Royally Romanced

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.

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