Page 77 of Royally Roma
But no amount of denial would change the truth when it was staring him right in the face. The magazine shook in his hands. He couldn’t even look at it anymore.
“I was wrong,” he said woodenly. “She knows who I am.”
“Sir, are you sure?” The alarm in Piero’s voice didn’t begin to come close to the unease that had gripped Niccolo by the throat. He’d gone cold inside. Cold and dead.
“Quite.” He held up the magazine as evidence. Then in a rage, he threw it across the room. It hit the opposite wall and slid to the floor in a fan of gaudy, multicolored pages.
Piero sighed and then gave voice to Niccolo’s overriding fear. “Do you think she’ll go to the press, sir?”
“I don’t know.” He didn’t know anything anymore.
How could he have been so foolish? Have could he have been sofooled?He’d laid out his deepest secrets, spilled them right there at the foot of her bed. And the entire time, she’d known. She’d known all along.
Thank God he’d had the common sense to forbid her from taking photos. It had been the single, solitary thing he’d managed to do right during the course of his ill-fated holiday. She knew who he was. He’d told her things that could bring his kingdom crashing to the ground. But she had no proof. No proof that what he’d told her about his mother’s death was true. No proof at all that he’d been here.
No pictures of any kind. I’m afraid I must insist.
He squeezed his eyes closed and thanked the heavens that he hadn’t been so blinded by desire that he’d relented and let her take his picture. Because as he recalled, she’d mentioned it more than once.
Would you like to take a selfie on the scooter before we head out?
There’s usually a guy dressed like a Roman centurion at the Colosseum. For a reasonable tip, he’ll pose for pictures with tourists. He’s got props and everything—swords, gladiator helmets. The photos make great souvenirs.
No pictures? Really? Are you sure?
How could he not have seen it? She’d been after his picture all along, since the moment she’d driven away from the Hotel de Russie on the back of her antiquated Vespa. The woman was doom. He’d never been so wrong about a person in all his life. Then again, he’d never really trusted anyone before, had he?
That was going to stop. Immediately.
“Find her cell phone. Find it and look at her photos,” he ordered.
Piero hesitated. “She’ll be back any minute, sir.”
“Do as I saynow!” Something dark was welling up within him. Something dark, primitive and unforgiving. If Julia thought for one minute that she was going to get away with deceiving him, she was an even a bigger fool than he was.
Piero scurried around the room, overturning pillows and books—books about Roman history, art, and ancient civilizations. TheNovella 2000seemed to be the only magazine of its kind in the tiny flat. Odd.
“I found it, sir.” Piero held up her iPhone, the same one she’d thrown at Niccolo’s head at the conclusion of their tour of the Forum. He tapped the screen. “No passcode. That’s good.”
If Niccolo had still had an ounce of concern for Julia’s welfare, her lack of forethought at not having a passcode on her phone would have infuriated him. She was too naïve. Too trusting. Even after everything she’d been through.
But he wouldn’t,couldn’t, allow himself to have such thoughts. He was no stranger to ruthlessness. As a member of the royal family, such a character trait was a necessary evil. He could be cruel when the occasion called for it. And now was just such an occasion.
“Sir, you need to see this.” Piero handed him Julia’s phone.
He had to force himself to take it and fix his gaze on the image on the screen. He wasn’t sure what to expect—a moment from one of their sightseeing stops in the city? A shot of him at the Colosseum or the Trevi Fountain, caught unawares? He hoped she hadn’t taken a photo while he’d been at Caesar’s tomb. He would be livid if such a vulnerable moment was ever captured on film and sold to the highest bidder.
But he cringed when he realized the photo shehadtaken was even worse.
There he was, eyes closed, sprawled on her bed with Valentina curled beside him, photographed as the world had never seen him before. Naked, save for the mercifully arranged bedsheets. Real. Pleasured.
Sated.
It was the sort of photograph that only a lover would take. One that a sweetheart would save and put away in a box along with love letters held together with a satin ribbon.
Looking at it caused him physical pain. An empty ache settled in the vicinity of his heart. Only a handful of hours had passed since he’d been that man.
“Delete it.” He handed the phone back to Piero. “You know what else needs to be done.”
