Royally Roma

by Teri Wilson

  She flung the magazine in the trash as hard as she could, where it landed with a thud of finality. Nothing mattered anymore—Niccolo’s title, what he thought of her, what they’d done. He was gone. He was gone and wasn’t coming back.

  Fine. He might be the world’s most eligible bachelor, but he was also the world’s biggest hypocrite. She may not have been 100 percent truthful with him, but he’d lied, too. He’d been lying to her since the moment they’d met. She didn’t want him back.

  Except she sort of did.

  Stop. You’re better than this.

  Besides, she didn’t have time to waste on a lying prince. She needed to find Giuseppe and beg for her job back. And if that didn’t work, she needed to find other employment. Immediately. A thousand euros would get her through a month. Two, tops.

  Heartbreak was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

  She reached for the envelope that Piero had left on the table. It felt unreasonably heavy.

  I hope you find everything you’re looking for in that envelope, Miss Costa.

  Everything she was looking for. What did that even mean? The things she wanted most wouldn’t fit into the biggest envelope in the world. The things she wanted most were elusive and intangible. Things like love and passion and sensual surrender. Things she’d never believed in before yesterday.

  She blinked back a fresh wave of tears, swallowed her rage, and unfastened the envelope’s silver metal clasp. She would be fine. Wasn’t she always? She would pick up the pieces of her life and start over. Again. Surely it would be easier this time. Wasn’t the third time supposed to be the charm?

  She tipped the envelope upside down, and an avalanche of cash tumbled out. Colorful banknotes of every conceivable denomination. Tens, twenties, fifties, and more of the large green one-hundred-euro notes than she could count.

  She stared in disbelief at the pile, unable and unwilling to comprehend what it meant. She sifted through the bills, trying to do the math in her head, but there was just so much. Far too much to add up at a glance, particularly when she reached the bottom of the stack and found a cashier’s check drawn on the Royal Bank of Lazaretto.

  A check.

  With more zeros than she’d ever seen in her life.

  Surely she was seeing double. Or triple. She checked the written amount to be sure and then the name of the intended recipient. There it was, spelled out in black letters and numbers, which she could only assume had been penned by Piero’s hand.

  Pay to the order of Julia Costa. One million euro.

  * * *

  NICCOLO HAD NEVER DREADED a press conference quite as fervently as he dreaded the one awaiting him at the Hotel de Russie. But it couldn’t be avoided. He’d fallen off the radar for a full forty-eight hours, leaving people angry and confused. All of Rome felt betrayed, not to mention his grandfather. They deserved an explanation.

  En route to the hotel, he practiced the speech that Piero had sent to his phone. He only had an hour before he would face the press. The official excuse was believable enough—he’d taken ill, struck down by an acute intestinal ailment. Not food poisoning, lest he offend Rome’s culinary infrastructure. Rome’s auto workers, orphans, reporters, photographers, and government officials were angry enough at him as it was. There was no need to risk antagonizing the city’s chefs. After all, they had knives.

  He went over the speech once, then twice. However, his heart wasn’t in the rote repetition of words that had been put in his mouth by someone else. It seemed he’d left his heart elsewhere. Back in Julia’s apartment.

  In her bed.

  No matter how much he tried to concentrate, his thoughts kept returning time and again to her eyes, her lips, her breasts, and the absolution he’d found in the beauty of her porcelain curves. That’s what making love to her had felt like, an absolution. A deliverance from every painful memory he’d ever had. All the lies. All the pretending.

  How could he have been so wrong? It had felt real, damn it. All of it. For one night, everything he’d said and done had been authentic. Honest. Raw. In pretending to be someone else, he’d never been so genuine.

  He could have sworn Julia had experienced it, too. He would have bet his throne that she’d given herself to him in ways that she’d never even thought about doing with another man. Undressing her had been like unwrapping a priceless gift.

  It had been real.

  Or so he’d thought.

  Concentrate. It’s ended.

  The ride was over sooner than he was ready. In a flash, he was looking out from behind tinted windows at the Via del Babuino, which he’d last seen from the back of Julia’s Vespa. The limousine pulled to a stop, and he stepped out, flanked on either side by two of the men he’d been running from since the day before.

  Niccolo hadn’t said a word to either of them, and he didn’t plan to. The lines had permanently blurred when he’d ditched them at Café Rocha. He knew they’d been charged with his protection, but it no longer felt that way. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  They were promptly greeted by the largest mob of paparazzi he’d encountered since the days immediately following his mother’s death, which did nothing to keep the newly resurfaced memories at bay.

  Flashbulbs went off left and right, bursts of blinding white light that threw his equilibrium off balance. He kept his head down and focused on putting one step in front of the other on the red-carpeted entryway until he reached the marbled silence of the hotel lobby.

  He took a series of deep, steadying breaths. This was going to be even more difficult than he’d imagined. He wasn’t prepared to face the press while so many thoughts, feelings, and memories were vying for attention in his head. Even more impossible to shake was the overwhelming sense of loss and the all-consuming, aching hunger he still felt for Julia, even after all that had happened.

  It disgusted him that her absence resonated in the deepest marrow of his bones. His feelings for her should have ended the moment he’d seen the magazine on her night table. But they didn’t. They haunted him. On the outside, he still looked every inch the crown prince. But on the inside, he felt like an empty mansion, with room upon room filled with ghosts.

  Her spirit lingered.

  “Welcome back to the Hotel de Russie.” The concierge greeted him with a bow and a respectful smile. “The press will be assembled on the piazza if that meets with your approval. We’d originally planned to use one of the downstairs conference rooms, but the number of reporters exceeded our expectation.”

  Of course it did. The only thing the press loved more than a hero was watching one fall from grace.

  “That’s fine,” he said tightly. “Grazie.”

  “Can I get you anything while you wait? Caffé or a cappuccino, Your Highness?”

  He was half-tempted to order a Bloody Mary again.

  “Cappuccino, per favore. And if I could see the morning newspapers and a television, perhaps?” As much as he didn’t want to hear what they were saying about him, he needed to know before he walked out onto the piazza. Had Julia already shared the photograph? If she’d sent it to Novella 2000 before Piero had deleted it, the salacious image would be all over the place by now.

  He could only hope that she hadn’t. Or that she’d reconsidered. One million euros could be awfully persuasive, especially to someone in Julia’s position. Jobless.

  And whose fault was that?

  But the picture could have feasibly been even more valuable than a million euros. And the exclusive story of how his mother had really met her end?

  There weren’t enough zeros to put at the end of the number on that price tag.

  “Right this way, Your Highness.” The concierge whisked him away to a private room off the lobby.

  The décor was posh, opulent to the point of excess. An enormous sofa of tufted velvet sat in the center of the room. Its rich, violet hue
was dramatically set off by walls of gold leaf and heavy crown molding. A crystal chandelier bigger than Julia’s Vespa hung overhead. As Niccolo shut himself inside, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was stepping into a gilded cage, a place where he was once again untouchable. The two security officers were stationed right outside. No one could hurt him here. No one could take advantage of his position. In this room where kings, presidents, and prime ministers often sat, he was safe.

  And completely and utterly alone.

  He sifted through the neatly fanned selection of newspapers on the coffee table. They were all here for his perusal—la Repubblica, Le Monde, the New York Times, the Daily Mail, and more. To his relief—and mild shock—he found nothing surprising. Other than the mystery surrounding his sudden disappearance and the many appointments he’d missed over the course of the past forty-eight hours, there was nothing. Not even a mention of Cassian’s latest exploits. The fact that he’d gone missing had actually had the added bonus of pushing his brother’s skinny-dipping scandal off of the front page entirely.

  He picked up the remote control and turned on the enormous flat-screen television that was situated above the baroque fireplace. A quick scan through the many channels confirmed what the newspapers had told him. The photograph from Julia’s phone hadn’t surfaced. Nor had she spoken to any reporters. Yet.

  It was rather like the past two days and nights had been nothing but a dream. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was just passing time in his gilded cage, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  There was a knock at the door, followed by the appearance of an immaculately attired waiter carrying a large silver tray. “Your cappuccino, Your Highness.”

  Niccolo waved him inside. “Grazie.”

  He set the tray down beside the mountain of newspapers. Niccolo’s coffee, topped with a pristine layer of foam, rested on a white china saucer. As he reached for it, the waiter pulled a large manila envelope from the inside pocket of his morning coat. “And this just arrived for you via hand delivery, sir.”

  Niccolo stared at it for a beat before taking it. Ordinarily, Piero handled his deliveries. But his secretary had yet to return from Julia’s apartment. Since Niccolo had taken the limousine back to the hotel, Piero had been forced to take a cab.

  “Hand delivery, you say?” He turned the envelope over in his hand, inspecting it for a return address. Nothing.

  “Yes, Your Highness. A young lady left it with the concierge just now. She was quite . . . adamant . . . that it be given to you at once.”

  Just like that, Niccolo heard the resounding echo of the other shoe dropping. “Tell me about this young lady. Did you see her?”

  “Yes, sir, I did. She was quite pretty, although she upset the valet terribly by driving her scooter right up to the door. It seems she was in a hurry.” The waiter clasped his white-gloved hands in front of him. “Will that be all, sir?”

  An adamant, pretty woman who drove her scooter like a maniac? “Sì, that’s all I need to know.”

  The waiter bowed deeply and exited the room, leaving Niccolo holding the mysterious envelope. The smoking gun. He was almost afraid to open it. What would he find? More intimate photos of himself? A written account of their time together, perhaps, with special emphasis placed on all the salacious details?

  He peered inside, and what he saw shocked him beyond anything he’d anticipated. Shocked him, and angered him until he saw three shades of red.

  Julia, what have you done?

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  TWENTY

  “Mi scusi, signorina. Aspetta!” A man dressed in a fancy suit darted out of the Hotel de Russie and made a beeline in Julia’s direction. “Aspetta! Aspetta! Wait!”

  Julia ignored him and slipped her helmet in place. She was sure this guy just wanted to yell at her again for illegally parking her Vespa, and she wasn’t in the mood to hear it. This morning had been bad enough already. She couldn’t take much more. Niccolo’s fancy five-star hotel would just have to deal with the fact that her Vepsa had defiled their entrance for a whopping total of three minutes.

  “Wait! Per favore. Please.” The red-faced man stopped beside her scooter, panting from exertion.

  Good grief, they took their parking violations ridiculously seriously here. “Mi dispiace. I’m sorry. I’m moving the Vespa immediatamente.”

  “No, no, no.” He waved his hands frantically back and forth. “No, signorina. Per favore. The prince wishes to see you at once.”

  The prince wishes to see you.

  If she hadn’t felt so much like crying, she would have laughed at the absurdity of his words. When was there a time a prince had wished to see her? Never.

  “Well, you can tell him that I have no desire to see him.” She fastened the chin strap of her helmet. “Arrivederci.”

  “No.” The valet stood in front of her scooter, blocking her way. “I’m sorry. I can’t tell him that. He’s the prince. Please, signorina. Please. I could lose my job.”

  Lose his job? All because she wouldn’t let him drag her back inside?

  What was wrong with Niccolo? Was he determined not to leave the country until he’d managed to get half the Romans fired?

  “Fine.” She climbed down from the scooter, yanked off her helmet, and slammed it down on the seat. “Lead the way to His Royal Highness.” She had to bite her tongue—hard—to keep from tacking The Prince of Darkness onto the end of his title.

  The valet escorted her through the vast marble lobby, glancing at her nervously every few seconds, lest she make a break for it, no doubt, sending him running for the unemployment line. He stopped when they reached an outrageously oversized, unmarked door in a quiet corner and knocked three times.

  Sure enough, the two men she’d seen outside her apartment building earlier stood on either side of the enormous door. They were indeed the same ones from Café Rocha. So she and Nico had been spied on?

  Perfect. Just perfect.

  Her gaze flitted back and forth between the two of them. “Hi, guys.”

  Neither of them responded.

  Julia tapped her foot and waited. Niccolo probably needed a room with a door this big to fit his royally huge ego. She smiled sweetly at the valet, who’d begun to sweat profusely.

  The door flew open, revealing a regal-looking Niccolo. Regal-looking and angrier than she’d ever seen him. He nodded at the valet. “Grazie, Marco.”

  “Prego.” The valet, Marco, beamed.

  Niccolo aimed his dark gaze at Julia. “Miss Costa, won’t you come in?” His voice was rich with temper, so much so that it frightened her a little.

  Don’t be silly. What’s he going to do? Throw you in a tower and lock away the key?

  Possibly. The black fury that seemed to roll off of him in waves and envelope his commanding presence didn’t bode well. At all.

  She felt sick to her stomach all of a sudden. Somewhere along the way, she’d gotten in over her head. Had she really thought she could hold her own with a royal prince?

  You haven’t done anything wrong.

  He was the one who’d behaved so abominably. She had nothing to be ashamed of. Absolutely nothing. She squared her shoulders and stepped inside.

  Niccolo slammed the door and stalked past her toward the table in the center of the room. He moved with laser focus, like a dangerous animal intent on taking down its prey. A sleek, lethal panther. If she hadn’t been so certain of her role as prey in this scenario, she may have found his fatal intensity appealing. Erotic, even.

  Instead, it frightened her. But she would rather die than let him know how intimidating she found him.

  “What is the meaning of this?” He threw something at her.

  A quick glance told her it was the envelope she’d stuffed full of his offensive euros. She threw up her hands and managed to catch it before it f
ell to the floor.

  “So now you’re literally throwing money at me,” she snapped. “Charming.”

  He crossed his arms and glared at her. Even in this furious state, he was still as gorgeous as ever. Maybe even more so, with the captivating knot pulsing in his clenched jaw and the storm clouds gathering in his gray eyes. “I thought so.”

  “I’ll bet you did,” she retorted.

  “For the love of God, Julia. What am I going to do with you?” Clearly, he was neither accustomed to nor fond of being defied. Julia supposed not many princes were.

  But that wasn’t her problem, was it? “I don’t expect you to do anything with me. And if I did, I most definitely wouldn’t want to be paid for it.”

  Tears stung her eyes. Damn it. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t cry. Not in front of him. How much humiliation was she expected to take?

  Niccolo’s gaze softened, and he cursed under his breath. “Don’t cry, Julia. Please.”

  “I’m not crying,” she said through a fresh wave of tears.

  “You knew who I was. You knew the entire time.” He crossed the room until he stood less than an arm’s length away.

  She fixed her gaze on his crimson tie. She didn’t have it in her to look him in the eye. Her resolve had a way of crumbling when he stood this close to her, especially when he looked at her with unexpected tenderness and vulnerability as he did now.

  She squared her shoulders, but kept staring at his Windsor knot. “No, I didn’t. I didn’t know who you were until a few hours before morning. Imagine how humiliated I felt when I saw your face on every channel of my television.”

  He was quiet, serious, as he contemplated her answer. Finally, he asked, “If you didn’t know who I was, then where did the copy of Novella 2000 I found in your flat come from?”