Isabella gave her oldest brother, Prince Antony, a quick kiss on the cheek and wished him good luck in his business meeting with the German foreign minister before ducking into her own office. Their pre-meeting lunch, attended by the entire royal family and a fleet of reporters, crackled with tension. Despite her usual interest in San Rimini’s foreign affairs, she’d had a difficult time concentrating on the discussion.
Halfway through the salad course, Nerina pressed a note into Isabella’s hand saying that Mr. Donnington needed to speak with her as soon as possible, that he had important information to share.
Over fresh tilapia fillets and wild rice, Isabella couldn’t help but turn the possibilities over in her mind. Could Nick have been involved in some financial scandal, or worse, a sexual scandal at his last job? Surely her initial background check would have found something of that magnitude.
Maybe he was simply a divorcé, and therefore feared getting involved in another relationship. Perfectly understandable. But wait, could he still be married? Some Third World marriage, perhaps, that wouldn’t have come to light during her cursory check, but that Jack Donnington would have discovered?
During dessert, she’d fiddled with her napkin under the table while the burly German across the table discussed the stability of the Euro, all the while wondering what Nick’s secret could be and trying to put the worst possible spin on things in her mind so she’d be prepared for whatever her father’s security chief might reveal. None of her terrible imaginings meshed with her beliefs about his basic personality, however. And certainly nothing she dreamed up explained his physical scars.
Once she’d closed the office door behind her, she rushed to her desk, and ignoring her e-mail and the flashing answering machine, she dialed the security chief’s extension.
“Donnington.”
“Yes, Mr. Donnington. This is Princess Isabella.”
“Your Serene Highness.” His tone was solemn, deferential. “I made some progress on my investigation. If you have a moment, I would like to meet with you in person to discuss my findings.”
“Of course. I’m in my office now, if you’re free.”
“I shall come at once. And it might be best if we’re alone, Your Highness.”
“Understood.”
She worried her lip with her teeth, calculating how long it would take the security chief to reach her office from his, which was outside her father’s apartments. Whatever he’d found couldn’t be good news, or he’d have told her on the phone. Thankfully for her bottom lip, he strode into her open office door within a few minutes, closing it behind him.
“Please,” she urged him to make himself comfortable in a nearby chair, “no need for formality. I take it you’ve found something concrete?”
“You be the judge.” He took the seat and held out a manila folder, which she accepted.
“These are your findings on Mr. Black?”
“Yes. Or more accurately, my lack of findings.”
When she frowned, he explained, “In all my years of doing background checks, Your Highness, I’ve never come across anyone like him. While I found an American social security number and birth records easily enough, on further scrutiny, they didn’t check out. The social security number was originally issued to a man who died in 1967, at the age of seventy-one. I looked for the individuals listed as his parents on Mr. Black’s birth certificate, and so far as I can tell, they never existed. Made up. So I tried to confirm Mr. Black’s birth with the actual hospital listed on his birth certificate, and they informed me that they weren’t in existence until two years after Mr. Black’s apparent date of birth. So he couldn’t have possibly been born there. He has no tax records, no property records, no educational records that I could find. I could search further, but I doubt anything would come to light.”
Isabella took the seat across from Mr. Donnington, crossing her legs at the ankles in the formal-but-interested-in-what-you-have-to-say pose she generally used with reporters, and tried to keep her face neutral, despite the fact her stomach suddenly wanted to give back her lunch. “What do you make of it all, Jack?”
The security chief let out a deep breath, apparently considering how best to phrase his conclusions. “This man has taken great pains not to exist on paper, Your Highness. Most of what I learned was only accessible by calling in favors from some of my old chums at MI6 and the CIA. To most of the world, he’s invisible.”
Isabella studied Jack’s face, trying to absorb the information and further gauge his opinion. “Could he be a criminal? Someone running from the law?”
“I doubt it. Criminals aren’t usually this good at covering their tracks. On the contrary, at first I believed he might be a former CIA spook. Or in the United States’ Witness Protection Program. Someone whose identity had been wiped clean for a reason.”
“But you don’t believe that now? Why?”
“I checked with my contacts in the U.S. While they would never reveal the identity of anyone they’re trying to cover, they did give me enough information to conclude that he isn’t in Witness Protection. Or a former operative.” He leaned forward, reaching for the manila folder. “May I?”
She handed it to him. “Of course.”
“As I was checking other hospitals in New Jersey, near where he claimed to have been born, I found this quite by accident in Lakehurst. After I saw it, all theories went out the window.” He handed her a black-and-white photograph about the size of her palm. “I simply cannot explain it.”
Isabella stared down at the face in the photo, unable to speak.
“I was perplexed by it, too,” Mr. Donnington admitted with a shrug. “The man in the photo went by a slightly different name. Dan Black. At first I thought it must be a relative, since I’ve never seen two people look more alike. I tried to trace him, figuring I could use him to learn more about Nick, but I hit the exact same wall. Inaccurate birth records, and in his case, no social security number. Soon after this photo was taken, he disappeared. There is no record of where he moved, and I couldn’t locate a death certificate.” The security chief took the photograph and carefully placed it back in the folder. “Your Highness, I know you do not wish for King Eduardo to know about this inquiry, and I have honored your request. But I believe your father should be involved. This could be a matter of national security.”
Nick? While he had the intelligence, and the access, to pose a threat to the royal family, she’d had to wheel and deal to get him to leave the United States. She’d sought him out. If he’d wanted to harm the family, he’d already had ample opportunity.
Isabella shook her head. “No. I know what you’ve discovered is perplexing, but I don’t believe he’s here for any nefarious purposes. I’d appreciate handling this one myself.”
“Your Highness, something triggered you to come to me. Something you felt wasn’t right about the man. If you confront him with your findings, you could be putting yourself in grave danger. For all we know—”
She raised a hand, cutting him off. “For all we know, the man in this picture is a relative. And that relative might have had a reason to be protected, too.”
He let out an exasperated sigh, the same one she’d heard him use whenever her father argued in favor of lightening up on palace security in order to make guests feel more welcome. “I’d feel better about it if you’d at least allow me to speak with Mr. Black first, Your Highness. He could be dangerous, and I have experience with these matters. I should be able to ferret out more information without raising any suspicions on his part.”
“You’ve already gone above and beyond the call of duty, Jack. I’m amazed you were able to scout out so much information in only three days. But I assure you, I can handle it from here. If I need you for anything, anything at all, or feel my safety might be in jeopardy, I’ll notify you immediately.” She stood, making it clear her decision was final.
“If you promise, Your Highness. Please, be careful.”
“I will.” As Donnington opened the door, she added, “Could you do me a favor? On your way out, let Nerina know I’ll be unable to meet my father for dinner tonight. I’ll reschedule as soon as possible.”
“Of course.”
When she was once again alone in the office, she sat at her desk and studied the file, reading all the information page by page, then rereading it. None of it made sense. She pulled out the photograph so she could examine it more closely. The image of the man carrying a stretcher looked so much like Nick, yet it clearly wasn’t him. Grabbing a magnifying glass from her desk drawer, she inspected the photograph in detail. Several raised scars criss-crossed the back of the man’s left hand where he grasped one side of the hospital stretcher.
Isabella closed her eyes and let out a ragged breath. Nick definitely had secrets. Secrets bigger than she’d imagined over lunch. And despite Jack Donnington’s warning, she knew now she had to get at the truth. The question was how.
She fingered the photo, wishing she could comfort Nick or at least help him in some way. It pained her that he had to carry his burden—whatever his burden might be—alone.
Isabella slid the magnifying glass back into the desk drawer along with the file, pocketed the photograph, then locked the drawer.
“Sir? I have a bottle of aspirin for you. I didn’t see the brand you prefer, but I think these should work.” Anne swept into the storeroom, handing Nick a small green bottle with an Italian label. He scanned it, though he wasn’t really interested. At this point, not much could dull his pain. It traveled down from his head to affect every bone, muscle and pore in his body.
“Thanks, Anne. I’m sure it’ll be fine. Oh, before you go for the day, could you do one more thing for me? I need the phone number for the antiquities department at the University of San Rimini.”
“Of course.” She took a step back, lingering by the doorway and watching as he withdrew his hanging files from the desk drawer. “What is wrong, sir, if you don’t mind my asking? Is there some problem?”
Nick placed the hanging files on top of the stack of papers and reference books already filling a cardboard box perched on his desk chair, then met Anne’s worried look with a half smile. “Not a problem, Anne. But for reasons I’d rather keep to myself for now, I’ve decided not to continue my position here with Princess Isabella. I’m going to call a professor I’ve consulted once or twice and see if he can recommend anyone else for the job. As soon as I have a replacement and can hand off my notes, I’d like to head back to Boston.”
“I see,” Anne murmured, though her face made it plain she didn’t see.
“I’m sorry not to have told you,” he apologized, knowing Anne would never question him if she wasn’t deeply concerned. “I wanted to be sure I could find a suitable replacement first, since I don’t want my departure to delay the museum expansion.”
“Have you spoken with the princess about your decision?”
“No. But as soon as I speak with the professor, I will. I want the princess to realize…” That it has nothing to do with her.
Even though it had everything to do with her. He might discover some tidbit useful to his quest if he stayed in San Rimini, but given what he’d found already, that Rufina had been dead for almost as long as he’d been alive, the odds were slim to none. Centuries of sacrificing hadn’t worked, so he had to assume that when Rufina died, the key to breaking the curse died with her.
And with every day he stayed, searching for an answer that likely didn’t exist, he risked being exposed. He couldn’t accept that risk any longer. Not for himself, not for Anne or Roger, who would certainly be questioned about his outrageous claim of immortality, and definitely not for Princess Isabella.
Just as bad, every day he stayed meant spending more time around the princess, knowing that he could never, ever have her. And knowing he’d have to distance himself to keep her from falling for him as hard as he’d fallen for her. He didn’t know if he could take it, not after the way he’d lost Coletta.
“Realize?” Anne prodded.
He shrugged and dropped his microcassette recorder into the cardboard box. “That I’m not indispensable to the project, I suppose.”
“The princess may argue with that. She did go to great lengths to hire you, as I’m sure you recall.”
“Well, I’ll do my best to give my successor the same resources I had. I might even recommend Roger for the job. He’s certainly qualified.”
Nick folded down the flaps on the box, interweaving them so the top wouldn’t pop open. “It’ll take me several days to get everything in order, Anne. In the meantime, you’re free to see the city, since I won’t need you down here. Gamble, sit on the beach, tour the museums. San Rimini is a beautiful country, at least once you get outside this frigid old room, so you should really take advantage.” Not that he wanted to think about San Rimini’s white sand beaches or its posh casinos, not if he couldn’t share them with Isabella or enjoy a night like the one they’d spent at the outdoor café.
He forced a grin to his face, though it took Herculean effort. He needed to convince Anne nothing out of the ordinary had happened, that he’d simply made a business decision. “I’d also appreciate it if you could check on plane tickets and reserve something back to Boston early next week. Otherwise,” he swept a hand in the general direction of the Strada il Teatro, “your vacation awaits.”
She nodded slowly, as if processing the turn of events. “All right, sir. I’ll make the reservations today.”
“Ever the professional. Thank you.”
With that, she turned on her sensible heels and left. Nick moved the cardboard box to the desk and labeled it, trying to keep his mind focused on the task at hand. But when he glimpsed the worn medieval book on the corner of the desktop, and thought of the descriptions of suspected witches being burned alive, a harsh taste filled his mouth. Within seconds, he abandoned the box and grabbed the trash can, retching.
What must Rufina have suffered? He sat on the floor, cradling the stout metal can, and leaned his head back against the hard stone wall. He stared at the high, arched ceilings, and wondered where she’d been imprisoned. If she’d had the ability to curse him to immortality, why couldn’t she have escaped? Surely no fortress or prison could have held her.
And now that she was dead, he wondered, what did that mean for him? He spit into the can, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. No wonder all his years of sacrifice hadn’t worked. He could sacrifice for another millennium and the curse wouldn’t end, if Rufina’s death meant the curse couldn’t be broken.
He let out a mocking laugh. What would the professors at the University of San Rimini make of his predicament? Their offices contained floor-to-ceiling treatises on the country’s history, which made the learned men perfect consultants as he’d pursued his quest for Rufina. But what would they say if he asked, “Hey, gentlemen, what’s the deal with ancient San Riminian curses? Anyone know what’s required to break one? It was cast by tossing this stinging green powder on the victim, you see. Any theories on that? Anyone with a position paper? Anyone want to toss me in a padded room and throw away the key? Bet I last longer than the padding!”
He set the can on the floor, then used his foot to send it careening across the smooth stone floor back to its usual spot beside the desk. Leaning his head back until it hit the wall, he closed his eyes.
An image of Isabella diTalora filled his vision. Her cute, swingy ponytail and impossibly nerdy black-rimmed glasses, the look of elation on her face over a simple dinner out, the need and desire in her expressive eyes as her fingertips wandered over his chest, the puffiness of her sweet mouth after they’d shared kisses in the bakery’s back room.
He ground his fists against his eye sockets. No, he couldn’t survive many more years without being able to share human emotions, without touching a woman or having her return his affections. Without being able to hold Isabella.
Tears burned his eyes, and for the first time he could remember since he was a young boy, he dropped his head onto his knees and let them come. And once they started, all eight hundred-plus years of frustration and loneliness followed.
Isabella paused at the top of the stone steps. The storeroom door had been left open a crack, and from within, she heard what sounded like an animal cry of agony. She glanced behind her, then slowly opened the door far enough to slip inside. Softly, so as not to be seen, she descended the shadowed steps, then peeked around the doorway into the storeroom.
What she saw made her heart ache and her eyes fill with sympathetic tears. She’d seen her father cry once, the morning after her mother passed away. And she’d been privy to Federico’s emotional battle after he lost Lucrezia. But never had she witnessed a man so clearly distraught as Nick Black.
He didn’t see her come up beside him. When she knelt down, he jerked in surprise, but without saying a word she pulled his large body into her arms and ran her hand over his soft black hair, hoping her presence might give him a measure of peace. He quieted instantly, though his chest continued to heave and his breath came in short rasps.
“You should go, Princess. I didn’t—”
“It’s all right,” she whispered.
“I just had some bad news is all.” He raised his head off his bent knees, but didn’t face her. “I haven’t lost it or anything.”
“You’d be the last person to ‘lose it,’ I suspect.”
His mouth tilted up at that, and he laughed, the same odd, self-deprecating laugh she’d heard that day back in his office when she told him the job would be the opportunity of a lifetime.
“Nick, why don’t you tell me what’s going on? This has to do with whatever you wouldn’t tell me in the bakery the other night, doesn’t it?”
“It does.” He turned his face to hers. The skin at the corners of his eyes puckered in weariness, and he had bags underneath them from lack of sleep. She noticed the usual clear plastic aspirin bottle on his desk had been replaced by a green one, and wondered if his headaches were getting worse, given his apparent stress level.
“But you still feel you can’t tell me.”
“I wish I could, Princess, but this isn’t the time to—”
“I suspect you have plenty of time.” She dropped her rear down on the floor beside his, pulled the black-and-white photograph out of the pocket of her slacks, then held it in front of her, where they both could see it. “This is you, isn’t it, Nick?”
He didn’t answer for a moment. He simply stared at the photograph. When he spoke, his voice came out in a rasp. “Where did you get it?”
“I did some checking into your background.” Before he could argue, she put a hand on his forearm. “It’s not what you think. I trust you completely. But I was worried about you. I think you know me well enough by now to realize I can’t resist helping anyone who’s in need.”
He let out a deep breath and took the photo from her. “Who found it?”
“Jack Donnington, my father’s chief of security. He’s the only one who has seen it, and I’ve sworn him to secrecy. He’s British, a former MI6 man, so I think you can trust him to keep his word.”
Nick’s forehead creased as he pondered that. “What else did you find?”
“That you’re essentially an invisible man. No birth records—none that check out, anyway—no parents. No anything.”
“And this Mr. Donnington figured that out?”
“Yes.”
Nick flipped the picture between his fingers, his nerves clearly raw. “I assume you have a lot of questions.”
She allowed her fingers to drift over his strong, solid forearm. Despite the short time they’d known each other, she felt comfortable in his presence, even now, when he seemed emotionally spent. “This photo was taken in 1937, Nick. Yet you haven’t aged a single day since then. Not one.”
He looked at her, his shadowed eyes confirming her words without the need to speak. “It was the day of the Hindenburg disaster,” he began quietly, turning his gaze back to the photo. “I was working in a hospital near Lakehurst, volunteering my time. Then they called for ambulances, and we couldn’t get to the air-field fast enough. Those poor people had such terrible burns… Do you know I can still sometimes smell the blood and burning flesh?” He shook his head, as if he could loosen the thought from his mind. “A press photographer captured a shot of me loading one of the victims into an ambulance. I didn’t realize it until later, when the photo appeared in the paper. Your man Donnington is good. I believe this is the only photograph of me ever circulated in public. I’ve been very careful—”
“Nick, how old are you?”
“Ah, the important question.” He let out a sarcastic snort. “Thing is, you won’t believe the answer, whether I tell you I’m twenty-seven or a hundred and twenty-seven, so trust me when I say you don’t want to pursue this conversation.” He stood up, shaking off her touch. “You’d have Mr. Donnington down here with an entire security team, ready to lock me up. In fact,” he gestured to a cardboard box on his desk, “I’ve decided that despite the wonderful opportunity you’ve presented me here, I cannot stay. I’m arranging for another expert to come in and continue my work, and I’m sure—”
She stood, drawing herself up to her full height, though she still stood several inches below Nick. In the most commanding, I’m-a-princess-and-you’d-better-listen-to-me voice she could muster, she said, “No. No, you’re not leaving, and no, no one will lock you up. But I want to know here and now what’s going on with you.”
He balked, and before she could stop herself, she reached up to cup his cheeks with her palms and caress his stubble-roughened skin. “Whatever your secret is, you can tell me. I’ll believe you.” At the obvious look of doubt in his eyes, she said the words she never before believed she could. “I love you, Nick. I love you with all my heart. And if I can take away your pain, I want to try.”
His eyes hardened, but he didn’t shake off her touch this time. “I was born in 1163, Your Highness. If you want to know how old I am, you do the math. No amount of love or understanding can take away that fact or the pain that goes with it. Wish it were so.”
She took an involuntary step back and gasped. He couldn’t possibly have said what she thought she heard. It wasn’t possible. “Did you say 1163?”
“One, one, six, three.” He cocked an eyebrow at her and hooked his thumbs through the belt loops at his hips. “You want to know why I know so much about every piece of ancient junk in this room? Why I know how to hold a sword, or how many days it took a medieval monk to transcribe a sermon or illuminate a manuscript? It’s not because I have a fancy degree. I never wrote a dissertation or even studied history, for that matter. I lived it. All of it.”