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 showedNumber 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 rana 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…’
