by Teri Wilson
“The Basilica di Santa Maria. It still has its medieval façade, which dates back to the eighth century. Too bad it’s too dark and stormy to appreciate it at the moment.” Her eyes lit up the way they always did when she talked about history and her beloved relics.
It was adorable beyond reason. Niccolo could have listened to her rattle off facts until his ears bled. “I like dark and stormy.”
“Do you?” Mischief shone in the glittering depths of her eyes, along with centuries of obscure facts. “Then you’ll love this. Come here.”
She beckoned him toward the far wall and the eerie stone face. “This is the Bocca della Verità.”
He took in the carving’s wide round eyes and its gaping mouth. “The Mouth of Truth. Interesting name.”
“It an ancient lie detector.”
“Sure it is.”
“I’m not joking. Legend says if you put your hand inside its mouth and tell a lie, your hand will be bitten clear off.” She wove her fingers through his and lifted their interlocked hands toward the face’s stony lips. “Try it. I’m sure you’ve got nothing to be afraid of, Mano. Oh, wait. That’s not your name, is it? You lied about that.”
Their fingertips hovered at the opening. If Niccolo was going to risk life and limb, he wasn’t doing it alone. “We’ll both try it. One question each.”
“Fine. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
Was that a tremble he felt in her fingertips?
Niccolo smiled and slid their linked hands into the yawning mouth. “Ladies first. Ask me a question.”
She took a deep breath and leaned toward him, eyes shining bright. “Are you on the run from the police?”
“No,” he said without hesitation.
Her gaze flitted to the wall, then back at him. Nothing happened. No magical dismemberment. No screams of agony. Nothing.
Then again, he’d told the truth.
“Disappointed?” He smiled and ran his thumb along her wrist in the darkness.
She dipped her head, and her gaze softened, the way the rain blurred everything around the edges. “No. But I’m still not sure I believe you. You might be the best liar in Rome.”
“Your turn.” He moved closer to her.
Out of sight, their fingertips closed more tightly around each other, lest their hands slip apart. Rain pounded hard against the timeless church. So hard that Niccolo convinced himself the real world might just melt away.
“Are you afraid?” he whispered, gaze locked on her ruby red lips.
You should be.
He wasn’t holding back. Not anymore.
“Not in the slightest.” But he could feel the nervous flutter of her pulse against the pad of his thumb, and he knew better than to believe her.
She was lying already.
“Ask me anything.” Her plush bottom lip gave a tantalizing little tremble.
Niccolo was so turned on, he could barely remain upright. “This no kissing rule of yours . . .”
She took a deep breath, and he watched as her lips slowly parted. All the chariots in ancient Rome couldn’t have dragged him away from her in that moment, much less a handful of bodyguards.
“Did you mean it, or do you want me to kiss you again?” He bent his head until his mouth was poised directly over hers.
He could hear her heartbeat pounding in time with the rain, feel the wet heat rising from her body. And the thing that had begun coming loose inside him disentangled completely. He was finished pretending.
He couldn’t tell her who he was, but he could no longer stop himself from wanting her. Not anymore.
“Don’t you dare lie to me, Julia,” he growled.
He had no right to speak to her in such a way. He’d done nothing but lie to her since the moment they’d met. Somewhere along the way, though, those lies had become real.
The truth rang between them like church bells.
“I still want it.” Her voice, a quivering, delicious whisper, could have dragged an army of gladiators to its knees. “I never stopped.”
CHAPTER
* * *
SIXTEEN
Niccolo wasn’t fully aware of the trip back to Julia’s flat. The ride was a hazy, tortuous blur of rain-dampened cobblestones, the heat of Julia’s exquisite body pressing into his back, radiating through her wet dress, and the constant awareness that for the first time since he’d set foot on Italian soil he was running toward something instead of away from it.
Toward home. Toward her.
They tumbled up the narrow stairway, lips and hands searching, until at last they fell into her flat’s cozy kitchen. He cradled her face in his hands, his mouth lowered toward hers, and it was as though he’d finally exhaled after a lifetime of holding his breath.
The kiss was tender at first, almost gentle. As if the sudden solitude of her flat and the swollen promise of the hours ahead had made them bashful. But somewhere beneath the tenderness, there was a growing urgency. A furious need.
He needed her.
The realization would have alarmed him if he’d been capable of coherent thought. He hadn’t allowed himself to need anyone in a long time. And now that he finally had, the woman he needed most was someone destined to be forever out of reach.
But not now. Not tonight.
“I need to see you,” he breathed, dragging his lips from hers. “Now.”
Show me.
He stood back, rested against the opposite counter, and waited. His bold command hung in the air, and she stood before him blushing and breathless. Motionless.
Then she shed her clothes, letting them fall, like damp leaves on the forbidden forest floor. And there was something so sensual about her baring her beautiful body while he stood there fully clothed, taking her in, admiring every inch of alabaster skin.
“Julia.” He groaned and moved toward her. There was nothing but gravity between them, an unseen force drawing them toward one another in equal measure. Desire given, desire returned.
He lifted his hands to the delicate curve of her waist and turned her ever so slowly for his inspection. He committed her to memory. Every possible angle. Every dip, every smooth, gorgeous contour. Until she was forever captured in his mind’s eye, and the impossibility of the moment became eternal.
He slid his hands to cup her breasts from behind as she stood turned away from him.
“You are the softest, most beautiful creation these hands have touched,” he whispered, sending a ripple through her hair.
She sighed, her lovely body going slack and falling against him. Which was all well and good. It was time. Time to sweep her off her feet.
He didn’t want to think anymore. Not about the throne. Not about his grandfather. Not about all the duties that awaited him outside these four walls.
He just wanted to feel. To lose himself in a reality that would never be his. To just let everything and everyone go.
Everyone but her.
If only for a night.
She gasped as he gathered her in his arms and carried her to the bed, that kingdom of crisp white sheets that had been tormenting him since the moment he’d first crossed her threshold. He set her down on the edge of the mattress and knelt between her legs, gently pushing her knees apart. He needed to see everything, taste everything.
She shuddered and let her eyes drift closed as he placed a worshipful kiss on the tender inside of each thigh. Then his mouth moved deeper, closer to the warm, wet wonderland of her center. He ran his palms down the willowy length of her legs, then draped them reverently over his shoulders. And she was open—ready, ripe, and resplendent. He was right there, poised to take her dreaming, even though it was a dream that would never last, a dream that might destroy them both.
Then in a moment of suspended butterfly breath, her eyes fluttered open. “Wait . . . what are you . . .?”
She was shivering. Aroused and afraid, her face flushed. Niccolo knew without a doubt that he was about to take her to a place she’d never allowed herself to go. He wanted to tell her there was nothing to fear. What was about to happen wouldn’t irreversibly change her. He wouldn’t let her lose control.
But those would have been lies.
He wanted her to come apart. Needed it. After tonight, he’d never touch her again. But she’d remember him. He’d make sure of it.
He smiled. “Lie back, darling. Lie back, and let me kiss you.”
He slid his hands beneath her perfect bottom, lifted her hips and licked his way inside her.
“Oh my God,” she murmured, barely louder than the mew of a kitten.
Then her hands were in his hair again, and she was trembling in his grasp. Rather than finding relief, his hunger became insatiable. With every tremble of her body, every muffled sigh, he grew more and more ravenous. He kissed her until she was undulating beneath him, rising to meet his mouth.
He was on the verge of coming, and he was still fully clothed. Dressed, but desperate for release.
He had to get control of himself. This wasn’t about him. It was about her. About giving her something real. He’d taken enough from her.
It pained him to think there would be another man in her bed one day. After he’d gone. Thinking about it caused something black and furious to swirl in the back of his head, at the base of his skull.
So he pushed tomorrow away, as far off as he could. There was only the here and now, the delicious rise and fall of Julia’s hips, the sweet, agonizing sighs coming from her lips. His name. Over and over again.
She was free-falling, tumbling to her end. And when Niccolo knew without a doubt that she’d become lost in the delicious descent, he brought his hand to her center.
Then, with a single touch and one last kiss of adoration, she fell apart.
* * *
JULIA COULDN’T SEEM TO catch her breath.
But it didn’t matter. Nothing did as she lay panting and tingling, with Nico’s head still between her legs.
What in the world just happened?
Every bone in her body had somehow melted. She was languid and liquid, nothing but a puddle on the bed. She couldn’t have moved if she’d tried. Her throat burned. She tried to swallow and found that she couldn’t, tried to speak but could only manage a hoarse whisper.
With complete and utter mortification, she realized that her voice was spent from crying out Nico’s name.
She lifted the impossible weight of her arms and covered her face with her hands. How could she ever look at him again? He was still completely clothed, head to toe. His tie was barely crooked, for goodness’ sake, and never in her life had she been so wholly exposed.
And she still didn’t even know his name.
She squeezed her eyes closed. It was too mortifying to even think about.
This is what you wanted. Remember?
Her own words echoed in the dreamy place that had taken up residence where her brain used to reside.
I still want it. I never stopped.
She hadn’t been talking about anything as innocent as a kiss. She knew that, and now so did he. He hadn’t needed a Bocca della Verità to unlock her secrets.
He’d known all along.
The mattress dipped and she felt Nico’s warmth beside her, felt him watching her, waiting. She peeked at him through her hands. He wore a look of smug satisfaction that made her want to die.
Not that she could blame him.
“Julia, look at me.” He removed her hands from her face.
It seemed outright inconceivable that she could feel more naked, yet somehow she did.
How did people do this? How did they open themselves up without feeling like they’d just willingly walked off of a cliff?
Maybe it was too late for her. She’d been through too much to give herself so easily. Perhaps at all.
She’d just experienced the most blissful moment of her life with this man, and now she could barely look him in the eye.
“Take off your clothes,” she said. “Do it now.”
She’d feel safer once he was naked, too. More in control. At least that’s what she told herself.
But as soon as he’d unbuttoned his shirt, she knew better. Control was no longer part of the equation.
Do you want it to be?
She didn’t know anymore. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t move. She was still suspended in a languid, liquid state of bliss.
Yet when Nico slid in bed beside her, his body even more beautiful than she’d imagined, she felt it again. Desire. It curled low in her belly, exquisitely seductive and sweet.
She reached for him, wanting, needing to touch him, to stroke him, to take him inside. But she couldn’t seem to lift her arm off the mattress. She’d gone leaden. Boneless.
He kissed her, slow and sweet this time, with long, unhurried strokes of his tongue.
“Close your eyes,” he whispered. “We have all night. There’s no rush, my darling.”
My darling.
Her eyelashes fluttered closed. Niccolo tucked himself behind her, spooning her against his warmth. His muscular arm reached around, pulling her close.
And as sleep pressed down on her, Julia suddenly felt close to tears.
There’s no rush . . .
It wasn’t true. It wasn’t true at all.
Come morning, Nico would walk right out of her life just as easily as he’d strolled into it.
She dreamed of orange trees, the patter of raindrops, and silver coins beneath a cool blue pool of water. She woke with a start, convinced nothing that had gone on for the past two days had been real.
But Nico was there, in the flesh. As real as he could possibly be.
She slid out of bed and poured herself a glass of Chianti from the third bottle they’d opened the previous night. She sipped, drummed her nails on the kitchen counter, and tried not to stare at the gorgeous man taking up temporary residence in her bed. Emphasis on temporary.
She blew out a sigh. It was hopeless. Her gaze was drawn to him again and again, and the more she looked at him, the more she thought about how it had felt to have his hands on her, his mouth. Although if she was honest with herself, she’d thought of little else since she’d awakened beside him.
She couldn’t allow herself to do this. She was an independent woman with a life of her own. A life that happened to be in shambles at the moment, but a life nonetheless. She couldn’t stand here, watching a man sleep while she waited for him to walk out the door.
She took a big gulp of wine, settled herself on her tiny, two-person sofa and flicked on the television, anxious for a distraction. With the volume on mute, she flipped through the channels, not really paying attention to the images flickering on the screen . . . until she spotted a familiar, handsome face among those images.
No. It can’t be.
She fumbled with the remote, scrolling backward through the channels in search of what had to be an illusion. An orgasm-induced hallucination. Maybe she was doomed to see his face everywhere for the rest of her life. Haunted by the best climax of her life. That would be just her luck.
It was no hallucination. And she didn’t have to search for his face because it was everywhere. On almost every channel. She sat slack-jawed watching him, the same man who lay sleeping in her bed less than four feet away, climbing into limousines, giving speeches, cutting ribbons, waving from palace balconies. And below every single one of these impossible images, scrolling across her nineteen-inch television, news-ticker style, was the same nonsensical question. Over and over and over again.
Dove è il principe?
Where is the prince?
CHAPTER
* * *
SEVENTEEN
Julia beat on Chiara’s d
oor, tapped her foot and waited. Answer. Answer. Answer.
She’d already sent three text messages, to no avail. And this was the type of problem that needed girlfriend input. So instead of alternately staring at the man in her bed and checking her phone for a reply, she’d dashed across the hall.
After what felt like an eternity, the door finally opened.
“You do know it’s the middle of the night, right?” Chiara said, standing with hands on hips, pixie cut askew and feet clad in mismatched socks. “This had better be important.”
“It is. An emergency, in fact.”
Chiara stared at her for a beat and then arched an accusatory eyebrow. “It’s an emergency, and yet you had time to slip into beautiful lingerie?”
Julia glanced down. Sure enough, she’d walked right out of the door in her best nightie. She was losing it. Maybe if they tried to throw her in jail for kidnapping a prince, she could use the insanity defense. “Never mind what I’m wearing.”
“Wait. Does this mean what I think it means? Finally. After all this time.” Chiara let out a little squeal. “I never thought I’d see the day. You’ve got a man in your flat, haven’t you? It’s that man I saw you with earlier, isn’t it? The hot one.”
Julia lifted a brow. “The hot one? You only saw him from behind.”
“And it was a hot behind. Scorching.”
Point taken. There was no denying the hotness of Nico’s backside.
“No.” Julia shook her head. “I mean yes. I mean it’s not like that.” Not exactly.
Who’s the liar now?
“Then what could possibly be so important at four in the morning?”
“I think I might be in trouble.” The understatement of the century. “Do you know who this is?”
She shoved her cell phone under Chiara’s nose.
Chiara inspected the photo that Julia had taken, praying as she’d clicked the shutter button that she was mistaken. Hoping against hope that Chiara would tell her there was no possible way that the man in her bed could be His Royal Highness, Niccolo La Torre, Crown Prince of Lazaretto.
