By Royal Decree: Royally Romanced

“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.”