Something in the Heir (It's Reigning Men Book 1)

by Jenny Gardiner

  “See, I just can’t plan a wedding without my best friend. I need some input. Plus, the queen is giving us a home. More like a sprawling estate. That’s in addition to an entire wing of the palace—the royal apartments, they call them. And I’m going to have to decorate and staff it all. Staff. Can you imagine? Here I always thought of staff as an infection you get from dirty razor blades.”

  “Pretty sure that’s spelled differently.”

  “Whatever. Don’t you see? Now staff is my friend! As in people, working for me! And they’ll work in my home. I keep pinching myself—I can hardly believe this is real. But I need some help. And sound advice. And someone who knows me and my tastes. And someone who will call it like they see it, and the only person I know who fits that description is—”

  “Yours truly?” Caroline said, treading as slowly as humanly possible on the elliptical, hoping someone wasn’t about to kick her off since her hour time limit was finished. “Shucks, Ems, I’m honored and all, but there’s that little bit about the cash flow and all—”

  “About that cash flow,” her friend said. “There is no flow issue anymore. See, I spoke with Ariana—”

  “The queen,” Caroline interrupted. “Please. I need to have ‘Her Royal Highness’ drummed into my head or I’ll start calling her Ariana at your wedding. And I’m pretty sure one of those guys with the big furry hats and the epaulets and brass buttons and really shiny shoes and super long rifles and swords will come at me for calling the queen by her first name.”

  Emma laughed. “Tell me about it. I’ve always thought it would be superweird addressing any in-laws by their first name. Which I figured wasn’t going to be a problem since I wasn’t planning to get hitched anyhow. But now here I am marrying into royalty and—awkward!—I can’t begin to tell you how to address half these people, all of whom have a slew of names and titles. I go around feeling like a complete doofus for not knowing what to call any of them.”

  “Yeah, you’re like, um, hey there, uh, sir, er, um…”

  “Practically. Thank goodness I’m being coached on protocol.”

  “Seriously? You have a protocol coach?” Caroline said. “So that ‘the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain’ rolls off your tongue in a most pleasing way?” She added that last bit with a Continental accent.

  “More like so I don’t stab someone with the seafood fork when I’ve realized I have no idea what a seafood fork even looks like.”

  “Violence is not the answer, Emma.”

  “Joking. It can be a little bit daunting, trying to get up to speed on all this information that took Adrian a lifetime to absorb.”

  “So don’t rush it. All in good time. Rome wasn’t built in a day. For that matter, I’m sure Porto Castello wasn’t built in a day.”

  “You’ve got a point there. This nation’s capital has been here for hundreds and hundreds of years. I suppose I need to build up my knowledge base one brick at a time,” Emma said. “But in the meantime, I could use your help. Which brings me to what I was going to surprise you with before we got off on a tangent. Pack your bags, sistah.”

  Caroline was silent. In front of her on the tiny screen, one of the housewives was throwing a full glass of red wine against a fireplace.

  “Caro? You still there?”

  Caroline took a deep breath. “I thought you just said something about packing my bags. And I’m terrified to get my hopes up in case it doesn’t mean what I hope like hell it means. Because if it means I just won a weekend at a timeshare in the Ozarks, I’m totally going to cry. But if it means I might be en route to see my BFF, well, oh, crap, I am so not going to get choked up—”

  “Wow. You’ve gone soft in my absence. Since when have you cried over anything other than spilled wine?”

  “Point in fact, I just witnessed spilled wine on the little television screen I’m looking at. So there.”

  “Your spilled wine.”

  “Okay, so I’m not really weepy. Well, maybe just a bit. I need more information before a full-out bawl.”

  “So you remember that amazing, amazing, incredible jet that flew us to Monaforte at Christmastime?”

  Caroline shook her head. “No. I totally forgot about it. I had to purge it from my memory because I’m so far removed from that luxury now.”

  “In that case, good. Because you’re not going to fly on that,” Emma said. “Sorry, but Prince Enrico is off somewhere with that plane. But we’re going to fly you commercial. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Business class, maybe?” Caro asked with a hint of hope in her voice.

  “Better still. I’ve got you a one-way first-class ticket with the first-class cabin instructed to treat you like royalty,” Emma said. “Will that suffice?”

  Caroline thought for a second about how she’d eaten stale Rice Krispies for breakfast and how she knew the milk was on the verge of turning but she didn’t want to waste a drop because it costs a fortune these days and who can afford to throw that down the drain? And she contrasted that with the notion of her flying as if near-royalty back to Monaforte. And her breath hitched as she tried to speak.

  “I don’t think I even know what to say,” she said. “It’s too amazing to believe. Here I’ve been trying to figure out what to do with myself, and now you’re handing me a project on a silver platter.” Caroline stared at the mess the housewife had made of the place, broken glass everywhere and blood-red stains all over the taupe-colored walls. And she imagined what it would be like to be able to toss your dishes away like that, not to mention expensive wine. Well, it was a fake show, maybe it was dyed water. But even then, staff was going to clean it up. And staff—wow, Emma has staff. And now Caro was going to sort of be staff.

  “Am I going to be one of your staff?” Caroline asked. “I mean not like I don’t want to be, but I’m not sure how I feel about being a minion.”

  Emma laughed. “You are the weirdest person I know. No, you are not staff. Consider yourself my advisor. My royal advisor, if you’d like to add that to the title. Do we have a deal then?”

  “As long as you promise I can be on the first plane out of here.”

  “Well, the first one has left already. Will the next work for you?”

  “Today?”

  “No time like the present.”

  Caroline looked down at her sweaty shirt. “Oh, man. I’ve got some serious work to do to get myself into a presentable state.”

  “You won’t be alone then,” Emma said. “We can work on that together.”

  “I am so going to pilfer your new wardrobe.”

  ~*~

  Want more? Get Heir Today, Gone Tomorrow now!

  The complete It’s Reigning Men series:

  Books 1 – 3 Bundle: – Something in the Heir; Heir Today, Gone Tomorrow; Bad to the Throne

  Book 1: Something in the Heir

  Book 2: Heir Today, Gone Tomorrow

  Book 3: Bad to the Throne

  Book 4: Love is in the Heir

  Book 5: Shame of Thrones

  Book 6: Throne for a Loop

  Book 7: It’s Getting Hot in Heir

  Book 8: A Court Gesture

  I hope you’ve enjoyed getting to know the characters in the It’s Reigning Men series! I had so much fun with the royals in Monaforte that I decided to spin it off into another series called The Royal Romeos, featuring the winemaking Romeo family from the Chianti region of Italy. The series begins with Red Hot Romeo, which is free for download.

  You met Alessandro Romeo in A Court Gesture (or you will!) and I hope you’ll read on to see what’s been happening with Sandro since you met him in Milan with Luca….

  Read on for a sneak peek:

  RED HOT ROMEO

  Chapter One

  ALESSANDRO Romeo was enjoying a beautiful sunset, sipping his Negroni, neat, on the terrace of his winery’s palazzo that overlooked his family’s vast estate when he noticed a fat curl of dark smoke trailing skyward on the other side of the sprawling Tuscan manor home. Q
uickly setting his drink aside, he raced down the terrace steps, rushed through a gauntlet of tall, narrow cypress trees and across the Italian garden in front of the palazzo as the acrid smell of smoke grew stronger and blackened clouds of it enveloped more of the once melon-colored late-day sky.

  In the distance, he spotted a tiny white sports car racing down the estate’s long, cypress-lined driveway just as he finally came upon the source of the now choking smoke: his beloved Lamborghini Aventador Superveloce—a cool half million dollars of premier driving pleasure—sizzling away with the crackle of fire and lick of flames that were embracing his dream car and turning it into a veritable conflagration.

  “Aiuto!” Sandro shouted, calling for the farm hands to help, if not to salvage his burning car, then at least to keep the vehicle from exploding and injuring anyone. “Help! Bring water, prontissimo!”

  The Cantine dei Marchesi Romeo was a vineyard with many employees still working into late afternoon trimming back grape leaves, so within a minute several workers had arrived, directing hoses and buckets of water to try to douse the fire until all that was left were the charred remains of his beloved sports car. Sandro felt grateful that at least they’d stopped the fire before the car exploded.

  “Vaffanculo, si strega,” Sandro said, shaking his fist in rage toward the now long-departed car he’d seen racing away from the scene. Fuck off, you witch. It didn’t take much to deduce who’d torched the thing: he’d just seen the taillights of his hot-tempered on-again/off-again girlfriend Gia Sandretti’s convertible trailing down the long drive. The woman had already resorted to plenty of other extreme ways to express her irrational jealous rages, including recently impaling him with the heel of one of her Manolo Blahniks—which resulted in five stitches to his arm—so he knew immediately this bore her telltale fingerprints.

  He’d tried to extricate himself from the relationship more times than he could count at this point; it hadn’t been but a few months into dating her that he knew she had a streak of green running through her like a river of toxic waste. Alessandro couldn’t so much as inadvertently glance at another woman, even in a magazine, without Gia flipping out on him, which meant the usual stream of foul language spewed at him alongside crazed accusations and the occasional hurled glass object or other breakables.

  By nature a genial and fun-loving guy, he’d put up with it, thinking that eventually she’d find her way to another man to harass, but as much as he tried to let her go gently so as not to trigger her impetuous fury, she simple wasn’t getting the hint.

  Sure Gia, a stunningly statuesque dark-haired brunette, was gorgeous, but he hadn’t taken to calling her Crazy Gia for nothing. And the last thing Sandro needed in his life was a drama queen fashion model with no self-control who acted more like a secret police interrogator than a lover.

  Sandro had met Gia at one of the many social functions he normally attended as principle of the world-famous Cantine dei Marchesi Romeo winemakers. His was an Italian family with a history of six hundred years of wine-making and roots that reached back to the days of Italian nobility and the famed house of Savoy. His family had immediate ties to the royals of neighboring Monaforte as well, as his uncle Enrico, Duke of Santo Miele, was married to that country’s Queen Ariana.

  Officially Alessandro’s title was Marchese Alessandro Romeo, but he tended to downplay that archaic terminology except when necessary at official events, where the cachet of the royal title helped with his family business. Or as was more often the case in the past: when it helped him pick up beautiful women.

  No doubt it’s what drew Gia to him in the first place, aside from his handsome good looks. He wore his thick, wavy dark hair to near his shoulders, often pulled back in a ponytail, and sported a neatly-trimmed goatee beard and moustache that proved irresistible to many women. His sincere, brown eyes caused them to swoon even more. Throw in a royal title, a famous family name, and plenty of wealth, and Sandro was a delicious catnip that most women simply couldn’t resist. Except when it came to nutters like Gia, who seemed to want to push him away all while clinging desperately to him as if he was a gangrenous appendage. But this was the last straw with her; this time he would file a police complaint and ensure that she was no longer allowed anywhere near him or have anything to do with him. Enough was enough.

  ~*~

  A week later…

  Sandro dusted off his hands and placed them on his hips, beaming as he gazed at the object of his near-undivided attention for the past six years: the design and building of a massive new headquarters for Romeo wines, a place that would house the offices of Marchesi Romeo wines but also become a tourist destination for wine lovers the world over. It had been Sandro’s dream to create this destination venue, something he’d imagined for several years prior to actually implementing the plan.

  He and his family had collaborated with one of the top Italian architects to envision the one-of-a-kind design of the building, constructed with local materials, intended to keep in harmony with the landscape while remaining environmentally-friendly, energy-efficient, and ultimately to serve as a veritable work of art in the Tuscan countryside. And in a few days, others would finally be able to share in Sandro’s dream-come-true, at the grand opening gala. Guests who would attend included celebrities, political leaders, prominent local officials, and of course family and friends.

  Sandro had reached out to his favorite cousin, Luca, the youngest of the Monaforte princes, to ensure his attendance. Monaforte was a small European principality on the Mediterranean with strong ties to Italy.

  “You know, I’ll disown you if you don’t show up,” Sandro said, teasing his good friend. “I’ll cut off your vino supply—hit you where it’ll hurt most.”

  Luca had for a long time been Sandro’s social sidekick, but last year had settled into a relationship with a European-based American reporter named Larkin Mallory, and now it was as if he barely left the comfort of his living room. Sandro hated how complacent men became once they got “whipped”: always at the woman’s beck and call, never free to do as they pleased.

  Now that Gia was out of the picture, he was going to make sure he didn’t allow a woman to cloud his judgment and create hassles for him ever again. No thank you. The loss of his expensive sports car was a small price to pay to learn that lesson.

  “I’d be crazy not to show up at this one,” Luca said. “It’s the event of the season, I hear. Even homebodies like me will be there.”

  “Homebodies,” his cousin said with a grumble. “Whatever happened to the man I knew who partied till dawn and couldn’t be bothered with such things as commitment?”

  Luca laughed. “You know that was ninety percent urban legend anyhow,” he said. “It’s not like I really caroused that much.”

  “Yeah well sometimes the legend is as true as fact.”

  “That’s what’s wrong with this world.”

  “You’ve become a grumpy old man.”

  “Not grumpy. Happily settled is all,” Luca said. “You should give it a try some time. No more out on the prowl, hoping to get laid without catching any communicable diseases. It’s a good thing.”

  “Hell no,” Sandro said. “You do know about Gia’s latest—and final—batshit crazy maneuver?”

  “Of course,” Luca said. “I always suspected there was something off about that one. Even when you first started dating, she was irrationally demanding. Like when you dragged me to that godforsaken fashion show she was in just so she would have an audience.”

  “Tell me about it,” he said. “Yet one more reason I will never cross paths with a fashion model again. Ever. Those women are the worst. I think they get hangry from lack of food and they get totally pazzo.”

  “Hangry?”

  “It’s a combination of hungry and angry,” he said. “All the worse for Gia, because she’s an Italian girl who can’t eat pasta. Mamma mia, what kind of life is that? Who wouldn’t be crazy like that?”

  “Well in that case I’d better
apologize in advance because Larkin is bringing along her friend Taylor to your gala, and, well,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “She’s a fashion model.”

  Sandro shook his head, even though Luca couldn’t see him protesting physically. “No, thank you. I’ll take a pass,” he said. “You can have her all to yourself. If that’s your thing.”

  “If what’s my thing?”

  “If you want to hook up with her.”

  “Are you crazy? I’m perfectly happy with Larkin. Not looking to add anyone into the relationship,” he said. “I was thinking maybe you’d like Taylor. She’s beautiful, of course. But she’s really sweet as well. Completely down to earth.”

  “No. Models. Ever, dude,” he said. “Ever.”

  “Fine, go ahead and punish yourself,” Luca said. “But trust me, you’ll regret it. You’d be lucky if she’d have anything to do with you anyhow.”

  “No doubt,” Sandro said. “But do me a favor, just keep her far, far from me. I want nothing to do with any of those crazy women, and this is a night I want to completely avoid erratic women with bad tempers. So whatever you do, spare me.”

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll respect your wishes. But trust me, you’ll regret it.”

  “To the contrary, mio cugino, it’s for the best,” Sandro said, even though his curiosity was already getting the best of him as he Googled supermodels named Taylor to see exactly what she looked like. Old habits, after all, were hard to break.

  Chapter Two

  TAYLOR McFarland loved a good black tie party, she thought, taking a final sip of champagne as her plane was about to land in Florence. She’d get to dress in yet another amazing designer gown, and hot men in tuxedos would be plentiful. It was so up her alley. It was why she was on her way to Italy, and this one promised to be particularly fabulous—a spectacular venue in an architecturally-creative structure built into the hillside at some Italian guy’s vineyard. And the wine would be flowing freely.