By Royal Decree: Royally Romanced

He shifted uneasily at his arousal, cautious after the doctor’s warning. But the doctor hadn’t told him to avoid sex—just bread, pasta and sweets. He’d rather have sex than spaghetti, anyway. And the doctor told him to take a vacation. Giorgio remembered how Renata had talked about her ancestral homeland—Cinque Terre—the Five Lands, a beautiful curve of beach on the Italian Riviera. Relatively quiet this time of year and perfect for a holiday. A holiday for two? She had wanted him as much as he wanted her.

Before he could second-guess the wisdom of inviting a woman he barely knew to visit Europe with him, he found her number on his phone and pressed Send. For once, he would put his own needs before his country’s. He would put aside his princely duties this once, and instead just be a man pleasing a woman.

RENATA FUMBLED FOR HER ringing phone and managed to answer it. She’d just fallen asleep after mentally reliving her tumultuous day.

“Renata? It’s Giorgio.”

“Giorgio?” She yawned. “Are you okay?”

“No.”

She sat up in bed, alarmed at the roughness of his voice. “What’s wrong? Do you need help?”

“I need you.”

“Oh.” She looked at the clock. A 4:00 a.m. booty call was not something she’d ever answered. “It’s very late and I have to go to work soon.” How disappointing he would pull a stunt like this.

“No, not now, I realize that.” He exhaled harshly. “I am making an ass of myself. Let me try again. Renata, I can’t stop thinking about you. Ever since I dropped you off, all I see is the smile on your face, your hair falling around your shoulders, the scent of you, the taste of your skin…”

She gulped. If this was a booty call, it was a very poetic and arousing one. Maybe she should reconsider her policy…

But he was continuing. “I do need you. I want to know you better, know what you think about things, what you like to read, see at the movies, do for fun. And I want to show you your family’s ancestral village on the coast. Come with me to Italy.”

Renata patted herself on the cheek to make sure she was really awake having this conversation and not just a really weird dream. If it was a dream about Giorgio, wouldn’t she come up with something a little more erotic like actually having sex with the man instead of receiving odd phone calls inviting her to Europe?

“Renata? Will you come?”

Oh, yes, she was awake after all and therefore had to decide what to do. “But, my business—”

“Your assistant you mentioned or your artist friend Flick can manage, can’t they? I will pay for a temp if you need one. You have a passport?”

“Yes, I suppose they could manage for a few days.”

“A week?”

Her eyebrows shot up. “A week? And I have a passport.” She’d gone to Montreal for a short vacation last year. Enough of this beating around the bush. “But, Giorgio, why me? We just met this—well, yesterday morning. Why should I upend my life and take off to Italy with you like some royalty groupie?”

“You know why.” His voice deepened to a seductive growl. “Because you want me. Me, the man, not the prince. You want what I can give you, but not at the boutique or the jewelry store. You want what I can give you in the bedroom.”

Oh, he had her there. The man wasn’t even in the same borough with her and was making her crazy for him.

“Remember how I sucked on your nipples last night? Remember how I touched your silky thighs and hot, sweet center?”

She let out a moan in remembrance.

“That was just a taste of how it could be.” Triumph tinged his voice. “I may be a prince in public, but I would be your slave in the bedroom.”

A whimper escaped her lips. With talk like that, he could take her to bed anywhere and she’d be more than happy. “Yes.”

“Wonderful. I will make arrangements and send them to you tomorrow.”

“This morning,” she corrected.

He gave a startled laugh. “I’m sorry I hadn’t waited until a reasonable time to call you.”

“That’s fine with me,” she reassured him. He’d promised to be her sex slave and she was going to hold him to it.

“Good.” His voice dropped into the purr again. “Now think of all the things you want to see in Italy and I will do my utmost to fulfill your wishes.”

Number one—see his naked body. Number two—see the bedroom ceiling. Number three—see the bed’s headboard. Well, she could maybe come up with some tourist activities. Or not.

“Good night, Giorgio.”

“Ciao, bella Renata. My only thoughts are of you until I see you again.”

She waited until she’d hung up to whimper again. She had a feeling she was going to be just as much a sex slave as he was. Did she mind?

She gave a very New York shrug in the darkness of her bedroom. Nah, of course not.

“SO A REAL-LIFE SEXY PRINCE wants to whisk you off to Italy, have his royal wicked way with you and you are hesitating why?” The next morning, Flick put her hands on her hips and blew a long turquoise hunk of hair out of her eyes, spoiling the punk persona she cultivated. She wore ripped-up jeans, a holey lime-green T-shirt and safety pins decorating both. A black military surplus jacket and black combat boots with chrome hardware-store chain strung around like tinsel made her look like a scary Christmas tree.

“I’m not that kind of girl,” Renata replied virtuously, crossing her legs primly on her elevated desk chair. She made a face at Flick’s raucous laughter. “Oh, knock it off. I’m not that kind of girl anymore.”

Her friend snorted. “That’s only because it’s been years since you’ve had a decent opportunity to be ‘that kind of girl.’ What’s with the cold feet?”

“Oh, all right,” she said tersely. “Let’s say I do go. What do I tell my aunt?”

“Tell her the truth—you’re going on an extended European hookup with one of the tabloids’ most eligible bachelors.”

“Eeeww, is he really on that list?” Not that Renata wanted Giorgio to have a wife and four kids, but holy crap, was that cheesy.

“Hand to God.” Flick cleared a stack of files onto the floor and flopped in the small chair across from Renata’s drawing table. “After you called me to come over, I looked him up on my phone. ‘Prince Giorgio Armani Ferragamo Versace Gucci Pucci is the crown prince of Vinciguerra—’”

“That is not his name,” Renata interrupted.

Flick gave her a sly look. “What is his full name, Miss How-Do-You-Say-Torrid-Vacation-Fling-In-Italian?”

Renata pursed her lips. “Giorgio di Leone. And no, I don’t know his middle name.”

“Middle names, plural. He has about five. But you only have to know the first. ‘Oh, yes, Giorgio. Oh, just like that, Giorgio.’ Et cetera.” She ducked out of the way as Renata flung a fat illustration marker at her head, having uttered those very words last night in his limo. “Don’t waste your energy on me—save it for Prince Loverboy.”

Deciding she didn’t want to pay for a replacement desk lamp if it broke when she hurled it at Flick, Renata restrained herself. “Speaking of names, Felicity, you really are annoying sometimes. I thought your name meant happiness and joy.”

Flick, who had the hide of an elephant, blew her a kiss. “I’m the annoyance who’s going to watch your shop while you go happily and joyfully off to Italy. And if you promise me a nice souvenir, I’ll even lie to your aunt so she doesn’t find out how sex-crazed you really are.”

Renata repressed a shudder. If her aunt found out, that meant her whole family found out. “Just what would you tell her?”

“What does your aunt want to sew more than anything?”

“Big poufy dresses,” she replied promptly.

“Exactly. So you are going to Europe on a buying trip for lace, ribbons, beads—”

“Sequins and pearls.” Renata got the picture. “But I don’t want to shop for all that stuff.”

“Dumbass, what do princes have secretaries for? Tell the man you need to take some Italian fabric and notions samples home and he will get his staff to pull together a nice portfolio while you romance the hours away.”

“Hmm.” She tapped her teeth with an unflung marker. “And what do I do when Aunt Barbara asks me about actually making a dress with that? I won’t use most of it.”

“Have that geeky cousin of yours set up a website for her. She can advertise traditional Italian-American wedding gowns and call it Gowns of Amore or something.”

“Not bad, Flick. You put the ‘genius’ in ‘evil genius.’”

“I aim to please. Now if I’m going to be babysitting your biz for the next ten days, you need to get me up to speed.”

Renata emailed Flick’s phone a copy of her schedule. “Open the file and I’ll go over it with you.”

“Fine, but don’t forget that souvenir you promised me. No airport gift shop crap—you’ll have to drag yourself out of the boudoir and actually buy me something nice.”

“Sorry, I don’t think an Italian gigolo would fit in my suitcase.”

“I think your prince Giorgio would be able to make arrangements. Young, hot and stupid are my top requirements.”

Renata had to laugh. “I love you, Flick.”

Her friend made a noise like a cat with a hair ball. “My God, the prospect of illicit nooky is making you absolutely maudlin. Put a sock in it and tell me about your crowd of Bridezillas. And don’t think I won’t text you if they give me any crap—loverboy or not.”

“I still love you, anyway.”

“Arrgh! Get laid already, will you?”

6

AND THAT WAS HOW Renata Pavoni of Brooklyn, New York, U.S.A., found herself ensconced in a first-class seat on Air Italia flying in to Genoa, Italy. Christopher Columbus’s hometown and the start of her own adventure. From what she’d read online Genoa was still a busy port town, the biggest city on the Italian Riviera. The coastline of the Riviera curved in a half-moon along the blue Ligurian Sea, stretching from France in the east almost two hundred miles to Tuscany on the west.

The plane touched down with barely a blip and Renata stared out at the early-morning skies, the ugly industrial views of the Genovese airport looking like any other modern airport.

Giorgio’s driver-bodyguard, Paolo, stood at the gate as planned. “Buona sera, signorina.” He relieved her of her carry-on bag. After claiming her luggage, he hustled her to a nondescript beige sedan.

So Giorgio didn’t even come along for the ride to the airport. Hmmph. She slid in the back and Paolo got in the driver’s seat, accelerating out of the lot as if he were in a Ferrari Testarossa. How much English did this guy speak, anyway? She decided to try out her American Italian. “Dov’è il principe?” Just where the hell was that prince?

“Ah, nell’ albergo. The hotel,” he pronounced carefully, the h sound foreign to the Italian language. “He wait for you there. At the airport, sometimes paparazzi. Photos.” He made noises like the clicking of a camera.

Oh-kay. Needless to say, Renata had never dated anyone who would have been even remotely interesting to a paparazzo photographer. She did hope they’d be able to go out in public without too much obnoxiousness.

Paolo silently drove through the city to a dock at the waterfront. “We need to take boat. No road to Vernazza—the village where we stay in Cinque Terre. Trains not here until morning.”

“Oh, okay.” Maybe they would have some privacy there if it was only accessible by boat and train.

He carried her luggage down to a medium-size cabin cruiser and nodded to the captain with curly salt-and-pepper hair and a navy blue short-sleeved shirt. After settling her in a lounge-type room, he disappeared upstairs to the bridge. Renata spotted a mini fridge and liberated a water bottle. Flick had warned her about dehydration on long flights and Renata wanted to be dewy-skinned and bright-eyed when she met Giorgio again.

After slugging back a full bottle, she stretched out on the long sofa and covered herself with her travel wrap, a giant pashmina-lookalike shawl she’d spotted at a Brooklyn resale shop. Get the sleep stuff out of the way so they could move directly to the bed part.

It felt as if she had just dozed off when she heard Paolo’s voice rumble through the salon. “Signorina Renata? We are here.” They had stopped at another dock. Paolo helped her off the boat. “Only a little more.” He took off up the hill past several square-looking buildings fastened somehow into a very steep cliff. Well, they hadn’t fallen into the sea yet. Glad she had worn sensible shoes for once, Renata followed him to a three-story house a few blocks from the ocean. Paolo showed her a narrow set of stone steps leading to a dark wooden door. “Up the steps, signorina.”

Renata gripped the handrail as she climbed the stairs. Butterflies hatched in her stomach. What if things had changed between them since their last meeting? Did he still feel the same heat, the same longing she’d fought to keep in check?

Giorgio appeared at the top. She climbed faster but he couldn’t wait and clattered down to meet her. “Renata mia.” My Renata.

He pulled her into his arms and firmly dispelled her worries with his kiss. Her neck was cricked up and the handrail poked her in the butt, but who cared? She grabbed his nape and ground her mouth into his. She eagerly accepted his tongue and sucked him deep.

He groaned and dragged her up the rest of the stairs, kicking the door shut behind him. She kept her mouth locked on his and dropped her purse and tote bag on the floor. His shirt was the next to fall as she shoved it off his shoulders, followed by her cropped travel cardigan and wrinkle-resistant linen-look blouse.

Giorgio paused for a second to gaze reverently at her breasts, this time wearing a white satin bra trimmed with matching lace. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes darkened to jade and his pupils dilated. As if breaking a trance, he leaped back into action and fumbled with the snap to her capri pants, stripping them down her legs in such haste he took her bikini panties with them—no thongs for her on an eleven-hour flight, complete with plane change in Rome.

She kicked off her white sandals and freed her legs until she stood before him in nothing but her bra. Giorgio scooped her up and carried her through a small living room down the narrow hallway leading to a medium-size bedroom. The dark wooden four-poster bed dominated the room, but there was space for a small table and a floral-upholstered chaise longue.

The matching floral bedspread was pulled back, showing snowy-white linens. He set her carefully on the cushiony mattress and stood back. She rested on her elbows, her ankles crossed. His eyes were hungry, his breathing quick.

“Renata, tu sei la donna più bella del mondo.”

That was a promising start. Being called the most beautiful woman in the world was always a plus. Not that she’d ever been called that before, especially in Giorgio’s lustfully raspy Italian voice, so different than his normally smooth tones.

“Grazie.” She sat up and unfastened her bra, letting her heavy breasts dangle freely.

Her complete nudity was too much for him and his pants and bikini briefs hit the floor. So did her jaw.

Giorgio was regally built in every sense of the word. No wonder his ancestors had held power for several hundred years, being fruitful and multiplying successive generations of princes.

He grinned at her, his physique perfect in the morning light. His broad chest was dusted with black hair that narrowed into a sexy trail down his flat belly, widening into a thick patch showcasing his impressive royal assets.

“That’s right—I forgot we did not get this far in the confines of the limo. But now I have plenty of time to make it up to you.”

“Please do.” His cock was long and thick, toasty brown with a plump head. He knelt next to her on the bed and she couldn’t help herself, wrapping her hand around his shaft. He had lovely smooth skin, hot and soft over a core of steel. She moved up and down and he groaned, tossing his head back. A silvery sheen seeped from the tip, and she spread the moisture around with her thumb.

He grabbed her wrist as if to stop her but she cupped his heavy sac with her other hand and he hissed out a sharp breath. “Renata,” he moaned, his hips jerking into her caresses.

“Giorgio,” she replied, an answering warmth between her thighs.

“Stop.” His hand closed over hers. “I have been dreaming about you for days, waking up like this. Give me a second to regain some control so I can properly make love to you.”

“This seems pretty proper to me.” She moved underneath him and let her knees fall open. “You’re not the only one with hot, nasty dreams, Giorgio.”

He shuddered with desire and quickly protected himself. No little illegitimate princes running around for them.

“Are you sure?” He moved between her legs and stared down at her, his green eyes hot but tender.

She hooked her ankles around his calves. “Absolutely.”

He glided into her as if they had been lovers for a thousand years, locking himself to her. She gasped at the feel of him—hot and thick, stretching her very core. She couldn’t help squeezing down on him and he jerked inside her. “Ah, Renata.” He began moving, almost against his will.

She arched her back and raised her hips at him. If she thought the full heft of his cock was heavenly standing still, his thrusting was amazing. Lovely pressure alternating with a sense of emptiness. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him close.

He buried his face in her neck, kissing the tender skin and murmuring to her in raw, raunchy Italian exactly how she made him feel and how he was going to make her come like she’d never come before.

Giorgio had that part right, especially when he reached between their legs and thumbed her clit. She dug her short, red nails into his shoulders and nearly bucked him off her.

He lowered more of his weight to settle on her, pinning her firmly to the bed. She was going nuts, gasping and writhing under him as his skilled fingers plucked at her as if she were a fine musical instrument. His body clung and pulled at her, his lovely olive skin glistening with sweat.

Heat roiled up from where they joined, making her shake and burn. “Giorgio.” She gasped out his name, not wanting to climax so quickly.

“Si, cara mia. Let yourself go,” he coaxed. “Let me take you where you long to be.” He hooked her legs over his shoulders and rose up on his knees. He was deep and hard, his hands free to caress her breasts and clitoris.

“Ahh…” She couldn’t help moaning as he pinched her nipples, stroked her clit, all the while pounding into her. It was brash and wild, his domination of her. She couldn’t move her hips back up at him, and to her surprise, she loved it.

His lips curved into a knowing smile. “You like this, don’t you? Oh, wicked, wicked Renata.”

She shook her head, not in denial but in her rising passion. Giorgio was relentless, plundering her body. She sucked in a deep breath as the exquisite pleasure built and shattered her, up from her belly into her breasts and out her mouth in a loud scream of ecstasy. Make that several loud screams of ecstasy. If anyone had wondered what the new guests at the villa were up to, she had thoroughly dispelled any false impressions.

He left her weak and trembling under him as he slowed his pace, lowering her legs to the bed. “More?”

She shook her head. She was absolutely wrung out. “I can’t even think.”

“Good. Just feel.” And there he went again, bending to her breasts as he took her again. His slick mouth sucked and nipped at her breasts, coaxing the throbbing peaks to a rosy pink.

Believe it or not, she wasn’t done. This time she could move her hips and she did with a vengeance, rising up to meet his driving thrusts. He tossed his head back, a matching groan escaping from him. She reached up and fastened her mouth on his shoulder, salty and slick under her tongue.

“I’ll do that to your cock next time,” she promised, tremors building again.

He flinched and jerked inside her, hitting her G-spot. She dug her heels into the mattress and her fingers into his ass. “Do it, now!” She felt her control slipping away and disintegrated into a screaming mass of nerves. He let out a shout and followed her, his neck pulling into cords as every muscle in his body tensed.

Giorgio’s climax was as long and impressive as he was. She held tight to him, kissing the slick skin of his chest and shoulders wherever she could reach. He finally stopped and smiled down at her, sweat making little black curls at his temples and the nape of his neck. “Give me a second to start breathing again.”

“You can have two.”

He laughed and kissed her, his body sliding over hers. They were both sticky and wet, and her hair had to be a fright, but who cared?

After a quick bathroom detour, he collapsed at her side, still gasping for air. She went up on one elbow and looked down at him. “Wow.”

He grinned at her. “Yes, as you say, ‘wow.’” He pulled her down for a quick kiss.

She rolled onto her back. “I mean, geez, I knew it would be something but that was something.”

It was his turn to lean over her. “I knew we would be like this together. I had to hide my desire for you with a suit jacket in the first minutes we met.”

“Really?” Smooth, suave Giorgio had had an unexpected hard-on for the dress designer? “I’m flattered.”

“No, I am flattered that you would be here with me. So beautiful.” He ran a tender hand over her cheek, her breasts and hips. “Give me a little while and I will show you how flattered I am.”

She smiled and touched his face. “We won’t let that one go to waste.”

He kissed her hand and pulled her into a spooning position. Even soft, his cock was impressive against her bottom. She wiggled experimentally and he groaned. “Insatiable woman. I can see I will have my hands full with you.” To emphasize his words, he cupped her breast in his hand.

She giggled. “Your hands, your mouth, your cock…” She giggled again as he snorted in surprise. “What? Do I shock you?”

“Only in the best way possible. I had forgotten how blunt New Yorkers can be.”

The New Yorker yawned. “It’s been about sixteen hours since I left there, but I am perfectly willing to boss you around in bed once I get my second wind.”

“You say that, but I knew what you wanted.” He tongued her earlobe and she shivered. He lowered his voice to a honeyed purr. “You loved it when I pinned you down—your sweet little pussy tightened even more on me. Your body will tell me what you want.”

She swallowed hard. Dammit, he was right. She yawned elaborately again and he immediately pulled a soft cotton sheet over their naked forms. “Rest, mia bella. I do not want to wear you out the first day.”

His breathing quickly fell into the slow, regular pattern of sleep, but to her annoyance, she was still awake and thinking about what he had said. Yes, he had possessed her in the most elemental sense of the world, pinned her down and taken her like the lord of the manor and the local lovely virgin peasant girl.

On the other hand, the lord of the manor wouldn’t have bothered to make the peasant girl come screaming twice in five minutes.

Renata was a modern girl, used to taking charge in her life and in the bedroom, as well, if need be. But what if she didn’t need to take charge? It was an interesting idea. Not that she wanted to bring out any weird leather accoutrements that were ho-hum among certain friends of Flick’s, but if she were going to do the deed with an honest-to-goodness prince, she may as well try new things. The man was born and bred to be bossy.

And if she wanted some turnabout…she smiled in satisfaction, remembering how he’d crumbled like a cracker when she’d grabbed his erection. A well-placed hand—or mouth—and he’d be putty in her hands. Well, not really putty—she wanted him firmer than that.

7

THE NEXT MORNING, GIORGIO stood on the apartment’s terrace and gazed at the bright blue sea dotted with white sails. A fresh breeze ruffled his hair, and he couldn’t stop grinning. So much so, his face was starting to hurt.