By Royal Decree: Royally Romanced

He pursed his lips into an air kiss. “I’m sure we can make time for your other favorite thing.”

“What, swimming?”

He laughed. He slid his hand down her waist so it rested on the curve of her hip. “The captain will be down in a minute to give us a tour of the towns as we pass them, but I think after that I will give you a tour of our stateroom. You will have had a bit too much late-morning sun and retire there for a nap—with me, of course.”

“Wow, how decadent. A nap already?” She rolled her hip slightly so he caressed her bottom.

“Everyone knows redheads are susceptible to heat,” he told her with a serious expression.

She wiggled her eyebrows. “Only to your heat,” she whispered as the captain arrived, maritime-spiffy in his white shirt with black-and-gold epaulets. He had sunburned crow’s-feet at the corners of his snapping black eyes.

“Ah, Capitano Galletti,” Giorgio greeted him warmly.

“Signor, signorina, welcome to my ship, La Bella Maria, named after my lovely wife, Maria. Benvenuto!” He bobbed his head in a respectful nod. “A pleasure to have you join us as we cruise the Cinque Terre. If there is anything we can do to make your trip the most enjoyable possible, please do not hesitate to ask.”

“Grazie, Capitano. Signorina Renata’s great-grandparents came from Corniglia and she would like to learn more about that village.”

“Ah, from Corniglia!” His face crinkled into a mass of wrinkles, his smile the widest one. “I should have known from your beauty. Signore, the most beautiful women in Italy are from Corniglia. But do not tell my wife I said so—she is from Manarola.” They laughed. That was the village next to Corniglia. He gestured extravagantly at the panorama behind him. “They are so beautiful because of the sun, the sea, the fresh air and the fish,” he said in a significant tone of voice.

“The fish?” Renata asked, wondering how a love of seafood contributed to beauty.

“We always knew fish made you healthy and strong. And now the rest of the world knows—but they take fish in pills.” Capitano Galletti shook his head at that foolishness. “Pills, pah.”

“Indeed,” Giorgio said with grave respect. “We are looking forward to some fresh fish. You have an excellent reputation for your seafood dishes.”

“But, of course! The cook will prepare grilled swordfish for you tonight—fresh caught just this morning while we were still in bed.”

Renata suppressed a grin. They had indeed been in bed, but probably not asleep. For spending so much time in bed, she was awfully tired. A nap like Giorgio had suggested sounded great.

The captain had other ideas, though. “Come, more Prosecco.” He topped off their glasses. “I show you the most beautiful coast in the world.”

He was as good as his word. After they left the inlet at Vernazza, he showed them a picturesque view of the hills and cliffs studded with coral, white and yellow houses leading down to the pebbly beach.

“And now, Corniglia!” the captain announced like a proud father. “The first Roman farmer here named it after his mother, Cornelia. What a good son, eh?”

Renata stared at the tiny hilltop town, amazed that her great-grandparents had summoned the nerve to leave it for the wilds of New York City. They must have had the mother of all culture shock when they arrived in America early in the twentieth century. She had friends who lived in apartment buildings with more people than the entire village.

Giorgio leaned in close. “It is only a few kilometers’ hike from our flat. We will visit before you go.”

She nodded, noting how he’d said “our flat” and then followed that up by reminding her she was leaving. Mixed messages? “I’m not looking forward to leaving.”

“Me, neither,” he admitted. “This has been a little slice of heaven.”

“Heaven indeed! Beautiful wine country,” crowed Capitano Galletti. “Jugs at Pompeii had ads for white wine from Corniglia. I have a friend there who makes her own wine—delizioso! I can get you a nice, nice discount.” He winked at Giorgio, who smiled in return.

Renata wondered what Giorgio might have said if the captain hadn’t inserted the ad for his friend’s wine. She just had to get up her nerve and ask him again when they were alone.

Renata scanned the coastline and stood up straight. “Look, that guy is jumping off the cliff.”

“Crazy, eh? Cliff diving.” Something in Giorgio’s slightly nostalgic tone made her narrow her eyes.

“So crazy you’ve never tried it?”

“Well…” He shrugged, a mischievous look in his eyes. “I seem to recall trying it once or twice while vacationing with Jack and Frank in the Spanish Riviera when we were in college. I have to confess my wits and judgment were dulled by major quantities of sangria but we all managed to survive without significant injury. Think Frank sprained an ankle.”

“Giorgio! I can’t believe you did that.” Her jaw dropped. The captain suddenly realized he had to be somewhere else and hastily departed.

“I have to admit cliff-diving was my idea.”

“Yours? Were you crazy as well as drunk?”

“Frank was both. He was coming off a bad breakup and wanted to jump off a cliff, minus the ocean below. So I told him if he was going to jump off a cliff, he had to take us with him. Jack calculated the angle and velocity to avoid smashing onto the rocks. We all made it into the water, although Frank moved his foot at the last second and wound up spraining it. Water is very hard when you hit it incorrectly.”

“Anything for a friend, huh?” That poor guy Frank had been so down he didn’t care, his friend Jack had put some scientific method to the madness and Giorgio had coordinated the whole thing like the leader he was born to be.

Considering how Giorgio was the only male heir to the throne and taking care of Stefania, the risk he’d taken was shocking. “I never knew you had that reckless side.”

He raised one black eyebrow. “Didn’t you?” His tone was low and seductive.

Oh, yes, she did know about his reckless side. He buried it well under fancy Italian suits and perfect royal manners, but it did exist, simmering away like a pot of pasta water until someone turned it up to boil over. She had been the one to heat him up.

He placed a fingertip beneath her chin and leaned over to kiss her lightly with closed lips, thanks to the presence of the crew, who were probably peeping at them. Renata closed her eyes, the sweet, warm pressure promising sensual delights later.

He moved his finger up her jawline. “We men are all reckless, especially where beautiful women are concerned.”

“And why is that?”

“The same reason we dive off perfectly good cliffs. The danger. Do we dare to approach the edge? Once we decide to make a move, it is anticipation followed by pure exhilaration. And what will the finish be? Successful, or—”

“Or a sprained ankle or cracked-open head,” she finished dryly.

He grinned and raised his Prosecco again. “Ah, but that only gives us war wounds and battle scars that we can brag about. Almost like breaking a leg on the slopes in Gstaad and then sitting in the lodge while ski beauties bring you brandy.”

Renata rolled her eyes. And this was why they were destined to be a vacation fling—just another example of their different worlds. He was a Verdi grand opera singer and she was a Frank Sinatra impersonator. He was a fancy five-star restaurant and she like a mom-and-pop hole-in-the-wall hangout complete with red-checked tablecloth and wax-covered Chianti bottle candlestick.

LUNCH WAS A BUFFET of antipasti, sausages and salami, Italian cheese and fresh-baked focaccia dotted with garlic. One dish Renata had never seen before was the Cinque Terre version of potato salad with small red potatoes, green beans and pesto sauce, but it was delicious. Wouldn’t her mother be surprised when Renata brought back a new recipe?

After a dessert of lemon gelato, Renata stretched out on a deck chair facing the ocean. “Ah, this is the life.” She was so full she was considering taking a real nap.

Giorgio sat in the adjoining chair and took her hand. “I’m glad you are enjoying yourself. Although Cinque Terre can be the quietest area of the Italian Riviera, being on the water is even more so.”

The crewman finished clearing away lunch with the captain looking down from the bridge in an avuncular manner. He gave them a friendly wave and they waved back.

“Does he know who you are?” she asked in a low voice.

“Probably.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Paolo made the arrangements, and he can be very persuasive in convincing businessmen to maintain their confidentiality standards.”

She giggled. With his size and intense demeanor, Paolo could convince anyone to do anything. “Well, the captain seems like a good guy, unlikely to alert the paparazzi. You don’t want to wind up on the front of the tabloids, do you?”

“I’m used to it. They’ve been publishing my pictures since my mother carried me out onto the palazzo balcony after my baptism.”

“Since you were a baby?”

He preened. “I was very photogenic. Bald, but photogenic.”

“I don’t like having my picture taken.” She shuddered. “Probably a holdover from my overweight Goth days. I used to hide behind my brothers during family photos. Good thing they’re all big guys—”

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