by Teri Wilson
But he’d understood Julia’s words perfectly.
Io non sono sua.
I’m not his.
He frowned. “What’s going on?”
“She wants you to toss two more coins into the fountain,” she said.
“But I’ve already done the coin-tossing thing.”
Io non sono sua. Why couldn’t he seem to get those words out of his head?
“I know. This is . . . something else.” Her cheeks went pink the way they always did when she was flustered. Niccolo was growing more curious by the second, and the woman hadn’t budged.
“Julia?”
She sighed. “It’s silly. If you toss a second coin into the fountain, you’re supposed to find romance. A third coin means marriage.”
He looked down at the two coins in his palm. “Marriage.”
His gaze shifted to the elderly woman. She smiled, nodded, and waved at the fountain again.
“She thinks we’re a couple.” Julia rolled her eyes so hard that Niccolo thought they might fall out of her head and onto the cobblestone ground of the piazza. “I can’t imagine why.”
No kissing.
Io non sono sua.
Niccolo had absolutely no right to feel angry. None whatsoever. He’d pushed her away, both literally and figuratively. But these continued protests were beginning to rub him the wrong way.
Don’t do anything rash. Remember who you are.
He fixed his gaze with Julia’s and tossed the two coins over his shoulder. They sailed through the air in a glittering silver arc. The old woman pressed her hands to her heart and voiced her unequivocal approval in boisterous Italian while Julia stood staring at him, slack-jawed.
Time seemed to grind to a screeching halt, and an unnerving hum buzzed in Niccolo’s ears. The playful smile on his lips faded. His breath grew shallow. Every muscle in his body tensed, like a hand curling into a fist. A door slamming shut.
As the coins splish-splashed into the glistening water, Niccolo barely heard Julia’s sputtering protest. He’d become aware of only one thing—the figure he spotted over the woman’s shoulder. A man in a dark suit.
Staring. Pushing through the crowd and walking at a fast clip.
Straight toward him.
CHAPTER
* * *
FIFTEEN
Julia stared at the two borrowed coins sitting on the bottom of the Trevi Fountain, and had the ridiculous urge to jump in the water and scoop them up.
She knew it was an absurd notion. Those coins didn’t actually mean anything. They didn’t seriously control the future.
Still.
Nico was charming. Undeniably attractive. And despite the fact that he was a confirmed liar, she almost liked him . . . so long as she overlooked the fact that he was a crazy person who wanted to pay her a ludicrous sum of money to sleep on her sofa when he had a perfectly good room at the swankiest hotel in Rome.
While she was overlooking things, she should probably also forget about his utterly frustrating kissing habit. Or that he’d gotten her fired.
Why had that irksome detail begun to slip her mind?
She blew out a sigh. The silver coins sparkled in the cool blue water, mocking her.
Clearly the Nico situation was far too dangerous to leave things up to fate.
She waved at that fountain and practically screamed at him, “What was that?”
But Nico had gone deadly still. Quiet. His gaze was focused sharply on something off in the distance.
“Nico.”
He blinked and snapped back to attention.
“Let’s go.” He grabbed her hand and started dragging her through the crowd.
He had a death grip on her hand. It was the farmer’s market all over again. Any minute, he’d probably pull her behind a dark corner somewhere and start counting to ten.
“Nico, wait.” She yanked her fingertips out of his grasp and stopped in her tracks.
He whipped around. The sternness in his expression caught her a little off guard. She fully expected him to issue another one of his ludicrous commands, which she had no intention of obeying. She couldn’t keep ignoring his erratic behavior, fascino fatale notwithstanding.
But he didn’t order her around. On the contrary, he was as close to humble as she’d ever seen him.
“Please,” he said.
The desperation in his voice was palpable. Julia had the distinct feeling that for possibly the first time, he was being real with her. Straightforward.
Honest.
This moment was some sort of crossroads, and she didn’t have the first clue which path to take. Should she do the sensible thing and stay here, or go with this man who thus far had been nothing but trouble?
He could be wanted by the law. He could be a criminal, no better than her father. He could be anyone.
She should think with her head for once and not her heart. She was a lover of history, after all. And if history had proven anything, it was that her heart couldn’t be trusted.
Church bells rang through the piazza, a melodious call to midday prayer.
“Julia, please.” He held out his hand.
She took it. It wasn’t so much a choice as an instinct. As much as she would have liked to blame the coins, deep down she knew she couldn’t.
What are you doing? This is insane. He’s obviously running from something.
The sound of the church bells swelled until she could feel them ringing inside her chest. “Where do you want to go?”
He yelled over the noise, “Back to the Vespa, then anywhere. Just not here.”
She nodded. “Follow me.”
She charged through the crowd at breakneck speed, pulling Nico behind her.
Maneuvering through a mob of meandering tourists was an art form, one that could only be honed through months and years of practice. When Julia had first begun working as a tour guide, she was awful at it. Terrible. Her tours had taken twice as long as they should have simply because she couldn’t manage the crowds.
Now, however, it was one of her better skills. Practice makes perfect and all that.
She managed to drag Nico all the way back to the scooter before the bells had chimed noon.
“Get on,” she said, reclaiming her place in the driver’s seat.
He jumped on the seat behind her without a word of protest, which only proved his getaway was every bit as urgent as she’d suspected.
Just as the church bells rang to a close, she cranked the engine.
Nothing.
Oh no. Not now.
She tried again, to no avail.
“Don’t worry. It will start in just a second and we’ll be on our way.” But even she could hear the false cheer in her voice, and its forced enthusiasm was alarming.
She didn’t dare turn around. Nico was probably having a coronary right behind her.
“Perhaps we’d do better staying on foot,” he said wearily.
But the Vepsa roared to life and they were pulling away from the curb before she could even remind him to hang on.
She headed down the first narrow alley she could find and followed it until the first available left turn. From there she crisscrossed through the city’s backstreets, avoiding the major thoroughfares and sticking to the tiny, tucked away cobblestone passages where old men sat playing cards on foldaway tables and laundry was hung out to dry.
She had no idea where she was going, but figured most of the major tourist attractions were out. The scooter only had about a half tank of gas, and stopping at a petrol station also seemed like a bad idea. So either out of necessity or some visceral need to feel safe, she headed back toward her own neighborhood.
But as they sped toward Trastevere, she wondered if taking him home again was actually such a great idea. She still didn’t even know what .
. . or whom . . . they were running from.
They needed to talk. Really talk.
Now . . . certainly before she brought him back to her flat.
She headed up the Aventine Hill toward the Orange Garden. Despite having some of the most magnificent views of the city, it was one of Rome’s quieter parks, favored almost exclusively by locals.
They cruised up to the curved stone wall that enclosed the gardens, and Julia pulled the Vespa to a stop alongside a heavy iron gate propped open next to a fountain in the wall in the shape of a face. Oceanus. The same Roman god who presided over the Trevi Fountain in marbled splendor.
Julia thought once again of the coins, and a forbidden little flutter passed through her.
She killed the engine and cursed herself for being such a weak-willed idiot. She’d really done it this time. She’d helped Nico escape whatever it was he was running from. Now what was she supposed to do with him?
He climbed off the Vespa and gazed down at her with the same earnest look in his eyes that had been her downfall at the fountain. “Thank you. Truly.”
There was that annoying flutter again, and this time it was accompanied by a wholly inappropriate tingle in her breasts. How was it possible for her to still want to sleep with him?
She disembarked from the scooter on shaky legs and glared at him. “We need to have a chat.”
“I suppose we do.”
“Let’s take a walk.” She needed to keep moving. Her body was on edge, full of adrenaline.
Of course. That’s why she was weak in the knees. It wasn’t him.
She blew out a relieved breath as they strolled beneath a canopy of bitter orange trees. The air swirled with citrus perfume, and amid the mist that had begun to descend on the city, the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica loomed in shades of violet and blue as soft and romantic as an Impressionist painting.
“What happened back there?” she finally asked.
“I saw someone I know. Someone from home.” Nico cleared his throat. “A business associate.”
A business associate. It sounded like something her father would call one of the victims of his corporate scam.
“Look, if you’re running from the law, you need to tell me. I won’t turn you in or anything. I promise, so long as you pay me what you owe me. But I can’t have you spending the night at my flat if you’re some kind of serial killer.”
“Says the kidnapper.” He winked.
“I can’t believe you’re flirting at a time like this.” She suppressed a smile.
Oh God, it wasn’t the adrenaline, was it? She was seriously still attracted to him.
“The only one who’s committed a crime here is you.” He raised an eyebrow.
Julia focused intently on the view. She didn’t quite trust herself to look him in the eye.
“Besides, I’m not the only one with some explaining to do,” he continued. “What was that scream of protest I heard when I tossed those last two coins in the fountain?”
“You’re not fooling anyone, you know. I can tell you’re just trying to change the subject. It couldn’t be more obvious.” She pushed the fringe from her face and glanced at the horizon. The sky had grown dark. The dome was slowly being swallowed by clouds.
“Just answer the question. I answered yours.”
Had he? Sort of. Not really. “Of course I screamed. You threw the wedding coins right into the water.”
He narrowed his gaze at her. “I see. The thought of marrying me is so dreadful that we couldn’t tempt fate by engaging in a superstitious coin toss.”
“It wouldn’t be altogether dreadful,” she said. The corner of his lips twitched into a smirk, drawing every ounce of her attention to his mouth. Not good. Not good at all. “I mean for someone else. Not me.”
“Evidently.”
“It’s not you. It’s me.” She was using that old line? Really? But it applied, didn’t it? “I don’t want to marry anybody. Ever.”
Nico’s footsteps slowed. He bent to pick up an orange from the lush green grass and tossed it back and forth from one hand to the other. “I see. The boyfriend was that awful, was he?”
Julia pulled a face. “Don’t call him my boyfriend.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He didn’t ask any more questions, just stood there quietly.
His patience was almost soothing. After months of Chiara pressuring her to move on, his quiet acceptance filled her with relief.
“He took advantage of me when I was at my most vulnerable. I can’t let that happen again. I don’t want to need anyone. It’s easier this way.” Why was she telling him this? He’d probably never needed anyone in his life. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
“I do. Trust me. The thought of marriage doesn’t sit well with me either.”
“An attractive, eligible man who’s also a commitment-phobe. That’s original.” She rolled her eyes and batted the orange out of his hand. It rolled down the hill and splashed into a puddle where the lawn met cobblestone.
Julia hadn’t even realized it had begun to rain.
“You find me attractive?” He shot her a playful wink. “I knew it.”
“Of course that’s your takeaway.”
“I’m not a commitment-phobe. To be honest, I’m loyal to a fault.” He shrugged one muscular shoulder. “I realize that probably flies in the face of everything you believe to be true.”
“Pretty much, yes.” He winced. Too bad. The truth hurt sometimes, didn’t it? “Assuming you’re indeed a paragon of respectability—and I still find that highly unlikely—why the aversion to happily-ever-after?”
“Where I come from, marriage isn’t a choice. I won’t select a bride. One will be chosen for me.” He looked at her long and hard, which was the only reason Julia took him even half seriously. Because what he was saying sounded archaic. “Hence my distaste for the institution.”
She gaped at him. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me your family believes in arranged marriages?”
“That’s precisely what I’m saying, yes.”
“Wow. Just . . . wow. I don’t even know how to process that.” And she’d thought her family issues were as bad as they could get. This was another level of dysfunction entirely. “Where did you say you were from again?”
“I didn’t, Sherlock.” He tapped her on the tip of her nose. In the blink of an eye, he’d reverted back to his carefree self.
She wasn’t buying it this time, though. Over the course of the past hour, she’d gotten a glimpse of the real him. There was more to Nico than met the eye.
Suddenly she remembered how solemn he’d gotten at Caesar’s tomb the day before—the tragic, faraway look in his eyes, the melancholy grace of his bowed head.
Who are you?
She’d probably never know.
“It’s your life, Nico.”
“No, it’s not. It never has been, and it never will be.”
What did that even mean?
She peered up at him through the gentle gray drizzle, wanting to know more. Wanting to know everything.
Then the sky fell apart.
* * *
WITHIN SECONDS, NICCOLO WAS soaked to the bone.
He didn’t wait for Julia to drag one of her stylish trash bag ponchos out of her backpack. He grabbed her hand and ran for cover. Feet splashing through puddles, he pulled her into the portico of a church situated at the end of the garden walk.
Condensation dripped down the centuries-old stone walls, bare save for a primitive face hanging on the far wall, staring at them in the damp darkness. The church’s colorful stained glass windows had fogged over and now looked misty and otherworldly rather than jewel-toned. As if they’d left Rome behind and stepped into a strange, lurid dream.
“Look at me. I’m a mess.” Julia glanced down at the sodden front of her dr
ess. She only seemed to realize they’d been holding hands when her gaze landed on their interlocked fingers.
“You’re gorgeous,” he said before he could stop himself.
And why should he? It was the truth. And despite a lifetime of practiced diplomacy, of keeping things close to the vest, secrets were beginning to spill out of him.
He looked at her, and he could feel himself coming unraveled.
Her wet hair shone dark and glossy in the pastel glow of the windows. With her long skirt clinging to her willowy legs and the swell of her breasts so clearly visible beneath a thin layer of cherry red cotton, she looked like a vintage movie queen who’d just gone for a dip in the Trevi Fountain. A Fellini heroine. A raven-haired Anita Ekberg in La Dolce Vita.
Surely there was no crime in stating the obvious.
“I’m soaked to the bone.” Her red-ribbon lips spread into a wide grin but at the same time, she released his fingertips.
Niccolo’s arms hung at his sides. He suddenly didn’t know what to do with his hands. They felt uncomfortably empty, which was the only excuse he could fathom for reaching to peel a lock of wet hair from her eyes. “You’re lovely.”
She peered up at him through dampened lashes, but didn’t respond. The rain pounding against the cobblestones echoed all around them in the tiny portico, drowning out the sound of their breath, wrapping them in surreal silence. Silence so loud it seemed to hum in Niccolo’s bones.
No kissing.
It was the one condition she’d placed on him, yet he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He told himself the fact that he absolutely couldn’t kiss her again was the only reason he couldn’t shake the desire to do just that, but even he knew that was a lie. Forbidden or not, he’d want to kiss her. Tonight, tomorrow, and for as many days afterward as he could imagine.
“That’s a problem,” he muttered.
“What?” She blinked. Hair slicked back with rainwater, her eyes looked huge in her porcelain face.
No kissing.
“Nothing.” He inhaled a steadying breath, raked a hand through his wet hair, and searched for something safe to talk about. “Where are we, exactly?”
