Page 7 of Royally Roma
Waves of chocolate-colored hair were piled haphazardly on her head and big brown doe eyes peered from beneath the fringe. Her mouth was painted bright red. As bright as a ruby red apple.
Temptation.
Something in Niccolo stirred. Something dark and primal. She was pretty. Very pretty. Different, in a way that he didn’t often encounter. Had never encountered, if he was being honest.
Then his gaze drifted lower, to the small notebook in her hands.A reporter. Marvelous.
The throbbing in Niccolo’s temples kicked up a notch. His hands balled into fists as he watched her glance around, searching for something, someone. Then she spotted him and her cherry red lips curved into a smile.
That mouth.
She made a beeline in his direction. He had to give her credit for her boldness. She walked right up to his table. For once, Piero wasn’t there to serve as a buffer. It was just the two of them, as if they were ordinary people. As if he weren’t sitting there wearing an invisible crown.
Her lips pursed slightly, and Niccolo was almost grateful for the intrusion. Because there was nothing ordinary about that mouth. Nothing whatsoever.
“Buongiorno.” Despite the Italian greeting, she sounded very American. Which was the likely explanation for her boldness. She extended her hand.
Niccolo stared at it. He couldn’t recall a reporter ever attempting to shake his hand. It was a move as against royal protocol as it could be. As if she’d plopped right down on his lap. Something tightened inside him at the idea of the latter prospect and for that he blamed the liquor. And possibly those full red lips of hers.
He cleared his throat and dropped his gaze from her mouth to her hand, hanging in the air in its black-nail-polished glory, waiting for him to take hold of it.
Against his better judgment, he did. “Good morning.”
She smiled a full-wattage grin. He’d somehow gotten caught in the cross hairs of the bubbliest reporter this side of the Mediterranean. “I’m surprised you’re already here. I’m a bit early.”
Try four hours early.Hadn’t Piero said the press briefing was scheduled for eleven forty-five? “This is most out of the ordinary. I’m not talking to anyone right now. I’m sure you understand.”
She blinked impassively at him. Unfazed. Whowasthis woman? “Funny. I could have sworn you just saidgood morning.”
Niccolo frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“That was a joke.” She shrugged, and his gaze was once again drawn to her backpack, straining at the seams. What in the world was she carrying around in there? “If you don’t feel like talking, fine. Although it might prove a little awkward if we’re spending the entire day together.”
Niccolo’s gaze narrowed. “Theentireday?”
Had Piero left something out of his recitation of the schedule? Was he to be accompanied by a reporter from sunup to sundown? Surely not. Although he could think of less tantalizing forms of torture than traversing the Eternal City with the woman standing before him.
But what was he thinking? She was a commoner. Worse, a reporter. “I think there’s been some mistake, Miss, ahhh...”
“Costa. Julia Costa.” She reached beneath layer upon layer of the wispy scarf around her neck, fished out an identification tag, and waved it in his direction.
Niccolo took a glance.JULIA COSTA, PRIVATE GUIDEwas printed in bold black letters right above the wordsWHEN IN ROME TOURING COMPANY. So she wasn’t a reporter after all. She was a tour guide. And for some reason she seemed to think he was her client.
Did she really not know who he was?
She flipped open her notebook and consulted something scribbled on one of its pages. “I have you down for the entire day. It says so right here. You might want to rethink your vow of silence. Otherwise, I’ll end up talking you to death.”
Niccolo supposed there were worse ways to go than anything involving that crimson mouth of hers. “Refresh my memory. Where are you taking me today?”
The question had flown right out of him before he could stop it.
“I usually suggest starting with the Colosseum. But this is on your dime, so we can go wherever your heart desires.” She shrugged again.
Wherever my heart desires.
Didn’t that sound far better than the Roman Auto Works, an organic garden, and an orphanage? Not that Niccolo had anything against pesticide-free vegetables. Or orphans, for that matter.
He took another look at her. A good, long one. She looked right back at him, directly in his eyes. As if the two of them were equals. As if, with the utterance of just the right words, he might fall to his knees rather than the other way around.
