by Teri Wilson
No, it couldn’t possibly. Even if it had, why would her boss pick up and leave for Hotel de Russie?
“Paola, I’m confused. What’s going on?”
“Mr. Romano called here this morning and said you’d been a no-show. He was waiting at the hotel and was quite anxious to get started. Like I said, he was very upset. He gave Giuseppe an earful. So Giuseppe headed down there. He said he’d just do the tour himself since you weren’t answering your phone.”
This cannot be happening.
Failing to show up for a scheduled tour was the worst possible infraction she could make. One that would no doubt get her fired.
Breathe, just breathe. You did not stand him up.
“But I’m here. I’m on the tour right now. Everything is fine.” Then why did she have such a gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach?
“Then I’m sure you have nothing to worry about. I’ll let Giuseppe know you’re with Mr. Romano the minute he walks in the door.”
“I don’t understand. I wasn’t late. In fact, I was early.” He hadn’t said a word to her about calling her boss. He’d just sat there drinking his Bloody Mary in his impeccable suit. And what was it that he’d said? I’m not talking to anyone right now.
Had that been his way of telling her he was angry? The man seriously needed to work on his social skills.
“Julia, really. Stop worrying. If you’re there with Mr. Romano, I’m sure everything is fine. It’s probably just some kind of misunderstanding.”
“Right.” A misunderstanding. That’s all it was. It was the only explanation. Still, she wanted nothing more at the moment than to strangle the maddening Mano Romano. “I’ve got to get back to the tour, Paola. Please tell me you’ll talk to Giuseppe and tell him that I’m here. Mr. Romano is here. Everybody is present and accounted for. Promise me.”
She could always call Giuseppe herself, but it would be better to give him some time to calm down. He possessed one of the most stereotypical hot Italian tempers that she’d ever seen. Besides, she needed to get back to Mano. She was beginning to regret taking her eyes off of him for even a second.
“I will. I promise. Ciao, bella,” Paola said.
“Ciao.” She hung up and took a deep breath.
Disaster averted. Or so she hoped.
She zipped her phone back into her backpack, dashed out of the ladies’ room, and propelled herself into the crowd. The air trapped between the stony walls was heavy and damp from the morning rain. People pressed in on every side and she was forced to move against the flow, back toward the entrance.
It would take forever to reach him at this rate.
Julia felt as though she could barely breathe. Panic beat its frantic wings inside her rib cage. What if Mano was calling her boss again, right this very moment?
Surely not. He seemed to like her. She’d even thought he’d been flirting with her. God, she was such an idiot.
A tourist stomped on her toe, and it only fueled her indignation. The closer she got to the entrance and the hidden alcove where she’d left Mano, the more annoyed she became. How dare he call and complain when she hadn’t been a second late. And how dare he not even tell her that her boss was furious with her. How dare he!
With the alcove in sight, she forced herself to calm down. Clearly Mano was a loose cannon. Her job could be hanging by a thread now, all because of him. She needed to paste on a smile and get through the rest of the tour the best she could. Like it or not, she would be spending the entire afternoon kissing Mano Romano’s pompous ass so he would give her a good review when it was all over.
You can do this.
She took a deep breath and walked through the narrow arch that lead to the quiet niche where she’d left him. “Tell me you’re ready to get going again, and tell me you’re excited about what’s to come. Because I’ve got a treat in store for . . .”
Her voice faded to a whisper, echoing against the ancient stones walls. He didn’t tell her he was ready. He didn’t say he was excited for the remainder of the tour. He said nothing at all.
Because Mano was gone.
CHAPTER
* * *
SEVEN
“Quanto per una rasatura?” How much for a shave?
Niccolo had never set foot in a barbershop before. His barber in Lazaretto made weekly trips to the palace. Even when he was traveling, he had a staff at his disposal to attend to his grooming needs. But there was a first time for everything. And thus far, the morning had been a veritable laundry list of firsts, starting with the most enigmatic first of all—his spellbinding tour guide. His tour guide who he hoped hadn’t yet made her way back to the alcove.
Just a few minutes. That’s all he needed.
He tapped his foot and waited as the barber peered at him impassively over the top of his newspaper. La Repubblica—one of the more respectable media outlets in Rome, yet Niccolo’s own face gazed back at him from the front page nonetheless.
The barber held up five fingers. “Cinque euro.”
Five euros, a reasonable fee. Unfortunately, it amounted to five euros more than Niccolo had on his person.
He glanced at his reflection in the mirror situated above the barber’s chair, which was empty at the moment. Thank God. Niccolo didn’t have time to wait in line. He didn’t have time to fish around in his pockets for his nonexistent five euros. Nor did he have time to beg, borrow, or steal the money.
You must return to the hotel at once.
Piero had sounded uncharacteristically bold on the phone, his sudden bravado no doubt due to the fact that every member of the royal security detail, the office of the monarchy, not to mention the king himself, was breathing down his neck, demanding that he make Niccolo reappear. Like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat.
Niccolo had no intention of playing the part of a rabbit. Not until he’d sated his overwhelming, irrational need for a taste of Miss Costa.
“If you return at once, the driver can get you to the orphanage on schedule.” Piero had been talking so fast that Niccolo could hardly keep track of what he was saying, not that he had any interest in it whatsoever. “I can reschedule the Auto Works and the organic farm for later this evening. We’ll have to postpone your flight . . .”
Niccolo had cut him off. “Cancel them.”
There had been a tense pause during which Niccolo could practically hear Piero’s eye twitching. “Cancel the Auto Works and the organic farm? Or cancel the orphans?”
He’d experienced a sharp tug of guilt at the thought of the orphans, but what had been set in motion hours before had become unstoppable. It was a force beyond reason, beyond his control, beyond the reach of the throne. “All of them. The whole lot.”
“But sir, canceling the orphans would be a public-relations disaster.”
“Write a check. Send them toys. Send them sporting equipment. Send them whatever they need. Tell them I’ve taken ill, and reschedule my visit for the next available date. Do or say whatever is required, just cancel them. I’ll be back in time for my flight to Helsinki this evening. I’m asking—no, not asking—I’m demanding a few hours to myself. Surely that’s not so unreasonable.”
“But Your Highness, you cannot simply walk around Rome unaccompanied. It’s a matter of security. You’re too recognizable.”
It was then that Niccolo had remembered the red and white awning of the quaint barbershop across the street from the Colosseum, the one he’d spotted while struggling to keep up with Julia as she’d navigated through the mob of tourists.
“Let me worry about being recognized, Piero. Just call off the dogs. Six hours. That’s all.” He’d hung up before his secretary could get in another word of protest and headed out of the alcove, straight past the detestable Gio, across the street, and through the front door of the barbershop.
He couldn’t do much about his famous eyes or t
he recognizable Greek nose he’d inherited from his father and his grandfather before him, but he could rid himself of his trademark beard. It wasn’t much, but it beat ducking behind the hood of his poncho for the rest of the afternoon.
Of course if he didn’t hurry up and get back to the Colosseum before Julia came looking for him, the afternoon wouldn’t pan out quite the way he intended, would it?
He glanced at the time on his Cartier. Eight minutes had already passed since Julia had left him in the alcove. Was it even possible to get a shave and return before she came looking for him?
Possibly. If the price was right.
The barber watched with thinly veiled curiosity as Niccolo unfastened the strap of the Cartier.
“Uno scambio?” A trade? He offered the timepiece to the barber. Its worth could have paid for weekly shaves for the entire population of Lazaretto. Surely it would suffice.
The barber took the watch and inspected it in what seemed to Niccolo like agonizing slow motion. He shrugged. “Bene.”
“Grazie.” Niccolo shed his poncho and planted himself in the barber chair before he could change his mind. “Velocemente, per favore.”
A few long minutes later, he was staring back at his clean-shaven reflection in the mirror, satisfied that he could move about for the remainder of the afternoon without being chased by mobs of schoolgirls. With a final grazie to the somewhat baffled barber, he dashed out of the shop and made his way back across the street, narrowly avoiding being hit by a flurry of speeding white taxis.
Niccolo gave Gio a cursory nod and strode straight past him, catching a glimpse of himself—yet again—on the small television in the tiny plexiglass cubicle. This time his image was captioned with the words Crown Prince Niccolo La Torre Taken Ill, Cancels Appearances.
So Piero had acquiesced and followed his orders. Good. He was free and clear for the next six hours.
Everything was falling nicely into place. As it should. Niccolo was beginning to feel like himself once again. In control. Commanding. Royal. He’d had enough of the morning’s chaos, enough of feeling out of sorts. Julia Costa was a woman, just like any other. He would not lose his head over her. He was a La Torre. He would be king one day, for God’s sake. She was a complete and total stranger. Even insiders who’d been properly vetted by the palace had ended up selling stories about his family to the press. With the direst of consequences. He didn’t know the first thing about Julia. For all he knew, she could have had press credentials stuffed somewhere in that backpack of hers.
He would not allow a silly American woman to throw him into a tailspin, no matter how charming, quirky, or desirable he found her.
Then why are you still here instead of accepting a tree from a bunch of organic gardeners?
His jaw clenched and something inside him wound into a knot. A dark, raw need. Anticipation. It moved in him with searing ferocity. He hastened his steps until he was once again in the alcove where Julia had left him.
And there she stood.
The relief that flooded his senses at the sight of her vexed him, but the clock was ticking. Across the street, on a barber’s wrist, the minute hand on his Cartier was moving at a continuous, steady pace. He had neither the time nor the inclination to examine the pull he felt whenever he looked into her soft brown eyes. It was a physical force. Gravity, propelling his feet forward when he knew good and well they should be heading in the exact opposite direction.
He shouldn’t be feeling this way. He shouldn’t be standing between these crumbling walls, surrounded by the ghosts of gladiators and emperors. Centuries of impassioned souls.
But she was there. Right there. Delicate, red-lipped, and ethereal, like something carved out of marble by a sculptor’s gifted hands. An alabaster priestess. A muse. Beautiful.
Very beautiful and, by all appearances, very angry.
Her body hummed with it. Words unspoken, thoughts spinning around in that beautiful head. Her dark eyes glittered in the shadows of the cave.
“Where have you been?” She pinned him with a glare and crossed her arms, as though she were trying to hold herself together, or worse, as if she wanted a barrier between them. The gesture also had what Niccolo was certain was the unintentional effect of pushing her full breasts together in a delicious explosion of décolletage.
He made every effort to aim his gaze elsewhere, if only to assure himself that he did in fact still possess a modicum of decorum. “I stepped out for a shave.”
“A shave?” Her mouth dropped open, and he was rewarded with a glimpse of warm, wet tongue. “You decided to up and go for a shave . . . now . . . in the middle of a guided tour of the Colosseum?”
No woman had dared speak to him with such derision before. It should have infuriated him. It most definitely shouldn’t have turned him on the way it did. He felt restless, tight. Alert to the point of pain. Every nerve in his body seemed to aim itself in her direction. Something was wrong with him. Clearly.
“I told you I had business to attend to,” he said blithely.
“Urgent shaving business. Naturally.” She bristled, and he enjoyed it immensely. Her eyes were too bright, her cheeks a lovely, blooming shade of pink. She was angry all right. What he didn’t know was why, or why on earth her barely contained fury was affecting him the way it did.
He liked her passion, the acute way in which she felt things. She felt more in the span of three seconds than he’d felt in the past three years. He’d known the instant he’d met her that she was different. She was the complete and polar opposite of the people he interacted with on any ordinary day. Men who bowed, women who curtsied, people who catered to his every whim. He’d never realized how wearying it had all become. Until now.
He arched a brow at her. “You preferred the beard that much, did you?”
“What?” she sputtered, her flush growing even pinker. An enchanting rush of color. Like the deep, dense center of an orchid. “No.”
“No?” He angled his head toward her. “You object to the clean-shaven look, then? My apologies. I had no idea.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t care one way or another.” Her gaze flitted to his jaw, and she licked her lips.
Oh, she cared. She cared very much.
Satisfaction pulsed in Niccolo’s veins. He took a step toward her. He was already closer than he should have been. Much too close, and he didn’t care, because he could hear her sudden intake of breath, could feel the warmth rolling off her body, an ember to his flame.
“I think you do,” he whispered. “I think you care, and that pleases me, Julia.”
He wanted to press his lips to the slender column of her elegant throat. He wanted to feel the hot pounding of her pulse beneath his tongue. He wanted to unwind the wispy scarf from around her neck and use it in ways that the debauched emperors she so despised had never dreamed of.
He wanted her to fall. Fall like the ancient Rome she loved so much. And he wanted her to do so by the power of his hands, his mouth, the brutal intensity of his need.
It couldn’t happen, of course. There was a line between them, a line he couldn’t allow himself to cross. Certainly not in the short span of six hours. His family couldn’t afford another scandal. Not now, in the wake of Cassian’s naked French swim.
Even if his identity remained a secret, even if he never got caught, he couldn’t do it. It would mean taking advantage of this captivating, spirited woman. Niccolo believed in honor and the timeless quality of chivalry. Those ideas had been drilled into his head since the time he’d known he would one day be king. He couldn’t very well bed her without telling her who he was and then hop on a private plane to Helsinki.
It was out of the question.
Which was a pity. More than a pity. He wanted her. More than anything he’d wanted in as long as he could remember. And the fact that he would never have her was nothing short of a tragedy
.
“We need to talk,” she said.
He looked into the wild heat of her gaze, and he didn’t feel like talking. Not at all.
One kiss.
He would allow himself one kiss, a single, decadent taste of her scarlet mouth. One kiss was all he needed, he assured himself. It would be enough.
Just one kiss.
“Later,” he growled, cradling her face in his hands and angling his mouth over hers before he came to his senses and changed his mind.
A tiny gasp escaped her, and in a moment of excruciating uncertainty he searched her gaze. Niccolo had never forced himself on a woman, and he wasn’t about to start now. He needed her to want this as much as he did.
He stood above her, eyes locked with hers, and waited for a sign. His breathing was strained, his muscles tense. He was barely able to contain the urge to consume her. In that singular moment, he felt every inch a warrior, a gladiator, a man. Like never before.
Then her lips parted, ever so slightly. And he knew.
He lowered his mouth to hers. In the final, torturous moment before their lips touched, he felt the soft flutter of her breath against his mouth, and it was like being kissed by a butterfly. The gentleness of the sensation was so at odds with the violence of his arousal that he nearly sank to his knees. He leaned against her instead, pressing her against the wall of the cave, as much to steady himself as to feel the soft warmth of her curves beneath him.
Then he kissed her. Hard. With insistence. His tongue probed her lips until she opened for him, whimpering and vulnerable. And at last he was in the warm, wet wonderland of her mouth, his tongue sweeping inside.
His hands slid from her face, down her neck, over the delicate grace of her collarbones. She trembled beneath his touch, her fists clenching in the folds of his suit jacket. Spurred by her responsiveness, he deepened the kiss, taking her lovely mouth, claiming her, making her his.
God, what was happening? He was a prince, and he was kissing a strange woman in very a public place. And he’d never been so hard in his life. His hands had somehow found their way to her waist. He let them slide around to cup her bottom, until he was lifting her, hauling her even more forcefully against him.
