After the princess entered the elevator, headed to her waiting limousine, Nick enjoyed a rush of adrenaline as powerful as any he’d experienced on the battlefield. He couldn’t have arranged a more perfect setup! He’d leave Anne in Boston to mind the office, Roger could continue to pore over the historical documents on witchcraft they’d acquired the week before and he’d have all the privacy he ever wanted while he rummaged through the lower levels of San Rimini’s royal palace.
He slammed his fist into his hand and went to tell Anne and Roger his plans.
But a short twenty-four hours later, as Nick clanged his way up the metal stairs beside the princess’s private plane, he realized he didn’t have quite as much control of the situation as he’d imagined. When greeted not only by a uniformed pilot, but also by a bodyguard with the build of an NFL lineman and a well-armed San Riminian soldier, it hit him.
This woman is royalty. The real deal, protected 24-7. Important and very, very high-profile. And she’d just trapped him on her turf.
No matter what assurances the princess herself offered him, his privacy was no longer guaranteed.
The bodyguard strapped his large body into a seat beside the door, while the soldier took Nick’s bag, gestured toward the rear of the aircraft, then disappeared into the cockpit with the pilot. Nick ducked through the curtains and past a bathroom, realizing as he entered the sumptuous main cabin that he’d be alone with the princess in the small, curtained-off area.
So much for napping during the flight. A bad fall from his horse he’d suffered two days after meeting Rufina left him with lingering headaches—for which he took megadoses of aspirin—and had broken his nose. He wasn’t about to treat the princess to the oh-so-pleasant rumble of his snoring.
Isabella was already seated in one of the cabin’s rich leather seats, her seat belt secured, her long legs tucked under the chair with her ankles crossed. A polished mahogany table jutted out from the side of her seat, bearing a hardback copy of Volume One of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire and an empty crystal water glass.
She wore a simple jet-black pantsuit that made her soft amber-colored eyes and smooth olive skin appear even more luminous than they had in his office the previous day. Her long hair was pulled back into a loose bun, allowing a few chestnut-colored tendrils to slip forward to dance along her cheek. Though it was just past 9:00 p.m. and they had a long flight ahead of them, the princess looked so polished a photographer could pop in any moment for an official portrait and develop a winner.
She cradled a cell phone against her ear, but nodded at Nick as he passed by her to check out the stereo system and small television mounted along the aircraft’s rear wall. He hoped to give her a moment to wrap up her call before he took the empty seat across from hers, but the plane’s small interior didn’t allow much privacy.
From what Nick could overhear on her end of the quiet conversation, she was talking to her older brother, the recently widowed Prince Federico. Isabella sounded concerned about his children—who’d read them their bedtime story while she was gone, how they were dealing with the media invasion on the six-month anniversary of their mother’s death—and asked several times how Federico himself was holding up. Whatever the prince said, she didn’t seem to buy it, and it was no wonder, given the fact it was only 5:00 a.m. in San Rimini and the prince was awake to talk to her. Her forehead etched in concern, Princess Isabella reassured her brother in a soft, healing tone, then promised to check on her nephews as soon as she arrived. Her love of family echoed in every word. Nick tried to ignore the wave of envy he felt for Federico, having someone in his life who cared enough to check on him.
Once the conversation switched to talk of their father’s upcoming state visit to Poland, Nick gave up the illusion of privacy and slid into the leather seat across from the princess. When Isabella hung up the phone and discreetly blotted a tear from her eye, then welcomed him as warmly as if she and her brother had been chatting about nothing more serious than the weather, he realized the publicity the woman generated might be the least of his problems.
How many years had it been since he’d been alone with any woman besides Anne? Never mind a beautiful San Riminian woman with a heart of gold, in a plush jet with a full bar and a nine-hour flight ahead of them.
Nick tore his gaze away from her, turning his focus to the activity in the nearby concourse. Several people inside seemed to have noticed the royal family’s insignia painted on the side of the plane and were staring in fascination out the large windows.
“This is the first time I’ve been to Logan Airport since I graduated from Harvard,” the princess commented. “So much has changed. I have to admit, being here makes me a bit emotional. I promise to perk up once we’re airborne.”
Other than the increase in airport security, the only thing he could remember changing in Boston over the years since she would have graduated was the amount of road construction. He doubted the Big Dig caused that kind of reaction in a woman. Before he could ask what bothered her, she unbuckled her belt and crossed to the aircraft’s wet bar, tucked into the wood paneling along the side of the cabin. “May I offer you a drink before takeoff?”
“I don’t expect you to serve me, Your Highness. Please, allow me.”
He started to rise from his chair, but the princess waved him off. “I’m getting myself a tonic water anyway. No sense in both of us getting up. What would you like?”
“Tonic water’s good, but I take mine with gin. Thanks.”
He watched her pour the clear liquid into a crystal glass, amazed that she flew without a flight attendant to serve her, as most of the world’s rich and famous did. Princess Isabella diTalora was unlike any royal he’d ever encountered, and he’d known several over his 800-plus years.
She returned with the drinks just as the pilot pushed through the curtains to the main cabin, asking the princess if she was ready to depart. The uniformed gentleman checked to make sure the bar items were locked down and their bags were properly stowed, reminded them to keep their belts fastened, then bowed to the princess and returned to the cockpit.
Isabella took her seat, then grabbed a thick paperback from the pouch on the side of her seat and began reading.
“What, you’re not interested in Julius Caesar?” He shot a pointed glance at the tome on the table beside her.
She looked at him over the top of her paperback. “I’m quite interested. I’m rereading it, as a matter of fact. But,” she raised her paperback to show him the title, The Future of Independent Film, “I’m the master of ceremonies of the Venice Film Festival later this summer, and I want to have an understanding of the industry beforehand.” She cocked an eyebrow toward the hardback book. “Caesar will have to wait.”
He couldn’t hold back a laugh. A celebrity host who actually prepared for the event? “Don’t you ever read anything for fun? Mystery or romance, perhaps?”
She smiled in return, revealing a row of even white teeth behind her alluringly full lips. “Who says the Roman Empire isn’t fun? Plenty of mystery and romance there.”
“I suppose.” Clearly the princess had no idea how to kick back and relax, despite being surrounded by luxury. If he was in her position, he’d certainly know how to make the most of it. To his irritation, he found himself wishing he could show her how, though he shouldn’t be the least bit concerned about Her Highness’s personal affairs. He had a mission to complete and a witch to find. Getting personal with anyone, let alone the untouchable Princess Isabella, had to wait until his curse was broken and he could socialize without fear.
He took a long swallow of his gin and tonic, then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Unbidden, images of the two of them enjoying a night on the town leaped into his mind. He would take her on a picnic instead of hitting one of those fancy restaurants he suspected she frequented with her high-class pals. Maybe serve her barbeque, get a little sauce on her face. Make her wear jeans. Then watch her reaction.
He opened his eyes and finished off the drink, wishing the liquid could wash away his foolish daydreams. He had to break his curse. Had to. How many more years could he go on enduring minimal human contact before he slowly went insane? Ten? fifty? Two hundred and fifty? Times like this, just relaxing in the company of another human being, made him realize just how alone he was in the world. Worse, when he allowed his mind to wander down the path to self-pity, it tempted him to tell his tale, if only so he’d have another person to talk to, despite the likely consequence of being paraded around like a freak, or worse, poked at by scientists, afterward.
“So what do you read?”
The unexpected question threw him. The princess actually cared what he read? Or was she just making small talk?
He straightened in his seat and scrambled for an answer. “A little bit of everything, I suppose.” Though lately, his obsession with finding Rufina meant he’d read little more than texts on witchcraft and the few San Riminian scholarly papers he could get his hands on.
“Mystery and romance?” she prodded, a teasing grin on her face.
“Well, mystery.”
“But no romance?” She took a sip of her water, then glanced out the window as the aircraft accelerated down the runway. “I hope this isn’t too personal a question, but I hope you’re aren’t being forced to leave a loved one behind while you take this job. If you like, I can arrange—”
He rolled his empty glass in his palm. “Not necessary.”
Her tone remained the same, but he could tell from her eyes that she was surprised by his response. “You don’t want your family to be with you? Since you’ll be in San Rimini for several months, I’d be more than happy to fly them over.”
“Thank you for the offer, but again, it’s not necessary.”
The skin between her eyes folded in concern. “All right. But let me know if you reconsider. I have trouble being away from my family for a few days, let alone a few months. I don’t know how you do it.”
“I have no family,” he finally admitted.
Even all these years later, he still missed them. Watching his parents age and pass away had been one thing, but most devastating had been the loss of his wife, Coletta.
A few years after his encounter with Rufina, when he returned from the Third Crusade, it dawned on Nick that his wife was beginning to age, yet he wasn’t. When combined with the fact he’d survived what should have been a fatal fall from his horse, he started to believe Rufina’s curse. One evening, after Coletta made a half-serious joke about how she’d gotten her first gray hair before him, despite the fact he was eight years older, he confessed the secret of his longevity. After a long night’s discussion, he suggested they move somewhere remote, where no one would question their apparent age difference, which now appeared the opposite of their real age difference.
Coletta was doubtful of his story but agreed, fearful she’d be accused of witchcraft herself should she continue to age while Nick remained young. As they came to accept the realities of his curse, however, Coletta grew cold and distant. She already resented Nick for spending so much time away from San Rimini on errands for the king, and blamed his long absences for her failure to conceive a child while she was young. Ultimately she refused to share Nick’s bed. Nick tried to convince her otherwise, before she was too old to bear children at all, but she wasted away before his eyes and eventually succumbed to an early death.
Unfortunately, by the time he pulled himself together, Rufina was long gone from the forest where he’d seen her. No one knew of her whereabouts, or even wanted to speak of the red-haired witch. So he’d spent years trying to sacrifice as Rufina told him he must, working in hospitals, donating his earnings from mercenary work to the poor, even giving up the sword and entering a monastery for a time, in an all-out effort to break the curse. But nothing had worked.
Now, more than eight hundred years later, he still found himself fighting his need for human contact and his need for a family. What he wouldn’t give to be in the princess’s position. Not to be titled or to enjoy her wealth, as he’d desired during his youth, but for the chance to live out the rest of his life surrounded by people who knew and cared for him, maybe even enjoying the love of a wife and children.
He hung on to the hope that the same modern technology threatening to expose him might also help him find Rufina, assuming she still moved about the world as he did.
“I’m so sorry about your family,” the princess apologized, her smooth voice filled with the same tenderness she’d offered Prince Federico. “I didn’t realize.”
He flashed her a grin meant to reassure, the same look he’d used to dismiss anyone who’d asked about his family over the years. “No need to be sorry,” he replied. “I just don’t have one. No big deal.”
As if sensing she’d stepped into dangerous territory, the princess merely nodded, then returned her attention to her book.
The plane leveled out, and Nick took the opportunity to tilt back his chair and close his eyes. Being caged with the princess for nine hours would make him loose with his tongue and his emotions if he wasn’t careful.
Much safer for Her Highness to hear him snore.
Isabella fought back a yawn as the plane slowed to a stop on the main runway at San Rimini’s national airport, only four miles from the palace. If she planned carefully, maybe she could squeeze in a nap during the afternoon.
Despite the smooth overnight flight, she hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep. Too many problems swirled through her mind to allow for rest, between worrying about her nephews, planning what she’d say to the museum board about her impromptu arrangement with Nick and mentally rehearsing the speech she had planned for the Red Cross benefit at the palace later that evening.
But even if her thoughts hadn’t been occupied, as usual, with her work and her family, she wouldn’t have slept. How could she, with a devastatingly handsome man snoozing away right in front of her?
Even if he did snore.
The plane gave a small jolt as the pilot cut the engine. Isabella sighed, then tucked her book back into her bag.
“Thanks for allowing me to join you for the flight, Your Highness.” Nick blinked the sleep out of his eyes and took a quick look out the window as the ground crew pushed a set of metal boarding stairs toward the door. “Much better than going commercial. Lots of leg room and cushy chairs.”
Nick stretched his legs across the space between them as if to emphasize his point, then unbuckled his belt, rose and took both his and the princess’s bags from the bodyguard before the burly man went to ready the door for their arrival.
Isabella squinted against the bright Mediterranean sunlight streaming into the cabin and gestured to her leather overnighter. “I can carry my own bag. And you don’t need to call me ‘Your Highness’ all the time. If we’re alone, please feel free to call me by my first name. We’ll be spending quite a bit of time together over the next few months, and the formality would feel awkward.”
“The bag’s no problem.” Nick shoved her bag higher onto his shoulder to make his point. The soldier indicated that it was clear for them to exit, so Nick waved her toward the stairs.
Fine. She’d let him take the bag. Before taking a step, however, she leveled her most intimidating stare at Nick. “And the ‘Your Highness’ bit?”
“Lead the way, Princess.”
Laughter bubbled out of her, making her feel like a flirty schoolgirl. Clearly the stern look she used on her brothers meant nothing to this man. He’d fire off a shot without a care, unlike most people, who seemed to shy away from witty conversation with her, afraid she might take the slightest jab the wrong way. She admired him for it. Besides, how many times had she asked someone to call her Isabella, only to have them nod and agree, then continue to call her by her formal title? Or worse, introduce her as ‘Her Serene Highness, Princess Isabella Violetta Maria diTalora of San Rimini’?
Even the most decorated racehorses had less pretentious names. If Nick refused to call her Isabella, then she could live with simply being called Princess.
As they clattered down the heavy metal stairs, she used one hand to keep the wind from blowing her hair and the other to point out the royal palace, which sat atop a hill in the center of the sprawling town. “That’s where we’re headed.”
She turned to Nick once her heels hit the tarmac. “San Rimini is quite beautiful. Since we’re wedged between Italy and the Balkans, we boast some of the world’s best beaches, and of course there are the casinos. We flew in over Venice and the northernmost part of the Adriatic just before we landed. It’s quite a sight. I thought about waking you but wasn’t sure you’d want to be disturbed.”
You were too chicken to wake him, her mind teased. And you’re babbling like an insecure tour guide now. What in the world was wrong with her? Social situations never fazed her; she could talk to anyone from the president of the United States to the most humble San Riminian nun without discomfort. So why did Nick’s mere presence make her act as if she’d had one too many glasses of champagne at a dinner party?
He stopped walking for a heartbeat and stared past her, toward the palace. A vertical crease formed between his eyes, then vanished. “That’s all right. I’ve been here before.”
“Really?” she asked once he continued walking, then immediately felt like an idiot, realizing that as an expert on San Rimini, of course he’d have visited the country. “Have a favorite casino?”
He shook his head. “It’s been a while since my last visit. Didn’t do much gambling then.”
Who visited San Rimini without hitting at least one casino, even if they were in the country on business? “I highly recommend the Casino Campione. They have rooms set aside for private play. I can arrange one, if you wish. My brother Stefano might even join you. He’s always looking for someone new to share his blackjack table.” She tried not to smile as she thought of the private room her brother, Prince Stefano, favored. It was there he’d met his fiancée, Amanda.
“Perhaps I’ll check it out.”
Nick took a stutter step so suddenly he was behind her, walking alongside the soldier who accompanied her on all her flights. She looked back, then realized what the problem was before she had to ask.
Cameras.
Funny, she’d never paid attention to the paparazzi who lined up just off the tarmac whenever the royal plane landed. They seemed almost a part of the airport to her. But Nick obviously noticed, and he’d moved so he’d be out of any photographs, his face blocked by the soldier’s body.
So much for her suggestion he visit the Casino Campione. The man didn’t just shirk publicity, he was downright paranoid about it.
Her limo driver took the bags from Nick, then helped her into the waiting vehicle. Nick strode past her bodyguard and ducked into the other side of the limo, opening the door himself instead of waiting for the driver.
While the driver paused beside his door to discuss logistics with the bodyguard, Isabella turned to Nick. “There are two options for your accommodations. My secretary has a suite set aside for you at the San Rimini Ritz-Carlton. It’s only two blocks from the palace and a short walk to the Strada il Teatro, our main thoroughfare, if you’d like to shop or sightsee. Room service is naturally included, but if you’d prefer, there are several restaurants in the hotel or the surrounding area—”
Nick held up a hand. “What’s the second option?”
Why wasn’t she surprised? She took a deep breath, figuring out how best to explain the accommodations. “After meeting you in person, I suspected you wouldn’t be comfortable at the Ritz. The second option was arranged just yesterday, so I’m afraid it isn’t quite so lavish.”
“I don’t think anything is ‘quite so lavish’ as the Ritz, short of staying at the palace itself,” he joked, though there was an undercurrent of tension in his voice as he continued to eye the paparazzi through the limousine’s tinted windows.
“You might be surprised.”
He stopped studying the paparazzi long enough to give her a quizzical look.
“As I mentioned earlier, the royal family’s collection is stored in rooms below the palace. The entrance is in the oldest section of the building, dating back to the late ninth century. It was originally built as a keep to protect the city, but after the Crusades, when politics stabilized, later kings expanded it to create what’s now the San Rimini Royal Palace.”
He shot her a cocky grin. “I’m familiar.”
She felt a blush creep across her cheeks. She’d grown so accustomed to detailing the palace’s history to visiting dignitaries, she kept forgetting Nick knew as much or more than she did. “Anyway, some of the rooms in the former keep were refurbished as guest suites in the 1960s. They aren’t exactly posh, but you will have privacy. If you stayed there, you wouldn’t have to go through security every day, and you’d have access to the collection whenever you wanted, day or night, without interruption. Now, there are more luxurious areas of the palace, where we usually house guests. I’d be happy to move you there, but—”
“The keep is fine.”
She tilted her head. “If you’re sure. As I said, the rooms in the guest wing of the main palace are better appointed. But they’re situated between the family’s private apartments and the public areas, so you wouldn’t have the same level of privacy.” She had to offer him one more chance at the usual guest suites, even if she knew in her gut what choice he’d make. It would feel inhospitable not to.
“So long as I have a bed and a shower, I’d prefer the quieter room.”
They pulled out of the airport and away from the cameras, turning onto the road that led toward the royal palace. As they did so, Nick visibly relaxed. She was tempted to say something about the paparazzi, but held her tongue. Instead, she leaned forward and slid open the window separating the driver from the passengers and spoke in quick San Riminian-accented Italian, instructing her driver to proceed directly to the palace, that the stop at the Ritz would no longer be necessary. After sliding the window closed again, she turned back to Nick. “The suites aren’t so sparse they lack for plumbing.”
“Then I’ll be just fine. I’m sure I’ve dealt with worse.” A dimple appeared in his left cheek, and Isabella had to force herself not to stare. Dimples like her father’s always appealed to her in a man, and the last thing she wanted was to find any man appealing.
“Besides,” he continued, “I certainly can’t complain about having round-the-clock access to the collection. If I get an idea in my head in the middle of the night, I like to be able to run with it.”
“And that,” she replied with a smile, “makes me glad I hired you. But if you do change your mind about the accommodations, let my secretary know and she’ll make the switch.”
The limo began to wind its way along San Rimini’s picturesque cobblestone side streets toward the royal palace, so Isabella pointed out a few of the sights. Nick seemed only superficially interested, so she gave up after showing him the Duomo and a couple of her favorite bookstores and restaurants.
After a few moments of silence, Nick asked, “So, when will I be able to view the collection?”
She sensed he hadn’t heard a word she said about the sights. Given his reason for coming to San Rimini, it was just as well. “Today, if you’d like.”
“Absolutely.”
It’d mean missing out on a nap, but if she got him started today, Isabella figured she’d have more free time to spend with her nephews tomorrow. Besides, the sooner Nick started sorting and cataloguing the collection, the greater the chance she’d have the museum expansion ready to open in time for the country’s thousand-year independence celebration, only six months away. Her father would be thrilled to see his beloved wife’s dream come true, though Queen Aletta was no longer alive to share in it.
“My secretary will be waiting to show you to your rooms when we arrive at the palace. You’ll have a few hours to get settled, have something to eat, or take a nap if you like. I’m afraid I have another engagement and won’t be able to show you the storage areas until around four.”
He didn’t hide his surprise. “You’ll be showing me the rooms yourself? I have to admit, Your Highness—”
“Please, Isabella. Or Princess, if you can’t manage to call me by my first name.”
He held his palms out. “I have to admit, Princess,” he emphasized the title, “that I’m still surprised that you came to see me personally, and that you’ve gone to so much trouble over my housing arrangements. To take even more time out of your schedule is unnecessary.”
She reached into her purse, which had fallen over on the limo’s plush seat, and double-checked her list of appointments for the day. “You wouldn’t have taken the job if I hadn’t come personally. I learned that the first time my assistant tried to book an appointment through your secretary.”
“True.”
“And I did say you’d be reporting to me, instead of to the museum’s board, so it’s only natural I should be the one to show you through the storage area. Besides, I’m the only one in the whole palace who can find my way around in there. Most of the crates have been untouched for decades. Centuries, even.” She folded the page and slid it back into her purse. “I’ll only have about a half hour, but it should be enough to get you situated.”
As the palace’s wrought-iron gates came into view, she took a deep, contented breath. Nick perked up in the seat, stretching his body so he could get a better look. Though Isabella’s royal duties frequently called her away from San Rimini, she never did get used to spending time in hotel rooms. Her own home, where she could sleep in the same room she’d had since childhood, knowing her family surrounded her, meant everything to her.
As the limousine slowed and the driver waved to the guard at the gate, Isabella’s thoughts turned to her brother and nephews. Federico had changed in the months since losing his wife. He’d always been quiet and contemplative, at least compared to her other brothers, the ambitious Crown Prince Antony and her fun-loving younger brother, Prince Stefano. But now Federico seemed completely withdrawn and unwilling to discuss his feelings, even with her. His suffering went beyond mourning for his wife, she suspected, and she wondered if her nephews sensed the change in their father. Then again, their own emotions were still raw.
She had no clue what to do about the situation. If anything even could be done.
“Princess?”
“Yes?” She focused once more on Nick. He sat back in his seat and studied her as if he’d read every thought that passed through her mind.
One eyebrow quirked up. “You must be pretty happy to be home. You didn’t answer my question.”
She plastered a smile onto her face. “I’m sorry. A bit sleepy, I suppose.”
“I just asked where we should meet.” She must have looked confused, because he added, “If you’re too tired from the trip, the storage rooms can wait until tomorrow.”
He said all the right things, the polite things, but his hands stilled against the seat cushion, in the same manner he’d pressed his hands on the granite tabletop to still them while they’d discussed employment terms back in his Boston office. And as the limousine pulled alongside the oldest wing of the palace, the section where Nick would be staying, she saw his gaze flick toward the keep’s massive stone walls. An emotion—recognition?—passed over his face, then disappeared. Strange, since tourists were never brought to this part of the palace and, to her knowledge, he’d never been a guest here.
This man definitely piqued her curiosity.
“I’ll come to your room at 4:00 p.m., sharp.”