“He’s a prince. He’s not like you and me. He lives in a castle. His picture is in the paper every day. Being in the news goes with the territory. It’s nothing to someone like him.” Chiara rolled her eyes. “It’s always open season on royalty, Julia. Always.”
NICCOLO HAD SLEPT LIKEthe dead.
He’d intended to close his eyes for an hour, two tops, while Julia rested. They had more to say, more to do, before morning.
How had he allowed himself to sleep so long? It made no sense. Compared to his accommodations at the Hotel de Russie and the royal palace, where he lived in Lazaretto, Julia’s flat was a hovel. And the bed was hardly bigger than a postage stamp. But it had a most enticing advantage over his bed in the palace. This was where Julia slept, where her beguiling body lay wrapped in sheets and her beautiful hair fanned out on the pillows.
His first instinct upon waking was to reach for his captor, to seek the warmth of her curves beneath the palms of his hands. On some level, he knew this was a colossally bad idea. The pink morning light was already drifting through Julia’s French doors. Morning was upon them. As soon as the banks opened, Piero would be knocking on her door.
Niccolo had texted him Julia’s address and sworn he’d be ready to leave the moment Piero showed up with the money he owed her. For the first time in the decade that his secretary had been in his employ, Niccolo wished he were less efficient.
Something had happened to him over the past two days. Julia’s love for history, for all the things that had gone before, had cracked something open inside Niccolo. Something that left him raw and aching. Uncharacteristically vulnerable.
He wasn’t exactly sure what, or why, although he was fairly certain when. It had started the moment when Julia had shown him Caesar’s tomb—that modest looking mound of earth. That’s all it had taken—a pile of wilted blooms on an emperor’s grave—and the most painful memory of his life had come rushing back.
How had she known? Why had she taken him there? For two straight days, he’d been telling himself that it meant nothing. It had just been some fortuitous twist of fate. She’d said herself that she’d only shown him Caesar’s grave because she believed he had an unreasonable sympathy for the ruling class. That’s all it had been, simply a cheeky nod to the barbs they’d exchanged in the Colosseum.
But by God if it hadn’t felt more meaningful than that.
All those flowers. Petals fluttering in the cool twilight breeze. The sweet perfume of blossoms. It had been like going back in time. Back to the days following his mother’s death.
She’d been so young, so beautiful. People from all over the world came to Lazaretto to mourn the loss of one of the most photographed women throughout history.
The pictures. The press. They’d been such a very big part of the problem, hadn’t they? If not for the damn papers, she never would have done what she did.
He felt a stirring beside him. He opened his eyes. “Buongiorno, bella.”
Her cheeks went crimson in a nanosecond. God, she was gorgeous. “Good morning,” she said.
So quiet. So bashful. So very different from the siren he’d unleashed when his tongue had made contact with the tender softness of her thighs. He found the disparity between her innocence and her desire utterly intoxicating. He had to remind himself that this woman who could barely look at him had kidnapped him two nights ago.
He lifted his hand to touch her cheek and Julia’s tiny dog wiggled out from beneath his arm. The Yorkie tiptoed across the bed, jumped to the floor, and buried herself under a blanket on her dog bed.
“Valentina isn’t exactly a morning person,” Julia said.
“You can’t imagine my relief. I’d hate to face another terrifying altercation. You know, all those times she tried to kiss me to death.” He winked at her.
She responded with a roll of her eyes. “She normally despises men.”
“So you’ve said.”
“I mean it. I truly don’t understand what’s gotten into her. She must be mesmerized by your regal charms.” Julia wrapped the bedsheet more firmly around her breasts, which Niccolo realized were now covered in diaphanous blush-colored satin.
She’d gotten dressed while he’d been asleep, a realization that displeased him immensely.
“Nice lingerie,” he said, with an edge creeping into his voice. “Very pretty, although I much prefer you naked.”
A tremble passed through her at the boldness of his words. He would miss this—saying things, doing things that caused her to react in such a way. He would miss her gasps and her subtle sighs. He would missher.He knew he shouldn’t, but he would.
“I’m leaving the country today,” he said abruptly. “I mean it this time.” He couldn’t keep doing this. He couldn’t hide from his duties forever.
“I know.” No argument. No words of regret. Nothing. JustI know.
“I mean it. I’m leaving, and I’ll never be back. Not here in your flat. Not like this.” He felt cruel saying such things. But letting her think she would ever hear from him again would have been far more vicious.
Even so, he wished she would fight. Demand an explanation. Get angry. Instead she lay beside him, looking like Venus herself, all cool, impassive beauty.
“I understand,” she said, wide-eyed.
