By Royal Decree: Royally Romanced

“Wonderful. I will make arrangements and send them to you tomorrow.”

“This morning,” she corrected.

He gave a startled laugh. “I’m sorry I hadn’t waited until a reasonable time to call you.”

“That’s fine with me,” she reassured him. He’d promised to be her sex slave and she was going to hold him to it.

“Good.” His voice dropped into the purr again. “Now think of all the things you want to see in Italy and I will do my utmost to fulfill your wishes.”

Number one—see his naked body. Number two—see the bedroom ceiling. Number three—see the bed’s headboard. Well, she could maybe come up with some tourist activities. Or not.

“Good night, Giorgio.”

“Ciao, bella Renata. My only thoughts are of you until I see you again.”

She waited until she’d hung up to whimper again. She had a feeling she was going to be just as much a sex slave as he was. Did she mind?

She gave a very New York shrug in the darkness of her bedroom. Nah, of course not.

“SO A REAL-LIFE SEXY PRINCE wants to whisk you off to Italy, have his royal wicked way with you and you are hesitating why?” The next morning, Flick put her hands on her hips and blew a long turquoise hunk of hair out of her eyes, spoiling the punk persona she cultivated. She wore ripped-up jeans, a holey lime-green T-shirt and safety pins decorating both. A black military surplus jacket and black combat boots with chrome hardware-store chain strung around like tinsel made her look like a scary Christmas tree.

“I’m not that kind of girl,” Renata replied virtuously, crossing her legs primly on her elevated desk chair. She made a face at Flick’s raucous laughter. “Oh, knock it off. I’m not that kind of girl anymore.”

Her friend snorted. “That’s only because it’s been years since you’ve had a decent opportunity to be ‘that kind of girl.’ What’s with the cold feet?”

“Oh, all right,” she said tersely. “Let’s say I do go. What do I tell my aunt?”

“Tell her the truth—you’re going on an extended European hookup with one of the tabloids’ most eligible bachelors.”

“Eeeww, is he really on that list?” Not that Renata wanted Giorgio to have a wife and four kids, but holy crap, was that cheesy.

“Hand to God.” Flick cleared a stack of files onto the floor and flopped in the small chair across from Renata’s drawing table. “After you called me to come over, I looked him up on my phone. ‘Prince Giorgio Armani Ferragamo Versace Gucci Pucci is the crown prince of Vinciguerra—’”

“That is not his name,” Renata interrupted.

Flick gave her a sly look. “What is his full name, Miss How-Do-You-Say-Torrid-Vacation-Fling-In-Italian?”

Renata pursed her lips. “Giorgio di Leone. And no, I don’t know his middle name.”

“Middle names, plural. He has about five. But you only have to know the first. ‘Oh, yes, Giorgio. Oh, just like that, Giorgio.’ Et cetera.” She ducked out of the way as Renata flung a fat illustration marker at her head, having uttered those very words last night in his limo. “Don’t waste your energy on me—save it for Prince Loverboy.”

Deciding she didn’t want to pay for a replacement desk lamp if it broke when she hurled it at Flick, Renata restrained herself. “Speaking of names, Felicity, you really are annoying sometimes. I thought your name meant happiness and joy.”

Flick, who had the hide of an elephant, blew her a kiss. “I’m the annoyance who’s going to watch your shop while you go happily and joyfully off to Italy. And if you promise me a nice souvenir, I’ll even lie to your aunt so she doesn’t find out how sex-crazed you really are.”

Renata repressed a shudder. If her aunt found out, that meant her whole family found out. “Just what would you tell her?”

“What does your aunt want to sew more than anything?”

“Big poufy dresses,” she replied promptly.

“Exactly. So you are going to Europe on a buying trip for lace, ribbons, beads—”

“Sequins and pearls.” Renata got the picture. “But I don’t want to shop for all that stuff.”

“Dumbass, what do princes have secretaries for? Tell the man you need to take some Italian fabric and notions samples home and he will get his staff to pull together a nice portfolio while you romance the hours away.”

“Hmm.” She tapped her teeth with an unflung marker. “And what do I do when Aunt Barbara asks me about actually making a dress with that? I won’t use most of it.”

“Have that geeky cousin of yours set up a website for her. She can advertise traditional Italian-American wedding gowns and call it Gowns of Amore or something.”

“Not bad, Flick. You put the ‘genius’ in ‘evil genius.’”

“I aim to please. Now if I’m going to be babysitting your biz for the next ten days, you need to get me up to speed.”

Renata emailed Flick’s phone a copy of her schedule. “Open the file and I’ll go over it with you.”

“Fine, but don’t forget that souvenir you promised me. No airport gift shop crap—you’ll have to drag yourself out of the boudoir and actually buy me something nice.”

“Sorry, I don’t think an Italian gigolo would fit in my suitcase.”

“I think your prince Giorgio would be able to make arrangements. Young, hot and stupid are my top requirements.”

Renata had to laugh. “I love you, Flick.”

Her friend made a noise like a cat with a hair ball. “My God, the prospect of illicit nooky is making you absolutely maudlin. Put a sock in it and tell me about your crowd of Bridezillas. And don’t think I won’t text you if they give me any crap—loverboy or not.”

“I still love you, anyway.”

“Arrgh! Get laid already, will you?”

6

AND THAT WAS HOW Renata Pavoni of Brooklyn, New York, U.S.A., found herself ensconced in a first-class seat on Air Italia flying in to Genoa, Italy. Christopher Columbus’s hometown and the start of her own adventure. From what she’d read online Genoa was still a busy port town, the biggest city on the Italian Riviera. The coastline of the Riviera curved in a half-moon along the blue Ligurian Sea, stretching from France in the east almost two hundred miles to Tuscany on the west.

The plane touched down with barely a blip and Renata stared out at the early-morning skies, the ugly industrial views of the Genovese airport looking like any other modern airport.

Giorgio’s driver-bodyguard, Paolo, stood at the gate as planned. “Buona sera, signorina.” He relieved her of her carry-on bag. After claiming her luggage, he hustled her to a nondescript beige sedan.

So Giorgio didn’t even come along for the ride to the airport. Hmmph. She slid in the back and Paolo got in the driver’s seat, accelerating out of the lot as if he were in a Ferrari Testarossa. How much English did this guy speak, anyway? She decided to try out her American Italian. “Dov’è il principe?” Just where the hell was that prince?

“Ah, nell’ albergo. The hotel,” he pronounced carefully, the h sound foreign to the Italian language. “He wait for you there. At the airport, sometimes paparazzi. Photos.” He made noises like the clicking of a camera.

Oh-kay. Needless to say, Renata had never dated anyone who would have been even remotely interesting to a paparazzo photographer. She did hope they’d be able to go out in public without too much obnoxiousness.

Paolo silently drove through the city to a dock at the waterfront. “We need to take boat. No road to Vernazza—the village where we stay in Cinque Terre. Trains not here until morning.”

“Oh, okay.” Maybe they would have some privacy there if it was only accessible by boat and train.