By Royal Decree: Royally Romanced

His slacker-prince/do-nothing gig. “Yes, I do my best. I do apologize, Signorina Renata, if we have not been up front with you from the beginning, but it is difficult to know if someone will call the infernal paparazzi. They can be very unpleasant.”

“Like when Mamma and Papa died.”

Giorgio’s face hardened into grim lines, remembering the brokenhearted little girl who had sobbed into his chest for years after the awful loss. “So far those jackals do not know about Stefania’s engagement, but they will find out eventually.”

“Not from me, they won’t!” Renata’s eyes snapped, her New York accent thickening.

“Of course not,” Stefania defended her. “But once they know that I am getting my wedding dress from you, they will not give you a moment’s rest. It will be good for your business, though,” she added quickly. “Lots of publicity.”

“Oh.” Renata obviously hadn’t considered that aspect, and he appreciated it. “I never blab about our clients and I’ll make sure my aunt doesn’t, either.”

“We appreciate it, Renata.” Stefania hugged her, and Giorgio wished he could do the same.

“So this is the dress you want, Stefania?”

His sister turned to him, her eyes shining. “Oh, yes, George, I love it. I know it’s shorter than what Vinciguerran brides usually wear, but won’t it look lovely in the cathedral with its marble and gold decorations?”

“You will look lovely.” He cupped her shoulders and kissed her on the forehead. His eyes watered a bit—had to be the Brooklyn air. He faced Renata, who wore a knowing smile on her red lips. “We’d like to get this dress—perfect for a princess.”

“Absolutely.” Renata hustled Stefania over to the trifold mirror and they baffled Giorgio with their discussion of fabric options, cuts and embellishments. His only contribution was his credit card once Stefania went to change into her regular clothing.

He blinked at the total on the slip—surely all that fine custom work had to cost more. He glanced up at Renata. “That’s all?”

She put her hands on her hips. “Did you expect me to mark it up just because you’re this, this royalty thing?”

“Yes,” he answered truthfully.

“Then those other shop owners are scumbags. You should find someplace better.”

He pushed the signed slip toward her. “I believe we have.”

A faint flush crept up her neckline into her cheeks. She busied herself by shutting down the computer and fussing with a stack of papers.

“You are finished for the day?”

She glanced over her shoulder at a black cat clock with a swinging tail. “I’m meeting my friend at the art school to see a new student exhibit.”

Stefania burst out of the dressing room. “And I have class in an hour, George. Can you take me back to Manhattan?”

“Of course.” Stefania inexplicably refused to use the car service most of the time in favor of the subway but she was in a hurry. “And, Signorina Renata, are you going to Manhattan, as well?”

“Well, yes, but I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“No inconvenience.” Stefania tugged on her short wool coat and belted it. “Come on, it’ll be fun.” Her merry gaze darted between her brother and her dress designer.

Giorgio gave her a neutral smile. So his little sister had picked up on his attraction to Renata and was playing matchmaker. She was in love, ergo, the whole world should be in love. He was a grown man—he knew better. Love was for fresh young girls and foolish young men.

“If you’re sure.” Renata wrapped herself in a black trench coat, her red lips and hair heating him up. She looked like a sensual spy from a war movie—the brave secret agent who arrives at her contact’s apartment one foggy night, wearing her trench coat and nothing else. Or maybe in a corset and that black garter belt he’d imagined earlier…

“George? George!” Stefania was already at the door. “Renata’s waiting for you so she can set the alarm.”

Grateful he still carried his suit coat in front of him, Giorgio hurried to the door. Paolo must have been watching because he pulled the black limo up to the curb within seconds, coming around to open the doors for them.

“Renata, you sit in back with George. I want to visit with Paolo since I haven’t seen him in months.” Stefania again, with part two of her plot. Visit with Paolo? The man put lie to the stereotype that all Italians were chatty. Giorgio would be surprised if Paolo spoke a dozen words a day.

Renata of course didn’t know this and slid into the leather backseat and the big car fought its way through traffic to the Brooklyn Bridge, one of his favorite New York landmarks.

Renata tucked her shapely legs to the side as she stared up at the stone towers and steel cables. “It’s amazing how well built the bridge is for being so old.”

Giorgio smiled. His country still had remnants of ancient Roman bridges, but the Brooklyn Bridge was old by American standards.

Renata’s phone buzzed and she reached into her handbag to check the text display. “Oh, darn. My friend Flick had some bad Thai food last night and can’t make it to the gallery.” She replied to the text and put away the phone.

“Flick?”

Renata grinned. “Her real name is Felicity, but it wasn’t edgy enough for her as an up-and-coming artist with turquoise streaks in her hair. She told me to go ahead and she’d catch the exhibit some other time.”

Giorgio mentally consigned all the business activities he had planned to the trash heap. “I would be happy to take you to the exhibit. I have no plans for the afternoon.”

“Are you sure?” Her lips pursed thoughtfully.

He sneaked a look at Stefania, who was chattering away in Italian to Paolo, who nodded occasionally. He didn’t want to let her know that he was going along with her scheming. “I would enjoy doing so.”

“In that case, Giorgio, I’d be happy to show you around.”

“My pleasure.” It was the pleasure of spending time with her, but he didn’t want to come on too strong. “I am Vinciguerran—we love beautiful works of art. All kinds.” Especially the one sitting next to him.

4

GIORGIO HATED THE ART—if he even thought of it as art. Renata wasn’t convinced from the sideways glance out of the corner of her eye. Scary how well she could read him after only meeting him this morning. He had sent his beefy driver back to their hotel.

“And this signifies…” He gestured elegantly at the smelly mess of vegetation on the floor.

She peered at the information tag. “The broken corn-stalks and soybean plants tell the plight of the family farmer in the ever-growing domination of industrial agriculture.”

He blinked. “Ah.” Giorgio was a good sport, though, examining what looked like his nonna’s compost heap.

“Let’s see the next.” She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow to tug him to another dubious installation. Lovely. A tangle of rusty barbed wire. Her heel caught on the rough concrete floor and he steadied her.

“Careful, Renata. I do not want to take you for a tetanus shot.” He smiled down at her and she forgot for a second that he was an honest-to-God prince of someplace in Italy and his suit cost more than she made in a year. No, when he smiled at her, he was just Mr. Hot Guy who made her want to shred that expensive suit off him with her teeth. Her breathing sped up, pressing her breasts into the nice bodice of her black blouse.

He noticed, his fingers tightening on hers. Not so cool on the inside, then. “And this represents the tangle of modern life?”

“No, the plight of refugees.”

Giorgio nodded. “Stefania is patroness of a charity for women and children that often works with refugee and displaced families.”

“At her age?” Stefania wasn’t much younger than Renata.

“Since she was thirteen.” His tone was full of love and admiration. “She testified in front of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees when she was nineteen. Stefania has become a better strategist since then. Perhaps I should have discouraged her from studying political science, but when a twelve-year-old reads Machiavelli’s The Prince so she can pass political tips on to her older brother, what else would I expect?”

Renata let him guide her along to the next exhibit. It was a video installation with a variety of blurry faces grimacing in turn as loud static played in the background. Giorgio regarded it with the same pleasant expression he’d pasted on his face as soon as they’d walked in. He really was a polished man.

Renata went up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “This is just awful. Do you mind if we leave now?”

“Aren’t you enjoying yourself.” His eyes twinkled.

“You’ll know when I’m enjoying myself,” she assured him.

“Indeed?” He turned his head slowly so their faces were almost touching. Renata swallowed hard. She thought he was going to kiss her but he clenched his jaw instead. Perhaps public displays of affection were against the Vinciguerran Royal Book of Etiquette. “I will call Paolo to pick us up.”

“No, don’t.” She didn’t want anyone intruding in what was turning out to be a very intriguing afternoon. “It’s a nice day—let’s walk.”

“Where?”

“A surprise.” She tugged him out of the gallery and onto the sidewalk, tipping her face up. “Ah, sun. Makes up for a long and gloomy winter.”

“An Italian girl like you should always get plenty of sun.”

She patted her jaw. “Bad for the complexion. The rest of my family has the typical dark hair and olive skin like you, but I only burn.”

“No wonder you have such lovely skin. You must be careful when you travel to Italy the next time. You know our sun can be very strong.”

“The next time? I’ve never been to Italy before.”

He stopped and stared down at her. “Your name is Renata Pavoni and you’ve never visited Italy? How can that be?”

She laughed and led him along the busy street. “My parents have five of us. You’ve never priced out airfare to Europe for seven, but my mother did once. We heard her scream of shock down the street.”

Giorgio looked momentarily startled—budget concerns didn’t cross his radar. He nodded thoughtfully. “What part of Italy did your family come from?”

“After the war, my grandparents on my mom’s side came from a little village on the Italian Riviera called Corniglia. My nonna says the town is perched on a huge rock surrounded by grapevines. They make this special kind of wine found nowhere else in the world.”

“Scciachetrà.”

“Yeah, that’s right. We crack open a bottle every New Year’s Eve to toast the old country.” Renata shivered in remembrance. “Boy, is that stuff strong. Made of raisins, so the sugar is very concentrated.”

“I’ve never tried it, although we have something similar in Vinciguerra, called Bocca di Leone—The Lion’s Mouth. We serve it in thimble-size glasses and no one can drink more than a few without falling over.” He sighed. “I’ll have to make sure we have enough for Stefania’s wedding. It’s the traditional toast for weddings, especially royal weddings.”

“And you are the di Leone family, after all.”

“Our ancestors invented it.” He grinned down at her. “I may need a couple stiff drinks before I walk Stefania down the aisle.”

“Buck up, Giorgio.” She patted his arm. “Everyone gets a bit misty-eyed when they give the bride away. Which sword and medals will you be wearing?”

Giorgio gave her a sidelong look. “Sometimes I cannot tell if you are joking with me or not.”

“That’s because you are much too serious.” She gestured. “Look at the beautiful day! Here we are in the most fabulous city in the world, we have lovely Central Park over there, the sun is shining, your sister has her wedding dress and you didn’t have a nervous breakdown trying to shop for one. Do you know how rare it is to keep good mental health shopping for a bridal gown?”

“Um, no.”

“When I worked at a regular bridal salon, fits of hysteria, therapeutic slapping and tranquilizers of dubious legality were an everyday occurrence.”

“It seems I’ve dodged the bullet.”

“You sure have. Hey, let’s cut through the park.”

HE TOOK A DEEP BREATH of the spring-scented air, the pale green leaves on the trees unfolding from their winter’s rest. The tension started to leave his muscles, although they were still mighty buff.

“See? All you needed was a nice little nature walk. I bet it’s been a long time since you got outdoors for some fresh air. A guy like you isn’t meant to be cooped up indoors pushing paperwork all day. Maybe you should get yourself a yacht—I mean if you don’t already have one—”

“We have my father’s yacht. We loan it out to people for field trips and marine science expeditions.”

“Weddings, proms and bar mitzvahs.”

He grinned. “Probably, if anybody requested it.”

“Don’t you or your sister ever use it?”

“Stefania does for her charity fundraisers.” They passed near a tree and he held a branch back that might have scratched her face.

“Not for that, but for your personal use.”

He shook his head. “Not since she started at the university and I took over more duties from my grandmother.”

“All work and no play makes Giorgio a dull boy,” she quoted the old saying. Imagine owning a yacht and being too busy to use it. Running even a small country must take an enormous amount of time.

“Then I should stop being so dull.”

He pulled her to the side of the path underneath a big oak tree. “Is that red lipstick smudge-proof?”

“Yeah, pretty much. It actually has a sealant clear gloss that—”

“Good,” he cut her off. Wow, for a prince he needed some work on conversational manners.

He kissed her.

And he did not need some work on his kissing. Renata’s mouth fell open in shock and he took advantage, slipping his tongue between her hopefully smudge-proof lips. She clutched his broad shoulders as he caressed her mouth with his, gently nibbling and sucking at her lips.

Renata had never been kissed like this, with passion and lust but tenderness, too. Her previous boyfriends had been younger than Giorgio, in their early or mid-twenties, and had either been tentative in their kisses or overly aggressive, mashing her lips as if to prove their desire. Now Giorgio was planting kisses across her jaw and holy crap—he licked her neck’s equivalent of a G-spot and she nearly screamed with pleasure.

His hot breath quickened against her skin and she knew he was as on fire as she was. “Mmm, Renata.” He lifted his head.

Renata’s eyes fluttered open when she realized he wasn’t kissing her anymore. “Wow.”

He wore a dazed look on his face, as well. At least she wasn’t the only one. She probably would have socked him if he’d been gloating. “I am sorry, Renata.”

“Sorry for kissing me?” She shoved him away and plopped her hands on her hips.

“Never. Sorry for pushing you against a tree and kissing you in public.” His lips were plump from kisses but her lipstick had lived up to its promise.

She wanted to taste his mouth again—hell, taste him all over. “You’d rather kiss me in private?” She traced her finger up his golden silk tie.

Giorgio caught her hand in his and pressed a kiss to the palm. “I would like nothing more.”

A handful of female runners clattered along the path next to them, all of them ogling Giorgio. He turned away, not wanting to be recognized.

He rubbed his face. “Much as I’d like to invite you to my suite at the Plaza—”

“You have a suite at the Plaza?” she interrupted. “Is it as fancy as in the movies? I’ve only been in the lobby once.”

“I don’t know about the movies, my rooms are very nice. But…”

“Too fast, isn’t it?” she asked ruefully. Despite her brassy attitude, Renata didn’t want to hop into bed with a guy an hour after she met him. Well, she did, but she wouldn’t.

He nodded solemnly. “Paolo hasn’t had time to do a background check on you.”

She squawked in indignation and socked him in the arm.

“Ow!” He clutched his arm and laughed. “Renata, I’m just kidding. It’s too fast because I want to get to know you better.”

“Good answer.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. And although she wanted Giorgio pretty badly, he came with miles and miles of strings attached—business, money and the fact that he had his own country. Maybe it would be best to leave it at a quick kiss. A hot, wet, tongue-tangling kiss on a romantic spring afternoon in the most romantic park in New York City.

Renata mentally slapped herself before she dragged Giorgio back behind that tree and did something to the man that started with public and ended with indecency. “What’s next?” It was a bigger question than it seemed.

He took her hand again. “What would a beautiful New Yorker like to do on an unexpected afternoon away from work?”

Renata spotted a white gleam from beyond the leafy green trees. “How about the real art museum?”

“Whatever you’d like.”

That wasn’t an option. She dabbed at her mouth with a handkerchief. “How’s my lipstick?”

“Lovely.” He smiled down at her. “But I could make it smudge if I had enough time.”

“I bet you could,” she breathed. Darn it, he wasn’t making this easy for her. “Come on, let’s go.”

RENATA LED GIORGIO UP the marble steps to the main entrance of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He gazed up at the impressive multi-story facade along Fifth Avenue. “Stefania and I came here at least once a month while she was growing up. I haven’t been since the cleaning and restoration several years ago. It’s quite a dramatic change.”

“The gray stone actually turned out to be white after all.” The tall marble columns with elaborately carved tops and arched high windows looked like a Greek temple—a temple of art. “Are you sure you don’t mind coming along for the historical costume exhibit? Most men aren’t terribly interested in women’s clothing—just how to undo them.” She felt a flush rise in her cheeks.

He laughed at her bluntness and held out his elbow for her to take. She accepted and they started to climb the steep stairs. “But I am terribly interested in women’s clothing. Didn’t I prove that by flying all the way to New York to look at wedding dresses?”

“It was very sweet of you to come.” She impulsively squeezed his upper arm. No give at all. His expensive Italian suit was covering an equally nice body.

“I try to do what Stefania tells me.” Giorgio smiled at her. “The children’s book where the brother and sister run away to live in this museum was her favorite as a girl. I was quite terrified she might try the same thing, so I brought her here whenever she asked me. If I couldn’t, then my friends Jack and Frank did.”

He held the door for Renata and they went to the ticket counter. “Two tickets for the museum and the costume exhibit,” she told the museum employee, reaching into her purse for the money.

Giorgio put his hand over hers. “My treat, I insist.” He reached for his slim wallet tucked into his jacket pocket.

“No, no, you’re my guest.” She went for her purse again.

“No.” He gave a credit card to the employee who hastily swiped it through the reader before they could cause any more delay in her line.

Renata clamped her lips together and accepted her ticket. They went into the museum foyer and she pulled him aside. “Look, just because you are a prince and all doesn’t mean I can’t afford to pay for museum tickets.”

He gave her a considering look. “You think I paid because I have much more money than you?”

“Yes.”

“No.” He took her hand. “I would pay for your ticket with the last money I owned because I’m a man and you’re a beautiful woman who makes me laugh and enjoy myself. Unfortunately, that is a rare occurence for me.”

“Oh, please.” She made a dismissive gesture with her free hand.

“No, thank you.” He caught her other hand. “I know I’ve had many advantages in my life, but free time isn’t one of them.”

“Same here.” She squeezed his hands. He had said she was beautiful, so she’d cut him some slack. Well, a lot of slack.

“Let’s not waste any of our precious time. Shall we go to the costume exhibit?”

“Absolutely. Then we can see whatever you’d like,” she offered.

He offered her his arm again, and they followed the signs to the gallery. “I’ve already seen most of the regular collection, so your special exhibit sounds just fine.”

“How about the arms and armor collection? Men always like that.”

He sniffed disdainfully. “We have a much better collection at home.”

“What? Better than the museum?”

“I’m just kidding.” He nudged her playfully and she snorted.

“But you do have some arms and armor at your house.”

“At the local museum,” he clarified. “But the armor used to be at my house.”

“You got tired of peasants wandering through looking at it?”

“If all peasants were as lovely as you, I would have no problem with that.” She raised her eyebrows. “I’m only joking, Renata. I’m priviledged to serve my people, not the other way around.”

“All right, then.” She let him off the hook. For a prince, he wasn’t very arrogant. Not that she knew very many. Or any.

He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pointed to the gallery entrance. “Here we are.”

Renata gave a gasp as she and Giorgio entered the darkened, dramatically lit hall. “Now this is what I call a real art exhibit.” Strategically placed spotlights illuminated mannequins in elegant 1890’s ballgowns.

“Very elegant,” Giorgio agreed. “And little danger of tetanus.”

Renata went as close to the mannequins as she could without getting tossed out of the museum and peered at the fine details of the gowns. They were satin, velvet and silk. The silhouette was a tight bodice flowing out to a small bustle and then fabric draping down to the floor in a small train. The embroidery was elaborately done with crystals, pearls and jet accents. Butterflies and flowers, swirls and loops. “Maybe I haven’t been taking enough advantage of Aunt Barbara’s skills. She could do this in her sleep.”

“The lady who is going to embroider Stefania and Dieter’s initials on her, um, underskirt?”

Renata laughed. Typical brother. “That’s her. She’ll be disappointed she missed you.” The overwhelming under-statement of the century. A real live prince and princess came to out-of-the-way Peacock Designs and Aunt Barbara was sitting in the gastroenterologist’s waiting room. She’d at least get to meet Stefania when she came for her fittings.

The next rooms had sports clothing, a revolutionary idea in the late nineteenth century. Although playing tennis in a floor-length dress or riding a bicycle in a wool skirt and suitjacket didn’t appeal to Renata, she saw the historical importance of the broadening of women’s activities.

Ah, more ball gowns, but this time they were a flowing, turn-of-the-century style with Asian-influenced fasteners and draping tunic silhouettes. Another set of new ideas for her.

“Art Nouveau, one of my favourite eras.” Giorgio gazed at the Tiffany stained-glass windows and classic Italian opera posters.

“Oh, my God, me, too! I just love Gustav Klimt’s painting with the man and woman embracing surrounded by all that gold and jewel tones.”

“The Kiss.” His gaze dropped to her lips.

She licked her mouth, suddenly dry. “Yes, it’s called The Kiss.”

“Have you been to Vienna to see it?” he asked.

She laughed and the spell was broken—at least temporarily. “No, I haven’t made it to Vienna yet.” Or anywhere east of the Atlantic Ocean.

“You should go.”

With what money? She caught his hand and pulled him along. He was a sweet guy, but there was a world of difference—and money—between them. “Maybe someday. Oh, look at the suffragettes’ uniforms. Very masculine.”

Giorgio stood patiently next to her, not fidgeting a bit or checking his phone as she examined the clothing in the remaining rooms. She wished she could take photos, but the light was too low to get any of the details. They exited into a gift shop with several reproduction jewelry items and books on art and fashion of the time period covered.