Blue-Blooded Romeo (The Royal Romeos #6)

by Jenny Gardiner

  Domenico checked his GPS again. “I’m pretty sure this is where I’m meant to be. Prescription? I was told to tell whomever that Alexa would be looking for me.”

  The man sized him up for a second, threw a glance to his friend who hopped onto a motorcycle, then turned back to Domenico and tipped his hat to him. “Enjoy your evening.”

  He pulled open an unmarked door and motioned for Domenico to enter the building, which instantly took him back in time. The place was intimate and cozy, darkly lit and inviting, in that let’s-get-drunk-and-ignore-the-rest-of-the-world sort of way. He saw a flight of stairs that led to the upstairs, but he decided to remain on the main level in the hopes that Alexa would steer Stella toward the well-stocked bar there.

  It was still early enough that he was able to get a seat at the bar, right in front of the bartender, a man who knew what he was doing with a cocktail. It was a perfect vantage point from which to watch his skills on display while also keeping an eye out for the entrance. He pulled up a stool and settled into the vibe of the bar. The bartender—who he learned was named Eric—plied his skills, magically producing concoction after concoction of colorful, fizzy, and foamy drinks, all of which made him want to sneak his finger through to grab a surreptitious taste.

  Domenico took a look around him. Peppered throughout the Left Bank cocktail club were the usual suspects: hipsters with artfully crafted facial hair, a lot of men with too-small-by-design pants that ended about an inch above their shoes to allow you to see the wearer’s deliberately clashing socks. Many, many tattoos. Sometimes places like this screamed pretentiousness, what with all the beautiful people milling about, but something about this place felt a little more comfortable than that. It didn’t seem as if it was trying too hard. In fact, there was a handful not-beautiful people mingling and enjoying themselves. Who knew why the feel of this place worked so well—maybe it was Eric, a veritable conjurer who operated as if that cocktail shaker was an appendage he sprang from the womb attached to. All Domenico knew was that he was enjoying himself at this place. And the object of his interests hadn’t even arrived yet.

  Domenico ordered up a drink he couldn’t pronounce but watched in amazement as Eric produced a frothy, happy-looking cocktail that could only put you in a good mood. As best he could discern, it contained some artisanal gin, maraschino cherry liqueur, absinthe (because what self-respecting Parisian cocktail didn’t contain absinthe these days?), champagne, elderflower cordial syrup, fresh strawberries, and lemon juice.

  He sipped his drink, which was going down awfully smoothly, and soaked in the jazz music mixed by a nearby DJ. He needed this chance to decompress a little. He’d found life at his family’s vineyard, Cantine dei Marchesi Romeo, was stultifying. Sure he loved wine and without a doubt loved his family, but man, he needed a change of scenery. It didn’t help that living cloistered on the family compound—one that had been in his family for some 600 years—sometimes made him feel like he was missing out on the rest of the world.

  Yes, he resided in one of the most beautiful countrysides anywhere in the world. And he had access to the best of the best wherever, whenever he wanted. But from a day-to-day perspective, he was a grown man who basically lived at home. He’d been helping produce and promote his family’s Chianti and other wines—some of the best Italy had to offer—for as long as he could remember. And he’d been running the events at the vineyard for years. He yearned for something more. Call it a premature midlife crisis or simply a desperate need for change. Which was why he decided to take some baby steps and come to Paris to do an intensive class studying French wines. Not that he was thoroughly uneducated about them, but he was immersed in his family’s product, and of course he knew his competitors in Italy. Aside from that, well, it was sort of this gray area he never bothered with.

  He’d been thinking more and more that he would love to be the one behind the stove at the vineyard, to be the person creating unforgettable meals for the various functions hosted at Romeo wines.

  His family would likely think he’d gone mad wanting to put on a chef’s toque and get hot and sweaty and end up with burns on his hands and arms and knife cuts all the time. Hence this small journey outside the family box. A way for him to declare some independence, to experience something a little bit different, and figure out whether he wanted or needed more.

  For the umpteenth time today, he reflected on the day’s events. It was weird that things started so strangely this morning. First helping that old woman, then missing the flight. Then that woman Stella going all ornery on him. He’d had more strange experiences in one day than he’d normally have in a six-month period if he simply stayed at the family vineyard or forayed into Florence or Rome for a day or two. Perhaps that’s why he wasn’t so terribly put off by Stella’s anger. He’d been in a holding pattern for an awfully long time, so maybe having someone figuratively pounding on his chest wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

  Then again, perhaps he’d have to reserve judgment till after this evening. Because none other than Stella walked through the door in an adorable floral sundress, her hair pulled up in a ponytail, and by the look on her face upon seeing him, he hoped she wasn’t prepared to upend a cocktail on top of his head.

  “Eric—can you make me two of those Mazarinettes, and fast, please?” Domenico said, tossing extra cash on the bar as incentive.

  He figured the only way he had half a chance was to ply this one with her favorite drinks, and quickly.

  Chapter Six

  Stella didn’t know whether to be furious or excited. Because there, smack-dab in the center barstool at her favorite bar in Paris was none other than the man she had planned to never see again. With good reason. Except that a tiny bit of her was curious to see him again for some bizarre reason. She decided her best course of action was to play it cool and see what was up. She’d had enough flying off the handle for one day.

  Alexa was a few steps ahead of Stella and steering them toward the Italian man right as Eric slid two of her favorite drinks toward him. Which was curious that he would know what that was. Maybe it was merely a wild guess. Or maybe there was some collusion between a certain friend behind her back... who she probably couldn’t even blame.

  Before she had a chance to say a word, Domenico stood up, extended his arms to proffer his seat and the one next to it to them, offered a traditional Italian two-cheek kiss to both women, then handed them each a drink. With a nod, he lifted his own glass and offered a toast.

  “Salute,” he said. “Or perhaps I should say, à votre santé. When in Paris, after all.”

  Stella nodded slowly, trying to figure out how to respond, and took a large slurp of her drink. “Okay... I’ll play along. So you knew I’d be here because?” She looked at Domenico and then at Alexa, who seemed to be squinting at him. Yet who knew if her friend was trying to send a coded message to the man, or maybe she had something in her eye? Yeah, right.

  “In the flurry of communications between us all”—he pointed at both women as well as himself—“you must have forgotten to mention showing up at Prescription tonight.”

  She blanched. Dammit, her big fat blabbermouth. Or blabberfingers, since she had typed that rather than spoken it to him. This would teach her to be so sloppy in sending messages. She smiled weakly. “About that—”

  He held up his hands to stop her. “No need for further discussion. I get that it was an accident, and what transpires between friends is your business... I happened to be an unwitting witness.” He grinned.

  Stella groaned and buried her face in the palm of her free hand—after taking yet another swig of that tasty drink.

  Alexa set her drink down. “My, my. Where are my manners? I forgot to do formal introductions.” She winked at Domenico. Stella stuck her tongue out at her. “Domenico Romeo, scion of a legendary wine empire in Tuscany, I’d like you to officially meet my good friend Stella Whitaker, an amazing cake baker, who I promise is not usually quite so offensively loose-lipped. Or shou
ld I say forked-tongued? At least not with strangers.”

  Domenico bent forward and lifted her hand to his lips. “Enchanté, mon cher.”

  Lovely to meet you, my dear.

  Stella rolled her eyes. This guy was laying it on thick. But she’d promised Lex she’d behave tonight, so she was simply going to fake it in order to make everyone happy. And maybe because his eyes kind of seemed like they were boring holes into her soul. On the one hand that seemed sort of invasive but on the other, it was kind of hot. How could he make her feel so stripped down with one partial sentence in French? She hated to see what would happen if he started speaking Italian to her—she’d be a goner.

  She took another swig of her drink, only to realize she’d finished the thing in three gulps. This was going to be an expensive night if she kept up at this rate.

  Domenico motioned to Eric for more drinks, which soon materialized in front of them. Expensive for him, it seemed.

  Alexa pulled out her phone and held it up to her ear, motioning to her friend that she needed to take a call. Stella made a mental note to throttle Lex when they got home for abandoning her in her time of need.

  Domenico settled on the barstool next to Stella. She could feel the solid warmth of his thigh against her bare leg, and it unnerved her.

  He turned toward her and smiled. “So now that we officially know each other yet have to pretend that we haven’t already communicated, where do we go from here?”

  Nothing like calling a spade a spade.

  Stella took a deep breath. “Hell if I know. I usually keep my head down and focus on my work—I don’t normally tend to get into big kerfuffles with strange men.”

  “Kerfuffles?”

  “It’s some sort of slang. Maybe it’s from the English. It sounds like a word they’d come up with. It means hoopla, a commotion. That sort of thing.”

  “Hoopla. Okay. You’ve got a far more extensive English vocabulary than I do.”

  “What I’d love to hear is something Italian.”

  He arched a brow. “You like Italian?”

  She shrugged. “Everything sounds better in Italian.”

  “Bellissima, mi abbaglia con la tua bellezza.”

  “Did you just say that I have a head like a rhinoceros?”

  He shook his head. “I said that you dazzle me with your beauty.”

  Stella blushed. “But scare you with my words?”

  He tipped his head and fixed her with his gaze. “I must admit you gave me pause.” He took a sip of his drink. “Perhaps on a different day I might have been more offended, but it’s been a strange sort of day for me, so it seemed perfectly fitting.”

  “And I contributed to your strange day?”

  “I’d say it’s more like you were the highlight of it.”

  She rested her hand on her chin and looked at him. “I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment.” It was weird. All of a sudden she was starting to enjoy this man’s company. It truly was a strange day. Either that or this liquor was going to her head more than she realized.

  Of all the times she’d been to Prescription and gotten into conversations with men, never had she felt as attracted to one as she did to him. It made absolutely no sense whatsoever. Just because he was charming meant nothing. He lived in Italy. She was going to school in Paris. After that, who knew what would happen—her visa wouldn’t last forever, so unless she found steady work and was able to change her visa accordingly, she’d be stuck returning to the States, to her provincial little Pennsylvania town, with no job and no aspirations, which would be a bit of a letdown after living in such a magnificent city. It was as if Paris had spoiled her for life.

  But if she was stuck returning home after this, then perhaps she should make the most of what she could while she could. She looked at the handsome man sitting next to her: his inviting eyes, those thick lashes. That hair she could imagine running her fingers through.

  What was it he said to her in that message? Something to the effect of ‘if we’re lucky, you’d have an opportunity to gauge for yourself whether you were right about me?’ Was he serious about that? Better yet, was he volunteering his services for the cause? She shook her head. Of course he was. What self-respecting man wouldn’t offer himself up. Hardly self-sacrifice. More like self-serving. But then again, He was hot. And, despite her earlier impression, he was nice. And courteous. And seemed genuine. And, well, it was hard to argue with that other bit.

  “So, Domenico,” she said, bracing herself to delve further before she would make up her mind about things. “You’re into wine?”

  Chapter Seven

  Domenico could hardly believe the change in demeanor in this woman. What a difference a half a day made! After the episodes this morning, he could never have imagined he would be sitting here, so close their shoulders practically touched, conducting a civilized conversation. Weirder still that he was marveling at such a thing. It wasn’t usual for Domenico to be the pursuer; normally women were more than happy to go after him. One thing was for sure: Romeo men didn’t have any trouble finding willing women. Maybe that was part of the intrigue with Stella—that she wasn’t like those other women.

  He tried to imagine what it would be like to be in a relationship with someone like her. Fiery, hot-tempered, hard to predict. On the one hand, that might drive him crazy. On the other hand, it might be interesting. And if she was like this out in the open, imagine what she’d be like in bed. That thought made his cock stand up and take notice, which he tried to mentally tamp down because he was trying to avoid going there with her right now. He was happy they’d steered the conversation to mundane things, versus body metrics, or whatever you’d call her fixation on size.

  “Yes, wine is sort of synonymous with the Romeo name,” Domenico said. “My family’s winery has been run by Romeos since the Middle Ages.”

  Stella’s eyes grew wide. “Wow. My family’s history goes back to, oh, I think the Eisenhower administration. If that.”

  He laughed.

  “But seriously, that’s one of those things about Europeans—they seem to have such a strong hold on their legacies. They have these roots that go so deep and it’s something each generation works to preserve. I admire that so much. For that matter, it does make me jealous. There’s nothing compelling to unearth where my family is concerned except if you want to hear about a few ugly divorces and some unplanned pregnancies.” She shook her head.

  “I’m sure there is more to your family than you realize,” Domenico said. “Sometimes we aren’t that interested in delving into the past to learn about it.”

  She shrugged. “Yeah, not much to sink your teeth into. My mother got pregnant with me when she was sixteen. Her parents forced her to marry my dad, who was miserable. Eventually he ditched her, took up with a dragon lady who I’m pretty sure laid eggs rather than gave birth to children, and I was stuck dealing with the fallout from them all. Oh and then my dad left her too. And my mother is an alcoholic and I try not to deal with her. End of story.”

  “Mi dispiace,” he said as he placed a hand over hers. “I’m sorry. That doesn’t sound like an ideal environment in which to grow up. How did you end up in Paris? Were you running away?”

  She knit her brows. “Running away? Interesting way to look at it. Maybe in a way, I was. But I like to think of reaching toward a goal rather than fleeing from something. Although they are perhaps two sides of the same coin.”

  “But what was in Paris?”

  “Besides the usual things—good food, beautiful scenery, amazing history? Now I’m going to get deep: I spent much of my childhood feeling very alone. The one thing that brought me joy was baking. Whenever I could scrape together enough money for supplies, I would bake something. I didn’t have anyone to make it for. I swear I would go to my neighbors’ houses and leave things on their porches. Eventually they learned it was from me and started asking me for more. At some point, a teacher planted the idea in my head that I should go to pastry school. Until t
hen, it was not even something I knew they had. Schools where you bake? Sign me up!”

  “Sounds fantastical, doesn’t it?”

  “Like you wouldn’t imagine.” She sipped her drink. “I used to daydream about this all the time. And then one day I decided I was wasting my life, working at lousy minimum-wage jobs, going nowhere. I couldn’t stand to be under the same roof as my stepmother, who loved to blame me for her own problems. I knew that even if it meant incurring lots of debt, which I couldn’t afford, at least I would be buying myself a life. So I applied to school and the next thing you know, I was on a plane, Paris bound.”

  “The only place better would have been Italy bound.” He winked at her. “Though I admit to being partial.”

  “So what is it you do for your family’s winery? I have to admit I know nothing about wine. I’m a mixed-drink or beer girl. Wine does nothing for me.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Then you’ve not had the right wine. I can assure you if you tried our Chianti Classico Riserva you would fall in love.” He scrunched his forehead. “With the wine, of course.”

  “Of course. After all, your wine isn’t some sort of weird love potion.”

  He smiled. “Perhaps in a small way it is. At least to me. Maybe it’s more like a love letter of sorts, to the soil, to the sun, to the generations of Romeos who have worked to perfect it.”

  Stella squirmed in her seat a bit. She was getting uncomfortably charmed by this man. It was like he was a damned poet or something. “Thanks, but I’ll stick to my Prescription cocktails. Nothing cures what ails you like one of Eric’s surprise concoctions.”

  Domenico shrugged. “Well, the offer stands. If you’d like to indulge in a little bit of Romeo, I’m your man.”

  Indeed he would be her man. If she were to indulge in a bit of Romeo. But that was so not on her agenda, and besides, it was getting late and she was getting drunk.