Page 3 of Royally Roma
He was a prince, and she’d fed him nothing but cheap Chianti, bread, and a handful of olives for dinner for two nights running.
He was a prince, and he’d given her the first orgasm she’d ever had.
He was a prince.
And he was the biggest liar she’d ever met.
CHAPTER
TWO
Forty-eighthours earlier...
“The entire French swim team? He couldn’t choose just one world-class athlete for a naked romp? Or two, so he could make it a good, old-fashioned threesome?” Niccolo wadded the front page ofla Repubblicaand threw it on the pile of newspapers stacked on the table in front of him. Rubbish. Every last one of them.
His Royal Highness, Crown Prince of Lazaretto, Niccolo La Torre was many things—grandson of the king, heir to the throne, lord of the manor, duke of a few small territories. Sometimes he lost track of the royal titles. There were a lot. More than he could count on two hands. That’s rather how titles went. Once the first few were under one’s belt, they tended to accumulate. Multiply like rabbits. Until one day, it felt as though the entire Mediterranean was resting on your shoulders.
But of all his various roles, one was something of a standout as far as the grief it caused him. Every headache, every bout of insomnia, every clench of his jaw could be attributed to one position and one position only—older brother to Cassian La Torre. More often than not, that role weighed on him more than all the others combined.
“It was indeed the entire team, sir. Not just one. Or a... um... threesome, as you suggested.” Piero, Niccolo’s private secretary, frowned and dropped his gaze to the floor.
“I wasn’tsuggestingit. I was being sardonic.” Niccolo shook his head. Firmly. The last thing he needed was Piero, or anyone for that matter, thinking he was serious. “How many women are on a swim team anyway? Five? Six?”
Piero cleared his throat. “Thirteen, sir.”
“Thirteen?Please tell me you’re joking.” Thirteen. That seemed outrageously excessive, even for Cassian.
“It was the synchronized swim team, sir. A large number of swimmers are required for the formations and such.” Piero nodded with great authority. Niccolo wondered when he’d become an expert on the sport of synchronized swimming. Sometime over the course of the past eight hours, no doubt. It had been shortly before midnight when the story broke.
“I see.” Niccolo’s head began to pound, the throbbing concentrated in the area directly behind his left eye socket. He needed a cappuccino. Or perhaps a triple espresso. No, not coffee. Something stronger than coffee. Much, much stronger. “I’d like a Bloody Mary, please.”
Piero stared at him. “A Bloody Mary?”
“We’re at a bar, are we not?” Niccolo waved a hand at their quiet surroundings.
The Stravinskij Bar at the Hotel de Russie had long been one of the places to see and be seen in the Eternal City. On any given evening, Niccolo was merely another member of Rome’s glitterati seated under the umbrellas on the private piazza. Supermodels, movie stars, politicians, other royals, and the like all competed for attention. It was strange. He could blend in simply by way of being surrounded by celebrities who courted attention rather than shunning it, as he so often desired. Not that shunning attention was a viable option.
If Cassian was the oft-naked backside of the La Torre family, then Niccolo was the face of it. He was the PR man of the Lazaretto royals, the one who went from country to country shaking hands, cutting ribbons, supporting every charity under the sun and, more often than he cared to admit, cleaning up after his younger brother. Niccolo’s reward for being the reliable, responsible prince—the one who never set a foot wrong, the one who had never been at the center of a royal scandal—was that he typically worked more hours in a week than all the other La Torres combined. Oh, the irony.
Piero nodded. “Yes, this is indeed a bar, sir.”
A rather empty bar, given the early hour. It seemed the rest of the glitterati liked to sleep in.
“Piero,” Niccolo said, hoping to spur his secretary into some sort of action.
Piero cleared his throat. “A Bloody Mary, coming right up.”
“A big one, please.” He ignored the shocked expression on his employee’s face. Of course Piero was surprised. Niccolo never drank at this time of day. He rarely drank at all. Period.
Unless an activity was scheduled as part of his royal diary, it didn’t happen. Early morning alcohol wasn’t typically penciled in. Every moment of his life had been thoughtfully planned and scheduled since the day his father had announced plans to abdicate and Niccolo’s existence had begun to revolve around service to the crown. And it would be that way until the day he died.
“Perhaps I should make that two drinks,” he muttered to himself.
But before he could amend his order, Piero had returned, towering cocktail in hand. He was nothing if not efficient. “Here you go, sir.”
“Thank you.” Niccolo took a generous swallow and closed his eyes, hoping against hope that when he opened them he would find himself alone on the piazza.
No such luck.
