Page 13 of Royally Roma
But he couldn’t. Not really. Not unless he was willing to succumb to the mob of schoolgirls.
The Vespa lurched away from the curb like it had been shot out of a cannon. At first Niccolo attributed the explosive quality of the sudden shift into drive on the scooter’s temperamental engine. Within seconds, the kneesocked schoolgirls were a distant memory, and for the moment, that was all that mattered.
But as soon as the Vespa crested the hill and rounded the sweeping curve at the end of the street, they merged with the chaotic traffic of the Via del Babuino, and he realized the jump start of the engine had been no accident. Julia leaned forward. Niccolo—his arms wrapped firmly round her waist lest he fly off the back end of the scooter—leaned right along with her. They seemed to be moving at warp speed, the high-end shops that lined either side of the Via becoming little more than a posh, sophisticated blur.
Niccolo found himself thanking his lucky stars for the gaudy helmet she’d forced upon him. As much as he’d bemoaned his birthright over the course of the past eight hours, he still preferred his fate as future king over having his princely head splattered all over the Roman cobblestones.
Did she always drive like this? Or was it purely for his benefit since he’d balked at being driven around by a woman?
He wasn’t sure. In either case, it made the stress of dealing with Cassian’s misdeeds seem like a walk in the park. And for some reason he didn’t care to examine, he also found it oddly erotic.
God, what was wrong with him? In the entirety of his adult life, he’d never had this much trouble keeping his libido in check. He’d spent a lifetime controlling his emotions, and with a single bat of Julia Costa’s lovely eyelashes, he’d taken leave of his senses. What the hell had he done? He hadn’t thought things through. He hadn’t beenthinkingat all. He’d simply acted on impulse and walked right out of the hotel. Clearly he’d lost his faculties.
Because the reason for his unprecedented escape couldn’t be her.
It was the messy business with Cassian that had led him to do what he did. He was suffering a momentary surge of rebellion against his carefully controlled existence. Such a momentary lapse of judgment was to be expected after a lifetime of royal duty, was it not?
He blamed Cassian. He blamed his grandfather. He blamed his father, and the untimely death of his mother. He blamed the godforsaken press. He blamed the Bloody Marys. He blamed anyone and everyone except the intoxicating woman whose dainty waist he held in his hands.
It couldn’t be her. It simply could not.
He would allow her to lead him around for a few hours. He’d play tourist for the afternoon, and once he’d rid himself of whatever this restlessness was, his common sense would return.
Faster than if they’d teleported, the Colosseum came into view. She glanced over her shoulder at him, her red-ribbon lips curving into a beatific smile. “Magnificent, isn’t it?”
It was a testament to the captivating quality of that smile that Niccolo could take his eyes off the concrete blur of the road and focus on her face. “The Colosseum?”
It stood behind her, the iconic symbol of imperial Rome. And somehow it seemed the perfect backdrop to her timeless beauty.
“The Colosseum. Yes.” Her smile grew wider. More radiant. “Don’t you just love Rome? It’s like an open-air museum. A treasure at every turn.”
Before he could answer, she turned around and faced the proper direction.
“Magnificent indeed,” he murmured to the back of her head.
They pulled alongside the curb between a smart car and a red double-decker tourist bus overflowing with people. Women holding babies. Men in fanny packs. Children with plastic gladiator helmets perched on their heads.
It was then and only then that Niccolo realized the schoolgirls had only been the tip of the troublesome iceberg. There were people everywhere—spilling off the bus, posing for photos and pressed together in the queue that snaked its way around the perimeter of the Colosseum. The only way to avoid being seen would be to get lost in the crowd. And as strategies went, that one didn’t seem altogether foolproof. At best, he would show up in the background of a handful of tourists’ photographs. At worst, someone would recognize him. Here. Now.
Julia lifted her helmet from her head. More wayward locks of her mocha hair fell from her ballerina bun and danced along the graceful slope of her willowy neck. Niccolo stared, spellbound, and for a moment forgot he was a marked man.
She switched the motor off and the sudden quiet almost hurt his ears. There was no way that Vespa was street legal. Not even in Italy.
Julia climbed off the scooter and peered overhead, her gaze focused on the dove gray sky. “Uh-oh.”
Behind her, the crowd swelled.
Uh-oh.
An understatement of the first order.
Niccolo cleared his throat. “Is there a problem?”
Other than the obvious?
Julia lifted the Vespa’s seat and reached into the storage compartment for her backpack. She unzipped it, pulled out what looked like a large green trash bag, and offered it to him. “Nothing that this won’t solve.”
Niccolo stared at the wad of plastic in her hand. “A bin bag? Am I to empty the rubbish bins at the Colosseum? Is this part of the tour?” He wanted something real, something normal, but that was a bit too commonplace for his liking.
