. “It’s not every day I do business with a member of the royal family let alone the head of our nation.”

      “But you have had many influential clients, have you not?”

      “I do not discuss my past clientele. Ever.”

      “Commendable. I’m sure your discretion is vital to your success and your continued employment.”

      “That’s one way of putting it,” she said, uncomfortable with the track he was taking despite her efforts to keep things on a straight course. “Please, if you would read the contract and sign it, then we can commence.”

      “By all means, I look forward to that.”

      She forced herself to relax against the plush sofa and slowly sipped her wine as he flicked through the introductory paragraphs of her contract. His dark brows pulled together as he concentrated on each clause. She couldn’t stand this any longer. She got up and moved about the room, looking around with interest at the personal items he had on display. Ones that reflected the man himself. There was a strong suggestion of how important his family was to him, with small collections of photos, both formal and informal, clustered here and there. She also noticed a large bookcase was packed with books. Thrillers mostly, with the occasional book on politics

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