Page 18 of Royally Roma
She wanted to ask him what he could possibly know about the private behavior of emperors, kings, and princes. Then again, anyone with Internet access, a television, or a copy ofPeopleknew enough. Didn’t they?
It was laughable.
Except the man standing in front of her wasn’t laughing.
NICCOLO FOLLOWED JULIA THROUGHa massive stone archway and wondered if this had once been one of the two ceremonial royal entrances she’d mentioned. He hoped not. God, he hoped not. He much preferred entering the arena as a regular person, just an ordinary Joe.
Because it beat the hell out of being compared to Nero or Caligula.
Just inside the Colosseum’s damp stone walls, behind a plexiglass barrier, sat a uniformed attendant. Niccolo couldn’t help but notice a cash register within the confines of the cubicle, and he began to perspire beneath his plastic poncho.
Tickets.
Of course there were tickets. Sightseeing wasn’t free. There had to be a price for admission to the Colosseum, right? Not that Niccolo had ever had to pay for entrance before. Anywhere. Come to think of it, perhaps he did. He honestly had no idea. He had people to take care of those types of things.
Where were those people now?
Waiting for him back at Hotel de Russie, blowing up his phone. His security detail may not have been as mutinous as Caligula’s, but they were attentive. Attentive and, at the moment, quite agitated.
His cell was vibrating like mad in his trouser pocket. Over a dozen missed calls and who-knew-how-many texts. He hadn’t bothered to read them all, only the most recent one.
THE KING HAS BEEN NOTIFIED OF YOUR ABSENCE. HE IS CONCERNED YOU MAY BE IN HARM’S WAY.
He had to respond. It was one thing to shirk his royal responsibilities, but another matter entirely to let the palace think he’d been kidnapped. Especially his grandfather.
THE KING HAS BEEN NOTIFIED.
Those were the words that should have made him turn around and head straight back to Hotel de Russie. His entire life had revolved around duty. Duty to his country, duty to the throne. That throne, in essence, was his grandfather. He’d always done as his grandfather—his king—had expected. And he would continue to do so.
He had no choice. The future of the monarchy rested on his shoulders. The people of Lazaretto may have overlooked the indiscretions of his father, but they wouldn’t put up with another generation of misdeeds. Niccolo was the literal end of the La Torre line.
He knew perfectly well he couldn’t fight his fate. Forty-one days from now, he’d be splashing around in a pool for that absurd swimming exhibition. He knew that as surely as he knew that one day he’d be the one sitting on the throne...after he’d married one of the suitable women who’d been approved by the high court of Lazaretto. An entire team of people. As if this were the Stone Age.
Or ancient Rome.
But why was he thinking about marriage all of a sudden?
He couldn’t fight fate. He wasn’t trying to. He simply wanted to take a breather. A single morning. Although now that he’d gotten a taste of freedom, a morning seemed wholly inadequate. Aside from worrying about being discovered, he was enjoying himself. Quite a lot. Julia planned to show him the sights for the entire day, not just the morning. Did she not?
Out of the question. He couldn’t.
Could he?
No. But maybe until late afternoon. Perhaps his meeting with the foreign ministry could be pushed back a few hours. He was the crown prince, after all. He was surely capable of pulling a string or two. Just as surely as he deserved a few hours to himself. A break. A holiday, of sorts.
A holiday that was about to come to a screeching halt if the man in that plexiglass booth demanded Niccolo pay for a ticket. He didn’t have a dime in his pocket. He could only hope that the admission was included in the tour he’d supposedly signed on for.
“Hi there, Gio.” Julia greeted the attendant with a cheery smile. “How are you this morning?”
“Better, now that you’re here.” Gio leered at Julia in a way that gnawed at Niccolo’s insides.
He blamed that leer for the fact that his hand suddenly found its way to the small of Julia’s back as they stood at the kiosk.
She trembled at his touch, and that bare whisper of responsiveness was enough to make him go hard again. It was all he could do not to let his hand slip around her waist, hold his palm to her belly, and pull her against him, to press the swell of his arousal into her warmth.
“Um. Gio, this is Mr. Romano. My client,” she said, every inflection sending ripples of awareness through Niccolo’s fingertips.
“Good day,” Niccolo said. He reached to push the plastic hood away from his head, but his hand paused midair as his gaze zeroed in on the small television situated behind the loathsome Gio.
