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“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?”
Renata let him guide her along to the next exhibit. It was a video installation with a variety of blurry faces grimacing in turn as loud static played in the background. Giorgio regarded it with the same pleasant expression he’d pasted on his face as soon as they’d walked in. He really was a polished man.
Renata went up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “This is just awful. Do you mind if we leave now?”
“Aren’t you enjoying yourself.” His eyes twinkled.
“You’ll know when I’m enjoying myself,” she assured him.
“Indeed?” He turned his head slowly so their faces were almost touching. Renata swallowed hard. She thought he was going to kiss her but he clenched his jaw instead. Perhaps public displays of affection were against the Vinciguerran Royal Book of Etiquette. “I will call Paolo to pick us up.”
“No, don’t.” She didn’t want anyone intruding in what was turning out to be a very intriguing afternoon. “It’s a nice day—let’s walk.”
“Where?”
“A surprise.” She tugged him out of the gallery and onto the sidewalk, tipping her face up. “Ah, sun. Makes up for a long and gloomy winter.”
“An Italian girl like you should always get plenty of sun.”
She patted her jaw. “Bad for the complexion. The rest of my family has the typical dark hair and olive skin like you, but I only burn.”
“No wonder you have such lovely skin. You must be careful when you travel to Italy the next time. You know our sun can be very strong.”
“The next time? I’ve never been to Italy before.”
He stopped and stared down at her. “Your name is Renata Pavoni and you’ve never visited Italy? How can that be?”
She laughed and led him along the busy street. “My parents have five of us. You’ve never priced out airfare to Europe for seven, but my mother did once. We heard her scream of shock down the street.”
Giorgio looked momentarily startled—budget concerns didn’t cross his radar. He nodded thoughtfully. “What part of Italy did your family come from?”
“After the war, my grandparents on my mom’s side came from a little village on the Italian Riviera called Corniglia. My nonna says the town is perched on a huge rock surrounded by grapevines. They make this special kind of wine found nowhere else in the world.”
“Scciachetrà.”
“Yeah, that’s right. We crack open a bottle every New Year’s Eve to toast the old country.” Renata shivered in remembrance. “Boy, is that stuff strong. Made of raisins, so the sugar is very concentrated.”
“I’ve never tried it, although we have something similar in Vinciguerra, called Bocca di Leone—The Lion’s Mouth. We serve it in thimble-size glasses and no one can drink more than a few without falling over.” He sighed. “I’ll have to make sure we have enough for Stefania’s wedding. It’s the traditional toast for weddings, especially royal weddings.”
“And you are the di Leone family, after all.”
“Our ancestors invented it.” He grinned down at her. “I may need a couple stiff drinks before I walk Stefania down the aisle.”
“Buck up, Giorgio.” She patted his arm. “Everyone gets a bit misty-eyed when they give the bride away. Which sword and medals will you be wearing?”
Giorgio gave her a sidelong look. “Sometimes I cannot tell if you are joking with me or not.”
“That’s because you are much too serious.” She gestured. “Look at the beautiful day! Here we are in the most fabulous city in the world, we have lovely Central Park over there, the sun is shining, your sister has her wedding dress and you didn’t have a nervous breakdown trying to shop for one. Do you know how rare it is to keep good mental health shopping for a bridal gown?”
“Um, no.”
“When I worked at a regular bridal salon, fits of hysteria, therapeutic slapping and tranquilizers of dubious legality were an everyday occurrence.”
“It seems I’ve dodged the bullet.”
“You sure have. Hey, let’s cut through the park.”
HE TOOK A DEEP BREATH of the spring-scented air, the pale green leaves on the trees unfolding from their winter’s rest. The tension started to leave his muscles, although they were still mighty buff.
“See? All you needed was a nice little nature walk. I bet it’s been a long time since you got outdoors for some fresh air. A guy like you isn’t meant to be cooped up indoors pushing paperwork all day. Maybe you should get yourself a yacht—I mean if you don’t already have one—”
“We have my father’s yacht. We loan it out to people for field trips and marine science expeditions.”
“Weddings, proms and bar mitzvahs.”
He grinned. “Probably, if anybody requested it.”
“Don’t you or your sister ever use it?”
“Stefania does for her charity fundraisers.” They passed near a tree and he held a branch back that might have scratched her face.
“Not for that, but for your personal use.”
He shook his head. “Not since she started at the university and I took over more duties from my grandmother.”
“All work and no play makes Giorgio a dull boy,” she quoted the old saying. Imagine owning a yacht and being too busy to use it. Running even a small country must take an enormous amount of time.
“Then I should stop being so dull.”
He pulled her to the side of the path underneath a big oak tree. “Is that red lipstick smudge-proof?”
“Yeah, pretty much. It actually has a sealant clear gloss that—”
“Good,” he cut her off. Wow, for a prince he needed some work on conversational manners.
