Royally Romanced

by Marie Donovan

  “Is it the lighting or is there some pink at the bottom?”

  “Yes, the neckline and petticoat are hemmed with a pale pink thread for decoration.”

  Stefania shook her head. “Not for me.”

  “No problem.” Renata helped her out of the dress and carefully hung it up. “Here’s one without the pink.” Renata fitted her into a few more white dresses but Stefania just looked at herself in the mirror with a worried look.

  “Sorry, Renata. I’m not usually this picky.”

  “Yes, you are,” her brother called over the curtain.

  “Can it, George,” she retorted. “This is important.”

  Renata intervened. “You want to make sure to get the right dress for your special day.”

  “Whatever you pick will be a trend-setter,” Giorgio predicted. What a nice brother—her own brothers would be loudly pitying whatever poor idiot Renata had suckered into marrying her.

  “Yeah, I know.” Stefania still looked glum. And pale, which was odd considering her beautiful warm skin tone.

  “How often do you wear white?” she asked.

  Stefania twirled back and forth, her eyes glued to the mirror. “I have a nice winter-white cashmere coat, and some ivory turtlenecks. Oh, and an eggshell silk short-sleeved blouse with the cutest tie at the neck. Dieter loves me in that,” she confided. “He thinks it makes me look sexy.”

  A loud groan startled them. “Dio mio, Stefania, save the racy stories for your bachelorette party, will you?”

  They both snickered at the typical brotherly response. But Renata returned to the dress subject quickly. “All of those whites you like to wear are actually not pure white. With your lovely coloring, you’re attracted to ivories and off-whites. I think this pure white is washing you out.”

  “Oh. I thought it was the lighting.”

  “Nope, it’s the fabric color.” Renata had actually paid one of her lighting designer friends to install the most flattering light possible. “Wait here.”

  She ducked out of the cubicle. Giorgio looked up from his phone. Renata thought his interest would drop when he saw it was just her, but instead his gaze sharpened. “And which one of your dresses did you pick out for yourself?”

  “For me?” She was flustered for a second. “I like all of them, but I’ve never needed one, I mean…”

  “Your boyfriend hasn’t, how do they say, popped the question?”

  Exhilaration roared through her. “Boyfriend? What boyfriend?” She strutted into the stockroom, making sure her wiggle skirt lived up to its name.

  3

  GIORGIO FOUGHT TO KEEP the drool from shorting out his phone. Renata Pavoni was the sexiest woman he’d met in a long time, her dark blue eyes gleaming in a knowing manner. Even the tiny diamond decorating the side of her lovely straight nose turned him on. Like any real man, he loved curvy women instead of the unhealthy string-bean look. And the way she worked that round ass of hers under the tight skirt—che bella ragazza—what a beautiful girl. Like those old black-and-white movies his nonna liked, where the women’s sultry eyes promised untold delights once their men removed their formfitting, low-cut dresses.

  Removing Renata’s clothing—opening her sheer black blouse, button by button. Peeling down—no, pushing up her tight red skirt to discover for himself if she was vintage down to the garter belt and hose.

  The image of Renata’s rich red hair spread out on his pillow as he kneeled over her was too much for his lonely, deprived cock, which immediately sprang to life.

  Giorgio muttered a curse under his breath. Poor timing, to lose control in the middle of a wedding boutique with his sister only meters away. He peeled off his suit jacket and draped it over his lap, but then his phone buzzed—his assistant, Alessandro. “Pronto,” he answered.

  “Signor, the investigator sent me a preliminary report on the person you requested.”

  “Ah, yes.” Giorgio darted a guilty look at the dressing room, half expecting Stefania to come roaring out. “Un momento, Alessandro. I am going to step outside to talk.” He leaped to his feet and headed for the front door, his jacket slung over his forearm. “Okay, give me the highlights and then send a copy to my phone.”

  “According to the report, the princess’s fiancé, Dieter von Thalberg, was born to Graf Hans and Grafin Maria von Thalberg, Count and Countess of Thalberg, thirty years ago in Bavaria. He is heir to a large brewery on his mother’s side as well as to the ancestral holdings on his father’s.”

  “So he has money as long as the Germans drink beer—forever, I would think. Excellent.” He’d heard enough horror stories from acquaintances about freeloaders marrying their sisters, breaking their hearts and then demanding large sums of money in exchange for not writing a sleazy tell-all book.

  “Dieter von Thalberg is also the star forward for a big German football club.” Alessandro’s voice grew animated. “I didn’t realize it was the same person—he uses a shortened version of his family name as a player. Three years ago he set the league record for goals scored. But since he turned thirty, he has not had as much playing time and was heavily recruited to come play for a team in New York, probably where he met the princess— Signor, why do the Americans call it soccer? I have always wondered. Anyway, the investigator will continue to look for any items in his past that would cause difficulties—previous marriages, illegitimate offspring, personal encounters with, um, professional ladies, videorecordings of a sexual nature, that sort of thing.”

  Giorgio winced. Stefania would kill him for sure if she found out he was investigating Dieter for prostitutes and sex tapes, but so be it. If the man had something to hide, better she knew sooner than later.

  Renata opened the door and poked her head out. “Stefania wants you.”

  “Okay.” He got off the phone and returned to the boutique.

  “Sit.” Renata pointed to the sofa and he complied. She could boss him around anytime. “Here comes the bride!” She swung the curtain aside and a glorious woman emerged. This couldn’t be his baby sister. This young goddess glowed in a golden nimbus of light, her hair a dark cloud around her radiant face.

  His jaw dropped. “Stefania?” he asked, as if Renata had exchanged her for another woman.

  The vision giggled and broke the spell. “Of course, stupido—who else?”

  “Wow, Stefania, you look—you look—” He was stammering now.

  “Amazing,” Renata supplied. “Perfect. Wonderful.”

  “Yes, yes, all of those.” He rubbed a hand over his face. Mamma mia, when had she grown into such a beautiful woman? And he would be walking her down the Vinciguerra cathedral aisle to give her hand in holy matrimony to a thug footballer. He desperately wished his nonna were here, that his parents were still here on earth, but all he could do was muddle along on his own.

  Renata seemed to sense his turmoil and glided toward his sister. “This is a tea-length satin dress with a portrait neckline and ruching down the front.” He understood the satin dress part but that was about it.

  “Look at all these cool petticoats, George.” Stefania lifted her skirt and he winced, but all he saw was layers of fluffy fabric.

  “Yes, um, very nice.”

  “Renata is going to edge a couple petticoats in gold satin ribbon so they catch the light when I turn. And she says her aunt is absolutely fabulous at embroidery and can decorate one with my and Dieter’s initials. Don’t you just love the color? Renata calls it champagne.”

  “But—it’s not white.” Giorgio was still thunderstruck by Stefania’s womanly transformation and couldn’t think of anything to say but the obvious.

  His sister shrugged. “Princess Diana didn’t wear a white dress, either—hers was ivory.” Renata circled her, pulling at the fabric to check the fit.

  “Yes, and Nonna always said look what happened to that marriage.”

  She stabbed a slender finger at him. “Stop it, Giorgio! The Princess was very kind to me at Mamma and Papa’s funeral.”

&nb
sp; Renata dropped a handful of satin and stared at them. “Wait—Princess Diana came to your parents’ funeral?”

  Giorgio and Stefania exchanged glances and faced her. Giorgio spoke first. “Yes, she did, and you’re right, Stefania. She was kind to both of us.”

  “I didn’t tell Renata about our family, George.” Stefania blinked rapidly. “I just wanted to be a regular bride looking at dresses without any fanfare or fuss.”

  “Tell me what?” Renata folded her arms across her magnificent chest.

  “We should introduce ourselves again, Stefania, don’t you think?” Giorgio bowed again, hoping that the truth wouldn’t send the woman screaming out the door or straight to the tabloids. “May I present my sister Stefania Maria Cristina Angela Martelli di Leone, principessa di Vinciguerra and I am Giorgio Alphonso Paolo Martelli di Leone, il principe di Vinciguerra.”

  “Come on, every bride is a princess on her wedding day, but you—you’re a real princess?”

  His sister nodded. “But it’s a small country, really. Giorgio hardly needs to do anything to keep it running.”

  He glared at his sister—now Renata would think he was a brainless dilettante. She wore a peculiar expression as it was. “So you’re a prince? Correct me if I’m wrong, but Italy is a republic now.”

  “Our grandmother, Giorgio and I make up the royal family of Vinciguerra, which is one of only two principalities on the Italian peninsula that wasn’t taken over when Italy unified in the 1800s,” Stefania explained glibly, having given the history lecture many times before. “The rest of the small duchies and kingdoms were absorbed into the greater Italian republic—but not ours. Our father was the Crown Prince, and now Giorgio’s got the gig.”

  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?”