Hidden Game, Book 1 of the Ancient Court Trilogy

by Amy Patrick

  Eager to help her, I sat down on the blanket, which had dropped to the grass, and pulled her into my lap. Now I could reach her better, let my hands sink into her hair, hold her tiny face, and kiss her deeper, deeper.

  It wasn’t enough.

  I’d denied the Elven mandate to bond for so long it was like a tiny dam trying to hold back raging floodwaters. Cracks were appearing in the foundation of my self-control, waves of passion overlapping the top in foamy crests. I slid my hands down her sides and gripped her hips and then without planning it, lifted her off of me and pressed her back to the ground, rolling on top of her so the front of my body was in contact with hers, and oh my God it was—

  “Nic.” Her small hands pushed at my shoulders as she pulled her mouth from mine. Her voice seemed to come from miles away. “Nic. Stop. Get off of me.”

  She didn’t sound panicked or angry, just… serious. She was breathing hard, and her eyes were wide and dark.

  Sanity came back to me in increments, my mind clearing bit by bit, my body throttling back the full-steam-ahead speed I’d reached. At first I couldn’t seem to move. My body was fighting the orders my brain was giving it.

  I pushed against the ground on either side of her and finally got to my feet, walking away with my hands in my hair, staring at the landscape through eyes that felt like they’d been exposed to furnace heat. What had I just done? If bringing her the flowers had been foolish, kissing her was the act of an insane man.

  “Nic?”

  I turned to face Macy. She was on her feet, brushing off her dress. The look she wore told me she had been just as affected by the kiss as I was. I stepped toward her, hands out.

  “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “It’s okay.” Her head bobbed in rapid, repeated motions. “It’s okay. It’s this place, the wine, the conversation we had. You’re thinking of Mariana. It’s all right.”

  That’s when it struck me—I hadn’t been thinking of Mariana—at all. My mind and every one of my senses had been filled with Macy and her enticing scent, the maddening little sounds she made. I’d never felt anything like it before, not with Mariana, not with any of the beautiful and willing groupies I’d hooked up with. Not only that, I wanted more.

  Wow. And what am I supposed to do with that?

  13

  Macy

  I followed Nic back to the chateau, amazed I could walk a straight line as shaky and off-balance as I felt.

  Nic’s kisses—and the other things he’d done—had not only been surprising, they’d been… amazing. I’d never experienced such a rush of desire and pleasure and panic and longing all at the same time. I knew it had been more about the moment than about me, but Wow—what a moment. No wonder women all over Europe were throwing themselves at this guy.

  Why had he done it—kissed me like that, so suddenly and so passionately? Had he brought me on this trip for the reason he’d told the guard at the castle—to sleep with me? Apparently his playboy reputation was well-deserved. He was engaged. He was getting married in a month. Maybe this was what he did all the time, romancing girls on the side while his fiancée went for dress fittings.

  Yet, thinking back on his apology and the stricken expression that he’d worn… the kiss and the mad chemistry that followed seemed to have surprised him as much as it had surprised me. I just didn’t know. He was endlessly confusing.

  Nic broke into a run when we reached the driveway. Romigi was loading the last of several cases of wine into the trunk of Bardo and Piero’s car. The guards themselves were nowhere in sight—probably in the house being fed by Teo until they couldn’t move.

  Nic rushed forward, belatedly trying to help the old man. It was obvious he cared for him and felt bad about causing him extra work and strain.

  “You shouldn’t have done that. I could have gotten it.”

  “The day I cannot lift a few bottles of wine is the day they should put me in the ground,” Romigi said.

  Nic responded by grabbing the man and holding him tight. “Never. Never,” he repeated.

  When the embrace ended, he drew back and looked his surrogate grandfather in the eye. “I will return—very soon—as soon as I get Macy taken care of.”

  Romigi nodded. “You do that. You take care of her.” Turning to me he added, “You take care of him, too, little bright eyes.”

  I promised I would to make the old guy happy, bid him and Teodora farewell and got into the car. Nic was quiet on the drive. No doubt because of our unexpected make-out session—he must have been wracked with guilt.

  Ugh. What had I been thinking, kissing him back? I felt guilty, too. And stupid. I had sensed the growing tension between us, the undeniable pull of attraction. But still, I’d agreed to a romantic hillside picnic. And I’d poured my heart out to him, allowed him to share private details of his life with me. That kind of thing inevitably created a sense of intimacy between two people. It was exactly what I’d vowed just last night never to allow again. But it seemed to be impossible to prevent with Nic.

  Sneaking a glance at him behind the wheel, I studied his face. He was clearly taking it hard—or taking something hard, at least. I’d never seen him so gloomy. Was he having second thoughts about the wedding?

  That relationship made no sense to me. Alessia didn’t seem to care anything about him, and he certainly didn’t seem like a guy who was eager to get married a month from now. I knew he was capable of real love and devotion—it was obvious when he talked about Mariana he’d truly loved her. I didn’t sense anything like that between him and Alessia. Maybe it was just my stupid stir-fried hormones talking.

  When he’d kissed me, every rational thought blew out of my mind and scattered across the hillside like dandelion fluff. My body responded to him in a way it never had with Kevin, my old boyfriend back home. Thankfully I’d managed to stop Nic—and stop myself—somehow.

  Thinking of those incredible unexpected moments with him caused my pulse to pick up again and a warmth to unfurl low in my abdomen. Bad. So bad. I was supposed to be keeping my mind on the game—not on Nic’s amazing eyes, and tempting mouth, and warm hands, and lilting rough-soft voice, and—

  “Merda!” Nic swerved to avoid a car that had veered into our lane. He shook his fist at the other driver, who’d already passed. “Va al diavolo.” The angry-sounding Italian phrases kept rolling off his tongue, getting faster and louder. “Sono arrabbiato come una bestia!”

  I didn’t know exactly what he was saying, but his agitation was clear. Italy had some of the scariest drivers I’d seen since I’d been in Europe. They changed lanes without warning, blasted their horns, disregarded the speed limits entirely, and generally acted as if the rules of the road were merely suggestions. But I hadn’t seen Nic get upset about it before now. This wasn’t about bad driving.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “About what?” he barked.

  “What happened back there… after the picnic.”

  “No.”

  I tried again. “Are you getting cold feet about the wedding?”

  His hands gripped the steering wheel tighter. His jaw clenched. “I cannot talk about this. I am sorry.”

  Okay then. Back to broody silence and colorful Italian curse words.

  On second thought, no. He couldn’t just kiss me silly and then refuse to talk to me. I might be just a fan pod girl, but it was his idea to bring me along, and he was the one who’d insisted on all these stops and side trips.

  And I still wanted an answer to the question he’d oh-so-handily avoided with that surprising kiss. It might have been nearly mind-erasing, but I hadn't forgotten all the questions boiling in my brain. How did he always know exactly what I wanted? How did he know just how to tempt me? It was more than uncanny. It was unnatural.

  “Fine. Let’s talk about something else. How do you do it? It can’t be coincidence. How do you know exactly what to offer me at exactly the right time? I know you said I wouldn’t believe the
answer, but try me. Are you a mentalist or something?”

  He bit his lip and furrowed his brow, staring straight ahead at the winding Autostrata. Finally he shook his head and gave a small, hopeless sounding laugh. “I don’t even know what a… mentalist is.”

  He inhaled deeply then let out a long breath, seeming suddenly very tired. “No one has ever asked me about it before but… you’re right. I do have a… certain ability to detect people’s strongest desires—or weaknesses—whatever you wish to call them, at any given moment. I don’t use it all the time. It doesn’t seem… right. I’ve never used it on my family, for instance—well, maybe a few times on my sister when we were younger and I really wanted my way. Most people are not as astute as you. They don't notice it. Even my family does not know about it. I’ve hidden it because I worried my ability would make other people uncomfortable around me. I should never have let you see it, but you were crying and I…” He exhaled again, his shoulders sagging.

  I reached for him, slipping my fingers up his arm to caress one powerful shoulder. “It’s okay,” I said softly. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to tell anyone. But I’m curious. How does it work? Have you always had it?”

  “I don’t know how it works. When I’m in close enough proximity to someone, I just… know what would tempt them most. I always have. I thought everyone was like that until I got old enough to realize it was my—”

  He stopped mid-sentence—not because he couldn’t think of the correct English word. He didn’t want to say it. “What? Your what?”

  “My… special gift. Or curse. I’m not sure. Does il Diavolo not have this same ability?”

  “The devil? You’re not the devil, Nic.” You might kiss like him, but… “You care about people—Romigi and Teo. You cared for Mariana. And like you said, you don’t use your ability all the time.”

  “Only when I really want something,” he said and turned to stare at me so intensely I considered retracting my not-the-devil statement.

  Clearing my throat in nervousness, I asked, “What about Alessia? Do you use your ability on her?” Seemed like if she was getting everything she wanted from him all the time, girlfriend might be a little happier.

  His brows pulled together. “No. There’s no need to figure out what she wants. She demands what she wants—at all times. Besides… I’ve never cared enough to try to please her.”

  So did that mean he cared about pleasing me? Nic had used his ability on me a number of times. And why did that thought produce such an effervescent thrill in my belly? This was not good. I suddenly found myself wishing he’d step on the gas a bit so we could get to Florence and end all this forced proximity as soon as possible.

  When we finally reached the city, it was late afternoon. Parking the car in front of the hotel, Nic picked up his phone while a bellman ran out to open the trunk and take our bags inside.

  “Well?” I asked when the call ended.

  “It is as I suspected. The Consulate General’s office is closed for the day. We will have to go in the morning to apply for the passport. I am sorry.”

  My temper flared for a second—we stayed too long in Chianti—but it cooled quickly. How could I begrudge him a visit with his surrogate grandparents, who he hadn’t seen in two years? He was doing me a favor by even bringing me along.

  It was just the delay meant I’d have to spend another evening with him, spend another night under the same roof. I wasn’t sure I could take another romantic candlelit dinner.

  This hotel was even more impressive than the one in Siena. The lobby had gleaming polished wood floors and high ceilings, ancient patterned rugs, leather chairs, a fireplace flanked by huge oil paintings and topped with an ornate gilded mirror. Crystal chandeliers illuminated the space. We checked in and took the elevator to the top floor. Nic had booked the Presidential suite, naturally.

  It featured a living room with two sofas facing each other, a television, elegant lamps, a coffee table, sofa tables, and an antique writing desk. There was a separate dining room with a long polished wood dining table, a large floral arrangement on top of it, chairs upholstered in white fabric. A hallway led to the bedrooms.

  When I opened the door to mine, I gasped. A fantastic clawfoot bathtub sat right there in the bedroom in front of a tall, richly draped window. There was a tufted velvet chaise lounge, and the bed looked like it was made for a queen, with a crown near the roof and drapes down either side of the headboard. I laughed, thinking my accommodations lately were a long way from the youth hostel with its four cots to a room and communal bathrooms.

  After we got settled in our separate rooms, Nic knocked to ask if I’d like to take a walk around the city.

  “Might as well enjoy the sights while we are here,” he said. “Besides, I promised Romigi to give you the tour, remember?”

  “I remember. Okay, let me change clothes. I’ll be ready in five minutes.” There was no harm in an afternoon walk, right? It had to be better than spending the entire day in the gorgeous suite with Nic, and really, how romantic could a crumbling old medieval city be?

  How wrong I was.

  We visited the incredible Duomo, the cathedral near our hotel, with its enormous red domed top, designed and implemented by another of Nic’s architectural idols, Filippo Brunelleschi. While the cathedral was the most iconic symbol of Florence, it wasn’t my favorite part of the city. Neither was the famous Piazza della Signoria with its incredible collection of marble and bronze sculptures and the Fountain of Neptune, impressive as they were.

  My favorite place was the smaller Piazza della Santissima Annunziata, a charming square surrounded on three sides by balanced porticoes. On one end stood a large church dating back to the year 1234, and there was a splendid fountain, though not as large as some we’d seen.

  What made it special to me was seeing the Foundling hospital, or Ospedale degli Innocenti, built in the fourteen hundreds. It was lovely in and of itself—so many of the buildings in Florence were—but I was captivated by the medallions decorating the arches of this one. They featured images of swaddled babies. At one end of the hospital’s loggia was a large stone wheel, suspended on its side, half in, half out of the hospital’s outer wall.

  “Do you know what this is for?” Nic asked, touching the wheel’s age-smoothed surface.

  “No. Is it for grinding grain or something, like a millstone?”

  “It is a turntable, what you would probably call a ‘lazy Susan.’ It was constructed so desperate mothers could leave their babies here at the orphanage without fear of reprisal.”

  It was such a human touch in a place that seemed to have been built by the gods. It made these centuries-old historical figures suddenly seem like real people.

  Nic seemed to think the same thing. “There are stories told among my people of human mothers, impregnated without their knowledge by ‘Mazzamurello’ or ‘Fata,’ who brought their infants here in the dead of night after giving birth. Their half human/half Fae children grew up to be some of the most acclaimed artists, musicians, and storytellers in Italian history. And because they were half-Fae and taller and stronger than their human counterparts, many were renowned athletes. I was fascinated by those stories as a child. I could just picture the frightened women, doing the best they could for their fatherless babies, in spite of the fact they’d be disowned or even stoned if they were caught, bringing them here and giving them up, hoping their children would be cared for.”

  As he told the story, he cupped his hands in front of him, as if cradling a tiny newborn. He gently laid the imaginary baby on the stone then turned the wheel. The sight brought tears to my eyes. Partly because of the tenderness on Nic’s face. Partly because of my own heritage.

  “Poor little things,” he said. “My family is not perfect, but I cannot imagine being unwanted.”

  I can. My own mother had given me up at birth, though I doubted her story was as dramatic as the one he’d told. She’d likely been a drug addict or a teenager who’d gotten ca
rried away in the moment and regretted it later. My adoption had been a closed one—meaning no contact between my birth mother and my adoptive family, so I’d never know her. Still, I appreciated she’d given me the chance to live.

  “I’m adopted,” I said. “But I’ve never felt unwanted.” Not until recently, anyway.

  Nic’s eyes popped wide in surprise, and then he cringed. “Oh, Macy. I am so sorry. I did not know. I did not mean that the way it sounded.”

  “It’s okay. I’m not sensitive about it. I have great parents. But yours told better bedtime stories.” I smiled at him.

  He smiled back and let out a relieved-sounding laugh. “Well, you are a gift to them. Your biological mother has no idea what she is missing. Come on.” He held out his hand, and I took it, not wanting him to feel bad.

  As we navigated the narrow cobblestone streets and explored square after square, there was almost too much to see—certainly too much to see in one day. I found myself wishing for more time in the city, which was silly. My goal was to get what I needed and get away from Nic, not linger. We walked for hours, with Nic adding commentary that would make any professional tour guide feel inadequate. He answered all my questions, not just with patience, but with enthusiasm.

  “Why are the buildings so close to the street?”

  “Ah, that was very common. Property values here were always very high, and the building space, you see, very limited by the circuit of walls, so building straight upward on a narrow footprint was the most economical solution. In many cases a family would show its wealth and prestige by this height and by implementing architectural ornamentation because spreading out wide was not an option.”

  I nodded and peered up the soaring façade of the closest home.