He eased from her and she gladly collapsed back onto the mattress, covering her eyes with her arm.
“Renata?” he asked cautiously, easing down next to her. “Are you all right?”
She stared up at him. “I want you to be honest with me, Giorgio.”
“Yes?” He raised a black eyebrow.
“I know this is a personal question, but we’re getting pretty personal here so I’ll ask anyway. Is sex always like this with you?”
He made kind of a choking noise but didn’t say anything.
She continued, “I mean, I figured you and I would be hot together after that limo incident, and you’ve got the biggest, best cock I’ve ever seen, but this—” she gestured to their naked, sweaty, sticky bodies “—this is past hot. It’s positively nuclear.”
“Nuclear,” he echoed. “And you say I have the biggest—” Words failed him again.
“Biggest, best, hottest, thickest cock I or any other woman in New York has ever seen. And before Parsons, I went to art school where we drew lots of naked men, so I’ve seen a bunch.”
“And you say I have the best?” He had gotten over his shock and his masculine pride was kicking in, a proud smile spreading over his face.
“Oh, please. Surely some woman already told you that.”
“Not in such detail. And since you want me to be honest, I have never been…nuclear…like this with any other woman.”
“Oh, come on,” she scoffed. “You’ve probably dated some of the most beautiful women in the world.”
He paused for a second, as if to think back. “I’ve been photographed with many beautiful women. I’ve kissed some of them, but there’s a big difference between publicity and reality. None of them have the same spark, the same joy of living that you bring to everything you do.”
“Everything?” His words thrilled her as much as his body did.
“Oh, definitely. Designing dresses, eating chili dogs, making love to me…”
He rolled her against him so they were breast-to-chest, belly-to-belly and nuclear parts-to-nuclear parts. Even after detonation, his rocket was still in launch position. “I can only give you all the credit. You, with your beautiful ivory face and thick red hair like a beautiful Renaissance painting by Titian. And your ripe, lush body.” He skimmed his hand over her curves. “You have a body made for pleasure. And I am incredibly flattered you would share it with me. There has not been any woman like you before.” He kissed her again, this time softly and sweetly.
“Wow,” she said weakly after the kiss had ended. “Do they teach you all that poetic stuff in prince school?”
“No, I find that you are quite the inspiration.” He kissed the tip of her nose and pushed up out of bed. “Stay there. Our coffee may still be warm.” He grabbed his clothes and hurried into the bathroom. Renata wrapped the sheets around her again. No sense in tempting fate with nudity and hot coffee.
He quickly reappeared in the same casual outfit and brought the tray over to the bed. “Un caffe latte per la Signorina.” He carefully took the lid off the to-go cup and she sipped at the coffee.
“Yep, you’re right—still warm.”
“And a fresh almond pastry.” He handed her a soft square sprinkled with toasted almonds and drizzled with white sugar glazing.
“Mmm, delicious.” Crumbs flaked off the pastry. “Look, I’m making a mess of the bed.”
Giorgio grinned, and Renata took a good look at the bed. Pastry crumbs were the least of it. One pillow was in the hallway, the top sheet was wrapped around her like a toga, and the bottom sheet had been totally wrenched free by their frantic couplings. Even the headboard stood in danger of bashing a hole in the wall. Short of dumping the coffee over the bedding, it was a total wreck.
He cleared his throat delicately. “Did I mention maid service comes with the villa rental?”
“Good thing.” She raised her cup in a toast and they ate a surprisingly companionable breakfast among the cheerful mess. Giorgio was turning out to be lots of fun, and not just in bed. This was going to be a great vacation.
And after? The unwelcome thought popped up. Well, Giorgio would need to come to New York sometime, and maybe she would see him then. A friends-with-benefits thing?
Renata must have grimaced because Giorgio asked if she wanted more sugar in her coffee.
She decided to enjoy the moment and stop worrying about the future. “No, it’s perfect. Everything is just perfect.”
RENATA SMILED AT HER reflection in the compact bath room. Although it had obviously been added after the original construction of the ancient house, it managed to hold all the necessities, plus the ubiquitous European bidet. She stared down at that white porcelain fixture. She’d never tried one before and the sunny Italian Riviera would freeze over before she asked Giorgio how to use it.
Bidets aside, the shower had actually had pretty good water pressure, which was necessary to repair the red wreckage of her hair. She ran a brush through her hair and pulled it into a twist, fastening it with a black lacquer clip.
She slipped on a V-neck sapphire silk blouse and a black circle skirt that poufed around her knees thanks to a hidden tulle crinoline. Both were amazingly wrinkle-free despite how she’d seen the baggage handlers treat her luggage.
A matching small sapphire stud went into the side of her nose. She owned an assortment of different studs except for ruby—no sense in looking like she had an acne break-out. Red lips to match her nails completed the look, and she smacked them to set the color. Dressy, but casual enough for a seaside dinner at a local restaurant.
She stopped briefly to grab her pashmina wrap out of the closet, not sure how cool the breeze became, and then swanned out of the bedroom into the living room.
Giorgio was standing in front of one of the tall, narrow windows that lined the living room at the front of the apartment. The sun had set a few minutes ago, and twilight illuminated his profile as he looked out over the sea. His strong but straight nose, his full lips and determined chin. He was so beautiful she felt a painful thump in her chest. But he was hers, at least for now.
Giorgio turned as she approached. Hopefully the dim light hid her face as she mooned over him. “There you are, Renata.” He flipped on a small table lamp and brought her back to reality.
Reaching for her hand, he inspected her from head to toe. “I didn’t want to hurry you, and I see that my wait has been more than worthwhile. You are as lovely as always.”
“Thank you.” She returned the inspection. “You look great, too.” He wore a short-sleeved black silk button-down shirt over loose linen trousers and leather sandals, a summer uniform for many European men, but he made it look like the cover of Italian GQ.
“I’m glad you approve.” He said it seriously, as if there were some miniscule chance in this universe that she wouldn’t. Short of donning a seventies’ leisure suit and fifteen gold chains, Giorgio could never look bad. And even then, the clothing’s ugliness would just highlight his good looks.
“Who picks out your clothes?” she asked.
“My clothes?” He looked confused and then glanced at his pants and shirt.
“Yeah, do you go shopping, or do they bring items for you to try?”
“I have a personal shopped in Rome,” he admitted, as if it were a deep, shameful secret. “Unfortunately I don’t have much time for shopping but have many outings and functions to attend, so Antonio has my measurements and brings me new outfits every month or so.”
Renata whistled under her breath. That would be a cool gig for a menswear salesman. “He does a nice job,” she reassured him. “You look very distinguished.” She had another thought. “So when we go out for dinner, do we need to do a perp walk?”
“A what?”
She pulled her pashmina over her head to hide her face. “When the FBI arrests gangsters, they always pull their suit jackets over their head and scuttle by the reporters on the way back to the jail. Of course it’s not like there aren’t a million
pictures of them floating around there anyway.” She popped her head free and patted her hair.
He was staring at her in amazement.
“Seriously, you lived in New York for all of your college years and you never heard of the perp walk?”
He nodded. “Must have missed it.”
“Another trick is to drape your jacket over your wrists so it hides the handcuffs. But who carries their suit coat that way? Who do they think they’re fooling?”
“Not you, obviously.”
“Not me. Two of my brothers are cops and two are firefighters. They know all the good dirt.”
“I see.”
Well, maybe he did. But he’d probably lived in a swanky flat on the Upper East Side, a world away from mobsters in federal court. And a world away from Renata, her four brothers and two parents sandwiched into a Brooklyn bungalow.
“No, Renata, we don’t need to do a perp walk to go out in public. I’ve never been here before and have managed to keep my face out of most of the tabloids.”
“Except for People magazine’s most eligible bachelor list,” she needled him.
The pained expression on his face was priceless. “If I ever meet who nominated me for that damned list I will have very harsh words for them. Stefania made me autograph several dozen copies of the magazine so she could auction them for her charity. And then she wanted to sell me for charity in a bachelor auction.”
“A bachelor auction?”
He winced again. “Yeah, that—like a gigolo hanging around a bar.”
“That reminds me—Flick wants you to send her an Italian gigolo. Young, hot and stupid.”
He choked with laughter. “Let me call my assistant and have him start looking.”
“If he’s handsome, just send him instead. I’m sure Flick would give him a good time.”
“You New York girls are too bold—I think she would frighten poor Alessandro.”
Renata walked over to the floral-print couch that could have been in any working-class Brooklyn living room and posed herself. “And are you frightened of this New York girl, poor little Giorgio?” Honey was sour compared to her voice. “Little Giorgio” was looking not frightened at all, instead rather pleased as it tried to escape his linen trousers.
“As always, I live to serve.” He watched avidly as she slowly drew her hemline upward, revealing the sheer black stockings and matching garters he’d loved the first day they met.
“Good,” she purred, beckoning him with one red-tipped finger. “Serve me.”
8
MUCH LATER THAN THEY had planned, Giorgio and Renata sat down to dinner. “See? Dinner out and no perp walk necessary.” Giorgio gestured to the busy restaurant. It was obviously a family place with the waiters and waitresses wearing T-shirts decorated with sports team logos. Most of the tables were lined up in rows almost cafeteria style, but Giorgio had finagled himself a table set apart on the corner of the stone terrace. They sipped a fantastic white wine as they sat overlooking the ocean.
“Someday I’ll see what this place looks like in daylight.” It was fantastic anyway at night, the sky purple against the Ligurian Sea while an ivory pillar candle flickered on the table. Soft Italian pop music played in the background, dimming the clink of silverware and cheerful conversations nearby.
“And whose fault is that? If it weren’t for the landlady stocking the kitchen before we arrived, I would have starved for food.” He rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand. “But not starved for you, Renata mia. I think you have taken care of that for now.”
She gave him a goofy grin and he smiled back at her. “The candlelight becomes you, Renata. Fiery to match your hair—and your passion.”
“Shh.” She pressed her finger against his mouth. “This isn’t exactly a fortress of solitude, you know.”
“Fiery to match your blush.” He smooched her finger.
“Must be the reflection.” Her cheeks were heating. Wow, she’d thought that autonomic nervous reaction had been permanently deactivated years ago from lack of use. Leave it to Giorgio to trip all sorts of triggers.
“If you say so.” A mischievous gleam danced in his eyes. He was really loosening up.
The waiter arrived with a plate of antipasti for them to sample, marinated olives, steamed mussels and fried odds and ends of fresh anchovies and other seafood. Of course there was focaccia—a savory flatbread common to the area—with olive oil for dipping. She pulled a hunk from the bread and swirled it through the oil, dotted with hunks of chopped garlic cloves and minced basil leaves. Totally delish. They couldn’t be more than an hour out of the oven. “You should really have some.” She held it up to his mouth and he took a small bite.
“Tasty.”
“Have some more.” She gestured at the large disc. If she ate all that bread herself, her snugly tailored skirts would split down the seams.
He picked up an olive. “Thank you, but I will just enjoy watching you eat.”
“You’re not on a low-carb diet, are you? I thought that was against the law in Italy.”
He shrugged. “I have a taste for these olives tonight. Have you tried the green ones? Very good, and probably grown not too far from here.” He dished a few onto her plate, and she had to agree they were very good, especially wrapped up in focaccia.
The waiter set a platter of pasta lavished in rich green pesto sauce in front of them. It had an unusual aroma. The waiter chatted with Giorgio for a minute as he dished up two servings. Giorgio thanked him and they were left alone again.
“He says this pasta is called trofie and is made from chestnut flour. The pesto sauce was of course invented in this region and has the typical basil leaf base, mixed with pecorino cheese and pine nuts.”
“Don’t forget the marjoram.” Renata smiled at his look of surprise. “My grandmother taught me how to make pesto. Fortunately we have a food processor now and don’t need to grind everything in her old marble mortar and pestle.”
“My mamma’s specialty was desserts. She was an assistant pastry chef when she met my father. He had an amazing sweet tooth and ordered tiramisu at the hotel where she was working. He asked to meet the chef, and—” he spread his hands wide “—the rest is Vinciguerran history.
Renata’s heart tugged at his wistful smile. “What was your favourite dessert she made?”
He looked startled briefly, as if he’d been far away in memory. “Lemon cookies. Lemon bars. Lemon cake.”
“Lemon anything.” She laughed.
“Oh, yes, especially at the end of a long, gloomy winter. Her lemon cookies were a snap of springtime in my mouth.”
Renata wondered if anyone made him lemon cookies anymore. Probably wouldn’t be the same if he had to ask. Something so powerful as that was made freely and spontaneously, out of love. Did his grandmother or sister have the recipe? Maybe it wasn’t too complicated.
“Hopefully our pesto will live up to your grand mother’s high standards.” Giorgio offered her a forkful of pasta and she moaned with delight. The nutty flavor of the pasta balanced the tang of the cheese and pine nuts in the pesto. He watched her in satisfaction. “I thought I was the only one who made you sound like that.”
She winked. “What can I say? I’m a hedonist at heart.”
“You are in the right place.” He gestured at the vista in front of them. “Food, wine, song and passion. Even though you were not born here, you belong here. The land and the sea are calling you.”
Renata stopped midbite. The land and the sea. Yes, she did feel a connection to this slice of Italy perched between the sea and the mountains. But she thought it was more because of Giorgio’s presence. He was the lens through which she had focused so intensely. But she couldn’t stay in the Cinque Terre forever.
“And your country, does it call to you?” She hoped so, because he couldn’t exactly give two weeks’ notice and pack up.
“Yes, but in a different way. I hear the call of my father and my mother, the call of my ancestors who
ruled Vinciguerra and fought for her people. I know it’s my solemn duty to protect them and make sure they thrive in a modern world while preserving our national heritage.”
“That’s a big job. No wonder you’re so serious.” Their main course arrived, a whole fish that had been wandering around in the Ligurian Sea that morning.
Giorgio served them each a portion, the fish flaking enticingly under his fork. “Eh, too serious according to my sister. She thinks I need to lighten up. Be sure to drink your wine with the fish. The waiter says if you drink water with fish, it will start swimming around in your stomach.” He grinned at her.
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?”
Royally Romanced Page 8
