by Teri Wilson
“Your no kissing rule is a condition. It’s only fair that I should have one of my own.”
“I need to hear the condition first. Surely you don’t expect me to agree when you haven’t even told me what it is.”
He shrugged. “I drive.”
“You?” She laughed. She couldn’t quite help it. The thought of Nico sitting behind the wheel of her ancient scooter in his perfectly tailored suit was rather hilarious. “Do you even know how to drive a motorcycle?”
“Of course I do, but let’s be honest. That thing you drive barely qualifies.”
“I doubt it would start for you, seeing as you keep insulting it the way you do.” She lifted a brow. “Wait, don’t tell me. You have a way with machinery.”
“Something like that.” He paused for a beat, as if weighing his next words carefully. “Would it help if I told you I’d raced in the Monte Carlo Motorcycle Classic?”
Now she knew he was lying. Without a doubt.
The Monte Carlo Motorcycle Classic was legendary. Not like the Indy 500 or that ridiculously dangerous motorcycle race on the Isle of Man. Those events were for professional drivers. The Monte Carlo race was for motorcycle enthusiasts. Amateurs, albeit competent ones. They were also typically filthy rich—the kind of people who could afford to jet to Monte Carlo for a weekend to ride motorcycles round and round in a circle and then spray Veuve Clicquot all over each other when they were finished. Julia thought she remembered something about Prince Harry competing there once.
“The Monte Carlo Classic? It might bolster my confidence in your driving abilities. If I believed you.” She rolled her eyes. “Which I don’t.”
Men who partied in Monte Carlo didn’t generally sleep on secondhand sofas in strange apartments belonging to penniless grad students. Or so Julia assumed. “I mean, you’re not serious, are you?”
He laughed but it didn’t sound quite sincere. “Never mind. Just rest assured I know how to drive.”
“Why do you even care?”
“Why wouldn’t I want to drive your beloved Vespa? It’s a classic. You said so yourself.” He held out his hand. “The keys, per favore.”
Seven hundred fifty euros . . .
She dropped her key ring into his palm. “I’m not going to bother asking to see your driver’s license because we both know you’d never show it to me even if you have one. I’ll give you one test drive. If you pass, you can stay in the driver’s seat. If you have trouble keeping up with the Roman traffic—which I highly suspect you will—we switch. Is that clear?”
“Crystal.” He snatched the keys and grinned.
She wished that smile wasn’t so dangerous. God, how she wished that. “If you wreck my scooter, you’ll owe me a lot more than a few hundred euro. Keep that in mind. And even though you’re driving, I’m still the tour guide. You’ll go where I tell you.”
“That sounds fair. Where shall we begin?”
“The Trevi Fountain.” It was out in the open and always packed with tourists. Surely she wouldn’t accidentally kiss him or anything.
“To the fountain, then.” He peeled back the white canvas tent and held it open for her. “After you, Miss Costa.”
She slipped past him into the blinding sunshine of the market and realized she’d never found out why they’d been hiding in the first place.
Damn him.
* * *
THE TREVI FOUNTAIN WOULDN’T have been Niccolo’s first choice. It was one of the most crowded spots in Rome. But maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. He could blend in with the crowd.
Anyway, Julia wasn’t budging on the itinerary, and despite the offer to pay her triple the usual rate, his bargaining power was limited since he still hadn’t paid her anything. He was lucky she’d agreed to continue the tour at all. If his luck could hold out for another twenty-four hours, he’d be golden.
He was on the run from his own security team. Brilliant. Just brilliant.
How long could he possibly keep up this charade? Those men were trained professionals. Niccolo ought to know. He’d relied on men just like them for his personal safety since the day he was born.
It was a miracle he’d managed to evade the pair of security officers back at Café Rocha. To be fair, they probably hadn’t anticipated that a member of the royal family would hide behind a farm stand. Least of all Niccolo, typically the most obedient royal. They wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Niccolo was a marked man.
A marked man who, at the moment, was en route to one of the most crowded spots in Rome.
He drove the scooter as fast as it would go, just in case they were being followed. Within minutes, they turned onto the busy Via delle Muratte, and the Trevi Fountain came into view in all its baroque splendor. Roman gods and goddesses carved from smooth white stone stood before a columned backdrop, presiding over a pool of crystal blue water. Winged horses rose from the fountain’s rocky shore, poised in eternal gallop over a rushing waterfall.
Niccolo’s duties as the crown prince had taken him all over the world. He’d crisscrossed the globe several times over, but the stunning drama of the Trevi Fountain never failed to take his breath away. The scale of the landmark was almost overwhelming. It looked more like an open-air theater than a fountain. And it was situated right in the beating, beautiful heart of the city.
He wove the scooter through the mob of tourists juggling cones of gelato and snapping photos until he found a motorcycle parking area. He lined up the Vespa alongside the hundreds of other vehicles, switched off the engine, and reached for his helmet. Julia hopped off the back before he could even turn around.
“You seem rather in a hurry to disembark. I drove that poorly, did I?” He lifted a curious brow, simply for effect.
He’d been dead serious about the Monte Carlo Classic. He and Cassian had been regular competitors in the race until their father abdicated. Now that Niccolo was the heir rather than the spare, he no longer competed. It was considered much too dangerous for the man who was next in line for the throne.
Driving Julia’s scooter hadn’t been about satisfying a thirst for speed, though. He’d simply wanted the ability to steer them away from Lazaretto security if needed. He’d kept his eyes peeled and driven her tin can of a vehicle as fast and hard as he could. He hadn’t seen a single one of the palace’s bodyguards, though. It was almost unsettling.
He knew they were out there.
Somewhere.
“I just need a little air, that’s all.” Julia crossed her arms, uncrossed them, then crossed them again.
When she’d been behind him on the bike with her arms wrapped around his waist, there’d been a moment when he thought she’d rested her chin right in the crook of his neck.
It had probably just been his imagination. Or wishful thinking on his libido’s part.
She cleared her throat. “You actually did quite well. You never fail to surprise me, Nico.”
You have no idea. “Is that a good thing?”
“In this case, yes. But overall, no.” She narrowed her gaze. “It’s a bad thing, actually. Very, very bad.”
He climbed off the scooter and scanned the crowd surrounding the fountain. Not a single dark suit in sight. Thank God.
“Why don’t you show me the fountain? I promise to be on my absolute best behavior. After all, I’m paying for this excursion.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Triple.”
She seemed to be struggling not to smile. “Fine. Although I don’t believe for a minute that you’ll be on your best behavior.”
“Let’s be honest. We’d both be disappointed if I was.” He wasn’t sure why he said it. Flirting with Julia was nowhere on his current list of priorities.
She tipped her head back and laughed, and then he knew. That sound. The curved elegance of her slender neck. The way her brown eyes glittered when she laughed. Those w
ere the reasons why he kept saying the things he did.
She deserved to smile, to laugh, be happy. Despite all the advantages Niccolo had at his disposal, he had nothing to offer her.
But he could make her smile.
That would just have to be enough.
“Are you okay, Nico?” Julia’s eyes narrowed, and the laughter died on her lips. “You look awfully serious all of a sudden.”
“I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me, I assure you.”
“Okay, then.” She shrugged a single, delicate shoulder. “Let’s go look at the biggest fountain in Italy, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
He followed her through the throng of tourists, marveling at her ability to maneuver her way through a crowd. She was frighteningly good at it. Without pushing or jostling a single gelato-juggling tourist, she’d led him right up to the edge of the fountain.
“Have you ever seen anything so glamorous?” She beamed up at the looming travertine display surrounded on every side by water that dazzled as bright as an aquamarine stone in a crown.
There was a strange stirring in the center of Niccolo’s chest. “Never.”
She launched into a detailed history of the fountain, including the fact that it was built in honor of a virgin who’d led Roman soldiers to the spot where they found pure water way back in nineteen BC. Niccolo managed to refrain from pointing out Rome’s fondness for virgins, yet again.
Instead, he simply listened. She knew so many facts and legends about the fountain that it was impossible for Niccolo to absorb them all. If he was being honest with himself, his inability to concentrate on her history lesson had more to do with the captivating sparkle in her eyes as she spoke than with the sheer volume of information. She lit up when she talked about Rome. There was no other way to describe it. She glowed as if she were unwrapping a priceless gift. Just for him.
Look around. You aren’t an actual tourist, you fool.
Niccolo had to remind himself to keep searching the crowd for men in suits.
“Any questions?” Julia asked, squinting into the Roman sun. It glowed gold overhead, casting a soft halo of light around her upswept hair.
Questions. Right. He would probably have a few if he’d been on a legitimate holiday and hired a guide to show him the sights.
He fixed his gaze on the water. Silver coins glittered beneath the surface. Hundreds, maybe thousands. “Tell me about the coins.”
Had she mentioned them yet? He didn’t know.
“It’s a tradition. You wouldn’t believe how much money ends up on the bottom of this fountain. Every night it’s collected and given to the poor. The next day, it starts all over again.”
He lifted a brow. “You know what they say. When in Rome . . .”
She pulled a half-euro from her pocket and offered it to him. “Be careful. Tossing a coin in the Trevi Fountain has consequences.”
Niccolo was growing weary of consequences. “What sort?”
“According to legend, travelers who throw a coin into the fountain are destined to return to Rome.”
He could think of far worse fates. “Is that right?”
She nodded and the scarlet swell of her lower lip slipped between her teeth. Niccolo had the sudden urge to empty his bank account directly into the cool blue water.
“I suppose I could live with that.” He flicked his wrist and aimed toward the center of the fountain.
“Stop!” Julia grabbed his hand before the half-euro could fly out of his grasp.
“Problem?” He fixed his gaze on her hand covering his.
She promptly let go. “You’re doing it wrong.”
“There’s a wrong and right way to throw a coin into a fountain?” He narrowed his gaze.
“This fountain? Absolutely.” The look she gave him confirmed he’d just asked a very stupid question. Possibly the stupidest. If Piero dared to look at him that way, Niccolo would have his head.
He stifled a grin. “Do enlighten me.”
She placed her hands on his shoulders and spun him around so his back was to the water. “Like this. Now put the coin in your right hand and toss it over your left shoulder.”
He searched her expression for some sign she was joking, but saw none. “Why do I get the feeling you’re just trying to make me follow orders?”
“Because you’re impossible.” She jammed her hands on her hips. “I’m not kidding. This is the way it’s done. Have you truly never heard of this tradition before? Tourists usually can’t wait to do this. It’s most definitely a thing.”
Somehow coin tossing hadn’t made it onto the list of activities on Piero’s iPad.
“Then you do it with me.” He slipped his hand around her wrist and pulled her toward him. Which in no way constituted kissing. “Since I’m so clearly inept.”
“Oh.” She collided into his embrace with a startled air, but much to Niccolo’s delight, didn’t pull away. “Sure. I mean, you obviously need help.”
“Obviously.” His breath sent a ripple through her dark hair, and Niccolo had a sudden flashback to the night before in her kitchen. He closed his eyes and once again tasted the Chianti on her lips. The sensation was so real, so visceral, his left arm tightened around her waist, pulled her closer.
She was warm, soft. Impossibly soft. Niccolo wondered if her frustrating no-kissing rule only applied to lips. Surely a small brush of his mouth against the secret spot behind her ear wouldn’t count.
“Nico,” she breathed. To his great relief, it didn’t sound at all like a protest. More like a plea.
“Am I doing this wrong as well?” he whispered, kissing a trail to the back of her neck.
She shivered, and he went rock hard . . . surrounded by hundreds of people in literally the most crowded spot in Italy.
He straightened. Cleared his throat.
How was he going to survive until morning? He’d had the good sense to put a stop to things the night before, but a man had his limits. And Niccolo had reached the end. The appearance of the palace bodyguards had changed things. He couldn’t battle both the crown and himself.
One of them was bound to win.
Niccolo just wasn’t sure which would be the victor.
“The coin . . .” he said, in a mighty effort to give the crown a fighting chance.
“Hmm?” Julia said dreamily, and for an exquisite second, she leaned back against him with her eyes shut and her mouth curved into a sinful variant of a Mona Lisa smile.
“Julia.”
Her eyes flew open. Over her shoulder, her gaze lingered on his mouth for what felt like a full minute before she finally met his gaze.
She blinked. “Yes, the coin. Of course.”
She took hold of his arm and together they tossed the coin over his shoulder.
Julia turned around, and the sliver of space between them felt far too large. She nodded toward the fountain. “That’s how it’s done. It looks like you’ll come back someday.”
The truth hit Niccolo like a ton of bricks.
He wouldn’t be coming back. Not anytime soon, if ever. After the stunt he’d pulled in Rome, his grandfather would forbid him to set foot anywhere near the Eternal City.
Niccolo would undoubtedly have to wait until he himself was the ruling monarch before he returned.
The next time he would stand within a one-hundred-kilometer radius of Julia Costa, Niccolo would be king.
“I look forward to it,” he said flatly.
“There you go looking tragic again. Cheer up. Your holiday isn’t over yet. Besides, when you leave Rome, aren’t you headed to Helsinki?”
Please don’t remind me. “That’s right. Can’t wait.”
But it was most difficult to forget, especially when an entire team of men had descended on the city to drag him away.
He glanced around
the piazza in a panic. How long had his entire focus had been on Julia just now? Five minutes? Ten?
Too long. That’s for certain. He couldn’t afford to be preoccupied for even a second.
The mob of tourists seemed to have doubled since he’d last checked his whereabouts. People pressed in on every side, which was alarming on multiple counts. He couldn’t get a good look at the crowd. The faces seemed to blend together.
Even if he somehow managed to spot one of the palace’s security officers, he wouldn’t be able to flee.
“We need to go,” he said without preamble. “Now.”
Julia’s gaze narrowed. “What’s the rush?”
Oh, nothing important. I might be an outlaw now. I’m not even sure, actually. “It’s a bit on the crowded side, don’t you think?”
She shrugged, but still eyed him with a large dose of skepticism. “Sure, I suppose. I guess I’m accustomed to it . . .”
She was cut off midsentence by an older woman with a shawl pulled tightly around her head, who was waving two shiny silver coins in Niccolo’s face. “Mi scusi, signore. Per favore prenderli.”
At first, Niccolo assumed she was asking for money, but oddly enough, it seemed the opposite was true. The woman took him by the wrist, pressed the two coins into his hand, and motioned toward the fountain.
Niccolo stared at the change in his palm. He couldn’t take money from a stranger. Not even a half-euro, which was about what the coins amounted to.
“No,” he protested and tried to give them back to the woman.
She wagged a finger at him. “Gettarli! Gettarli!” Throw! Throw! Then she smiled and nodded at Julia. “Per lei. Per la vostra sposa.”
Julia’s soft brown eyes widened in alarm. “No. You misunderstand. Io non sono sua.”
The woman shook her head, let loose a stream of Italian, and began gesticulating wildly.
Niccolo’s Italian was passable. It was one of four languages in which he’d been tutored before he’d begun crisscrossing the globe representing his country. He’d also been schooled in French, German, and Spanish. On a recent trip to the Scottish Highlands, he’d even picked up a bit of Gaelic. But he wasn’t 100 percent fluent, and the old woman spoke so rapidly that he couldn’t keep up. Not with all of it.
