by Teri Wilson
Out of the question. He couldn’t.
Could he?
No. But maybe until late afternoon. Perhaps his meeting with the foreign ministry could be pushed back a few hours. He was the crown prince, after all. He was surely capable of pulling a string or two. Just as surely as he deserved a few hours to himself. A break. A holiday, of sorts.
A holiday that was about to come to a screeching halt if the man in that plexiglass booth demanded Niccolo pay for a ticket. He didn’t have a dime in his pocket. He could only hope that the admission was included in the tour he’d supposedly signed on for.
“Hi there, Gio.” Julia greeted the attendant with a cheery smile. “How are you this morning?”
“Better, now that you’re here.” Gio leered at Julia in a way that gnawed at Niccolo’s insides.
He blamed that leer for the fact that his hand suddenly found its way to the small of Julia’s back as they stood at the kiosk.
She trembled at his touch, and that bare whisper of responsiveness was enough to make him go hard again. It was all he could do not to let his hand slip around her waist, hold his palm to her belly, and pull her against him, to press the swell of his arousal into her warmth.
“Um. Gio, this is Mr. Romano. My client,” she said, every inflection sending ripples of awareness through Niccolo’s fingertips.
“Good day,” Niccolo said. He reached to push the plastic hood away from his head, but his hand paused midair as his gaze zeroed in on the small television situated behind the loathsome Gio.
A voice droned in the background. A familiar voice. A chill made its way up Niccolo’s spine when he realized it belonged to Peter Hunt, the BBC’s royal correspondent. “His Royal Highness Niccolo La Torre is due to arrive at the Roman Auto Works at any moment. As you can see, a crowd has gathered in anticipation of the crown prince’s arrival . . .”
Brilliant. Just brilliant. He was on the news. Correction—he was the news.
“Mano?” Julia said. “Mano? Hello?”
It took him a moment to realize she was addressing him, distracted as he was by the broadcast. The fact that he was having trouble remembering that his name was supposed to be Mano wasn’t helping matters.
He forced a smile and tore his gaze from the television. Peter Hunt droned on in the background. “No word has been given as to whether or not Prince Niccolo will be making a statement regarding the scandal in which his younger brother Prince Cassian is currently embroiled. But we wait in anticipation of the man who has become the face of the monarchy.”
The face of the monarchy.
The hooded poncho suddenly seemed insufficient. He longed for a bag to place over his head. “My apologies, Julia. I’m afraid I was, ah, preoccupied for a moment.”
Julia waved a hand toward Gio, whom Niccolo liked even less since he’d spotted the television on his desk. “Gio was just asking where you’re from, and I realized I didn’t know.”
“Where I’m from?” Niccolo echoed. Once again, he could see James Bond shaking his head in judgmental dismay. “The Mediterranean. Small town. You likely haven’t heard of it.”
Gio glanced impassively at him before he resumed staring at Julia. His gaze crept downward, toward her chest, and Niccolo had to suppress the urge to rip off his precious poncho and cover her with it. Either that or knock Gio’s head clear off his body.
“Try me.” Julia gave him a tight smile. “I might be smarter than you think I am.”
Impossible. He had a feeling Julia Costa was one sharp cookie. Too sharp.
He struggled to come up with the most obscure town he could name. All the while Peter Hunt’s crisp voice droned in the background, describing Niccolo’s schedule in detail as the camera panned the sea of paparazzi assembled outside the factory. Watching the mob scene, Niccolo felt alternately guilty and vastly relieved. Then the live shot from the Auto Works was replaced with a large photo . . . of himself. His name and title flashed beneath the image.
Niccolo La Torre, Crown Prince of Lazaretto.
Niccolo coughed—loudly—and pulled his hood farther down over his forehead.
Julia peered at him beneath his green plastic shield. “Mano, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’ve just something in my throat.” He coughed again, lest she turn her attention back to Gio and his godforsaken television.
“Do you need some water?”
Yes. A glass of water . . . and perhaps a new face. “Water would be nice. Thank you.”
“All right. Let’s go on in and I’ll grab you a bottle from my backpack.” She flashed Gio a quick wave. “See you, Gio. Don’t work too hard.”
Gio, apparently taking her advice to heart, turned back to his television, where Niccolo’s image had been replaced with a commercial for mouthwash. Thank God for halitosis.
He waved them through with a dismissive flip of his wrist. Apparently, the admission fee was indeed included with the cost of the tour. The tour that someone else—the mythical Mr. Romano who Niccolo assumed was a registered guest at the Hotel de Russie—had already paid for.
Bits of the earlier exchange with Julia came back to him.
At my disposal, are you?
So long as you’re footing the bill, I am.
Niccolo considered this exchange as he followed her to a low stone wall, where she commenced digging through her backpack for his bottle of water. The tickets, the water, the tour itself . . . these things weren’t free. And seeing as Mr. Romano wasn’t the one riding around on the back of Julia’s Vespa, he wouldn’t be keen on picking up the tab.
It’s only money, he told himself.
Money had never been a problem. And it wouldn’t be now. At the end of the day, he would fix this. Somehow. He was a prince, after all.
It’s only money.
He had far more important things to worry about at the moment than a few euros, the most pressing being the phone buzzing away in his pocket.
CHAPTER
* * *
SIX
Niccolo glanced at the Cartier strapped round his wrist. Nine fifteen.
He had to do something.
If he kept ignoring the buzzing phone in his pocket, his security team—and his grandfather—would assume he’d been kidnapped. Not only would that cause everyone an enormous amount of unnecessary worry, but it would also put an abrupt end to his little holiday. His face would be on every television in the city, every newspaper in Europe.
He had to do something. Send a text, anything, before the situation got completely out of control.
He glanced at Julia, talking a mile a minute, pointing at things with those graceful hands of hers. He’d barely heard a word she’d said as they’d navigated through the stony labyrinth of the heart of the Colosseum. Except the part about how sometimes the emperors themselves fought in the gladiatorial battles, but only when the lions or other opponents had been drugged or their weapons blunted, guaranteeing a royal victory. That part had managed to sink in. Cheaters, those royals.
“The gilded royal box was situated at the north end of the arena.” She pointed to an area now marked with a simple wooden cross. “All seating in the Colosseum was arranged by social structure, with the royal household having the most prominent spot, of course.”
“Of course,” he echoed drily.
“The rest of the spectators were seated according to social ranking—the senators, knights, nobility, and so on. Regular citizens sat on the higher tiers. So you and I would have been up there somewhere with the commoners.” She waved a hand toward what remained of the arena’s upper rows.
“So we would.” He cleared his throat before he choked on his own hypocrisy. This was starting to feel wrong somehow, which was absurd. So he’d been less than truthful about his name . . .
And where he was from. And his identity as a whole.
White li
es. That’s all they were. It wasn’t as though he enjoyed being deceitful. It was a necessary evil. And she was his tour guide, not his . . . his . . .
My what, exactly?
He didn’t want to think about the direction in which his mind was spinning. Or how many times over the course of the past hour and a half he’d imagined Julia beneath him, with those willowy legs of hers wrapped around his waist.
Impossible.
Someone in the La Torre family had to behave like a respectable member of society, and Niccolo was the one who’d drawn the short straw. A situation that had never bothered him much, up until this morning.
“Julia,” he said, interrupting her before she could say something that would make him feel like an even bigger heel.
“Yes?” She blinked up at him. The rain had cleared, and she’d pushed back the hood of her raincoat. Delicate beads of mist had collected in her dark hair and sparkled like fine diamonds in the soft light of the Roman sunrise.
Fine diamonds. He cringed inwardly. No doubt that was just the sort of thing one of her evil emperors would come up with.
“I need to step away for a moment.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket. “I’ve had a call that needs my immediate attention.”
He glanced at the display. Eighteen calls, technically.
“Oh.” She seemed surprised. Disappointed even.
“The tour was wonderful. Is wonderful.” If it were possible to make an even bigger mess of things, he was succeeding greatly. “This is an urgent matter. I only need a few minutes.”
“I understand.” She nodded and pushed her dampened fringe away from her eyes. Those lovely, lovely doe eyes . . .
The lie that he’d stumbled into was beginning to get more complicated than he’d anticipated. He didn’t even want to think about how she’d feel if she discovered the truth about who he was, especially after all the royal bashing. He imagined it would feel rather like he’d shot Bambi.
Maybe because you didn’t stumble into anything. You charged into it headfirst.
“Is there somewhere private I can make a phone call?” He looked around. The tourists had thinned out a bit now that they were inside, but there were still far too many people milling about who could possibly overhear.
And despite the fact that even though the rain had stopped and he’d yet to shed his “disguise”—his dapper poncho—he’d still fielded a few lingering glances. Note to self: when endeavoring to disappear, do not run straight to the most populated spot in all of Rome.
He could only hope there was indeed some validity to the theory about hiding in plain sight. One person in an empty piazza was obvious, whereas one person among a thousand could get lost.
But what if that person was a prince?
“Follow me,” she said.
She led him to a small stone alcove away from the open center of the arena. The gray walls dripped with moisture, and it was more of a cave than the quiet room he’d hoped for. But it would do. It would have to, he supposed.
“Thank you,” he said.
“I’m going to run to the ladies’ room for a bit. I’ll meet you back here shortly?” She blinked. The slow sweep of her eyelashes was almost enough to make Niccolo forget his disappearance had blossomed into an international incident.
He shouldn’t be this attracted to her. He absolutely shouldn’t. Half of the world’s most beautiful women were at his beck and call. Three quarters, possibly. An ardent American tour guide in Rome with a sharp tongue and penchant for retro scooters and polka dots shouldn’t elicit any sort of reaction in him, much less the visceral, dark pull he felt toward her. It defied logic.
But since when had sexual attraction ever been a logical beast?
She looked at home here in this ancient place. So earnest and passionate. She cared about its history. Truly cared. He wasn’t accustomed to such sincerity. It made his chest hurt for some odd reason. And the manner in which all that earnestness stood in such beguiling contrast to her pillowy, crimson lips was nothing short of torturous. A sinner’s mouth on the face of an angel.
It was enough to make a man forget he was a breath away from being the ruler of an entire country.
He gripped his cell phone, a very real, very tangible reminder of where he should be at this moment. Not here. Anywhere but here. “Very well.”
In the palm of his hand, his phone vibrated yet again.
“See you, Mano.” She gave him a little wave before exiting the alcove and rejoining the crowd. Faster than he could blink, she vanished from sight.
He felt her departure like a loss, and the heat that had been building inside him all morning smoldered into something darker. Catastrophic.
He forced himself to focus on the task at hand. His head throbbed as he scrolled through the latest list of missed calls and texts. Everyone was looking for him. The head of the royal security detail, his father’s private secretary, the concierge of the Hotel de Russie.
Even after swimming in one Bloody Mary after another, he’d known disappearing would have repercussions. But this level of scrutiny was more intense than he’d anticipated. It wasn’t like he’d snuck past a royal guard and climbed out the window of the palace or anything. He’d walked right out of the hotel piazza.
He’d gone away with a pretty woman. It was something that Cassian had done countless times.
It was in that precise moment that Niccolo knew with absolute certainty that he’d done something abominable—when he’d begun comparing his own behavior to Cassian’s.
* * *
AM I BORING YOU?
The words had been right there, on the tip of Julia’s tongue. She hadn’t let them loose, of course. Mano was a client. She’d already pushed the boundaries of acceptable professional behavior, teasing him as she had.
But it had been so fun. And fun hadn’t been a fixture in Julia’s life for a while. A long while.
This isn’t about fun. This is about work.
She checked her reflection in the bathroom mirror, tucked her lipstick back into her backpack and chastised herself for getting distracted. She couldn’t afford distractions. Even the sort of distractions that made her acutely aware of how long it had been since she’d been kissed. Especially those sort of distractions.
Besides, they weren’t exactly having a ball anymore, were they? The tour seemed to have come to a screeching halt, with Mano checking his phone every few minutes and scowling at anyone who came within five feet of them.
And now he was tucked away in a cave talking on his cell. She wondered what could possibly be so urgent. He was on holiday, after all.
Perhaps it was a woman. Yes, that had to be it. He seemed just the type to have an urgent woman problem. She rolled her eyes at her reflection and pretended not to notice the unexpected and utterly irrational stab of jealousy she felt like a thorn in her side.
She was better than this. She would not hole up in the ladies’ room worrying about what was going on with her overdressed, overly annoying, overly virile client. She had other clients to think about anyway. At least she hoped she did. The last time she’d talked to the booking agent at the touring company, there was nothing on the schedule for the next two days. As nice as a forty-eight-hour respite might be, it just wasn’t an option. Not if she wanted to stay caught up on her bills and also enjoy the luxury of three meals a day.
She glanced at her watch. Mano was probably finished with his call by now. She should find her way back to him and resume the tour. His “quiet place” was on the other side of the building, right by the front entrance. There was no telling how long it would take to get back over there. Mornings were madness at the Colosseum.
Then again, he’d been awfully vague about how much time he needed to wrap up his urgent matter. She likely had time to make a quick call to the touring company to check and see if she was booked for tomorrow.
/> She reached for her cell and immediately noticed a missed call notification from When in Rome. Excellent.
The booking agent answered on the first ring. “When in Rome. Buongiorno.”
“Paola?”
“Sì. Yes,” she said.
“It’s me, Julia.”
“Oh, Julia! Meno male.” Thank God. Why did Paola sound so relieved to hear from her? “Giuseppe has been trying to reach you.”
Her boss. That was strange.
Something felt off. Scarily off. Stop being paranoid. You’ve done nothing wrong. “I had a missed call, but I assumed it was from you. I was hoping you had something for me for tomorrow. Even a half-day tour would be good. I’ll take anything.”
“Sorry, not yet. Nothing for tomorrow. So you still haven’t spoken with Giuseppe?”
“No. Is he there? Can I talk to him?” She made every effort to sound casual, despite the sense of foreboding she couldn’t quite shake.
“I’m afraid he’s just left for the Hotel de Russie. He was in quite a rush, but you might be able to reach him on his cell.”
“The Hotel de Russie? Why on earth is he going there?” Nothing about this conversation was making any sense.
“To fetch your client, Mr. Romano.” Paola was starting to sound just as confused as Julia felt.
“I don’t understand. Mr. Romano isn’t at the hotel. He’s with me.”
“Oh, that’s a relief. He was upset when he rang earlier. Quite upset. Has he managed to calm down?”
Mano had called the touring company? When? “He seems fine. A bit distracted perhaps, but not upset. We’re at the Colosseum. He needed to take a break and make a call, so I thought I’d check in.”
Surely his urgent phone call hadn’t been to Giuseppe.
