Isabella plucked a black Montegrappa fountain pen from the walnut pencil cup on her desk, then began sifting through the stack of correspondence filling her in-box. Eight invitations to answer, thirty-six thank-you notes to dictate and letters from the German chancellor and Italian prime minister to respond to.
Nerina better warm up the coffeepot again.
According to the morning schedule Nerina left on her desk, after the correspondence was complete Isabella had a series of dress fittings with a representative from Giorgio Armani, who’d lobbied to outfit her for the Venice Film Festival. Once he was safely off the palace grounds, Isabella had arranged private fittings for two Versace gowns, one for a charity ball sponsoring the San Riminian Scholarship Fund, which was her brother Antony’s pet project, and one for a dinner honoring San Rimini’s recent Nobel Prize-winning chemist.
Though having high-end designers stick her with pins and cluck about how they might hide her figure flaws wasn’t Isabella’s idea of a good time, unfortunately, it came with the princess job description.
Over Isabella’s shoulder, Nerina pecked away at her computer keyboard. Though the grandfather clock in the princess’s small palace office chimed 7:30 a.m., they’d been working for over an hour, and Isabella had already finished her second cup of coffee.
She glanced once more at the schedule. Nothing on the list that would take her near the keep. Though she couldn’t put off facing him forever, she’d successfully avoided Nick for nearly two weeks. True, the three-day trip she’d taken to Berlin to attend a conference on the worldwide refugee crisis helped. But the rest of the time, she’d steered clear of the storeroom and the area near his guest rooms out of sheer determination.
Even so, as Isabella slit open an engraved dinner invitation and realized it came from the Italian banker who’d monopolized her time at the Red Cross benefit dinner, an image of Nick immediately filled her mind. She could picture the planes of his face, the dark mystique of his eyes, the warmth of his skin as if he stood only inches away. And then there was his kiss, so tender, yet obviously wanting more.
And she’d been more than ready to give it, despite years of avoiding relationships.
What in the world is wrong with me? She examined the invitation again. Dozens of successful, good-looking men pursued her—men like the Italian banker—who came from good families, wealthy families. It was all part and parcel of being a young royal. She’d been able to dismiss them easily enough, but for a reason she couldn’t identify, Nick captured her interest in a way no man had before. And, she admitted, he’d captured her desire. How many nights during the past two weeks had she lain awake at night, wondering if he was in the storeroom? Wondering what might happen if she allowed herself to wander down there again?
And how often had she caught herself pondering his words? He was wrong, of course. How could someone who never had a moment to herself possibly be lonely?
“Your Highness, how would you like to handle Mr. Black?”
Isabella’s head snapped up, and she realized she’d stopped sorting the correspondence while daydreaming about Nick.
“Handle him?”
“You must not have gotten to it yet.” Nerina gestured toward the paper pile on Isabella’s desk. “He has been sending his research notes to his secretary in Boston for transcription, and has had her do any Internet searches he’s required. However, he feels he could work more efficiently if he had a computer and Internet access himself.”
Isabella frowned. “I thought I’d allocated plenty of money for that.”
Nerina’s head dipped, showing the same quiet respect for the princess as she always had for her last employer, Queen Aletta. “You did, Your Highness. However, Mr. Black has requested a computer setup for the storeroom, as opposed to using facilities which already exist in the main palace. I’m afraid the keep isn’t adequately wired.”
“No, it’s not. The maintenance staff complains that the power gets shorted out down there all the time. I doubt it could support two hair dryers going at once, let alone a computer and all the peripherals.”
“That’s what I told Mr. Black, but he insisted, so I checked further.”
“And?”
“Maintenance explained that we’d have to call in an outside electrician, which is simple enough, but you’ll need your father’s permission and a waiver from the San Riminian Historical Council first, since the keep falls under San Rimini’s historic preservation laws.”
“Father wouldn’t be a problem.” The Council would be another matter, and they both knew it. There had been a five-year fight before the renovation of the guest rooms in the 1960s. And a six-month debate to install a new ventilation system just last year.
“I did offer Mr. Black full, unrestricted use of the library computer and research materials, but he insisted on having a computer in the keep. When I told him that wouldn’t be possible, he asked me to refer the matter to you, saying that you would understand his need for complete privacy.”
“Thank you, Nerina. I’ll handle it.” Once she worked up the strength of will to see Nick again. Perhaps in the time that elapsed since their late-night meeting he’d forgotten what passed between them.
Then again, it likely hadn’t affected him as it did her.
She turned to her correspondence once again, but stopped when Nerina added, “While we’re on the subject of Mr. Black, your meeting with the museum board is scheduled for three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. The curator has arranged for the lead architect to attend so you can give your final approval to the blueprints. The curator also expects you’ll update the board on Mr. Black’s progress. When I spoke with Mr. Black about the computer, I reminded him of your meeting.”
So much for postponing her return to the storeroom. Now she’d have to talk to Nick. Forcing herself not to sigh aloud, she asked, “Do I have time in my schedule this afternoon to meet with him?”
Nerina pulled a piece of paper from her printer tray, then held it out to the princess. “Your afternoon schedule. I left from three-thirty onward completely open, Your Highness.”
The fountain pen fell from Isabella’s hand as she read over the sheet of paper. “You’re joking.”
“I am not.” Her secretary’s all-business, all-the-time expression gave way to a wide smile. “When you finish with Mr. Black, may I suggest you rest, Your Highness? I will ensure you are not disturbed. Consider it a birthday present.”
“It’s not….” Isabella’s gaze dropped to the small calendar on the corner of her ebony-inlaid cherry desktop. Sure enough, she’d forgotten her own birthday.
“Sï. It is.”
Isabella leaped up from the desk and embraced Nerina. “Lei è un santa, Nerina!”
Nerina blushed with pride. “A saint, no. Tomorrow will be a full day, I fear.”
“It doesn’t matter. Grazie.” With renewed energy, she turned back to the desk, eager to tackle the correspondence. So long as she made it through her meeting with Nick, she’d enjoy the best evening she had in a long, long time. And she’d spend it blissfully alone.
Nick massaged the back of his neck, trying to shake his persistent headache, then returned his attention to the seven-hundred-year-old calfskin-bound book before him. A collection of medieval sermons, written in Latin and with beautiful, still-clear illumination, it would make a wonderful addition to San Rimini’s museum. He ran his gloved finger along the edge, wondering if he’d once known the monk who’d labored over it. During his own years in an Italian monastery, he’d transcribed four books. Unfortunately, the time-consuming task brought him no closer to breaking his curse.
When Rufina told him only sacrifice would break the curse, she apparently hadn’t meant sacrificing his life to the church. It had taken him nearly fifteen years to figure that one out.
He clicked the red button on his handheld tape recorder, described the book’s age, condition and historical importance, then assigned it an item number, which he also logged in a notebook. Tomorrow, he’d have another batch of tapes to send to Anne for transcription.
He scanned the long row of item numbers listed in his notebook. Princess Isabella should be pleased with his progress. If the documents in the rest of the crates proved as promising as the first batch had, the Royal Museum of San Rimini would have plenty of material to include in an expansion, and he hadn’t even begun to catalogue the artifacts crowding the stalls yet. The tapestries and paintings alone might take him a month.
He set down the tape recorder and stretched his legs under the desk. On his own mission, he’d made no progress whatsoever. Most of the scrolls and texts he’d discovered in the storeroom crates were spiritual in nature, which he’d expected. In medieval times, scribes were trained to commit prayers, sermons, choral arrangements and other religious works to paper. Books were expensive to produce and considered works of art, so only religious or scholarly works were seen as worthy of recording. Still, Nick had come across the occasional reference text as well as several scrolls describing significant events in San Rimini’s villages. With any luck, he’d find an undiscovered book on witchcraft or a record of witch trials.
Two calls over the past few days to Roger confirmed his fears there—that the texts he’d left Roger to analyze only repeated material Nick had found in dozens of other books and documents on medieval witchcraft over the years, with no references to any suspected witches fitting Rufina’s description.
Nick rose from the desk and carried the books he’d analyzed during the early-afternoon hours to a crate of completed materials, then reached into a nearby crate and carefully withdrew three more priceless medieval books. Tonight, perhaps, he’d start on one of the stalls, inspecting the artifacts just to shake up his routine. And to keep his mind off Isabella.
The problem with scouring text after text was that the mind tended to wander. And of course, his thoughts were never far from a certain princess. Every time he sat at his desk, he envisioned her childlike smile, her smooth olive skin, her fathomless amber eyes. Part of him wished he’d done more than give her a simple kiss, wished he’d taken things to the next level—or as far as she’d have allowed. But the larger part of him knew he’d stepped over the line just by caressing her soft cheek. Admitting that he’d been unable to stop himself from touching her drove him to distraction.
Setting the ancient books back in the open crate, he stripped off his cotton gloves, tossed them on his desk, then crossed the room to the stall Isabella’s chart identified as containing items from roughly 1100 to 1250, the years prior to his birth through the Third and Fourth Crusades. He let his gaze wander over the stall’s interior, instantly recognizing a half-unrolled, threadbare tapestry. A gift from Philip Augustus of France, it hung in King Bernardo’s throne room whenever French dignitaries were in residence—and came down when Richard I and his followers paid a visit. Nick couldn’t help but smile in remembrance, despite the fact the tapestry was beyond repair.
Though proper investigative techniques dictated he sort through the crates of documents first, for his own purposes, he probably should have started here. A chest near the stall door opened at the touch of a finger to reveal battered tankards and cooking pots from the kitchens. Behind the chest, a cracked wrought-iron chandelier rested atop a badly rotted trunk. A smith’s tools crowded one corner, and a damaged painting rested in another. He could see why these items ended up forgotten beneath the oldest part of the palace for so many centuries. Most were unsalvageable. Still, there were those historians at the museum who’d probably want to study them. He picked his way through the stall, studying the contents, until he spied a box designed to hold documents. He pried off the lid, then selected a fragile scroll from the top. He unrolled it with care, expecting to see a prayer or perhaps an armory inventory, but instead found a hard lump forming in his throat as he read a list of names and notations written in Italian instead of the scholarly Latin. Each man’s name brought forth a familiar, but long-dead, face. All were knights promised to Richard the Lionhearted in the Third Crusade. Knights whose names had been listed on the very communiqué he’d been entrusted to carry to Richard where he’d wintered his troops in Sicily in 1190.
And then he saw the name that stopped him cold.
Domenico di Bollazio, primo figlio di Rizardo. Ventisette. Dominic of Bollazio, eldest son of Rizardo. Aged twenty-seven.
His hands shook; an ice-cold sweat covered his skin. He closed his eyes until he could regain his emotional control, then he slowly scanned the rest of the lengthy scroll. Bernardo’s name, written in the king’s own distinctive hand, was scribbled across the bottom next to his seal.
Oh, yes. He definitely should have started in the stall.
“Excuse me, Nick?”
He spun in the cramped area, nearly dropping the dried parchment at the sound of Isabella’s voice. “Princess.”
She looked every bit as beautiful as the night she’d entered the storeroom in her ethereal silver gown and stood in the half-light of the staircase. Today, however, she appeared more down-to-earth, wearing a business-beige pantsuit, a soft ivory blouse and only a hint of makeup. Tasteful diamond stud earrings sparkled in her earlobes and her dark hair draped past her shoulders in long, loose curls.
He realized he’d never seen her with her hair down and thanked God for it. He couldn’t have stopped himself the other night if he’d been able to run his fingers through her shiny tresses. He wondered if her curls would feel as silky-soft as her skin had beneath his fingertips.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you.” She glanced around the stall, studying the dusty artifacts that crammed every available inch of space. “Nerina said you wanted to see me about getting a computer.”
Gathering himself, he carefully set the scroll back in the box where he’d found it. As important as such a discovery would be to the museum, and to medieval historians everywhere, it was far more important to him personally. For the time being, he’d keep the scroll to himself.
“Yes.” He tried to concentrate on the princess. “I’ve been dictating my notes and mailing the tapes to Anne, but it would be more efficient if I could simply type them myself.”
“I could have Nerina do it.”
He shot her a knowing look. “You and I both know she’s too busy to tackle my work. She can barely manage to keep up with you. Besides, I’d like computer access so I can scan some of the scrolls I’ve discovered. My assistant, Roger, has a contact at the University of Kentucky who’s digitizing medieval documents. With your permission, I’d like to have him look at a few of these, see if they should be copied to a computer file for preservation and further study before being turned over to the museum.”
“It’s going to be tough getting a computer down here, I’m afraid. Historical preservation laws prevent having the keep wired for modern electronics. I’d have to explain to Parliament why I want a waiver. To make their determination, they’d need to look further into your work.”
She rested a shoulder against the stall door and studied him for a moment. “Keeping the museum board at arm’s length is one thing, Parliament’s another. I assume you don’t want them involved in what you’re doing.”
“No.” He picked up a broken sword tang that had been left lying on a nearby shelf and grasped it hard, so his nervous fingers wouldn’t betray him. He’d suspected when Isabella offered him the job that this day would come, when he’d need to risk his privacy to further his research, despite her assurances to the contrary. Still, she’d already done more to guarantee his solitude than he’d expected. “My only option is the palace library?”
“It’s the only computer not already in use. I will do my best to keep the staff away while you’re working, but it is in a busy area.”
Parliament or the palace staff. Not the best of choices. His concern must have shown on his face, because the princess added, “I did think of another option. I could fly your secretary here.”
He set the tang down beside the document box, thinking over the proposition. At home, Anne generally worked in her office and he worked in his, with the door shut. She didn’t monitor his movements or the details of his research. She went home promptly at 5:00 p.m., and never asked questions about his personal life. Living and working within the confines of the keep, she’d soon realize he sought something specific. Still, it was better than the alternatives. And now, inside the document box to his left, he’d finally found a record of his own existence. If he could find his own name, he could surely find Rufina, who’d been notorious at the time. Then privacy might not matter any more.
“It’s a very kind offer.”
“It’s no trouble, really. Especially if it improves the chance you’ll have the artifacts analyzed and catalogued in time for the expansion.”
He flashed her a smile of gratitude. “I’ll let you know.”
“Good.” She straightened, and her gaze slipped past him, to the jumble of furniture and rolled-up tapestries crowding the far wall of the stall. “I came for another reason, as well. As Nerina must have mentioned, I meet with the museum board tomorrow. They’ll expect a full report on your findings.”
“I can get that to you tonight, if that works for your schedule.”
“Should give me plenty of time to look it over, thank you.” Her voice was polite, distant, as if the last time they’d been in this room together hadn’t registered. But she shifted from one foot to another, and he guessed their proximity in the isolated room affected her, though she didn’t wish to show it.
He wondered if she thought of their kiss as often as he did. He knew why he’d resisted kissing her, but what held her back? Why didn’t she feel she could enjoy a little comfort in the arms of a man?
“Is there anything else you need?” she asked, taking a step back.
You. “I don’t believe so,” he answered, matching her formal tone. “Nerina has gone out of her way to make certain I’m accommodated.”
“Good,” she replied, but once again her gaze flicked past him.
“What are you looking at?” He turned, curious.
“Oh, it’s nothing. Just…I thought my mother had all the books put into crates. But I see one was left in here.” When he didn’t see it right away, she edged into the stall, so close he could breathe in her elegant, feminine perfume. Reaching past him, she lifted a book off a spindly wooden chair. “I can put it with the others, if you’d like.”
“Thanks.” He gave it a cursory look. From what he could tell of the design, it wasn’t the correct era for the stall, anyway. Probably mid-1400s.
The princess ran her small hands over the pigskin-covered wooden boards, admiring the worn thistle-and-leaf design on the cover. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Her voice came out in a whisper, and he could see from her face how excited the discovery made her. He didn’t doubt now that she’d studied art history at Harvard; her interest was apparent from the loving way she held the book. Despite his mind warning him not to draw any closer, not to risk touching her again, he leaned over her shoulder for a better look.
“It has a lock on it,” she said, pointing out a blackened hinge covering the book’s endpapers. “Could it be a diary? And this metal ring at the top…what was its purpose?”
“I doubt it’s a diary.” He dipped his head toward it. “May I?”
She held the book out, and he took it from her hands, successfully resisting the urge to caress her fingers with his own. After fiddling with the lock for a few moments, he found the latch to spring it open. “Voilà.” The pages crackled despite his care in opening the lock. He handed the book back to her. “For you, Your Highness.”
“Isabella.”
“Princess.” He grinned. “Books were quite valuable in medieval times. Locks were put on the covers to protect the pages from exposure to the elements. And the ring at the top was once connected to a chain.”
“I remember reading about those,” she said in wonder. “Didn’t they chain books to desks to keep them from being stolen from libraries and monasteries? This was how they did it, through this loop?”
“You must have been a good student at Harvard.”
“Had to be. Could you imagine what the tabloids would say if a princess flunked out?”
“Royal Bombshell Bombs Out?”
“Very funny.”
She studied the pages, then exclaimed, “It’s in Latin… It’s a book of fairy tales!”
“Fairy tales?”
“From a scholar’s point of view, I think.” She pointed to a series of words near the top of the open page. “Look. It discusses how fairy tales vary from village to village, but espouse the same morals.”
He looked down at her in awe. “You read Latin?” He shook his head. “No, of course you do.”
“I’m a bit rusty,” she admitted. “But I think this is a description of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. See? This word is ‘girl’ and I think this is talking about the ‘house of a bear.’ What do you think?”
He took the book back from her, careful not to tear the fragile paper. “You’re right.”
He turned a few more pages, then laughed aloud. “What do you know? The Fox and the Grapes. A different version than I heard growing up, but essentially the same.”
“A worthwhile discovery?”
She turned her body just enough to gaze up at him, and once again he was struck by her innocence. Never in a million years had he expected the sophisticated Princess Isabella to be a quiet academic at heart.
“Definitely. Here.” He took her hands and placed the book between her palms. “I know it probably should be analyzed by a literature expert, but I think you should take it for yourself.”
“Me?”
“It’s been down here for ages and no one’s missed it. If you kept it, no one would be the wiser.”
She turned over the book in her hands. “I couldn’t. It belongs to the people of San Rimini, in their museum. It’s what my mother would have wanted.”
“Your mother would have wanted you to have a birthday present.”
He’d promised himself he wouldn’t mention it, wouldn’t do anything out of the ordinary if he ran into her today. The last thing he wanted was to let on that he had feelings for her, though of course, after two weeks of constantly thinking about her, he knew he did. What red-blooded man wouldn’t?
But seeing her reaction to the book made him want to give it to her, resolve be damned. Didn’t she deserve a little happiness? A little something for herself?
“Nerina told you,” she accused.
“Maybe.”
“I need to have a talk with her.”
“Not that I’m sticking up for Nerina, mind you,” he cocked an eyebrow at her, “because the woman doesn’t seem to care much for me or my computer demands. But someone had to say something. Your father and Prince Antony have huge soirées for their birthdays every year. Yet you don’t have so much as a tea party planned for yourself, I’m willing to bet.”
“Maybe I’m not a big fan of birthday parties.”
“Maybe you don’t want to bother anyone with planning one for you.”
She backed up a step, a difficult feat in the cluttered stall. “I’m not the all-giving saint you think I am. For your information, I’m not doing one single thing for anyone else tonight. No fund-raisers, no state dinners, nothing. I’m treating myself to a night off.”
He snorted. “What, sitting at your desk and reading up on world events? Studying your book on independent film? That’s not a night off. What about a night out? Don’t you want a party?”
“I attend a lot of parties.”
“But not parties for you. Not parties for fun.”
She put up a hand. “Stop. I’m perfectly happy not having a party. It’s the last thing I want or need.”
“Then how about dinner for two?”
As soon as the words left his mouth, his chest tightened in alarm. What possessed him? He couldn’t possibly traipse around town with the princess; his picture would appear in every rag in the Western world within twenty-four hours. Plus, if he’d been tempted to kiss her after a short encounter in a dusty storeroom, what would happen over a plate of pasta and a carafe of Merlot?
Not that she’d accept his offer.
“Are—are you asking me for a date, Mr. Black?” Her face registered shock, but only for a moment, before she regained her ever-present poise.
“It’s Nick. Remember, Princess?” he joked, hoping to lighten the mood. “And I suppose so.” Much as he knew it was a stupid move, he couldn’t back-pedal now. What kind of jerk rescinded an invitation to a princess? “You wouldn’t take the book. Don’t you deserve something nice on your birthday?”
“I’m not sure it would be wise. After all, you’re on the palace payroll now, and…well, I don’t remember the last time I went out on a private date. Something other than a formal event.”
He forced himself not to show his relief. His lack of feminine contact—if one didn’t count Anne, which he didn’t—made him take stupid risks. Now that the danger of a date had passed, however, his curiosity got the better of him. “You can tell me to take a hike, Princess, but why haven’t you dated? No available men in San Rimini?”
She bit her bottom lip, unable to hide her smile. “No, plenty of them. All Stefano’s friends, as a matter of fact. And even a few of Antony and Federico’s.”
“Then?”
She rolled her eyes, a particularly unroyal reaction he found amusing. “I’m the only female in my family. It changes things for me. When the tabloids covered my brothers’ romantic interests, for instance, they mostly discussed which women they dated, where they went, things like that. But when it comes to my private life, they’ve been downright nasty. They insinuate that since I’m a woman, I should keep to a higher standard. Be more circumspect.” Isabella puffed out a frustrated breath. “My mother warned me that San Rimini’s traditional ways are still revered by many of our subjects, particularly where women are concerned, but I didn’t listen. What teenager would? But it turned out she was right.”
Before he could stop himself, Nick closed the distance between them and put his hand on her shoulder. Even through the fabric of her suit, he could feel the delicate curve of her collarbone, and he caressed it with his thumb. “Was it really that bad?”
“I shouldn’t be talking to you about this.” She hesitated, and Nick thought she’d ask him to move his hand or make some excuse to leave, but instead, she met his gaze with gratitude.
“I went out on my first unaccompanied date during my freshman year at Harvard. A nice sophomore I’d met in the library. Just one date, for dinner and a movie in Cambridge. Not even a good-night kiss. Well, not a real one, if you know what I mean.”
He forced himself not to laugh at the fiery red color creeping across her cheeks. “I know what you mean. So what happened?”
“For the next week, tabloid reporters followed him all over campus, trying to rat out anything negative about him. Turns out that someone living in his residential college got caught smoking pot that same week. The papers made it appear that because they lived in the same building, he must also be a pothead and therefore I was an embarrassment to my country.”
He continued to massage her shoulder through her soft suit jacket. “That’s terrible. And so unfair.”
“It was,” she acknowledged, though her voice held no regret, only an understanding that came with time and maturity. “He had no interest in seeing me again after that, and I can’t blame him. He planned to attend law school and feared it would hurt his chances. After that, I had no interest in dating again, either. Given what the tabloids might dig up, it’s been easier not to date at all.”
“You don’t miss it?” he asked. He certainly did. He couldn’t imagine that a woman with Isabella’s compassion and capability for love would willingly relinquish herself to the same hell on earth he faced. No wonder she’d been emotional as they’d rolled down the runway in Boston. The city held a lot of memories for her.
She shook her head no, but he could see from her expression it wasn’t the truth. “I’m so busy I don’t have time to miss it. And it’s not as if I don’t meet men at palace events or in the course of my work. I do date, I suppose. It’s just a different kind of dating.” She raised a finger in warning, and a smile curved her lips, instantly lightening the mood. “So don’t accuse me of being lonely again.”
“Sounds lonely to me. But if you’re commanding me not to argue, I won’t.” He hated to see her missing out on what could be a fantastic life, filled with all the love she deserved.
“Tell you what.” She laughed. “If you can figure out how to keep the reporters away, I’ll take you up on your offer. I don’t have anything planned tonight, and I can think of nothing I’d like more than to prove you wrong.”
Now it was his turn to register shock. His hand stilled on her shoulder. “You want to go out to dinner with me?”
“Yes. If tonight’s good. As you said, I deserve it.”
Her eyes held an adventurous spark he couldn’t resist. “Okay, Princess, if that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get. Here’s how we’re going to do it.”