By Royal Decree: Royally Romanced

“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.