f Riley standing right there casually staring and drooling. And because I would never interrupt a great mood like the one she was in just to remind her that I was watching as she peeled off her clothes, I just smiled and nodded and watched.
Which she of course noticed, right when things were getting interesting. “Jesus fuck, Riley,” she said, and we were back to snarling. “You are such a sick pig!” And she snarled off into the bedroom and slammed the door.
Well, nothing good lasts forever. Only the shitty stuff. And at least she hadn’t hit me again.
I changed out of my costume, too, and thought about what I’d seen. I mean, at the Vatican. It was as bad as I’d figured. Even with the place totally flooded with gawkers, I could see the alarms, sensors, cameras, guards, and they were absolutely everywhere. And bottom line? The Liberation of St. Peter was still a wall, and the wall was still attached to a really big, heavy building, and the building was about as secure as you can make a building. And to get really picky-shit about things, the doors and windows were way too small to fit the whole stolen wall through. I was pretty sure Boniface would be a little bit peeved if I delivered the thing chopped into handy pieces—and peeved meant a date with Bernadette, which was not something I really wanted to fantasize about.
So it had been a great day at the Vatican. Beautiful stuff everywhere. Hot diggity fucking damn. Because all I could think of was why I was really here. And it just plain could not be done.
* * *
—
Monique was fuming again. She’d been in such a great mood, and then she’d looked up to see that miserable prick ogling her as she peeled off her shirt. She ground her teeth together and flung a shoe toward the closet. What an asshole! she thought, and threw the other shoe in the same general direction. Riley fucking Wolfe—the only man alive who can kill the buzz of seeing all that great art. Standing there and watching her undress, smirking like a middle school kid—and the whole time she was babbling on, completely oblivious. She wasn’t sure if she was more angry with herself or Riley.
She tossed the shorts after the shoes. Riley, definitely, she concluded. Nobody else can come close.
Monique pulled the beautiful plush dressing gown from the closet and wrapped it around herself. Just feeling the luxurious touch of the incredibly soft fabric against her skin was soothing, and for a moment the thought of Riley and the way he always managed to get to her was nearly funny. That sonofabitch, she thought, sitting in a gorgeous brocade chair by the window. He got under her skin like nobody else ever had.
Of course, it didn’t really occur to Monique to wonder why Riley bothered her so much. Because as she saw it, she really and truly had no feelings for the man, none at all. Except negative ones at the moment—she was absolutely off-the-charts pissed off at him for the mess he’d landed them both in. Arms dealers, for the love of God! And even Riley could see that there was no fucking way out this time. Not that he’d ever admit it, the conceited, arrogant, smirking bastard. And on top of everything else, a Peeping Tom! Serve him right if he finally ran into something he couldn’t handle. It was a lesson he really needed.
Because it had clearly gone to his head that he was truly the best ever at what he did. And it didn’t help that it seemed like he was good at everything else he did, too. In the past couple of years she’d watched him pilot a boat, ride a horse, hang glide, literally turn into totally different people, climb up a wall like an insect—and now he was proving to be an expert tour guide, too. He’d steered them to a perfect boutique hotel, right by the Spanish Steps, and booked them a freaking penthouse. The concierge had been waiting for them and bowed them in like they were the king and queen of Spain, too. She got the impression that the whole staff knew Riley, and actually liked him, as hard as that was for Monique to believe right now. And he had greeted each one of them with a kiss on the cheek and what sounded to her like perfect Italian—Monique didn’t speak the language—even calling them by name. They’d grabbed up all the luggage and practically carried Monique, too, all the way up to the top floor and into the most shamefully decadent apartment she’d ever seen, with its own kitchen, a beautifully appointed sitting room—maroon velvet furniture with gold trim—and a lovely terrace, where they could look out at Rome while they ate breakfast or sipped wine in the evening.
It was the perfect romantic retreat for billionaires—but it had two bedrooms, too. Monique had expected Riley to pull some kind of bullshit move about sharing a bed, just for the sake of their cover, but he hadn’t. Instead, he’d ushered her into a large and impossibly luxurious room of her own, with a to-die-for view of the city.
Under any other circumstances, it would’ve been just about impossible not to warm up to a guy who could do all the things Riley Wolfe had managed so easily today. But under these circumstances, Monique was not having a lot of trouble staying mad at him. Mostly.
She had just managed to wrestle a convincing scowl back onto her face when a soft knock came at her door.
“Monique?” Riley’s voice came through the door. “I got us reservations for dinner, a really nice little place. If you could put on something sort of dressy? Maybe that black dress with the—”
“I can fucking well dress myself!” she snapped.
“Okay, sorry,” he said, and he sounded so humble she almost apologized.
* * *
—
Dinner continued Riley’s streak of superbly tasteful choices. His “nice little place” was amazing, and so was the meal. And he was as anxiously attentive to Monique as if he were trying to impress the homecoming queen on their first date. He fussed over her choices, making sure she got exactly what she wanted and lecturing the waiter in his perfect Italian about what to serve, how she preferred it cooked, which wine should go with it—everything. He even sent back the first bottle of wine—as far as Monique could tell, he thought it was corked and hadn’t even let her take a sip.
When they were finally settled with an appetizer and a glass of wine—duck foie gras with apple and chestnut, and a bottle of Frescobaldi Gorgona—Riley finally relaxed a little, leaning back with his wine and smiling through the candlelight at her. And he almost seemed human for a moment. Then a shadow flicked over his face; he took a long pull on his wine and turned to stare out the window.
The view was worth a stare, a good, long one. The sun had set, and Rome was a beautiful, flickering spectacle of bright lights. The city spread out below them in all directions in a seemingly endless carpet of blinking magic. But Riley didn’t look like he was admiring the view.
Monique studied Riley. He was sipping his wine without really tasting it and looking fixedly at the dome of the basilica, looming up huge and brightly lit right in front of them. As she watched he took another sip of wine, again without apparent awareness of what he was doing. A shame—the wine was excellent. Monique was enjoying it a great deal.
And the evening itself was lovely so far. Even the company, to her surprise. Riley looked very dashing in profile, even James Bond–ish, silhouetted against the night lights of Rome. He had on a gorgeous tuxedo—Monique hadn’t even known he owned one. And before he had gone off into his brooding silence, he had seemed like the perfect dinner companion. She could almost—
He turned toward her suddenly, as if sensing her gaze. “What?” he said. “Is it this place? It’s kind of touristy, I know, but it has a great wine list—and, you know, I mean, the food is pretty good? But if it’s too— I mean, if you want to try someplace more—”
“Riley, stop,” Monique said. “This place is fine. More than fine. It’s amazing, really.”
“Uh-huh. Okay,” he said. “So . . . what?”
Monique shook her head. “Nothing. Just . . . I’ve never seen you like this before, that’s all.”
“Like what? Dressed up?”