Hidden Game, Book 1 of the Ancient Court Trilogy

by Amy Patrick

  I knew from my own experience there was no way you could rise above the competition without working hard at your skills and conditioning for hours every day, and there was no way you could do that unless you loved what you were doing. Most of my friends who’d started gymnastics with me dropped out after a few years, but I’d never found it too tedious or too painful to continue. When I hadn’t been actively practicing my skills or competing, I’d been thinking about it.

  But Nicolo didn’t really seem to care about the sport that came so easily to him. Okay then, what else could we talk about? This night was taking a serious downturn. And if he’d brought me along to be amusing, I was doing a crap job at it.

  “You’ve told me about your sister, about your travels. Tell me something about you,” I urged. “Something personal.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know… what are you passionate about?”

  He met my eyes briefly, glanced away, and brought his gaze back to mine. “I can’t think of anything.”

  “All right then… I told you about my dating fails. Who was the first girl to break your heart?”

  I expected a charming tale of middle-school angst, but what I got was a big fat nothing. His answer was, “No one.”

  “Come on now,” I cajoled. “Total honesty, no consequences, remember? Everyone has a first.”

  He shook his head, his face going even more serious. “Not me. I am a virgin,” he said bluntly.

  Oh God, that was not what I meant when I’d mentioned “firsts.” I stared at him in shock as the words sank in. Then I tilted my head to the side and narrowed my eyes at him. He was teasing me again.

  “Ha, ha very funny.”

  He finally cracked a smile. “Are you going to ask me to play Jungle Bells again?”

  “It’s ‘Jingle Bells.’ And no. But I am still waiting for that total honesty.”

  He took so long to answer, I wondered if he was going to. Finally, he shrugged and, appearing a bit abashed, said, “I don’t really like being famous.”

  “You don’t? But you… do it so well.”

  He chuckled softly. “I’m faking it. It’s an odd thing to have strangers screaming your name, bursting into tears sometimes when they see you, trying to touch you… coming up and telling you they love you, offering you… things.”

  “I guess it would be kind of overwhelming,” I say.

  “It is. And it makes me feel like a fraud, you know? Because none of it’s real. If they actually knew me, they probably wouldn’t even like me.”

  Inside I said, No, they probably would. Outside, I just nodded and kept listening.

  “That’s why I like coming here so much. I have been around the world. Florence is brilliant. I like Paris enough to keep a home there, and Corsica of course is beautiful, but people in Siena… they treat me almost normally. They might look, but they don’t embarrass me by losing their minds when they see me. And the city itself is special. It has its own…” He stopped, seeming to search for the right word.

  “Magic?” I suggested.

  “Yes.” He nodded, his deep brown eyes sparkling with the reflection of the tabletop candle. “It is full of magic. And history.” He stopped, looking up and around at the surrounding buildings before bringing his eyes back to mine. “And romance.”

  My heart did a stupid fluttery thing. Though he was speaking of the city, and there was nothing romantic about having dinner with your captor, I couldn’t help but react to him. It was that damn Italian/French accent. It made everything sound good.

  “Um, yes. Say… what is… that called?” I did a frantic visual search for an interesting building to focus on.

  “What?” Nicolo followed my gaze, trying to locate the object that had so suddenly caught my attention.

  “That part of the building, that bumpy thing—there.” I pointed up to something resembling a notched crown topping a nearby building.

  “Ah. That is called crenelation. Each gap in the parapet is called a crenel. It was very common in medieval architecture. It allowed soldiers or guards to stand atop the buildings to keep watch, and if needed, have protection during battle. They’d fire their… hmm… how do you say it in English?”

  He searched the sky overhead for the right word, and unable to come up with it, grabbed the paper cocktail napkin in front of him and pulled a pen from his suit jacket pocket.

  His hand moved with quick certainty as he made a sketch on the napkin. A perfect representation of a bow and arrow appeared on the napkin. He pushed it toward me, tapping the drawing with one finger. “Do you know the word for this?”

  “Oh. A crossbow?”

  He threw his hands up and smiled. “Yes. Exactly. A crossbow. I hate it when my English fails me.”

  “Well, it serves you far better than my French and Italian serve me. Do you know both equally well?”

  He nodded. “It’s from growing up on Corsica. The culture there is still very Italian, but it’s a French territory, you know? So children there often speak both languages, as well as Corsican, which is related to the Italian language.”

  “Wow. You know so much about so many things—history, languages, architectural styles.” I picked up the napkin and studied it. Talk about passion—it was all over the page. “And you’re a phenomenal artist. This drawing is amazing. Maybe you should have been an architect instead of a footballer. I bet you’d be incredible at it.”

  When I lifted my eyes to meet his, I was shocked by the intensity of his stare. His brown eyes looked almost black, and they were locked onto mine as if he were dangling from a high cliff and I held the lifeline.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. “That’s very kind.” Then he blushed. Deeply. Clearing his throat, he practically dived into his menu, though he’d claimed he already knew what he wanted to order. Maybe he was checking out the desserts.

  Weird. Before he’d averted his eyes, there had been something in them that was almost desperate… for what? Affirmation? Approval? That’s what it had looked like. But it made no sense. Women worldwide were insane over this guy. He was praised for his soccer skills on a regular basis on television and in print. Why would he care what I thought or said?

  Seeing that flash of vulnerability, I felt a sudden and unwelcome surge of liking for him. I stared at my own menu, forcing my eyes away from his beautiful face. I did not need to start liking this guy. I didn't need to start caring about what was underneath that alluring façade he showed the world. It would be the height of stupidity. His “hidden depths,” if he had any, were none of my business.

  I needed a new passport, and then I needed to get away from him. Far away. And get Olly away, too. That was all that mattered. However nice he might be, however flattering and exciting to be with, it didn’t change my aim.

  And it didn't change the fact that he was keeping girls in his home, possibly against their will. If all his compliments and flirting were for real, if he actually did like me, that simply meant it would be easier to get him to help me leave. It meant Mom was right, and all this honey I was serving up was working—somehow.

  Still, I found myself strangely glum when dinner ended, and when it started to sprinkle during our walk back to the hotel, it was the perfect illustration of my blue mood. I inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of fresh rain falling on dusty stone.

  “I’ve always loved the smell of rain—just when it begins to fall,” Nicolo mused. “It’s my favorite since childhood. When I saw the rain begin, I would run to a window and throw it open. My mother would get so angry.”

  I gave him a side glance, my heart flipping over dizzily in my chest. This was my favorite smell. Always had been. I’d never known anyone else who understood the sweetly melancholy appeal of it, like a sad movie you loved to watch again and again or a good book that made you cry. My friends used to say I was nuts—It smells like dirt, Macy. They preferred scents like baking cookies, or cotton candy, or roses.

  What were the chances this star athlete who’d
grown up halfway around the world would describe my exact feelings about the scent of rain—and share them? It unnerved me.

  I covered by teasing him. “You’re kinda strange, you know that?”

  He gave me a sly grin. “Then we are strange together. You love it, too.”

  “How do you know that?” I fired back at him, stopping in the street.

  He shrugged. “Lucky guess. Here…” Removing his jacket, he held it over my head. “The rain is picking up. We should hurry.”

  We made it into the hotel just as the bottom let out of the sky. Laughing and a little breathless from the mad dash, we leapt through the front entrance into the lobby. Bardo and Piero followed a minute later at a much more measured pace, seeming oblivious to the fact they were soaked and dripping on the sparkling tile floor.

  Eyeing their wet clothing, Nicolo said, “You two take the next one,” and pulled me onto the elevator with him alone.

  “That was close.” My voice sounded loud in the quiet, enclosed space.

  “Yes. Close.”

  And he was close. Yikes. The side of Nic’s body touched mine from the shoulder to the wrist. He turned to face me, holding eye contact but saying nothing for long, tense moments.

  “Thank you for joining me for dinner,” he finally murmured. “I hope you enjoyed it.”

  “Um, yes. I did. Thank you. It was… really good.”

  Really good. He smelled really good, the rain enhancing the scent of his shampoo or his cologne or whatever it was he had on that made me want to lean in and bury my nose in the spot where his collar stood open and exposed a flash of warm, tanned, rain-spattered skin.

  The loud ding of the elevator as we reached our floor made me jump. The doors opened, and I speed-walked from the cramped compartment and into the center of the suite. Spinning around, I faced Nicolo with a big, forced smile.

  “Well, that was very nice. I guess I’ll see you in the morning. Have a good… sleep. I mean, sleep well.”

  He took a step toward me. “It’s early yet. Would you like to join me on the terrace for a nightcap? It’s fully covered, and we could watch the storm. My family’s winery makes a nice dessert wine—I have a bottle here. If you’re too wet or if you’re cold, there’s a thick robe in your room. You could put that on and—”

  “No. No thanks,” I interrupted, my hurried words tripping over themselves. “I’m pretty tired. So I should probably just go to bed. To sleep. I’m going to sleep now.”

  His stare was long and penetrating. “Very well. If that’s truly what you wish to do,” he finally said, as if unconvinced.

  As if I’d just change my mind and trot off to my room and come back in a robe. As if he was soooo tempting I wouldn’t be able to say no to him. As if he could see inside of me, into the deepest, darkest chamber of my heart, where the idea of a glass of wine on a midnight balcony during a rainstorm in Tuscany matched pretty much every romantic fantasy I’d ever had.

  Fighting a sudden longing so powerful it literally hurt my chest, I swallowed hard and answered him. “Yes. I… that’s what I want.”

  “Well, goodnight then, piccola,” he purred.

  “You keep calling me that. What does it mean?”

  “Piccola? It means, ‘little one.’ It’s not an insult,” he added hastily. “You only use it as a name for someone you… like.”

  I nodded and backed toward my bedroom door, fumbled it open, and went inside, nearly slamming it behind me and clicking the lock into place. What. Just. Happened?

  For the first time in my life I understood what other girls were talking about when they said a guy made them “stupid.” I had been minutes—no seconds—away from accepting Nic’s tempting proposal and staying up, drinking and talking the night away with him. Or spending it any other way he suggested.

  He wasn't just a spoiled rich playboy. He wasn’t just a gorgeous and crazy-talented soccer star. He was smart. He was charming. He was uncannily good at offering exactly the things I wanted at exactly the moment I wanted them.

  He was dangerous.

  Maybe I should just leave. Now, before things got any more complicated. I was out of the castle—away from Corsica, just as I’d wanted. There was no reason to stick to Nic’s travel schedule, to impose on him—or to trust him—any further. Florence was less than two hours away. I could make my own way there and find the American Consulate General. If he’d been lying and there wasn’t one in Florence, I’d head south and go to Rome. There had to be one there.

  I glanced over at my bedroom windows. Was there a fire escape? Or maybe a helpful multi-tiered roof below? Drawing the drapes aside, I ascertained that yes, it was climbable. It might not be fun in the rain, but it was definitely doable.

  Just for fun, I eased my bedroom door open and peeked out to see if maybe the guards were in their own rooms changing into dry clothes and I could do this the easy way instead. Bardo was seated on the sofa opposite my door. He glanced up from his phone, and I pushed it closed again. Damn it.

  Slipping off the damp dress, I put on my jeans and sweatshirt and hiking boots. I stuffed my other belongings back into the pack, slung it over my shoulder, and opened the window as far as it would go.Sticking my head through the opening, I checked one way then the other, searching for the easiest route down.

  There was a man on the roof. Oh, wow, it was Piero. He was just sitting there, on the roof, in the rain, a few feet outside my window. What the heck?

  Nic’s friendly invitation for a nightcap had been just a pretense—or maybe a way to loosen me up so I’d be even friendlier. I might not be at the castle any longer, but I was still a prisoner. Furious, I ripped off my clothing and put on my nightgown, resigning myself to the fact that my escape would have to wait until tomorrow at least.

  Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I stuck out my tongue. I was so stupid. And I would not let myself be lured by all his charm and those big brown eyes again. I wouldn’t fall for anymore of his tempting offers.

  He could offer me red velvet cupcakes with buttercream frosting and rainbow sprinkles on top for all I cared. From this moment on, I was un-temptable.

  10

  Nic

  I should have offered her a red velvet cupcake with buttercream frosting and rainbow sprinkles on top, whatever the hell those were.

  Merda.

  Now she was cowering in her room, and I was alone on a romantic rooftop deck with nothing to do but imagine her behind the bedroom door. What did she wear to bed? Maybe a silky t-shirt with another pair of those sassy little panties. And what was I doing even thinking of such things? I shifted uncomfortably in my lounge chair, reaching for the bottle to pour another glass of calming, libido-drowning wine.

  It wasn’t fair. The one time I would have been grateful for a girl to fall under my Sway, and it didn’t seem to work on her. Which was weird. There were some humans it didn’t affect, for whatever reason, but that was rare. Any other fan pod girl—any woman from the restaurant tonight, in fact—would have taken me up on my offer.

  It was almost masochistic of me to spend time with the one desirable girl who didn’t want to spend time with me. It was definitely masochistic to be this close to someone I was so attracted to and could never really have.

  Though sleep had not come easily, I rose early in the morning. I wanted us to reach the vineyards in Chianti and then push on to Florence before it got too late in the day. Needing to wake myself up and burn off some unspent energy, I pulled on a pair of shorts and left the suite while the others were still sleeping. I wanted to go for a run, to feed my soul with the sights and sounds of the ancient city—and to get my head on straight.

  It had been a good thing Macy refused my invitation last night. I was playing with fire by being alone with her. Nothing good could come of it, and she’d kept us both from getting burned by turning me down.

  I returned to the suite a couple hours later, covered in sweat and feeling at least somewhat appeased. Until Macy stepped out of her room
. Her hair was wet, and she was barefoot, wearing a dress that barely covered her thighs and showed off the perfect curves of her toned shoulders.

  I stopped stock still, unable to move, unable to breathe. This was under the same roof all night, and I slept alone? God was punishing me for my past sins. All that unwanted energy charged right back into me—making the grueling fifteen mile run irrelevant.

  Her eyes roamed over me, widening as they took in my bare chest and legs. Every liter of blood in my body rushed downward.

  “Hi,” she said in a soft, almost breathless voice. She pushed a strand of wet hair behind her ear.

  “Buongiorno.” My response was low and gruff, trying to mask the ferocious urges charging through my body at the sight of her.

  “Is this okay for today?” She gestured to her form-fitting dress. “I don’t have a lot of nice outfits, and the dress from last night seemed like too much for daytime.

  “Yes. Fine. It’s… good.” I turned away, planning a hasty retreat to the shower.

  “Piero said it was okay to order room service. There’s plenty of food left. Are you hungry?” she asked my back.

  Yes, my mind screamed. Certain parts of my anatomy chimed in, adding, For you. I kept walking.

  “I’ll eat later. Can you be ready in a half hour? We’ll stop for lunch in Chianti. It’s about seventy kilometers on the Autostrada, so it will only take about an hour and a half to get there.”

  “Sure. And then we’ll go to the passport office in Florence?”

  Reaching my door, I looked back over my shoulder. “If it’s still open. Sometimes they go home for lunch and don’t come back until the next day.”

  “What?”

  “A proper lunch is very important in Florence. It can take hours and sometimes includes wine. It might be tomorrow before we can go there.”

  Her face contracted in a scowl. “You know, you could just put me on a bus. I can take care of it myself, and you wouldn’t be bothered with me anymore.”

  I laughed. “You are no bother, though you are impatient. And you cannot do it yourself. You have no identification. You speak almost no Italian. Don’t worry. We’ll get your passport, and then you will be free as a bird.”