Hidden Game, Book 1 of the Ancient Court Trilogy

by Amy Patrick

  Whichever it was, I was out of here. Not having money or a passport wasn’t ideal, but I’d manage. I’d get to the mainland and make my way to the American consulate in Paris or the nearest French city where one was located. Which would be hard to find out without my phone. Crap. At least hitchhiking in Europe wasn’t as scary as it was in the U.S. I hoped.

  Easing the door of my room open, I peeked into the hallway one direction then the other. Everyone must still be celebrating in the TV room—or reporting to the doctor’s office for their pre-Nicolo checkup. As if.

  I slipped down the dim hallway and into the main corridor. Okay, which way out of here? Medieval castles didn’t exactly come equipped with lighted exit signs. I took a guess and headed the opposite direction from the TV room. I hadn’t been this way yet, and it was bound to lead to an exterior door eventually, right? I kept my pace measured in case someone rounded a corner and spotted me—didn’t want to look too suspicious.

  That was until the alarm went off.

  The modern electronic sound stopped me mid-stride. It was such a jarring contrast to the ancient, elegant surroundings. At first I wasn’t quite sure what it was. Actually, my first thought was that there was a tornado warning. Having grown up in Missouri, that was where my mind naturally went.

  The sounds of doors opening and voices shouting in Italian got me moving again. I couldn’t be sure—but I feared the alarm had something to do with me.

  The clatter of footsteps ricocheted against the wall. Someone was coming. Several someones. Adrenaline flooded my veins as I got moving again, faster now, and made a sharp turn down a corridor on the left. After a few feet the wall beside me gave way to windows. Enormous, floor-to-ceiling windows.

  Oh, they were doors. The kind that typically led out to a veranda or a garden in the old Mediterranean-style homes I’d been touring. Excellent.

  I tried the handle on the first door. It didn’t budge. Feeling around on the metal lever revealed no buttons, no deadbolt locks. Only a large keyhole. Next door. Same story.

  Could I break the glass maybe? It looked extremely thick. And was probably wired with further alarms. Moving to the next door, I gripped the handle, expecting the same result. I let out a heavy breath of relief when it swung down easily and the door opened. Yes.

  As it closed behind me, the noisy alarm ceased, much to the relief of my nerves. The air outside was cool and scented with green plants and ocean breezes. As my eyes adjusted, I realized I’d been right about where the door would lead.

  In the daytime those huge glass panes would have displayed a beautifully landscaped circular courtyard. In the moonlight I could make out several tall trees, some large potted plants with a stone bench in front of them, and a huge fountain directly in the middle of the circle.

  On the other side of the fountain under the high canopy of trees there were several cushioned chairs placed around a fire pit that was—thank God—cold and dark at the moment. All very peaceful and lovely, but my eyes were drawn to something beyond the stone pavers and the low-cut grass bordering the courtyard. The castle’s outer wall. Bingo.

  It was high, probably twenty feet at least, but it was covered in a crisscrossed pattern of leafy vines. That’ll do just fine, thank you.

  My shoes made very little noise as I circled the perimeter of the courtyard toward the wall. The quiet crunch of pea gravel under my feet was drowned by the sound of the splashing fountain.

  Passing the lawn chairs at the far end of the yard, I reached the wall and stretched up, grabbing a sturdy vine and testing my footing. Nice. The vines were thick—must have been very old—and they went to the very top of the ancient stone wall. They’d make a perfect ladder.

  One small problem. I had on a maxi dress, and stretchy as it was, it restricted my mobility. I hadn’t exactly anticipated scaling a wall when I’d put it on this morning, layered over a tank top with a cute color-coordinated bead necklace and sport sandals. In hopes of meeting Nicolo. Hmph.

  I yanked the necklace off first then grasped the hem of the dress and dragged it up and over my head, stuffing both things into my backpack. A shiver passed through me as the cool night air touched the newly uncovered skin of my legs and hips.

  Re-adjusting the pack on my back, I returned to the wall, stretching both hands as high as I could reach, digging my fingertips in and finding a toehold for one foot then the other. This was going to be easy now that I had free range of motion—as long as the vines also extended down the outside of the wall.

  I’d arrived on Corsica at night by ferry and then fallen asleep during the long cab ride from the port to the castle. I wasn’t sure exactly what it was like on the outside or even where on the island it was. Oh well, I’d find out soon enough.

  “Ahem.”

  The sound of a throat clearing stopped me in mid-climb. The skin along my spine froze in a cold, tingling flash. And then I was back in motion, climbing faster this time. Until a smooth, richly accented masculine voice stopped me again.

  “You might want to consider what’s on the other side of that wall before going over it.”

  Craning my neck to see behind me, I spotted the source of the deep voice. The outline of a man filled one of the chairs, his long legs stretched out in front of him. I hadn’t seen him earlier, I guessed because he’d been slumped low in the one chair facing away from me toward the wall. Who was he? What was he doing out here in the dark, sitting in front of an unlit fire pit? And why wasn’t he sounding the alarm or charging after me? Perhaps leaving wasn’t so “forbidden” after all.

  I was frozen in indecision. I wouldn’t be able to stay where I was for long—my fingers were beginning to ache. And the night air was raising goose bumps on all that exposed flesh. Ugh. I groaned in humiliation.

  Finally, I asked the obvious question, straining my neck to see him better. “Why? What’s over there?”

  The guy shifted, swirling the ice cubes in his glass and taking a sip. He did not get up from his chair. He did not come after me. His tone was just as casual as it had been before.

  “A hundred foot drop onto jagged rock. Perhaps try that one.” He pointed leisurely to a matching high wall on the other side of the garden. “At least the sea is below you there. A bit chilly for my taste, though—sixteen degrees to be exact.”

  My aching fingers were now shaking, though I wasn’t sure if it was from fatigue or imagining how cold that plunge into the ocean would be. “Is that Celsius… or Fahrenheit?”

  “Ah, an American. Celsius, to answer your question.”

  Now the guy moved, pulling out of his slouch and drawing his legs in, leaning forward in his chair to rest his elbows on the knees of his jeans. “He can’t be that bad,” he said in an amused, almost teasing tone.

  Though he was entirely in the shadow of a tall tree, I was acutely aware of the moonlight shining on my own tank top-and-underwear-clad figure—on my oh-so-unfortunate choice of underwear to be specific.

  They were black hot shorts with the words “Kiss my…” printed in large white letters on the back right next to an image of a silly looking cartoon donkey. I’d spotted them in a cute, funky shop in London and bought them because the sign above the sale bin had read, “American Knickers,” which I’d thought was funny. I’d thought they were funny.

  Not quite so funny now. No doubt from his vantage point the embarrassing phrase and image were clearly visible. Maybe he couldn’t read English.

  Finally giving in to modesty and the shaking of my hands and arms, I released my grip on the vines and dropped back to the grass, though I stayed close to the wall. If the guy was a guard or a servant, he was a lazy one. And apparently drinking on the job.

  But I still wanted to reserve the right to make a break for it and maybe flee back through the castle or something if I needed to.

  He said nothing as I ripped my dress out of the backpack and pulled it on in such a hurry I got my head through one of the arm holes on the first try and had to start over. There was
a low chuckle from his direction, though, which irritated me.

  He thought this situation was funny? Well, I thought his boss was a freaking weirdo, and he should have been ashamed of himself for working here and enabling him.

  “Who can’t be that bad?” I snapped.

  “Your boyfriend, bond-mate, whatever. You’re with the visiting American king and his party, right?”

  American king? What the heck was this guy talking about? I had no idea who he meant or why he was engaging me in conversation instead of blowing the whistle, but I preferred the former to the latter so I answered him. Vaguely.

  “Maybe.”

  Now the smooth voice was tinged with cynical laughter, the words curled around a thick Italian accent. “Well, whatever he’s done, I’m sure he feels like an idiot and will apologize in the morning. I certainly would if that pretty little ‘ass’ was running away from me.”

  He punctuated his last statement with a deep pull from his glass and relaxed fully back into his chair, bringing his face out of the shadow of a nearby cypress tree and into the moonlight.

  Humor sparkled darkly in his deep-set eyes, and he wore a smile that gleamed like polished pearls in the low light. Though I couldn’t see his features clearly, it was obvious he was good looking. Very good looking. All the men I’d seen since arriving at the castle were. It was almost bizarre.

  But this one was top-shelf—tall and broad-shouldered with dark, wavy hair and the rangy, muscular build of an athlete.

  Oh my God. One of the girls had mentioned Nicolo had a sister who was a model. Did he have a brother as well? This guy could certainly have been a male model—or a professional soccer player himself.

  Yes, he was definitely related to the “lord of the manor” somehow. Had to be. Nothing about his tone and appearance read “servant” or “worker bee.” He had the bearing and attitude of a trust fund playboy for sure.

  “Listen, me and my donkey, and my… boyfriend… are none of your business. Now, if you’ll please point me to the nearest exit, I’ll get out of your way and you can go back to… whatever you were doing.”

  Another low laugh, this one deeper and longer and so raspy and appealing, I felt it in every nerve ending.

  The guy rose from his chair. Wow, he’s tall. He stretched as if sore from a vigorous workout.

  “I’m afraid that’s going to be impossible. You see, I happen to like donkeys. And I’m also curious now. What could possibly make you so eager to leave a lovely place like this…” He lifted his hands out to the sides and twisted at the waist, gesturing to the luxurious estate. “… that you’d sneak into the garden after dark and strip in order to do it?”

  His smile was a seductive invitation. “Come on now, you can tell me… what did he do?”

  3

  Nic

  One hour earlier

  My teammates were pissed at me. They’d been counting on taking the party from the locker room to my Paris penthouse as usual, but I’d headed to the airport immediately after the game. I didn’t feel bad. They could go to any restaurant or nightclub in the city and be treated like kings. I’m sure they had—were probably still there now, in fact.

  I just wasn’t into it tonight. In spite of the fevered excitement all around me, winning the World Cup had just left me… tired.

  I felt that way more and more often lately—not from the actual game itself—that was easy. Tired of the fanfare. Tired of the staring, and autograph seekers, and giddy fans asking for selfies. Tired of all the smiling, winking, jiggling women who seemed to emerge from the woodwork whenever I was on the mainland. Wherever I was on the mainland.

  The island was the only place I could find any peace. I’d dozed a bit on the helicopter ride here. Maybe that was why I’d been in such a groggy funk when we landed and I stepped inside the castle to find the drawing room overrun with visitors.

  Ugh. Not tonight.

  I stepped back quickly from the doorway. I hadn’t called ahead and told my parents—or Alessia—I’d be coming in tonight. As long as no one had spotted me, there was still a chance I could make it to my suite and hit the sack without being dragged into international relations.

  I spun to head down the back corridor, intending to circle around the long way toward the wing holding the family living quarters.

  Che Palla. No such luck. My father sauntered toward me, impeccably dressed, as always, in a bespoke suit and Gucci loafers. A delighted smile lifted his tanned, unlined face. He opened his arms, and we embraced.

  “Nicolo! We were not expecting you until tomorrow, my son. What a wonderful surprise. When did you get here?” He eyed my jeans and button down, no doubt deeming it inappropriate attire for mixing with visiting dignitaries.

  “Just now. I took the chopper and drove over from the pad.”

  “Excellent. After you change, you can join us. We’re entertaining the American Dark King and his entourage. You must meet them. They’re very… modern.” He winked to demonstrate what he thought of people and things that were modern.

  I wanted to make small talk—or worse, discuss politics—with emissaries from the “Young Court,” as Papà called it, even less than I wanted to party with my teammates and all their drunken and overly friendly hangers-on in Paris. Discussing court business was tiresome even when I was fresh and well rested.

  “Papà, I cannot. I am exhausted. The game, the traveling. It’s been a long day.”

  His high brow furrowed. “You have a duty, you know. The football is only part of it. You must begin to take on all the facets of your birthright.”

  My heart withered and sank a bit lower inside my chest. “I know. I understand, and I will. Only not tonight, okay? Let me rest.”

  For a long moment, he studied my face, then his crinkled in good humor. “Of course. The Americans can wait until the morning. But not much longer. They are eager to meet you. They were most impressed with your play tonight.”

  He handed me the full drink in his hand. “Here.”

  I knew from long experience the glass contained vermouth from Turin. It wasn’t my drink of choice, but Papà employed his glamour, forcing my hand to move forward and take it. It amused him at times to use his “special gift” on whomever was standing nearby, controlling their physical actions.

  It annoyed me, to be sure, but he’d never used it to hurt me. Not giving him the chance to push it farther and urge the glass to my mouth, I lifted it on my own and took a sip. The liquor was both bitter and sweet at the same time and very warm as it went down.

  “Relax. Rest. Go to the fan pod quarters and choose a companion for a few hours,” Papà suggested. “You don’t take enough advantage. And there are some lovely new additions you haven’t even seen yet. That is bound to refresh you.”

  He chuckled, wearing a knowing smile.

  “Yes, Papà. Thank you. Perhaps I will.”

  My father clapped me on the shoulder and stepped past me into the drawing room, already calling for a replacement cocktail.

  Letting out a sigh of relief, I turned and made my way down the corridor opposite the one that led to the fan pod quarters. Papà had kept a fan pod here at the castle since I could remember, as his father before him had. Recently, I’d acquired one of my own—it was the whole reason for the highly public career choice.

  The girls could be amusing at times, but as Papà had pointed out, I hadn’t taken much advantage of their constant presence and ready availability in my home because… well, it felt like just that—taking advantage.

  Exposed to a steady stream of Sway, the human girls were no challenge at all. They were almost worse than the football groupies—too ready, willing, and able to meet my “needs.” Well, some of my needs.

  Of course I couldn’t go all the way with any of them—with anyone—unless I wanted to end up bonded for eternity. No, that very special event would have to wait until my wedding night a month from now.

  Thinking of it didn’t fill me with anticipation, as it probably shoul
d have. It wasn’t that Alessia was horrible or anything. She was fine. She was certainly suitable. Of course she was—my parents had chosen her, hadn’t they?

  And really, one was as good as the next. It wasn’t like feelings or desire had anything to do with it. At least the cursed waiting and wanting would finally cease. A month from now my forced celibacy would end, my future would be set. I’d settle in, suck it up, and do what was expected of me. Forever.

  I’d almost made it to the family wing when a door opened toward the end of the hall, and Alessia emerged—tall, regal, beautiful as always. And cold. As cold as the Mediterranean Sea churning outside the castle walls.

  Che Cavalo!

  I would have thought she’d be in with the rest of the family already, in her glory rubbing elbows with the “royal guests,” already fully immersed in her role.

  Definitely too tired to deal with her tonight.

  As she turned to head in my direction, I opened the door beside me and slipped through it into the courtyard. It was dark and empty, clearly not being used to entertain the guests tonight.

  My parents would probably save that for the visitors’ final night here, dazzling them with candlelight and copious fresh flower arrangements, music, and likely a fireworks display over the ocean at the end of the evening. Guests were suckers for those fireworks.

  I strolled across the moonlit courtyard, intending to enter the castle through the doors on the other side of it and get to my own rooms that way. But reaching the tall, ornate fountain in the center of it, I stopped. The sound of it was soothing. Familiar. Peaceful.

  Stretching out a hand, I let the water run through my fingers the way I had countless times throughout my life. It had been my favorite place to play as a child—this fountain, this courtyard. A perfect respite from the summer heat—and from my duties. I had loved to climb its tallest trees and hide in their branches—until I’d learned to scale the imposing fortress walls surrounding two sides of it.