Manolo Blahnik shoes dazzled the eye, Princess Isabella decided as she made her way out of the Imperial Ballroom just after 1:00 a.m., but they were never designed to be worn all night—let alone by a teetering woman approaching thirty-six hours without sleep. For at least the fourth or fifth time that evening, she inwardly cursed the fact that San Riminians favored style over comfort, and expected her to do so, as well.
She stopped at the foot of the stairs to pose for one last publicity photo with the Director of the San Riminian Red Cross, beaming for the camera despite the fact her feet ached. If a simple picture of her in the newspaper gained one iota more attention for the organization, she could handle the extra minute’s discomfort.
Once safely free of the Director and the palace’s public areas she stifled a yawn, then stopped walking and put her hand against a glass display case for support. She stared down the long, oak-paneled hallway leading past her brother Antony’s apartments toward her own. Some days, the sheer size of the palace overwhelmed her. She may as well run the Boston Marathon as try to get to her room.
Making certain she was alone, she slipped off her strappy silver heels and hooked them over her wrist. Not wearing the shoes forced her to hike up her long dress to keep from tripping, but at least her feet no longer chafed.
And since her next appointment wasn’t until 8:00 a.m., she could finally put her feet up and enjoy a few blissful hours of sleep in her own soft, warm bed.
She smiled to herself as she thought about tucking in her nephews, Prince Federico’s four-year-old Arturo and two-year-old Paolo. While the guests enjoyed dinner, and before she needed to give her speech, she’d managed to duck out of the ballroom just long enough to read the boys a new bedtime story, one she’d purchased for them while in the United States. The little princes had been thrilled with her quick visit, but she could tell the death of their mother still weighed heavily on them, particularly on Arturo.
Fortunately, the media had given the boys some latitude since their mother’s unexpected death from an undiagnosed aneurysm, but the reporters picked at Federico like starving dogs who’d discovered a meaty chicken bone. Four separate men with notepads at the ready asked her about Federico during the evening’s benefit dinner. She’d given them nonspecific answers about Federico still being shocked and saddened, as any husband would be after losing his young wife, but in reality, she sensed there was more to Federico’s dark mood than mourning Lucrezia. Too many months had passed to explain his melancholy mood.
She waved to the guard outside her palace apartments, who thankfully didn’t notice she wore her shoes over her wrist, then pushed open the thick oak door with a sigh. Federico was a grown man. He’d find a way to cope, and she’d made it clear she’d be there for him once he was ready to talk. The sooner he did, the better it would be for the boys.
And the sooner he’d be able to attend royal functions with her again. Now that Prince Antony was married, he tended to focus on his wife during royal dinners and balls. Prince Stefano had only recently started attending formal events, avoiding them like the plague until his fiancée Amanda encouraged him to take a more active role in palace life. However, like Antony, he tended to focus on the woman by his side.
Still, even when Lucrezia was alive, Federico kept close to Isabella at formal events, not only to keep her company, but also to run interference for her when anyone tried to monopolize her time. He’d have been a lifesaver tonight, when she’d been unable to politely shake a young Italian banker who’d asked her for an unseemly third dance.
Thank goodness the lanky man asked her to dance near the windows, which opened onto the garden. Otherwise, his nervous perspiration might have stained her dress where his palms encircled her waist.
Attempting to push the unpleasant thought from her mind, Isabella set her too-tight designer shoes on the appropriate rack in her antique armoire, resolving to auction them off for charity. Custom-made Manolo Blahniks were less pricey in San Rimini than in the United States, where a pair like these would cost nearly a thousand dollars, but they were still expensive enough and trendy enough to be coveted. And the crowd who frequented palace events could afford it.
She ignored the fancy nightgown her maid left out for her. Instead, she pulled a soft cotton one from her armoire and laid it on the bed, half-wondering if she’d have the strength to change out of her Valentino gown. There’d be no reviewing her notes for the elementary school “how you can help charity” speech tonight; she’d have to refresh her memory about her discussion with Father Dario during the limousine ride to the school. Keeping the banker at arm’s length tonight tapped out the last reserves of her energy.
She flopped on her bed next to the nightgown, closing her eyes against the image of her overeager dance partner, but found another image, more powerful and sensuous, leaping unbidden into her sleepy mind.
Nick Black, with his arms encircling her waist, spinning her around the dance floor of the Imperial Ballroom. But unlike the banker, Nick moved with ease, whispering in her ear, caressing her back with his strong hands, seducing her with his mysterious ways. And he certainly didn’t leave sweat stains on her dress. In fact, he sent her into a nervous sweat as he looked at her with barely contained desire in his eyes, just as he had when he’d had his arms around her, holding the sword that afternoon in the storage room….
Isabella’s eyes flew open in alarm. The storage room!
She’d promised Nerina she’d have the chart of the stalls to Nick by morning. And given the direction her thoughts wandered, she’d be far better off slipping the chart onto his desk tonight, rather than facing him in the morning. Tearing herself from the inviting softness of the bed, she fished a pair of slippers out of her armoire, then spent a few minutes searching her sitting room for the chart before locating it next to the plush velvet armchair where she’d last studied it. Tucking it under her arm, she stepped out of her apartments into the darkened palace hall.
The smell of dust and aged parchment emanated from the crate as Nick pried the last nail loose, then lifted the planked lid off the crate and rested it against the stone wall. Inside, hundreds of scrolls in varying shades of yellow lay in neat stacks.
“Please, be in here,” Nick murmured to the cold room, then knocked on the side of the wooden crate for luck. Somewhere, somehow, there had to be a record of Rufina’s life—had she left the country? Had she lived as long as he had? At least he hoped so.
For the past seven hours, he’d pried open crate after crate, his efforts leaving the storage area in a dusty haze. He climbed atop the desk and cracked the window open to let in the fresh air of the gardens, but soon strains of music and laughter floated to his ears.
He knew the palace well enough to guess the sounds came from the Imperial Ballroom, though that particular room hadn’t existed during King Bernardo’s time. Even so, the tenor of palace parties remained the same. He couldn’t help but imagine the clinking champagne glasses, the intimate conversations and the laughter of couples young and old as they circled around the dance floor under gold-and crystal-laden chandeliers without a care in the world.
He’d met Coletta at such a function, soon after she’d been taken on as a handmaiden to the queen. Though the drink was wine instead of champagne, and they’d shared a lead cup instead of toasting with crystal flutes, the emotion had been the same as what filtered through the palace tonight. The carefree laughter of high-spirited dancers, the whispered promises of young love, and excitement at being invited into the royal circle, which brought with it a sense of belonging. Even after he and Coletta married, she’d continued her service at the palace, spending months at a time at the palace with the queen while he fought abroad for San Rimini, then warming his bed at their village home during the all-too-brief times of peace.
Until the curse. And their break from everything they loved about life, both at the palace and in their small village.
He’d learned long ago to stamp down his need to socialize, but hearing the celebration in the main palace progress while he sorted through ancient scrolls and ledgers weakened his resolve. Thankfully, over the last hour the music had drifted off and the sounds of couples strolling past the window, sharing kisses and sweet nothings as they savored the privacy of the palace gardens, finally ceased. Focusing on the task at hand, he turned to another stack of crates, trying to decide which to open first and which to leave for later, when he’d cleared more space.
He picked up his crowbar, but the sound of the storeroom door scraping along the floor stopped him. He checked his watch, which was still on Boston time, and did a quick calculation. Who could be in the keep at this hour, let alone in the usually locked storeroom? Setting the crowbar on a nearby crate, he strode toward the entrance, skirting the central area with its jumble of artifacts, rolled-up tapestries and antique furniture.
When the door came into view, he froze.
Isabella diTalora stood beside his desk, her lithe body highlighted to perfection by a luminous silver gown. She’d turned on the passageway’s light as she’d descended the narrow steps, and with that light now behind her, the wisps of chestnut hair escaping from her elegant upswept style gave the impression of an angel’s halo surrounding her head.
The woman looked as if she’d descended straight from heaven. Despite the chill in the room, Nick’s blood turned white-hot in his veins. He curled his fingers around the edge of a centuries-old cathedral pew and prayed for strength.
Never before had redemption felt so close, yet so out of reach. He sucked in a lungful of air, trying to stifle the wave of loneliness that swept through him. If only Rufina could see him now, she’d realize how he suffered.
Just be quiet until she leaves, his brain said.
“You look like you’ve been out having fun,” his big mouth said.
Isabella jumped and spun to face him, the motion causing her dress to shimmer in the half-light. Her hand instantly went to her breast, above which dangled a priceless diamond necklace. “Nick! You scared me to death!”
“I’m sorry. I did warn you that I like to work at all hours.” He walked closer, knowing he should have kept silent, but controlled by the pull he’d felt since their first meeting. He gestured to the dress and the diamonds encircling her throat. “Been to a party?”
“A benefit dinner.”
“Must have had a good time, if you’re just finishing up now.” For a moment, he wondered if her voice had been among the dozens he’d heard emanating from the garden. Had she met a clandestine lover under the rose arbor? Flirted with a young aristocrat in the moonlight? Despite her obvious sex appeal, for some reason, he doubted it. The princess didn’t seem the type to engage in secret rendezvous.
Isabella leaned back against the desk, her toes poking out from under her dress to reveal moccasin-style slippers. “It was a successful event,” she finally answered, then covered her mouth to hide a yawn. “We raised over half a million San Riminian draema for the Red Cross. They’ll use the money from tonight’s dinner to further their work in the Balkans.”
Nope. Definitely no tête-à-tête in the garden for the princess tonight.
“Don’t get too excited, Your Highness,” he joked. He could tell the Red Cross’s mission meant a great deal to her, but her eyes lacked the spark he’d seen when she’d spoken of her mother’s museum project. Or Federico’s children. If she’d spent the night flirting with a lover, he’d have seen it in her eyes.
She let out a small laugh. “No matter how glittery and exciting these events might seem, they run together in my head after awhile. I know the causes are important, and that my presence can make a great difference to an organization in need of funds, but for the last year or two, I’ve gone through them on autopilot. I show up, I say something meaningful, I shake all the right hands, then run back to my secretary so I can gear up for the next one.” Her words came out accented, spoken like most San Riminians who’d learned English as a second language, as opposed to the near-perfect American English she usually used.
She gasped, then put a hand to her lips. “I can’t believe I just said that. Please, please, forget what I said. I’m overtired.”
He frowned. “Have you slept since we arrived back?”
She shook her head.
“What about on the flight? I know I was out like a light.”
She shifted her rear on the desk. “No, not really.”
“Then why in the world are you down here?” He jabbed a finger toward the door. “Go to bed, Your Highness!” Not that he wanted her to leave, but if ever a person needed a vacation, even for a few hours, it was Isabella diTalora. Besides, he needed to stop staring at her in that dress, and he found it physically impossible while she was in the room.
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “And here I thought I’d gotten you to Princess.”
He laughed aloud. She might be tired, but she still had her wit. “Fine. Go to bed, Princess.”
“I will. But to answer your question,” she twisted on the desk, indicating a rolled-up piece of paper he hadn’t noticed, “I brought you the chart you’d asked Nerina about.”
“Couldn’t wait until morning?”
Her shoulders, bare except for two spaghetti-thin silver straps, lifted a notch. “I have an engagement in the morning. I was afraid I might not make it down here until later.” She raised her shapely rear from the desk, but kept her eyes averted from his. Tilting her head toward the back of the room, she asked, “Have you found anything else exciting? Besides the sword, I mean?”
Yes, you. “I’m still getting the lay of the land.”
She finally lifted her gaze to his, all business once again. “Well, then, the chart should help. I might not be down here for a few days, so if you need anything as you get started, please let Nerina know. If there’s anything that needs to be relayed to the museum board—”
“Why do you do it?”
She blinked. “Do what?”
“All of it.” He swept a hand in the direction of the main palace. “You haven’t slept in I don’t know how long, you bust your tail raising money for charitable causes, then schedule some engagement for bright and early tomorrow morning despite knowing that you’d have had an overnight flight the day before. You personally decide to oversee my work, though you could have appointed someone else and made life a lot easier on yourself. And on top of all that, you seem to be the official palace mother hen, watching over everyone in this household to make sure they’re happy. Why do you do it?”
She stared at him in silence. He thought for a moment she’d walk out, incensed at his forthright—and probably disrespectful—analysis of her personality. But then something softened in her gaze. “I do it because I can. And because I want to.”
She shook her head slowly, causing a few tendrils of hair to fall against her nape. “You know, most little girls dream of becoming a princess. They dress up and pretend that it’s all parties and chivalrous knights coming to sweep them away. Reality is different. Being a princess in today’s world brings with it a lot of responsibility. People rely on you, people you love. And even if your feet ache and you can barely hold your head up you’re so exhausted, something in here,” she tapped her chest, “makes you go on. Because you know that what you do makes a difference for hundreds, maybe even thousands, of those people.”
“But you can’t help them if you’re so tired you can barely stand,” he argued.
“If you love someone with all your heart, you won’t let them down. No matter how tired you are, no matter what personal sacrifices you might have to make. And I love my country and my family with all my heart.” Her face lit up as she spoke, and again she reminded him of an angel, with her shimmering silver gown trailing to the floor. “I can’t help it.”
Before he could think better of it, he reached out to her, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. For a woman who spent so much time traveling the world, meeting dignitaries and hobnobbing with the upper crust, she possessed a purity of spirit that surprised him. She’d been quick to put him in his place when she’d visited his office, so he knew she had a sharp mind and the ability to assess a situation and adapt. And she’d read him well enough at their very first meeting to entice him into coming to San Rimini, despite his initial misgivings.
But despite her intellect, and despite her uncanny ability to understand people’s basic nature, she still believed she could change the world.
“Life is short,” he said, his voice coming out in a whisper. “You are so beautiful, so intelligent. And you give to so many people. Don’t forget to take time for yourself.”
He allowed his fingers to trail down her cheek. She stood immobile, her soft brown eyes allowing him to see into her soul. He understood her need to give to others. He’d fought dozens of battles and given himself without question to King Bernardo’s service to make a better life for himself and Coletta. But completely denying one’s personal desires and needs…he’d given up on that notion long ago. Years of “sacrifice” taught him the hard way that any differences one made would be small, or fleeting, at best.
“What I do makes me happy.” Her voice came out as a plea, as if a silent battle waged within her at his words. Or perhaps at his touch.
“But giving so much of yourself also makes you lonely. Doesn’t it?”
The realization struck him even as he said the words. The world’s most famous princess, the woman the tabloids chased and the fashion magazines praised, lived a solitary existence. He tried to recall the press about her. Had she dated anyone? Been caught kissing anyone by a well-positioned telephoto lens? He could recall stories about her brothers—Antony being called the Playboy Prince for a brief time, Stefano carousing about Europe with voluptuous women on each arm, Federico marrying the wealthy, elegant Lady Lucrezia—but nothing about Isabella.
“No,” she argued, but to his ears, the words came out sounding like she wanted to convince herself more than him. “I’m never lonely. I have an incredible family. My father and I get along wonderfully, and—”
“It’s not the same, is it?”
The question hung in the air for a split second before he saw the truth in her eyes. Without waiting for her denial, he lowered his head to hers, brushing her lips with the most gentle, chaste kiss he could ever remember giving a woman.
Yet he’d never wanted a woman more.
“Perhaps you should go to sleep now, Princess,” he managed as he pulled away. “The least you deserve for your hard work is a few hours rest.”
Besides, between the sword incident this afternoon and their intimate exchange now, his desire had built itself to near-fever pitch. If she stayed in the storeroom one moment longer, he might not be able to stop himself from easing those silvery straps off her shoulders and showing her just how lonely she’d become.
But if he wanted to keep his mind on his job, and on finding Rufina, he couldn’t allow himself to take what his body craved, or give Isabella what she so desperately needed.
For until he found Rufina, he could give himself to no one. He’d made that promise the day he lost Coletta.
Isabella’s sweet eyes misted for a moment, then she dropped her gaze from his. “You’re right. I need to get to sleep.”
She scooted away from his touch, and he sensed her reluctance at parting was nearly as strong as his own. The beginnings of another headache crept into his skull, so he grabbed his aspirin bottle from the desk and popped two into his mouth. At the sound of the desk drawer opening, Isabella paused at the bottom of the steps, and her hand trailed along the doorframe for a moment, as if she was gathering her thoughts.
She turned to him, her silky voice returning to its usual accent-free tone. “As I said, I’ll be busy for the next few days. If you need anything, please let Nerina know. You might want to ask her for an appointment calendar, if you haven’t already. My next meeting with the museum board is in two weeks, and I’d like to have a full report of your work-in-progress to present to them.”
She frowned then, looking at the aspirin bottle in his hand. “Are you all right, Nick?”
He nodded. “I had a head injury once, so I get a lot of headaches. Don’t read anything into it.”
She looked from the aspirin bottle to him, then without saying a word, she disappeared into the hallway. He stood by the door, listening to her soft slippers patter against the floor, first at a walk, then at a jog.
He closed his eyes for a moment, wishing her out of his aching head, then turned and strode back to the crates.
Only Rufina could save him now.