By Royal Decree: Royally Romanced

Renata sipped some wine. No reanimated fish for her. “Maybe Stefania should cut you some slack since she’s not the one in charge of a country and several thousand people.” Renata winced after that. Criticizing his sister was probably a dumb idea. He loved her very much. She stuffed some fish into her mouth to shut herself up. Holy cow, were they all geniuses in the kitchen here or just this restaurant? She’d have to get the recipe for her mother.

But he wasn’t offended. “No, you are both correct. I do need to lighten up and yes, I am the one in charge of a country. However, do not let my people hear you say I am in charge of them. They are even more stiff-necked than I am and do not hesitate to point out my errors. I don’t know why I ever introduced technology like the internet and email to Vinciguerra.” He stopped to dip some fish into the garlicky olive oil and hummed in appreciation.

“Before, they had to buy the newspaper, read it and then either call the palazzo or mail me a letter to complain. Now all they have to do is read electronic news on their phones and immediately text me to tell me what exactly I am doing wrong. I should have left them in the twentieth century.” But he was grinning as he said this. “I even had to hire a nineteen-year-old email assistant to decipher the acronyms and lack of vowels. I can tell you I wasn’t LOL-ing.”

Renata did LOL—laugh out loud. His affection for his country and his subjects—if they even considered themselves as such—was evident. “They boss you around terribly, don’t they?”

“It’s like I have thousands of nosy but well-meaning aunts and uncles.” He raised his wineglass and gestured to the terrace. “Which is why we are here and not in Vinciguerra. No privacy there whatsoever.”

“What a pair we are. I have to fly across the Atlantic and you have to sneak out of your country for any time together.”

He brushed the corner of her mouth with his thumb. “I would have swum the Mediterranean Sea to be with you.”

“How sweet.” An unfamiliar wave of mushy sentiment swirled up into her throat as she heard herself practically coo at the man. But she couldn’t help it. Large helpings of delicious food, romantic settings and of course hot sex with a capital H and a capital S.

“How true.” He slid his arm around her shoulder. “When I’m with you, you are my only responsibility. I’ve let my duties deprive me of the normal pleasures of being a man. I’m grateful you reminded me.”

Renata played with the fish with her fork. “I’ve been working like a madwoman for the past several years. I was full-time at the traditional bridal salon and spent evenings and days off designing fun dresses and writing my business plan. I finally opened Peacock Designs two years ago and work even harder than ever.”

“We are two of a kind. Driven, ambitious and determined.”

“I hate being beholden to anyone,” she admitted. “Just so you know, our trip is the first time I’ve ever accepted anything like this.”

He nuzzled her neck. “Renata, Renata, please don’t worry. If you were only interested in my money and status, you would have tripled the charges for Stefania’s dress, accepted my offer to the hotel immediately and then dragged me to the nearest jeweler for a ‘little remembrance’ of our time together. And I would have realized what kind of person you were, and extricated myself with a polite excuse.”

Jealousy swelled in her stomach and she pointed her fork at him. “Been in that situation before?”

Giorgio kissed her cheek. “Yes, a couple times when I was young and stupido. Not in the last several years, of course.” His free hand came to rest on her knee, stroking her thigh. “I have become a much better judge of character, but I have never been so impulsive as this.”

“Me, neither.” She set down her fork. “And since we’re being impulsive, why don’t we order dessert to go?”

“I impulsively agree.” He sat up and signaled the waiter, his hand still on her knee. “Dessert is best eaten in private.”

THE NEXT MORNING, Giorgio slipped from their bed and pulled on a pair of shorts. Renata murmured in her sleep and rolled over, a lock of red hair falling over her round white breast to curl around her coral-pink nipple. He nearly changed his mind and slipped back into bed, but realized they had only fallen asleep a few hours earlier and he hated to wake her.

He contented himself with staring at her for a minute, something he couldn’t do while she was awake. She reminded him of an Andrew Wyeth painting he had seen at a museum in New York during college—a beautiful redhead sleeping, the sheets falling to her waist to bare her breasts.

Something about the painting had intrigued him, and it wasn’t just the sight of a naked woman. The sheer peacefulness of the painting, pale linens, pale skin and a dark window behind, the only color from her hair and the crests of her nipples.

Giorgio realized why he’d been so struck by both the painted woman and Renata, the real woman—it was the sheer trust exhibited to be vulnerable to a man in sleep.

He gazed at her for a minute longer and gave a deep sigh of contentment before walking into the living room. After a quick call, the café across the street was happy to send over a carafe of coffee and platter of pastries. He thought for a second and added an assortment of fruit for him. His doctor had made him promise to eat better. He had wanted Giorgio to stay for more tests and not leave Vinciguerra at all, but once he learned Giorgio was taking a vacation, he stopped protesting.

He tipped the delivery boy and checked on Renata again. She’d rolled onto her back, a round arm slung above her head in sleeping abandon. He couldn’t get enough of her, but she’d had enough of him—at least until she woke again.

Some grapes, melon and a small pastry were enough to tide him over and he realized he hadn’t checked his phone. Although he almost never turned it off, his time with Renata was an exception. The palazzo had Paolo’s number and would notify him if there were a serious problem.

A text from Stefania, inviting him to Germany to have a meet-the-parents dinner with Dieter’s family. Lovely, beer and brats for everyone—oh, and maybe sauerkraut and some of those lead ingots that masqueraded as German dumplings. He’d have to check his schedule with Alessandro for the week after his vacation, since hell would freeze over before he cut short his time with Renata.

Mmm, a text from Frank, asking him how New York was and if the German footballer was a suitable match for Stefania. Too complicated to text back.

Frank answered on the second ring. “Hey, George! How’s New York?”

“I’m actually back in Italy.”

“So quickly? Did they drag you back for the grand opening of an orphanage? Senior citizen center? School for wayward girls?”

“Not exactly,” he said cagily.

“Ah,” Frank said understandingly. “The Royal Vinciguerran Society for Unwanted Puppies and Kitties?”

Giorgio laughed.

“Ah, you think I’m kidding, but put aside your dislike for animal fur on those expensive suits and think of the possibilities. Prince Giorgio surrounded by frolicking baby animals. Prince Giorgio petting a kitten. Prince Giorgio having his royal face licked by a white fluffy puppy. I tell you, George, the women would fall all over you in a heartbeat.”

“Frank, I don’t need women falling all over me.”

Something in his voice alerted Frank. “Because you already have one?”

Giorgio protested but Frank went charging ahead. “George! You never mentioned this to me when you called about Stevie’s engagement. Is it because you didn’t want to distract from her news?”

“No, Frank, it’s because I didn’t know her then.”

Well, that got Frank to put a sock in it. But not for long. “My, my, my! Aren’t you the fast worker. Someone we know?”

“You may meet her—she’s designing Stevie’s wedding dress.”

“So you just met her last Wednesday?”

“Yes,” Giorgio muttered.

“So why aren’t you back in New York with her? You may have a lot of advantages over us non-princes, but sometimes out of sight means out of mind.”

Giorgio rolled his eyes. Francisco Emiliano José Duarte das Aguas Santas was the duke of one of the largest estates in Portugal plus a whole island in the Portuguese Azores and wasn’t exactly hurting for female interest. He also happened to know that Frank hadn’t always been one to talk about “out of sight, out of mind” when it came to women, one in particular, but that was his business. And Giorgio’s business was apparently Frank’s business, as well.

“Go back to New York, George. You deserve to have a private life, too.”

“You know, I couldn’t agree more. That’s why I am on the Italian Riviera—and not all by myself.”

Another silence—that had to be a record. Then Frank started to laugh. “You must have swept her off her feet, George. Good job.”

“I think she likes me, yes.” Giorgio started to wonder how Renata did feel about him, thanks to Frank’s line of questioning.

“Obviously, if you convinced her to go to Europe with you after only a few days.”

Only a few hours, but that wasn’t Frank’s business.

“Any progress on planning Stevie’s wedding?” That would distract Frank for a second.

“Yes, but I asked my mother for some advice and she laughed, George. When I told her one day of a wedding was simple compared to a lifetime of running our estates, she laughed even more.”

Giorgio rolled his eyes as Frank continued, “And that was not a nice laugh, George. She told me not to be stupid, that men didn’t know anything about weddings except how to get stinking drunk at them.”

“We are bachelors, Frank.”

“Since she wasn’t in the mood to be helpful, I ordered a wedding planner notebook from the bookstore and Stevie and I have been emailing back and forth. Her wedding colors will be gold and ivory, and she and Dieter are looking at their calendar to set a date at the Cathedral of Vinciguerra. We’ll work on the guest list later.”

Wow, Frank needed a different hobby. Or more likely, a woman. Another thought struck him. “About my trip here on the Riviera, Frank…Stevie doesn’t know I’m here and doesn’t know I’m here with Renata, okay?”

“Renata Pavoni, the dress designer? Stevie emailed me a photo of her dress so I could see the style.”

“Right. But keep it quiet, Frank. As far as Stevie knows, I’m back in Vinciguerra.”

“Cutting ribbons for dog pounds, right?” Frank laughed again. “Don’t worry, I won’t say anything. I told you last week you were burning the candle at both ends, eh? A nice vacation with a pretty girl is just what you need.”

“Thank you. Speaking of burning the candle at both ends, have you heard from Jack?” Dr. Jacques needed to write himself a prescription for some R & R.

“He sent me a quick email from his satellite laptop that said he was going upriver and would be incommunicado for a few days. The news service says the flood casualties are even worse than originally reported.”

Giorgio shook his head. “He won’t be happy until he’s come down with some previously unknown dread tropical disease that medical science can name after him.” Jacques stupidii.

“Or being chased by pirates,” Frank agreed. “Talk about a man who needs to relax, huh?”

“If he makes it that long. Especially since we have a wedding to pull off.” Not that Jack knew anything about that sort of task, either.

“Right, George. Don’t worry about a thing. Stevie and I have it all well in hand, so you enjoy your vacation, okay?”

“And not a word to her about where I am, right?”

“Right. We’re just emailing and texting, so she can’t tell if I am lying or not.” Frank was a terrible liar.

“Good. I’ll let you know when I am back in Vinciguerra.”

“Take your time—and give that pretty signorina a kiss from ol’ Frank, okay?”

“Not okay, Frank. Find your own. You should settle down and make little dukes for your mother to spoil.”

“Right.” His voice was cool for the first time. “What’s the American phrase? ‘Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.’ Well, I am happy to be the wedding planner and never the groom.”

Giorgio winced. “Frank—”

“Tchau, Giorgio.”

“Ciao, Franco,” he replied, but to an empty line. Ah, he’d touched a nerve there with his offhand comment. As if Giorgio ever talked seriously about settling down. He’d apologize later when Frank had regained his normally sunny mood.

He stared at his phone. Frank was more of a home-body than any of them, preferring to work in the fields or build some new and elaborate project for his estate. Giorgio was the dutiful one, working in the palazzo like some CEO, and Jack had been bitten by the travel bug, probably the least harmful than the rest he’d encountered, and put more stamps in his passport saving the world than the Dalai Lama.

But none of them had had more than short-term relationships that fizzled instead of sizzled. He knew about Frank’s unhappy foray into first love only because of a late-night, wine-soaked confession of misery. Giorgio had poured Frank back into his bed that night right before the start of their second year at the university.

Jack had an aloof vibe that drove the girls crazy to learn what was behind the charming, but remote French facade. He’d preferred to go out with the cool, brainy types he met in his premed classes, and once he started medical school, dating fell by the wayside.

And Giorgio had had several girlfriends but had always put Stefania, his grandmother and his country before them—in that exact order. If he’d been his ruthless medieval ancestor, the original Giorgio Martelli di Leone, the Hammer of the Lion, who had carved out a principality from the rugged Italian hills, he would have put country first and women relatives a distant last. He would have sold Stefania off to a husband who offered the most advantage for him, chucked his grandmother in a nunnery if she gave him any grief and would have married the woman with the best dowry, regardless of looks or appeal. That original Giorgio had done pretty much the same thing, additionally fathering roughly a dozen children with nearly as many women. He’d often met other green-eyed Vinciguerran men who looked enough like him to be a cousin, if not a brother.

An odd thing, the fortuitous circumstances of his birth. He’d never thought much about it, traveling through his life like a swimmer in a river, constantly moving and dealing with rocks as they popped up. But if his great-something grandfather had been the son of the dairymaid instead of the son of the lady of the manor, Giorgio would be another tall, green-eyed Vinciguerran man reading the morning paper at his breakfast table and wondering aloud at great volume what that idiot prince of theirs was up to again.

He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. In that cozy Vinciguerran flat, his beautiful Italian wife, a redhead from the Cinque Terre, would shrug at the mysteries of foreigners as she poured him a caffe latte and kissed the nape of his neck.

He brought himself up short. That humble, sweet life that happened every day in his country was not his life. His flat was a gigantic palazzo and his life was not conducive to a normal marriage.

But while he and Renata were here in this lovely town along a lovely sea, he would make little memories like that imaginary breakfast and newspaper. And maybe when he was back at his immense desk arguing over traffic crossings and fishing rights, he would think back to how her hair curled over her breast as she slept on a sunny spring morning.

He set his cup down forcefully, awkwardly so the handle cracked off. Memories. Scraps of life. He was a man who had almost everything, could get almost anything with the snap of his fingers or the ring of his phone—and he was jealously hoarding mental snapshots to remember like an old widow staring at family photos.

Giorgio jumped to his feet, strangely disconcerted. Who was he to live like this? Had he not been living like this since his parents had died? Remembering how they had been happy and whole, Papa, Mamma, brother and sister. Making Stevie’s life happy and whole again seemed to have left a hole in his.

He stalked toward the bedroom. Well, if he was to be a man of memories, he was damn well going to make more.

Slipping off his robe, he slid into bed with Renata. She turned toward him in her sleep, wrapping her soft white arms around him. He swallowed hard and kissed the top of her head. Another memory for Prince Giorgio, rich in worldly goods but a pauper in the things that really mattered.

9

DESPITE HIS BEST EFFORTS to delegate work back to his assistants, Giorgio had to set aside a couple hours to attend to business. Renata did the same but since she was running a shop and not a country, finished sooner. Despite her decidedly antinuptial tendencies, Flick was a smart cookie and had no trouble managing the shop.

Renata closed the app on her phone and went looking for Giorgio. He was sitting on the couch, leaning over a tablet PC while talking to his assistant in rapid Italian. She waited until he paused for breath and then waved to him.

“Momento, Alessandro.” He pressed mute on the phone. “Renata, sweetheart, I am so sorry. An issue about the new seaport came up. Something about how deep the water must be. I’m in a conference call with our consultants—retired American Naval officers as a matter of fact.”

She saluted him and smiled.

“Are you bored? I can have Paolo take you somewhere.”

She gestured dismissively. Vernazza wasn’t exactly New York, and there she didn’t need a bodyguard, either. “I thought I’d take a walk and do some shopping. I need to buy Flick a gift and a little something for my parents and Aunt Barbara. Maybe a bottle or two of Scciachetrà for a special occasion.”

Giorgio peeled several large-denomination euro bills from his clip. “Buy one for us. I can think of several special occasions we can create.”

Renata raised an eyebrow. “That’s way too much money for a bottle of wine.”

“Then buy something for yourself.” He pressed the money into her hand. “I know how independent you are, but let me treat you. Something small even.”

“Oh, all right.” Renata still had mixed feelings about accepting his money but after accepting a whole luxury trip, what was some spending money for wine? He’d drink it, too.

But she had one more favor to ask him. “While you have your assistant on the phone, don’t forget, I have to have some fabric samples to take back to New York, or else my cover is blown.”

“I’ve already put Alessandro to work.” He kissed the back of her hand. “He tells me the samples from Milan will arrive in a few days.”

“Thank you, Giorgio.”

“You are very welcome.” He reached for the phone. “We can go out for dinner later or else have something brought in.”

“Either sounds good.”

He nodded and returned to his previous conference call.

Renata stared at him, realizing all his focus was back on business. Well, he was a prince after all. What did she expect? He certainly had more responsibilities than the junior executives she saw running around New York with a phone attached to their ear and several other devices attached to their belts. It would be negligent of him to avoid his country’s business, even for a week.

She remembered how easily her own place was running despite her being gone. Of course Flick was doing sales and management only, not design. If Giorgio thought some of her wedding dresses were wild, she could only imagine Flick’s ideas. Knowing what her friend thought of holy matrimony, it would probably have an embroidered panel of Edvard Munch’s The Scream over the bodice and tiny handcuffs stitched in metallic steel gray over the skirt.

Renata stifled a giggle but Giorgio heard her. He winked at her and grinned.

It was like when one of her brothers elbowed her in the solar plexus and knocked the breath out of her. She actually had to suck in air before she swooned off her wedge sandals at His Sexy Highness.

Giorgio had been drawn back into his princely duties and didn’t realize what he’d done to her. Since when did a casual smile make her give goo-goo eyes to a man who wasn’t paying her a bit of attention?

On the other hand, maybe that was a good thing. She was sure if she looked into a mirror she would be absolutely mortified at her mushy expression.

She mentally slapped herself and escaped with some shred of dignity before she tossed his phone over the balcony and shoved herself into his arms.

She stepped carefully down the narrow stone stairway from their little apartment. The fresh air outside was a welcome relief to her overheated self.

As if summoned by a genie rubbing a lamp, Paolo appeared across from the foot of the steps, trying to look inconspicuous in a village of six hundred people who were probably all related to each other.

“Paolo?” She beckoned to him and he looked around as if she were talking to some other giant security man named Paolo. Who, me?

She huffed in frustration and strode over to him. “Honestly, Paolo, you don’t need to follow me. Nobody’s going to mess with me in a tiny town like this.”

He just stared at her. She tried again in Italian. “I will be fine. No problema. Go check on him.” She waved her hand in the direction of the villa. “Signorina, he is fine. On the phone much time, not go out. But you are here. With me, no problema for you.”

Paolo was dead serious. Good Lord, a few days of nooky with His Royal Highness and she needed a bodyguard? Besides Giorgio, of course, who was jealously guarding her body whenever he could.

But what possible trouble could she find in a quiet morning of shopping in a small Italian town? “Paparazzi?” she asked.

He nodded seriously.

“You know if anyone bothers me I’ll brain them with a bottle of Scciachetrà.” She mimed whacking somebody over the head, and his mouth turned up a millimeter or two. Positively a guffaw from anyone else. “Oh, all right.” She sighed and rolled her eyes like the worst teenage drama queen. “Let’s go.” She silently vowed to take him into the pharmacy and spend twenty minutes in the “feminine protection” aisle.

But off they went, Paolo hanging fairly far behind her so she at least didn’t have to try to converse with the man in her Brooklyn Italian, which consisted mainly of curses and food items.

She bought herself a nice cappuccino at a café where the barista sketched a heart into the foam with chocolate syrup or something. Paolo, apparently not needing to eat and drink like a normal human being, declined. Then it was off to the stores. Renata found a boutique that had items from all over the Riviera. A length of lace from Portofino for Aunt Barbara, a small model of Christopher Columbus’s ship La Santa Maria for her father, who had been in the U.S. Navy. A carved wooden Madonna and Child for her mother, who was still asking the Holy Mother to find Renata a husband, and a bottle of limoncello lemon liquor for her grandmother, who had given up on Renata and turned to drink. Actually her grandmother had always loved anything with lemon.

She considered buying jars of the famous Ligurian anchovies in olive oil for her brothers, but the idea of carrying four glass jars of oily fish home in her luggage was enough to make her quail. So they each got a miniature wooden version of a ship’s figurehead—long-haired and bare-breasted, of course, so all the guys at the police and fire stations could get a yuk out of it.

By then she was famished and collared Paolo. “I’m hungry and these are heavy. You carry the packages, and let’s eat.”

She picked a quiet trattoria on a side street that had great smells coming from it and dragged him in. “Mangia, mangia.” Paolo stood awkwardly next to her tiny table, blocking the waiter who was lugging a big tray of soup and antipasti.

“Come, sit.” She motioned him into a chair. He hesitated but seemed to acknowledge he was drawing more attention standing like a Roman statue in the middle of the restaurant.