Royally Roma

by Teri Wilson

  Piero looked up and squared his shoulders. “So you’re aware of her identity, then?”

  “Her identity? Look around.” He waved his arms around the tiny space where she lived. “She’s no one.”

  He regretted the callousness of the words the moment they left his mouth, but he’d had enough. Leaving Julia was difficult as it was—far more difficult than he would have ever imagined—without having to endure a lecture from his secretary.

  “So you’re unaware that her father is Lucas Costa?”

  Why did that name sound familiar? And why did Niccolo suddenly have a bad taste in his mouth?

  Then it hit him. The name sounded familiar because he’d heard it before, usually muttered in the same breath as names like Charles Ponzi and Bernie Madoff.

  Niccolo stood there a moment, gut tensing, head spinning, trying his level best to absorb Piero’s words.

  Lucas Costa. The infamous Wall Street embezzler?

  Impossible. He refused to believe it.

  “The Lucas Costa?” Niccolo sank to the edge of the bed. “Lucas Costa is Julia’s father?”

  There had to be some mistake.

  “Yes, sir. Her photograph was in the newspapers quite a few times during her father’s trial and sentencing. The woman in the pictures was the same woman who just stepped outside.” Piero nodded toward the door.

  Niccolo felt as though he’d taken a blow to his solar plexus. Sucker-punched.

  Of all the women in Rome he could have bedded, he’d chosen the daughter of a notorious criminal. A criminal whose current address was a federal prison in America. How could this be?

  He cradled his head in his hands. What he’d done was worse than simply sleeping with someone inappropriate. He’d trusted her. He’d shown her a side of him that he’d never shown anyone before. He’d even told her the truth about his mother.

  Niccolo’s chest seized. My God, what have I done?

  “Sir, are you all right?” Piero’s tone, always so crisp and businesslike, had gone uncharacteristically sympathetic, which only emphasized the magnitude of Niccolo’s lapse in judgment.

  He was the crown prince. He was held accountable to every man, woman, and child in Lazaretto, and this is how he’d chosen to honor them, by inviting scandal into the palace.

  People would have expected as much from Cassian. From his father. But not from him. He was the golden child. His mother’s son, the one who held the future of the monarchy in the palm of his royal hand.

  My God, if the press finds out about this, they will crucify me.

  He pushed himself to his feet. He had to get ahold of himself. More importantly, he had to get out of here. Every minute he spent in Julia’s flat was another minute at risk.

  Julia.

  Her angelic face flashed before his eyes. No wonder she’d been so upset when he couldn’t pay her. Her father was in prison for stealing millions of dollars. And she’d mentioned a boyfriend who’d taken advantage of her financially. The men in her life hadn’t exactly been paragons of fiscal responsibility. The kidnapping suddenly didn’t seem so crazy. Or remotely amusing. He’d hurt her. Even more than he’d realized.

  She should have told him, though. She should have been up front and honest about who she was.

  Like you were?

  Bloody hell, when had he become such a hypocrite?

  He remembered the look on her face when he’d told her that he didn’t have the money to pay for the tour. He remembered her impassioned speech.

  Do you think you’re the first man to do this to me? Newsflash—you’re not. Even my own father lied to me about who he was, and I was the one left behind to deal with the mess he’d created.

  She almost had told him, hadn’t she?

  Almost wasn’t good enough, though. Not in these circumstances.

  “Sir, I’m sorry to be the bearer of such news,” Piero said, sounding as if someone had died.

  Only my dignity. And possibly the monarchy itself.

  He buttoned his suit coat and adjusted the French cuffs of his dress shirt. He needed to get his head on straight and concentrate on the business at hand. Panicking never helped a situation such as this.

  He was probably getting ahead of himself, anyway. What was the likelihood of anyone ever discovering the truth?

  “All is not lost, Piero. Miss Costa still doesn’t know who I am. I’ll be out of the country by tomorrow, and this will all be a distant memory.”

  A memory. A dream. A fantasy.

  He wondered how long he would see Julia’s lovely face when he closed his eyes at night. How long would it be until he could kiss another woman without wishing he was back here in Rome, in this modest flat, burying himself inside Julia Costa?

  It was of no consequence. This Roman holiday was over.

  He reached for his cell phone on the night table and froze when his gaze landed on a magazine that he was certain hadn’t been there the night before. It was the most recent issue of Novella 2000. His own face, with its perfect smile, and his perfect royal wave stared back at him from the cover. Niccolo’s eyes scanned the caption—His Royal Hotness—and he had the immediate urge to hit someone. Quite possibly the pompous ass whose face was on the magazine.

  What was this piece of rubbish doing here . . . in Julia’s flat, on the table not three feet from where he’d bedded her?

  Reality slammed into him like a runaway train. He didn’t want to believe it. He wanted to go back in time—five minutes, ten, even sixty seconds would have been sufficient. He could forget his cell phone, continue to dress and walk right out of the door. Out of Julia Costa’s life.

  At least then the perfect memory of what they’d had could have been preserved. So long as their affair was kept secret, he could deal with the fact that her father was Lucas Costa. Maybe. After all, he could appreciate struggling to overcome a tarnished legacy.

  But this . . . no.

  This changed things. She couldn’t have known who he was. She couldn’t be one of those people who only wanted a piece of him because of his last name. Not his Julia.

  But no amount of denial would change the truth when it was staring him right in the face. The magazine shook in his hands. He couldn’t even look at it anymore.

  “I was wrong,” he said woodenly. “She knows who I am.”

  “Sir, are you sure?” The alarm in Piero’s voice didn’t begin to come close to the unease that had gripped Niccolo by the throat. He’d gone cold inside. Cold and dead.

  “Quite.” He held up the magazine as evidence. Then in a rage, he threw it across the room. It hit the opposite wall and slid to the floor in a fan of gaudy, multicolored pages.

  Piero sighed and then gave voice to Niccolo’s overriding fear. “Do you think she’ll go to the press, sir?”

  “I don’t know.” He didn’t know anything anymore.

  How could he have been so foolish? Have could he have been so fooled? He’d laid out his deepest secrets, spilled them right there at the foot of her bed. And the entire time, she’d known. She’d known all along.

  Thank God he’d had the common sense to forbid her from taking photos. It had been the single, solitary thing he’d managed to do right during the course of his ill-fated holiday. She knew who he was. He’d told her things that could bring his kingdom crashing to the ground. But she had no proof. No proof that what he’d told her about his mother’s death was true. No proof at all that he’d been here.

  No pictures of any kind. I’m afraid I must insist.

  He squeezed his eyes closed and thanked the heavens that he hadn’t been so blinded by desire that he’d relented and let her take his picture. Because as he recalled, she’d mentioned it more than once.

  Would you like to take a selfie on the scooter before we head out?

  There’s usually a guy dressed like a Roman centurion
at the Colosseum. For a reasonable tip, he’ll pose for pictures with tourists. He’s got props and everything—swords, gladiator helmets. The photos make great souvenirs.

  No pictures? Really? Are you sure?

  How could he not have seen it? She’d been after his picture all along, since the moment she’d driven away from the Hotel de Russie on the back of her antiquated Vespa. The woman was doom. He’d never been so wrong about a person in all his life. Then again, he’d never really trusted anyone before, had he?

  That was going to stop. Immediately.

  “Find her cell phone. Find it and look at her photos,” he ordered.

  Piero hesitated. “She’ll be back any minute, sir.”

  “Do as I say now!” Something dark was welling up within him. Something dark, primitive and unforgiving. If Julia thought for one minute that she was going to get away with deceiving him, she was an even a bigger fool than he was.

  Piero scurried around the room, overturning pillows and books—books about Roman history, art, and ancient civilizations. The Novella 2000 seemed to be the only magazine of its kind in the tiny flat. Odd.

  “I found it, sir.” Piero held up her iPhone, the same one she’d thrown at Niccolo’s head at the conclusion of their tour of the Forum. He tapped the screen. “No passcode. That’s good.”

  If Niccolo had still had an ounce of concern for Julia’s welfare, her lack of forethought at not having a passcode on her phone would have infuriated him. She was too naïve. Too trusting. Even after everything she’d been through.

  But he wouldn’t, couldn’t, allow himself to have such thoughts. He was no stranger to ruthlessness. As a member of the royal family, such a character trait was a necessary evil. He could be cruel when the occasion called for it. And now was just such an occasion.

  “Sir, you need to see this.” Piero handed him Julia’s phone.

  He had to force himself to take it and fix his gaze on the image on the screen. He wasn’t sure what to expect—a moment from one of their sightseeing stops in the city? A shot of him at the Colosseum or the Trevi Fountain, caught unawares? He hoped she hadn’t taken a photo while he’d been at Caesar’s tomb. He would be livid if such a vulnerable moment was ever captured on film and sold to the highest bidder.

  But he cringed when he realized the photo she had taken was even worse.

  There he was, eyes closed, sprawled on her bed with Valentina curled beside him, photographed as the world had never seen him before. Naked, save for the mercifully arranged bedsheets. Real. Pleasured.

  Sated.

  It was the sort of photograph that only a lover would take. One that a sweetheart would save and put away in a box along with love letters held together with a satin ribbon.

  Looking at it caused him physical pain. An empty ache settled in the vicinity of his heart. Only a handful of hours had passed since he’d been that man.

  “Delete it.” He handed the phone back to Piero. “You know what else needs to be done.”

  Niccolo had been responsible for cleaning up enough royal messes to have the process down to an art form, the only difference being that those messes had been Cassian’s doing. Not his own. Never his own.

  Until now.

  After a series of quick movements of his rapid-fire thumb, Piero set the phone down. “You do know there could be copies elsewhere. It might be too late. Even after I’ve deleted it, she could still do you great harm.”

  “Let her try.” Niccolo buttoned his suit jacket and stalked toward the door. He had no reason to stick around and wait for Julia’s return. Not anymore. In fact, he much preferred not to see her again. Ever. Piero could stay behind and handle the dirty work. “If she does, I will ruin her.”

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  NINETEEN

  The second Julia walked back inside her apartment, she knew something had gone horribly wrong even before she saw the grim look on Piero’s face. The air felt thick, tragic.

  Empty.

  Valentina strained at the end of her leash, ears pricked forward, tail tucked between her legs. Even the dog knew that things weren’t right.

  “Where’s Nico?” Julia asked, hoping she didn’t sound as panicked as she felt.

  Calm down. He would never leave without saying good-bye.

  Of course he wouldn’t.

  Would he?

  Piero rose from the chair where he’d been sitting at her kitchen table. The same table where the olives and wine from the night before were still arranged, abandoned in favor of delicious passion.

  “I’m afraid that Nico . . .” Piero cleared his throat. It so obviously pained him to use his employer’s nickname. “ . . . is gone.”

  “Gone,” she echoed, as her heart sank to her ballerina flats.

  So it was true. No good-bye. No tender words of parting or regret. He’d simply gotten dressed and left the moment that the opportunity had arisen.

  The first sign of trouble had been the two men in dark suits she’d seen standing outside the door to her apartment building. They’d looked awfully familiar. She could have sworn they were the same men she’d seen at the café yesterday morning.

  But never in her wildest dreams would she have guessed Nico would leave without saying good-bye.

  What a jerk!

  “Yes. He had urgent business to attend to.” Piero’s smile was a tad too disingenuous. Everything about this felt wrong.

  She had half a mind to release her hold on the leash and let Valentina lay waste to his pant leg. “Of course. I understand.”

  But she didn’t understand. Not at all. What could be so urgent that that Niccolo would sneak away without saying good-bye? Did his crown need an emergency polishing?

  Mi manchi, il tesoro.

  I miss you, my darling.

  She should have been prepared. She’d known this moment was coming. She just hadn’t expected it to be like this, to feel so easily discarded.

  She felt brittle all of a sudden, like if Piero said another word, she might crack into a million pieces. She needed him to leave. Now. Before the sob that was rising up within her made its way to the surface.

  Or before she told this horrible Piero exactly what she thought of his boss. Prince Charming? She’d never heard a bigger oxymoron. She didn’t know whether to cry or scream. She refused to do either, especially cry.

  The only thing that would make this one-sided good-bye any more humiliating was if she allowed herself to weep in front of this person who looked at her as if she were a baldracca. A whore. Like a fallen Vestal Virgin being paraded through the streets on her way to being buried alive.

  She aimed her fiercest death-glare at him.

  His gaze shifted to his briefcase. “I’ve procured the money that is owed to you. It’s all here. In cash, as you requested.”

  Piero opened the briefcase, removed a large manila folder, and set it on the table.

  Her money.

  She’d nearly forgotten about it. Her dire financial situation had seemed like the end of the world just yesterday, and now . . .

  Now she couldn’t fathom anything less important.

  “Would you like to count it?” Piero asked, tapping his index finger on the envelope. The noise it made—tap, tap, tap—grated on Julia’s nerves until she wanted to strangle him.

  “No, thank you.” I just want you gone. “I’m sure everything is in order.”

  “Very well.” He picked up his briefcase and walked to the door, sidestepping Valentina along the way.

  He paused with his hand on the doorknob and stared at her with an accusatory glare. Disdain dripped from his every pore.

  Leave. Just go, damn you. She wished she could say it out loud. But she couldn’t seem to make herself speak. She was in shock. Her heart was breaking in ways she didn’t understand. Scars left behind by Elio and her fat
her tore open, deeper and wider. She felt herself falling into an abyss again. And this time she didn’t know if she’d be able to make her way out.

  “I hope you find everything you’re looking for in that envelope, Miss Costa, and that Nico can count on your discretion.” Piero gave her a parting, patronizing smile. “Good day.”

  The door clicked closed behind him, and she sank onto the bed. What had just happened, and why did she feel so dirty all of a sudden?

  Valentina flitted to and fro, tangling herself in her leash. Julia reached to unfasten the clasp from the dog’s collar, and while she was bent over, she saw it. Chiara’s magazine. In a violent wad on the floor, as if had been hurled against the wall.

  Oh no. Oh God, no.

  She picked it up, and several pages fluttered to the ground. Someone had been angry to find the magazine in her possession. Not just angry. Furious. And that someone had been Niccolo.

  This was the reason he’d left without saying good-bye. These cheap, flimsy pages had told him that she knew exactly who he was. She knew, and she hadn’t said anything.

  But she’d tried. She really had. She just hadn’t been able to force the words out, not when he’d been touching her and kissing her and taking her far away to that place where no man had ever taken her. That impossible place that was theirs and theirs alone. She’d wanted to go there with him. She’d wanted to give herself to him until she’d had nothing left to give. She’d needed it. She’d needed him.

  Did he think she was happy to have slept with a prince? That it was some sort of badge of honor? If so, he couldn’t have been more wrong. She didn’t need that kind of complication in her life. Her life had been complicated enough, for far too long.

  After Elio had left—after he’d vanished, along with every penny she had, plus some she didn’t—she’d thought she was finished with love. But during the past two days with Niccolo, she’d come to realize that love wasn’t finished with her. She didn’t ask to feel this way. She didn’t want to love him. She’d fought the fall. She’d fought it hard. She’d fought it with all she had. But she’d fallen all the same, right into the arms of a man named Nico. Not a prince. Not a king. Just a man.