Page 14 of Royally Roma
She stared blankly at him. Her eyes were really quite lovely, even though they were looking at him now as though he’d lost his faculties. Which he supposed he had, right around the time he’d run off with her. “First of all, it’s not a garbage bag. It’s a poncho.”
A plastic poncho. What else might she have in that backpack of hers? A pair of Groucho Marx glasses? Because those would come in handy right about now.
“And second of all, it’s for you to wear. It’s a rain poncho.” She pointed at the sky. “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s raining.”
He looked up. By God, she was right. “It escaped my notice, perhaps because you dodged between the raindrops with your unique driving skills.”
“Are you criticizing my driving?” She gave him another perfect, red-lipped grin. “Mano Romano.”
There was something almost hypnotizing about that crimson mouth of hers. Niccolo found his gaze drawn to it altogether too often, different as it was from the tasteful, conservative lipstick that the women in his crowd favored. He felt as though he were seeing a rare, exotic bird up close for the first time.
Exactly how much alcohol was in all those Bloody Marys he’d consumed? “You don’t have to call me by my full name, you know.”
“It just has such a nice ring to it. But as you wish, Mr. Romano.” She was mocking him. Again.
Niccolo couldn’t remember ever being mocked before. He shouldn’t have enjoyed it quite like he did. Then again, enjoyment was only one of a long list of indulgences that rarely made an appearance on his carefully crafted daily agenda.
And good God, that name. Mano Romano. Before the reality of being a prince had set in, back when Niccolo and Cassian had been young boys, they’d fantasized about what they would do when they grew up. Race-car driver, astronaut, footballer, fighter pilot were all right up there. But the top pick was always the same. International super spy. Because what little boy didn’t dream of becoming James Bond?
Apparently a gilded crown wasn’t the only thing standing between Niccolo and a future as a spy. When Julia had asked him his name, he’d seized upon the first thing he saw—Mano’s Pizzeriaspelled out in bold red letters on the stack of pizza boxes the kid with the headphones had been juggling as he walked past them. How was he to know that Julia expected his last name to be Romano?
Still, James Bond would be mortified. As he should. What kind of alias was Mano Romano?
“No titles. Call me Mano. Please,” he said.
No titles.
For once in his life.
“All right, then.” She regarded him intently, as if she could somehow see his royal pedigree emblazoned across his forehead. “Mano.”
He tried—and failed—to remember the last time a woman he’d known for less than an hour had called him anything other thanYour Royal Highness.Even the handful of women he’d dated regularly only called him by his first name after months of courtship. Hell, he still slept with women who addressed him as HRH.
But Mano wasn’t exactly his first name, was it?
Niccolo felt an irrational stab of envy for the fictitious Mano Romano, ridiculous moniker notwithstanding. “Very well, Julia.”
He unsnapped his chin strap, removed his helmet, and handed it to her in exchange for the rain poncho. He climbed off the scooter and slipped the plastic garment over his head, hood and all, before anyone could get a good look at him. It was a shapeless, nauseating pea green that smelled vaguely like a child’s balloon animal. He was certain he looked patently ridiculous. But in that way, he blended in.
All around him, left and right, tourists were reaching into their belt bags and pulling out similar ponchos. Street vendors marched around the Colosseum waving them about, yellingcinque euro!Frankly, charging five euros for a trash bag with a hood sounded criminal to Niccolo, but as the rain began to fall in earnest, the vendors were doing a brisk business. What did he know, anyway? He’d never once carried money in the silk-lined pockets of his trousers. Not a single euro. Not even a credit card. Members of the royal family never carried money. It was a matter of security. He’d never thought it remotely odd.
Until now.
Suppose Julia hadn’t been so well prepared and he’d needed to purchase one of those ponchos? Or, luxury of luxuries, one of the flimsy umbrellas that appeared to be going for twenty euros each?
“You can fidget as long as you wish, but that poncho is never going to look quite as stylish as that suit of yours,” Julia said, distracting him from his sudden penniless state.
Surely he was creating problems where there were none. His cuff links alone could pay the national debt of a small country.
And he hadn’t been fidgeting. He’d merely been rolling up his plastic sleeves, as his poncho seemed to have been tailored for a gladiator. Weirdly appropriate, he supposed. “You find my suit stylish, do you?” She should. It had been custom tailored by Gieves & Hawkes on Savile Row, as were all of his suits.
Julia’s porcelain cheeks grew a shade or two closer to the cherry red of her lips. Rattled. At last.
But not for long.
She recovered quickly with a roll of her eyes, her lush eyelashes skimming the dark fringe that famed her pretty face. And with that most insolent of gestures, the realization hit Niccolo that he’d never before encountered a woman so naturally self-possessed. Who knew it would be so alluring?
Of course she had no idea she was rolling her eyes at a prince. A punishable offense, to be sure.
