Page 5 of Twins For His Majesty (Royally Tempted #1)

His whole body was flush with emotions he couldn’t process and didn’t want to analyse. He continued to pick up pieces of glass.

‘Your Majesty, you must stop,’ she whispered. ‘People will notice. People will talk.’

‘Who gives a damn?’

‘I do,’ she promised. ‘And you do, too. You’ve just forgotten it because of yesterday.’

Yesterday—his uncle’s death. Not last night, with her. He shook his head once, to demur, but her features were so cold, her look so laced with warning. ‘Please leave me alone,’ she whispered.

He hated it.

He felt those words deep in the core of his being, and he couldn’t say why but he knew that they mattered.

He stood slowly, hands thrust into hips, looking down on her working, wishing it weren’t this way.

Wishing they were back in his bed, where they were thoroughly equals, wondering if he could move heaven and earth to make it so.

‘Please go,’ she whispered again, without looking up at him.

He turned on his heel and strode back to the clinic director, but Phoebe James was burned into his brain.

‘The funeral was beautiful.’ Octavio glanced at his cousin Xiomara without really seeing her.

The funeral had been beautiful, Xiomara was right.

Private, small and in accordance with royal traditions.

Rodrigo had been brought home and laid to rest in the family crypt, reunited with his brother and parents.

‘It was a good funeral, yes,’ Octavio agreed.

Xiomara’s smile was wistful. ‘Thank you for letting my father attend.’

‘I was surprised he wanted to.’

‘I suppose time…’ Her voice trailed off into nothing and she sighed. ‘I can’t defend it. You know that. But today was nice. You did well, Tavi.’ She walked across and placed a kiss on Octavio’s cheek. ‘Do you need anything?’

Did he need anything? Hell, yes, he needed something.

He needed the same thing he’d needed the night Rodrigo had died.

The same thing he’d been craving every night since—or rather, someone.

A craving he’d been fighting, because it was so out of his realm of experience, so overwhelming in a way he resented and instinctively shied away from.

He’d thought of calling Phoebe though, even when he knew it would be a mistake. But even if he’d wanted to, how could he? Apart from the fact he was now King, his every move tracked and speculated upon, he’d been manically busy dealing with the aftereffects of Rodrigo’s death.

Funerals, though, were an end-point, a line in the sand, and now the background hum of noise that was his need for Phoebe had exploded into a full-blown absorption.

He wanted her in a way that was driving him to the point of distraction and then well beyond it.

She had flooded him with something that night, something he’d become addicted to, even when he knew addiction was bad.

Only, it would be problematic if he wasn’t in control.

If he let things really overtake him. But what if he could see her again whilst maintaining his usual vice-like grip on his emotions and strength?

Just once more. One more night.

Was there anything wrong with that? Octavio knew he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted another woman, but so long as he put a very clear end-point on this thing, what harm could come of it?

She had been discreet. There had been nothing in the papers about their tryst, no speculation online. He could trust her, just as he’d somehow known he could, even then. There’d been something about Phoebe’s manner that had set her apart.

Or was it just that he’d wanted comfort and she’d been there, and for once in his life he hadn’t worried about the consequences?

It wasn’t like Octavio to display such ambivalence.

He trusted his instincts at all times—they’d served him well.

And his instincts were pushing him, hard and fast, towards Phoebe and the comfort she could offer, and the pleasure they could share, just for one more night…

For a long time, Phoebe had held to a policy of ignoring calls from random numbers.

They were always spammy sales calls, or lately would-be scammers, and she hated the interruptions.

But she’d been making enquiries to find her father and was waiting on a return call from an investigator in the north of the country.

So when her phone began to buzz and the screen showed Number Withheld , she swiped it to answer on the first ring.

‘Phoebe James,’ she said, stepping to the side of the footpath on which she’d been jogging, so she could concentrate.

Silence. A spam call, after all?

‘Hello?’

More silence. She was about to hang up when a voice—deep, gruff, husky and immediately recognisable—came down the phone line. ‘Phoebe, how are you?’

She almost dropped the phone in shock.

‘Octavio!’ His name was a breath from her lips. Out of nowhere, images of him, her, them flooded her mind. She gripped the railing that ran alongside the footpath. ‘I—didn’t expect to hear from you. How did you get my number?’

‘Are you free right now?’

Her heart sped up. Her pulse throbbed. Her insides squirmed. Every part of her began to tremble and shake. She shook her head, even when she knew she would go to him, go wherever he asked her.

‘Phoebe?’

‘I can be,’ she admitted. As if she had anything else to do! She knew no one in the country, apart from a few acquaintances at work.

‘I’m going to give you an address. Take a cab there, and then my driver will bring you the rest of the way.’

It took ten minutes to drive across town in the taxi she hailed, and by the time she arrived, a sleek black sedan with darkly tinted windows was waiting, a man in a suit standing near the rear door.

She waited until the taxi driver had left before moving towards the car and taking a seat, and she fidgeted her fingers the whole way.

The car drove through the winding streets that were so Castilonian she couldn’t help but sigh at their obvious beauty.

Old terracotta houses with wrought iron balconies, roof tiles and thick, green bushes which, in the light of day, would show shocks of colour.

Red, purple, white geraniums and lavender, fragrant and stunning.

The Mediterranean country was charmingly old-fashioned, and she felt a connection to it deep in her bones.

After around ten minutes, the car paused outside an old-fashioned-looking townhouse that had been adapted at some point to include an under-cover garage.

The door lifted and the car drove into it.

Phoebe’s heart sped up as she briefly contemplated the potential risks of her decision to come here.

She’d been so overwhelmed to hear his voice, so overwhelmed by a rush of need, but also concern, because the whole country had been talking about the funeral for his uncle and how that must be affecting the King.

In the back of her mind, she’d worried for him all day, because she’d seen firsthand how Rodrigo’s death had upset Octavio.

But here he was, standing in the garage, dressed in suit trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

She stared at him from behind the tinted car window, greedily soaking up the image of him, only belatedly realising that she was wearing exercise gear and no make-up and wishing she’d somehow managed to squeeze in a quick trip back to her apartment to freshen up a little.

The door was opened by the driver, and then Octavio stepped forward, not smiling, his features set in a mask of intensity that took her breath away.

He held out a hand to help her from the car.

As she put hers in his, she was conscious of her unpainted nails, cut short so they were easy to maintain, but then a spark travelled as if by magic from his fingers to hers, and all the way up her arm towards the very centre of her torso.

She throttled a small gasp, low in her throat.

‘I’m glad you came.’

She stood, so close to him she could feel his warmth. Her body tingled. ‘How are you?’

He nodded once—what did that mean?—then put his hand on her lower back to guide her out of the garage, through a doorway and into a small entrance foyer that led to a set of polished timber stairs.

She walked ahead of him, up the stairs and into a stunning open plan living area with a whole wall of glass that overlooked a garden. Though it was night, the garden itself had beautiful lighting, showing the advanced trees and a water feature right in the middle.

‘What is this place?’

‘I lived here, before I became King. In many ways, I consider it to be my real home.’

She looked around with renewed interest. It was modern and sleek, a space that oozed elegance but not much warmth. She ran a hand over an end table, then turned her attention to Octavio. ‘How did you get my number?’ She’d asked him that on the phone, but he hadn’t answered, and she wanted to know.

‘It wasn’t difficult.’

‘I’ve only been in the country a short while, and I don’t really know anyone…’

‘But your employer has your details on file.’

She gasped. ‘Tell me you didn’t ask the clínica for my number?’ Her heart sped up. She couldn’t believe she’d got away unscathed after that night. She’d been waiting for the axe to drop, for someone to reveal that they’d seen her, but so far, nothing.

‘No, querida. When my uncle was admitted and I announced that I would be spending time at the hospital , my head of security was given details of all employees so he could vet them.’ Her jaw dropped. ‘It was a necessary precaution.’

‘Wow.’ She pressed her fingertips to her temple. ‘Okay, next question. Why did you call?’

His eyes traced her face for so long that she could feel heat on her skin, as if he was touching her. ‘I needed to see you.’

Her stomach dropped to her toes. ‘Did you?’

He nodded slowly, frowning a little, as if not sure what to say next. ‘I needed you.’

Because of the funeral. Because he was grieving again, and she’d been such a successful answer to that last time. But did she care why he needed her? Hadn’t she been craving him, too? That night hadn’t been enough—she wanted more. Just one more night? Would that cure her of this obsession?

‘Phoebe, nothing’s changed. Who I am, what I can offer…but I’m asking you to spend tonight with me.’

He was asking her. And he was being honest with her.

Christopher had used her, he’d manipulated her, he’d broken her trust again and again.

He’d made a fool of her, because he’d always been lying.

The whole time they were together had been a falsehood.

Octavio was being honest with her, and he was asking her what she wanted.

This was her choice; she could do what she wanted, on her terms.

And she knew what she wanted.

‘Yes,’ she said, simply, walking towards him with a sense of purpose she had no interest in doubting. ‘I’ll spend tonight with you.’