by Teri Wilson
He gave her a knowing look. Too knowing. “She’s not fond of men? Or she’s not accustomed to them?”
Julia hated, absolutely hated, the way it felt like he could see inside her head at times. “Go ahead. Get bit. See if I care.”
He bent to pet Valentina. Julia winced, waiting for the inevitable. Elio’s brief tenure at her flat had been characterized with frequent bouts of cursing and the ongoing application of Band-Aids and Neosporin.
But to her utter astonishment, the moment Nico’s hand made contact with Valentina’s petite head, the little Yorkie grew silent. She flopped onto her back and offered her belly for rubbing.
Nico cooed at Valentina. Valentina gazed up at him as if he’d hung the moon. Or invented dog biscuits.
Nico shrugged. “I have a way with . . .” For the love of God, if he said females, Julia would tie him to a chair and stuff his mouth full of socks like a proper hostage. “. . . dogs.”
“I see,” she said primly, turning her back on Valentina’s shameless display. It reminded her far too much of her own behavior throughout the course of this bizarre day.
“I need to make a call. There’s a ransom to be arranged. Remember?” Nico said.
Julia folded a dish towel in half, unfolded it, and then folded it again before aiming her gaze back in his direction. She needed a minute to gather herself. It was too hard to think, to breathe, to do much of anything with him in her flat.
Of course she remembered. He was a mighty distraction, but even he couldn’t make her forget about the money—the reason they were here. The reason he was here, three feet away from her bed, holding her dog.
Valentina was now nestled in the crook of Nico’s elbow with her little chin resting on his chest, gazing up at him like he was the king of the entire universe. Julia half expected a crown to appear on his head. “It’s hardly ransom. It’s the fee for your tour. But you can call it whatever you like, so long as you pay me.”
The sooner, the better. She needed him gone before she did something monumentally stupid. Gone, gone, gone. Or at least not in such close proximity to her bed.
“If you need privacy, you can use the terrace.” She pointed to the narrow French doors opposite the kitchen.
“You trust me not to climb down the fire escape?”
God, he was infuriating. This was all a game to him, wasn’t it? “There is no fire escape.”
“I see. Let’s hope the place doesn’t go up in flames, then.” He gave her another one of those looks that made her feel as though she was melting against her will. Succumbing to some invisible inferno.
Then he made his way to the balcony, crossing the room in just a handful of steps. Valentina remained nestled in his arms with her little face peering over his shoulder, blinking innocently at Julia. So much for loyalty. She wished she could be angry at the traitorous dog, but she couldn’t. She understood perfectly well.
Fascino fatale.
* * *
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN it can’t be done?” Niccolo roared into his phone. A seagull that had perched on the railing of Julia’s miniscule balcony flapped its wings and flew off in the direction of one of Rome’s domed basilicas, glowing like a firefly against the night sky.
“I mean it’s unmanageable, sir. Procuring such a large amount of cash at this time of night just isn’t in the realm of possibility.”
The realm of possibility.
Niccolo had left that realm the moment he’d stepped outside the gate of the Hotel de Russie. Now here he was, standing alongside a dog no bigger than a squirrel in the cool Italian air, his gaze glued to the tiny window, transfixed by the sight of Julia moving about her home.
She reached into a kitchen cabinet for something, moving with feline grace. She brought down two wineglasses, and gingerly set them beside a large baguette and a container of olives. Niccolo couldn’t help but smile at the sight of her preparing dinner for her captive as Piero went on about something on the other end of the phone. Then he forgot about Piero altogether, momentarily transfixed by the graceful turn of Julia’s wrist as she untwisted the lid from the olive jar.
He shouldn’t be witnessing these intimacies. He didn’t belong here. This was the realm of impossibility.
“Sir, are you still there?” Piero’s voice was laced with concern.
“Yes, I’m here.” I’m here. Here, in this place where laundry is hung out to dry, flowers are sold on the sidewalk, and a beautiful woman is inside, opening a bottle of Chianti.
As kidnappings went, this one was rather pleasant.
He should hang up the phone and walk right out the door. Julia was fooling herself if she thought she could stop him. He didn’t believe for a minute that she would resort to physical force, some kind of weapon. Unless she had another piece of digital technology to hurl at his head. An iPad perhaps? That might sting a little.
There was nothing real keeping him here. Not one thing.
Yet all the wild horses in Europe couldn’t have dragged him away. “I won’t be returning tonight, Piero. Please extend my apologies to the king, the foreign ministry, my security . . . to everyone. I’ve been further detained.”
“But, sir, everyone is most concerned for your welfare. Everyone. Once I tell them that you’ve called and demanded a large sum of cash, red flags will abound.”
It wasn’t that large. Honestly. And hadn’t he a shred of privacy? “Then don’t tell them. That’s an order, understood? I don’t want you to breathe a word about this to anyone.”
“You do realize, sir, that if I withhold information from the king’s office I could be terminated?”
Niccolo’s temples throbbed. How many people could he get fired in a day? “Piero, all will be fine. I need you to follow a specific set of instructions, so listen carefully.”
He went down the list he’d composed in his head as, once again, he’d ridden on the back of Julia’s Vespa. Not a list, really. Just two items. Two very important tasks that would fix things. Ways to make amends, so come morning he could leave Rome, leave her, without the mantle of guilt draped so heavily over his shoulders.
“Is everything clear?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Piero said, no doubt pounding away at his tablet, taking Niccolo’s instructions down word for word.
“Good.” He was suddenly famished, starved for the salty sweetness of Cerignola olives and ruby red wine. When was the last time anyone had served him something so sublimely simple? Never. “Thank you. I shall see you in the morning. And don’t worry, Piero. I’m in no danger whatsoever.”
That might be true as it applied to assassination attempts or an actual abduction. But as he slid his phone back in his pocket and watched the silent sway of Julia’s hips from behind a pane of glass, a dark, aching need moved in him. A senseless passion that was becoming more and more difficult to ignore. And he knew that there were indeed far more dangerous threats to a prince than physical harm.
No danger whatsoever.
Why did he get the feeling that couldn’t be further from the truth?
* * *
NICO STRODE BACK INSIDE with Valentina at his heels, and Julia continued slicing bread, pretending she hadn’t been stealing glances at him out on the porch for the entire ten minutes he’d been out on the terrace.
The moment he was beside her, once again occupying her space, breathing her air, her hands began to shake. The knife trembled in her grasp.
“Let me,” he said, taking the knife from her hands.
“Thanks.” She took a gulp of wine.
“I have good news.” He sliced into the bread with hands steady as a rock.
She wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or relieved at his unruffled tone. “Oh?”
Please tell me two hundred fifty euros are about to drop out of the sky.
“I’ve arranged to pay you everything you’re owed. In cas
h, as you wish.” The knife paused. “First thing in the morning.”
He resumed slicing the baguette while she struggled to come to terms with the implications of what he’d just said.
She slammed her flea-market wineglass down in a fury. Chianti sloshed over the rim. “Morning? You mean tomorrow morning? As in . . . you’re planning on spending the night here?”
No wonder he’d taken the knife from her before dropping this bombshell.
“No, actually.” Slice. The last piece of baguette fell in surrender. “I’d planned on spending the night in a hotel room in Helsinki. Bringing me here was your idea, darling.”
She pretended the endearment had no effect on her whatsoever, even though her thighs had begun to tingle. It was an unfamiliar, excruciating sensation somewhere between pleasure and pain. “We both know why you’re here.”
He popped an olive into his mouth then reached for his wine, swirling it around in his glass like they were in a five-star restaurant instead of her apartment. “Do we?”
Her breath caught in her throat. She stared at him.
“Cat got your tongue, Miss Costa?” He arched a brow and sipped his wine.
She lifted her chin, determined to ignore the innuendo and even more determined not to let him see how very much she wanted him. Still. Because that was just pathetic. “Helsinki? That’s where you’re headed? Interesting.”
He said nothing, merely clenched his jaw as if trying to force it shut.
He’d said too much. She could tell. She wasn’t sure why, but this unexpected revelation was not something she should be privy to.
“At the precise moment, I’m not headed anywhere. I’m standing right here, by your choosing.” He pointed a finger at her and lazily brought his wineglass to his lips again.
“So you say. For all I know, you’ve got your pockets stuffed with euro notes and you lied so I’d take you home like a stray puppy.” If that were true, she would wring his handsome neck.
She didn’t think there was an ounce of validity to this theory. She just didn’t like the way he was twisting things around and making it sound like she wanted him here. Because she didn’t. At all.
Did she?
“A stray puppy?” He slammed the wineglass on the kitchen counter, and the olives jumped in place. “You’re comparing me to a dog? Really?”
“No. Dogs are trustworthy.” She took a large gulp of Chianti. Liquid courage. He looked angry, and as much as she wanted to believe she could stand toe to toe with him, she was beginning to doubt herself.
He was so . . . so . . . much.
It was unsettling to say the least.
“Be careful, Julia,” he warned, dark eyes flashing.
But all of a sudden she didn’t want to be careful. She was sick and tired of towing the line and doing the right thing when all around her, people seemed to do as they pleased with no regard for her whatsoever.
“As I recall, you’re the one who kissed me. Not the other way around.” She fluttered her eyelashes and gave him a smile sweet enough to rot every tooth in her head.
It had the desired effect. A furious vein began to throb in his temple. “You didn’t wish to be kissed?”
“No, absolutely not.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.
He narrowed his eyes and swept her up and down with his hot gaze. Slowly. Excruciatingly so. Until he’d taken in every trembling inch of her. “And you don’t wish to be kissed now either?”
She wasn’t sure she could even remember the word no, much less utter it aloud. “What makes you think I want you to kiss me?”
He took a step toward her. Then another, until her back was pinned against the kitchen counter. He was so close. Too close, and it was all suddenly too much. She could no longer tell who was tempting whom, which one of them was the cat and which was the mouse.
He studied her, his head tilted in that regal way he had. Reality hit her hard and fast. She was the mouse. Without a doubt. She was to be his plaything, his prey.
This awareness should have frightened her—or shamed her—but instead it made her feel deliciously alive. Aroused in a way she’d never known before.
“How do I know you want to be kissed? Maybe because I can see the way you tremble when I look at you. I see the flush in your cheeks.” He brushed her face with the back of his hand in a tender gesture wholly at odds with the insinuating tone of his voice. Julia gripped the countertop, steadying herself, lest she dissolve into a liquid puddle of need. Nico’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “I feel you arch toward me when I touch you.”
“You have a rather active imagination,” she protested. But her voice was far too breathless. And to her horror, she realized she was indeed arching toward him, pressing her breasts against his chest, seeking contact, his touch, anything to relieve the ache.
She was on the verge of coming apart, fully clothed, with a stranger in her humble kitchen. A deceitful, lying stranger. Would she ever learn her lesson?
He drew closer until his mouth was a whisper away from hers. She could feel the warmth of his breath, the promise of relief in his salty sigh. She thought she might die if he waited another second to kiss her. Her lips parted in hungry anticipation, but instead of claiming her mouth, he lowered his head and pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the curve of her neck.
She lifted trembling hands and slid them into his hair, holding him close. Holding on for dear life.
“You say I have a rather active imagination. You have no idea, darling,” he whispered against her skin. “Shall I tell you about the things I imagine, Julia?”
“No,” she breathed. She didn’t want words. She didn’t want pictures. She wanted more. So much more. “Don’t tell me. Show me.”
CHAPTER
* * *
ELEVEN
Show me.
Niccolo had been doing his level best to hold on to his last remaining shred of self-control. It had taken a king-sized effort not to kiss her again, even when she’d been throwing things at him. Especially then, actually. He liked her passion. He liked the way she wasn’t afraid to stand up to him and tell him how she really felt. Even when those feelings weren’t necessarily pleasant.
But when she uttered those two fatal words—show me—restraint was no longer an option. He was done for. A dead man. And he would have given up his entire island kingdom if it meant kissing Julia Costa once more.
Just once.
As a prince, he wasn’t a man accustomed to wanting. Or waiting.
Whatever he needed, whatever he desired, was his. Without delay. This ceaseless yearning that had been gnawing at him for the past twelve hours was altogether foreign. It didn’t suit him. So once he finally allowed himself to succumb to it, he had to force himself to slow down and draw out the pleasure. To savor.
He kissed his way up the graceful path of her neck, his lips hot and wanting against her precious porcelain skin.
“Julia, my God,” he groaned in a voice he’d never heard himself use before.
But nothing about this encounter was in any way ordinary, was it? Nothing about her was ordinary.
Things had gone too far. Too fast. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew this. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that this was where things had to end.
When at last his mouth was poised over hers, he paused for one last glance at the fire in her eyes. He wanted to remember that look. The way she burned. And her pleading expression that told him how much she wanted him. Not his position, not his crown, nor his throne. Him.
She wanted him.
It might have been wrong not to tell her who he was, but in that moment, Niccolo wouldn’t have had it any other way. He would have abdicated before he told her the truth.
Not now. Anytime but now.
He grazed her lips with his, then his tongue slid into her mouth, that sweet can
dy mouth that was sure to haunt him at the coming sunrise. And for days, weeks, and possibly months to come.
He didn’t need a clairvoyant to tell him that this little holiday he’d embarked on would leave a mark. A slow-healing bruise that would leave him tortured and tender. In those melancholy moments, he would need these memories. Recollections of her lips, her smile, the grace with which she moved. Remembrance.
“Look at me,” he breathed, dragging his lips from hers.
Show me.
Niccolo’s pulse throbbed. The wait was excruciating. She had no idea, did she? No notion of the effect that her downcast eyes and bashful smile were having.
At last her gaze met his. Looking into those soft brown eyes was like getting lost in the woods, something Niccolo had never been allowed to do as a child. She was a work of art. A masterpiece. He’d never seen anyone so lovely. Skin like parchment, watercolor shadows, and a blush the color of rose petals. She took his breath away.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered.
He was no longer a prince. For once in his life, he was just a man. Just a man who wanted a woman, wanted to do as she’d asked. He wanted to show her—show her how desirable she was, show her pleasure like she’d never known. He wanted to take her beyond dreams, beyond imagination, to a place where they belonged together.
Where she was his queen.
She doesn’t even know your real name.
He grew still. Pensive.
This was real life. As much as it felt like a dream, it wasn’t. If anything, he’d created a nightmare of her life. A dream that would never last, a dream that might destroy them both.
“You’re perfect,” he repeated, backing away a few steps before he changed his mind. He’d been awarded medals for actions that had required far less fortitude.
He forced a smile. “You’re perfect, but we can’t.”
* * *
WE CAN’T.
Julia couldn’t seem to catch her breath. Nico had kissed her into a state of delirium. If the kitchen counter hadn’t been at her back, she probably couldn’t have managed to stay upright.