Page 16 of The Roman Holiday Rule

I climb the outdoor stone imperial stairs off the patio that lead to the second-floor balcony, and pass through a dark, quiet study and overstuffed living room. Fewer people loiter on the second floor. Win-win.

I reach the long, narrow sunroom as a lively conversation breaks up.

A few people pass me with friendly nods on their way out of the bright room, leaving only two women still talking in front of the wall of arched windows. I step in farther, double-checking that neither woman is Mariella, but freeze in the doorway.

Lexington Walker ishere, in a floor-length gold skirt ablaze withlight from the burning sunset behind her. Her dark hair is piled up in a fancy style, and long but simple earrings dangle from her ears. She’s completely regal. Almost like she belongs in an Italian villa.

I tug at my bow tie. There is no air in here, just heat and glass and Lexington.

I’m positive she said she was in Italy for a vacation, so what is she doing here? She’s competitive, but if this is the way she plans to “get” Italian culture and win our bet, she’s playing on a different scale than I ever would have imagined. Once she gained entrance to the villa, it’d be nothing for her to make quick friends, but how did she even know this party was happening? Surely she’s notstalkingme.

No. I haven’t known her long, but I don’t believe she’s unscrupulous.

The smart thing would be to slip away before she notices me, not give this coincidence any clout, but I stay because ... let’s be frank. That jolt of adrenaline atseeing hercompeting with her is addictive. This is why people mountain climb, despite the risks.

The second, older woman pulls away from the conversation, strict posture and dark hair streaked with gray, and stops in front of me. “Mark! Hello. I should have known you’d be part of the festival. Let me guess—photography or the palazzo blueprints?”

“The palazzo. Restoration as Art exhibit.” I hug my former art history professor but the sear of Lexington’s gaze boring into me reduces me to sentence fragments.

Focus, Mark.Besides her teaching role, Sienna Accardi is Rome’s most prestigious restorer of small artifacts. A woman I not only respect, but whom I can’t afford to offend.

She folds her hands, loose and relaxed, the same way she ended every class while delivering her homework assignments. “I heard about that project. It would be a huge but rewarding undertaking. The owners would be foolish not to pick your bid.”

She glances over her shoulder to where my attention keeps flicking. With a sly smile I don’t trust, she pulls me farther into the sunroom, straight to Lexington, who takes a tiny step back.

I really hope Professor Accardi doesn’t feel the need to retell her favorite Mark story about the time I mispronounced Impressionist painter Degas as Day-gus. As in Vegas.

“Let me introduce you. This is someone you should know. Lexi, this is Mark Russo, one of my top students ever. He’s worked on—”

“Sienna!”

Professor Accardi turns, waves at a balding man beckoning to her from the main room, and then nods at us. “Excuse me, I can’t keep the mayor waiting. I’m so sorry. Mark, we’ll catch up later, and it was lovely to finally meet you, Lexi.”

She leaves us alone, and the silence stretches. Where to start.

There’s a big difference between flirting and arguing with a fellow traveler versus standing in an Italian villa at a formal society event with a woman looking ... like she does. I’ve been duped.

Lexington bounces her gaze around the now-empty room, lit with the sunset and a few candlesticks on console tables, and back to me. “Well, this is bizarre. Why does it feel like we’re on the board of a murder mystery game?”

I grin. “Noclue.”

She barks out a laugh, and I take an unconscious step closer to her. She doesn’t hold back her mirth, even dressed up at a professional, public event, and that ambushes me. She may look like a gray-eyed Keira Knightley but she’s still the quirky, smart, never-need-to-explain-a-joke-to-her Lexington I met in Boston.

I force myself to retreat. I need to stick to the point, make sense of this. There can be no fun, Logan-airport-style banter.

Before I can drill her on what she’s doing here, my phone rings. I check the number in case it’s Mariella, but it’s Katie, who has tried twice to call me already.

“Excuse me for one second. I have to answer this.”

I pace a few steps away while my sister bemoans the fact she didn’t get to the airport to send me off in Boston. I lean against the wall, facing Lexington. She’s sipping her drink and frowning at a color-coded chart on her phone.

“It’s fine. I didn’t expect you’d be able to make it.” I already miss Katie, our pranks and conversations.

Though it’s very pleasant here too. Unrelated—my view of Lexington’s silhouette against the last rays of sunlight would make an award-winning photo.

“Mark?” Katie’s waiting for an answer to a question.

“Sorry, what about the wedding?” I turn away from the windows and stare at the candlestick on the console table like dripping wax is fascinating.