“Why should I take off to Italy with you like some royalty groupie?”

“You know why, Renata.” Giorgio’s voice deepened to a seductive growl. “Because you want me. Me, the man, not the prince. You want what I can give you, but not at the boutique or the jewelry store. You want what I can give you in the bedroom.”

Oh, he had her there. The man wasn’t even in the same borough with her and was making her crazy for him.

“Remember how I touched you last night?” She let out a moan in remembrance.

Undone by her own feminine nature. That one time had whetted her appetite for more. No question.

“That was just a taste of how it could be, Renata. Come with me.” He paused, his deep breathing turning her on even more. “I command you.”

Dear Reader,

Ever since I was a girl watching Princess Diana marry Prince Charles on live TV, I have been an avid royal wedding fan. My mother splurged on the miniature commemorative book and I spent hours poring over the photos with my sister. At one point, I had memorized the line of succession to the British throne!

Although the royal princes were a bit young for me, I still enjoyed reading about royal weddings—the beautiful brides, the (hopefully) handsome grooms, and most of all, the dresses. Satin, silk, velvet, taffeta. Diamond tiaras and pearls. When I thought of a trilogy surrounding three royal heroes and one royal wedding, I knew one heroine had to be a wedding dress designer.

Brash New Yorker Renata Pavoni designs hip, vintage-style gowns but definitely has a modern attitude—perfect to shake up the stuffy but sexy Prince Giorgio of Vinciguerra, accompanying his beloved sister Princess Stefania as she searches for the ideal wedding dress. Stefania selects the dress of her dreams, and Giorgio realizes he may have found the woman of his dreams.

A fun story about buying my own wedding dress—my mother and I met on her lunch hour, and it was the fourth dress I tried on. Once I put it on, I knew that was The Dress. Forty minutes of shopping might be a world record. Many years later, my good friend looked at my wedding portrait and told me, “That looks like Princess Diana’s dress!”

Happy reading!

Marie Donovan

About the Author

MARIE DONOVAN is a Chicago-area native who got her fill of tragedies and unhappy endings by majoring in opera/vocal performance and Spanish literature. As an antidote to all that gloom, she read romance novels voraciously throughout college and graduate school.

Donovan worked for a large suburban public library for ten years as both a cataloguer and a bilingual Spanish story time presenter. She graduated magna cum laude with two bachelor’s degrees from a Midwestern liberal arts university and speaks six languages. She enjoys reading, gardening and yoga.

Please visit the author’s website at www.mariedonovan.com.

Royally
Romanced
Marie Donovan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Dad,

A prince in a book for a prince of a man in my book.

Happy reading!

1

“YOU’RE WHAT?” GIORGIO’S gold pen dropped from his fingers and rolled forgotten off his polished wooden desk as he gripped his phone.

His sister, his baby sister, Stefania, giggled from four thousand miles away in New York City. “I’m engaged to be married.” She repeated it in Italian to make sure he understood. “Fidanzata.”

“But, but …” he stammered, normally not at a loss for words. “To whom? And when?”

“Well …” She drew out the news teasingly and then her excitement bubbled over in a rush. “His name is Dieter von Thalberg and we met a few months ago when he traveled here for business.”

“Only a few months?” Giorgio interrupted. “And you want to marry him already?” Stefania was impulsive sometimes, but not foolish.

“Of course.” She giggled again. “Oh, Giorgio, I can’t wait for you to meet him.” She lowered her voice. “He’s German nobility from a little place in Bavaria. You have to trust me, I’ve never felt this way about any other man. When he kisses me and we … well, anyway …” He practically heard her blush as she continued the catalog of wonders that was Dieter.

Giorgio fought the urge to start an international incident over Dieter, his future brother-in-law, for showing her the wide world of womanly delights. Giorgio couldn’t think of it in more specific terms without his fine lunch of sausages and polenta sitting uneasily in his stomach.

He sighed and wished he had finished the rest of the bottle of wine rather than restraining himself to the two glasses he normally imbibed.

Rotten Dieter.

He hoped the man’s ancestral holdings were overrun with mold and rats. But then Stefania would be unhappy, and that was the last thing in the world Giorgio wanted.

Actually, he hoped Dieter had some money of his own for the ancestral holdings and wouldn’t constantly hit Giorgio up for loans. Giorgio had enough trouble with his own palazzo, molto grazie.

“But, Giorgio, you must realize none of this will be official until you give us your blessing. Dieter insisted it be so.”

Hmm. He quirked his mouth. It was true. As ruling head of the Most Serene Principality of Vinciguerra, Giorgio had the right to approve or deny betrothals of members of the royal family, i.e. his sister, Principessa Stefania Maria Cristina Angela Martelli di Leone. It said so on his business card. Well, not really.

The only other members of the royal family were his grandmother, who at eighty was not expected to seek permission to wed again, and himself: Giorgio Alphonso Giuseppe Franco Martelli di Leone, Prince of Vinciguerra. Long ago, Giorgio had decided that if he never wed and had the requisite heir-and-a-spare, he would pass the title to Stefania and her children. After all, he was an enlightened, twenty-first-century monarch. One with the power to send Dieter the Dunce packing. He snickered.

“Giorgio?” his sister asked nervously. “Are you still there?”

“Si, si.” He lapsed into silence, pondering what to do and how many heavy items Stefania would hurl at his head if he refused her undoubtedly golden-haired, Teutonic Prince Charming.

“Come to New York,” Stefania commanded.

“What? Now?”

“Yes, now. I called Grandma today and she told me to get you out of her hair. She says you’re driving her nuts.” Having spent most of her childhood in New York, Stefania had a definite command of American idioms.

“What?” Giorgio sat bolt upright in his ergonomic Corinthian leather chair. “I am doing no such thing!”

“She begs to differ. She says you poke your nose in on her day and night so she can’t get any rest.”

Now he was insulted. Their grandmother had had a nasty bout of flu that had settled into pneumonia. After a couple touch-and-go weeks of around-the-clock care, she had pulled through but still needed nursing visits, respiratory therapists, physical therapists and doctor visits. And it was his job to make sure they were doing their jobs. He was more at ease if he could be present for all their consultations.

He reconsidered. Maybe that was a bit too much. After all, his grandmother had run Vinciguerra while he was off at university and had absolutely no trouble making her wishes known. He could also have his assistant text him updates on her health.

“Yes or no, George!” his sister shouted. She only called him his American nickname when she was either very pleased with him or very annoyed. No bets on which it was this time.

“Fine, Steve!” he shouted in return, his matching temper surfacing. “I want to meet this German Romeo who thinks he’s good enough for my only sister. If he’s not up to snuff, forget it! You can finish your master’s degree instead. I’m not paying university tuition to have you moon over some man you barely know.”

“He is not some man! He is my man, and I know him very well.”

Giorgio gritted his teeth at her implication and forced himself to take several deep breaths. If he pressed his sister too hard, she was likely to elope to Vegas with the guy. “If you think so highly of him, Stefania, I will be happy to meet him.”

“Fine.” She sounded mollified, for the moment at least. With Stefania, you never could tell. “And I am finishing my degree, you know. If I take an extra course each semester, I’ll be able to graduate next spring.”

“That’s wonderful news.” He checked his schedule on his phone. “I can fly into New York Wednesday if that would work for you. And Dieter,” he added grudgingly.

“Great! We’ll meet for dinner Thursday, just the three of us.”

“Great,” he parroted, with much less enthusiasm. “I look forward to it.”

“No, you don’t, but thanks for saying so.”

“Insincerity has its place, Steve. I would appreciate a tiny bit more insincere flattery from you, for example. ‘Oh, my princely brother, if it pleases you to meet the unworthy specimen who has asked for my dainty royal hand in marriage …’”

She snorted. “If you wanted me to be dainty and insincere, you should have left me in Vinciguerra after Mama and Papa passed away.”

“You know I couldn’t do that, piccina mia.” My little one—it was what their papa had called her, at least when she wasn’t raising hell. Some things never changed.

“I know, Giorgio, and I love you for it.”

He cleared his throat, which was developing a sudden lump. “I love you, too,” he muttered. Words of love never came easily for him, even for his beloved sister.

“Ciao, Giorgio.” She made a kissing noise into the phone and hung up.

He spun his chair to stare at the terraced vineyards beyond his office, the land still leafy and green in the April sun after a wet spring.

Springtime and young love. Giorgio’s lips pulled into a wry smile. He remembered how romantic New York City could be in the spring. Unlike Stefania’s Dieter, though, he had never been tempted to propose to anyone. He’d been busy with his education and bracing himself to return to Vinciguerra.

And now he would return to New York. It had been so long since he had been a foolish young student in the city. He straightened in his chair, the idea sounding better by the minute. He hadn’t even had a free day in what seemed like forever, his every action in Vinciguerra witnessed and gossiped over by his loyal subjects. And to date any of them? Unthinkable.

He grimaced and tried to roll the kinks out of his neck. It wasn’t as if he had any free time to date anyone, Vinciguerran or not. He pressed the intercom to call his assistant. “Alessandro? Please make arrangements for me to join Princess Stefania in New York tomorrow.” He rubbed the back of his neck. Stefania would give him grief if she thought he looked scruffy for her big dinner. “Oh, and also make an appointment with my barber.” Women always loved a fresh haircut.

“RENATA?” RENATA PAVONI’S assistant, Barbara Affini, who was also her aunt, stuck her perfectly coiffed, poufy head of black hair into Renata’s workroom.

“Hmm?” she mumbled around a mouthful of straight pins as she pinned the white satin hem of a wedding dress. The dress dummy stood on a carpeted platform, high enough that Renata didn’t have to crouch to work with the fabric.

Barbara tsked and came into the room. “Your mama would have a fit if she saw you like that. If you swallow a pin, I’m going to call your brother’s firehouse to take you to the hospital and you’ll never hear the end of it.”

Renata spit out the pins and stuck them into a tomato-shaped pincushion. “Okay, okay. Hey, how does this look?”

“Short.”

Renata sighed. Why did she bother asking? It was the same answer every time. “It’s supposed to be short, Aunt Barbara. It’s a vintage-style wedding dress.” Nineteen-fifties and -sixties fashions were hot as hell, thanks to several hit TV shows and movies set in those time periods.

“Your cousins’ wedding dresses, now those were classics,” her aunt reminisced.

Renata pulled a face, glad her aunt was behind her. Her petite cousins had rolled down the aisle in dresses wider than they were tall, looking like those plastic doll head and torsos on top of crocheted toilet paper holders. Thank God wedding dresses from the eighties were still out of fashion. She’d go broke buying miles of satin and tulle and pounds of sequins.

Why had she hired her aunt? Oh, yeah, her uncle Sal had begged Renata to get his wife out of the house. She needed someone to mother once their youngest married, and the newly retired Sal wasn’t about to volunteer for the vacancy.

Plus, Barbara was a fantastic seamstress and put the p in punctual.

Renata finished pinning the hem and stood, her knees popping. “The bride is coming in for her final fitting tomorrow. Will you have time to hem this?”

Her aunt sniffed. “Child’s play. I even have time to add some sequins on the skirt if you’d like?” she asked hopefully.

Renata shook her head. “No sequins.” Her client was an avowed hipster and would bite the sequins off with her teeth before wearing them down the aisle.

“Seed pearls?”

“Nope.”

“How about some white-on-white satin-stitch embroidery?” But her aunt knew when she was beaten, her plump shoulders already slumping.

“Sorry.” Renata was sorry. Her aunt would like nothing better than to hand-bead, hand-sequin and hand-embroider a gigantic ball gown with a twenty-foot train. But customers for gowns like that didn’t come to Renata’s design studio, Peacock Wedding Designs.

Instead, the dress in front of them was pretty typical of her sales—a fifties-style vintage reproduction with gathered halter straps and a full-circle skirt complete with a tulle crinoline. The bride was planning on a short, wavy fifties ‘do and a small satin hat with a tiny net veil to drape over one carefully made-up eye.

Renata smoothed the skirt and carried it into the alteration workshop for her aunt. She caught a glimpse of herself in the three-way mirror and sighed. She loved vintage clothing but it sometimes didn’t stand up to the modern workday. Her ivory linen blouse was wrinkled and her navy pencil skirt had twisted around her waist so the back slit was somewhere along the front of her thigh. She patted her auburn hair back into its nineteen-forties-style roll.

Her aunt noticed her self-grooming and finally smiled. “You look just like old photos of my dear mamma, God rest her soul.”

“Thanks, Auntie.” She blew her a kiss and fixed her skirt. She probably needed to touch up her lipstick, too. While lush red lips were historically correct, they did require more maintenance and she had to be careful that she didn’t trip over her feet and plant a big red smacker on her pure white fabric. The things one did for fashion. Or at least her grandmother’s fashion.

Renata hopped onto the elevated chair at her design table. Before she could uncap her cherry-red tube, the phone rang. “Peacock Wedding Designs, this is Renata.”

“Hi, I’ve been looking at your website and I was wondering when I could come in to look at your dresses.” The New York voice was young but confident, typical of her clientele. Brides who wanted a vintage look were not shrinking violets.

Renata flipped through the appointment calendar. “We can see you Friday.”

“Are you free tomorrow afternoon?”

Renata wrinkled her nose. She’d been planning to take the afternoon off for the opening of a new art exhibit at a gallery in Manhattan. Her friend Flick knew a couple of the artists.

Her potential client hurried on. “I want my brother to come with me, and he’s flying into town tonight.”

Business was business, and maybe Brother was paying for the dress. “No, that’s fine. What time is good?”

“Noon?”

“Great.” Maybe she could see the opening after all—it started at two. “And your name?”

“Stefania di Leone.” She had a perfect Italian accent when she pronounced her name.

“Ah, Stephanie of the Lion.” Renata laughed. “My full name is Renata Isabella Pavoni—peacock. That’s where I got the name for my salon.”

“I think your designs are wonderful,” Stefania enthused. “I looked in the bridal mags, but everything there is too over-the-top. I don’t want a gigantic, poufy dress, or a corset-slip that looks like I forgot to put the rest of my dress on. And don’t get me started on the mermaid style. I want to be able to dance at my wedding.” She ended in a plaintive note.

Renata penciled her name into the calendar. “I’m sure you can find something you love. Have another look at my website and jot down some styles you’d like to try on.” She gave Stefania directions to her salon in Brooklyn. Renata wished she could afford space in Manhattan, but even marginal neighborhoods there were exorbitant.

But Stefania didn’t seem fazed. “My brother and I will see you tomorrow. Oh, I’m so excited! My first time wedding dress shopping!”

That could be good or bad, depending on if she made up her mind quickly or liked to browse. Either way, it was an opportunity. They said their goodbyes, and Renata hung up.

Barbara appeared in the doorway again. “Who was that, dear?”

“A bride is coming in tomorrow at noon to look at the dresses.”

Her aunt made a disappointed face, her penciled eyebrows drooping. Since Renata had planned to take the afternoon off, her aunt made an appointment for Uncle Sal’s annual colonoscopy. Lucky Sal.

“I’ll be sure to keep you posted. And who knows? She may want a little more embellishment on her dress.”

Barbara brightened. “That would be wonderful! I have lots of ideas.”

“Great. Write them down. Or draw them.”

She made a dismissive gesture. “Renata, you know I can’t draw worth a lick.”

“Ask your granddaughter Teresa to draw it for you. Isn’t she a good artist?”

“Oh, well …” Her aunt fluttered her fingers at her bosom. “I’ll have to see … my ideas probably aren’t very good.”

“You won’t know until you try.” Her aunt was a product of her times, discouraged from attending college and encouraged to marry straight out of high school. It was about time her aunt focused on herself instead of her family. Her family would be grateful, too.

“But I can hem that dress. I know I’m good at that.”

“You are indeed.” Renata gave her an encouraging smile and checked on the selection of samples she had in stock. Kick-ass. Her new bride would love them.

Unlike her aunt, she didn’t have any doubts about her abilities. Renata loved vintage clothing, but she sure didn’t have a vintage attitude.

2

“OUR LITTLE STEVIE’S getting married?” Giorgio’s old friend Francisco Duarte das Aguas Santas was obviously as dumbfounded as he had been. Once Giorgio’s call from the VIP lounge in Leonardo da Vinci Airport in Rome had reached Frank at his ranch in the Portuguese countryside, it had taken several minutes to explain the situation.

“Yes, she’s engaged.” It was getting somewhat easier to say the words aloud. Giorgio’s grandmother had been ecstatic at the prospect of a royal wedding in Vinciguerra, especially since his own parents’ wedding had been the last one celebrated, and that had been over thirty years ago. They had been returning from an anniversary trip when they died tragically in a car accident. Giorgio hoped his sister’s nuptials would distract his grandmother from asking him when he would make some lucky woman his principessa.

“And to some guy we’ve never met.” Frank sounded nearly as disgruntled as Giorgio had been.

“I’m leaving in a few minutes for New York, so I’ll meet him tomorrow.”

“Does Jack know?” Jacques de Brissard was the third member of their trio.

The three men had met their freshman year at the university in Manhattan. Although Giorgio technically outranked Frank, a duke with a large estate in Portugal, as well as Jack, a count who owned a lavender farm in Provence, they had much in common. Their bachelor apartment had turned into a home when Stefania had come to live with them—home, something Giorgio thought he’d lost when his parents died.

“No, I left a message for him, but he’s traveling to Southeast Asia to do medical relief for that cyclone that hit the coast.”

Frank made a sound of dismay. “He just got back from the earthquake in Turkey and sounded exhausted. I told him he needed to take some time off to recuperate. What is he thinking?”

“He’s a doctor, and his patients come first.” Giorgio didn’t like it any better than Frank, but Jacques had always been single-minded about his medical career.

“He’s going to wear himself out,” Frank predicted gloomily, breaking off to shout instructions in Portuguese. Giorgio must have caught him as he was supervising the farmhands. Frank was always experimenting with new crops in addition to the olives and grapes his family’s land produced. “But what are we to do with Stefania? She’s not old enough to marry.”

Giorgio shook his head to decline a second glass of wine from the lounge attendant, a pretty redhead. “I don’t like it, either, Frank, but she’s twenty-four. At least she’s finishing up her graduate degree first. Besides, if you think she was stubborn when she was eleven …”

Frank snorted. “Remember when she refused to go to that fancy prep school you had all picked out for her and insisted on going to the academy of the arts? You even threatened her as her principality’s sovereign ruler and what did she do?”

“Called the State Department and requested legal asylum on grounds of persecution.” Giorgio sighed. He had tried to forget that little incident. His grandmother had not been amused to receive indignant phone calls from various human rights and refugee organizations.

“Amigo meu, maybe it is time to turn our girl over to this German fellow. After all, they are the orderly sort.” He laughed, and Giorgio had to join in at the idea of anyone keeping Stefania in order. “And when is the blessed event? If she wants to come to my island out in the Azores she and the German can have a private honeymoon—consider it my gift.”

Giorgio smiled. “They haven’t set a date, but I’ll be sure to tell Stefania when I see her Wednesday.”

“Give her my love, and make sure this fiancé of hers is a decent guy. If he isn’t, then you and Jack and I will talk some sense into her.”

“Or I’ll just drag her back to Vinciguerra and put her in the dungeon.” They had three actually, one cleaned up for the tourists and two that hadn’t been used since the Napoleonic Wars.

“Human rights organizations be damned.” Frank sounded more cheerful. “We’re just living up to the time-honored European tradition of locking stubborn princesses in towers and such.”

“Do the time-honored traditions mention princesses with black belts in tae kwon do cleaning their brother’s clock?”

“You can only blame yourself for that. You insisted she go to those self-defense classes if she was going to travel to the arts school in that awful neighborhood.” Frank laughed. “Come on, things will be fine. If her young man is okay, then pick a date. Jack and I will help you plan her wedding—don’t worry.”

“The three of us?” Giorgio yelped. “Since when are we wedding experts?” He had fought very hard to be the exact opposite.

“Once you get the dress and the date, everything else falls into place. My mother planned my sisters’ weddings. We run large estates—hell, you even run a whole country. How hard could it be?”

“You weren’t even living in Portugal at the time—you merely flew in for the weddings and missed months of preparation.”

“I did see some of what my mother and her wedding planners did.” Frank sounded a bit hurt. “They have notebooks at the bookstore that explain what to do.”

“Fine, okay, Frank, we’ll all help Stefania as much as we can.” Giorgio had no intention of being the lead wedding planner. It sounded like a nightmare in the making.

“Maravilhosa. Great.” Frank cheered up. “I’ll fix up the island however she likes. And I’m good for several barrels of the family sherry.”

Giorgio could use a barrel of sherry about now, but his flight was about to board. “Thanks again, Frank. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Send me the report on her fiancé from the private investigator when it comes in. Adeus!” His friend hung up.

Giorgio wasn’t sure if Frank was kidding or not about having Dieter investigated. Probably not kidding. He tapped his fingers on the small glass table. Should he? Stefania had several million euros in trust funds, some of which were to be released on either her marriage or her twenty-fifth birthday, both coming up within the next year.

He sighed, remembering the trouble some other European royals had run into with their unwise marriages. Maybe erring on the side of caution … he quickly called his assistant. “Alessandro? Please call that private investigator from that insurance fraud case last year and have him research my sister’s fiancé.”

Oh, well. If Stefania found out and lost her temper with him, it wouldn’t be the first time—or the last.

“WELCOME TO PEACOCK DESIGNS—you must be Stefania.” Renata came from behind her workstation and warmly shook the bride’s hand. She would be a dream to dress, slim but not too skinny, with rich brown eyes and olive skin. Her dark hair lay in curls on her shoulders. She looked like she should be modeling for an Italian tourism poster.

“Yes, I’m Stefania di Leone.” Her bride gazed raptly around the salon. “The dresses are all so wonderful. I can’t wait to get started.” She made a beeline for a full-skirted, tea-length dress.

“Would you like to try this one?” May as well jump right in.

“Absolutely!” She pointed at the other dresses. “And that one, and that one, and that one.”

Renata took her client’s expensive leather coat and hung it next to her. “The changing room is right here.” She ushered Stefania across the pearl-gray carpet into the large curtained alcove that served as her changing room and hung a couple of dresses on the hooks.

Stefania pulled off her pine-green sweater and then stopped. “George! I almost forgot.”

“George?”

“My brother—he got a phone call right before we arrived here so he dropped me off. He should be here by now.” She pulled an expensive phone out of her leather purse and rapidly sent a text. “There. I told him to get off the phone and get his butt in here.”

Renata tried to hide a grin. Good luck with trying to get a guy off his phone and into a bridal salon.

“Do you mind sticking your head out to see if he’s here?” Stefania unbuckled her belt. “George is definitely out of his element in a place like this.”

“Aren’t they all?” Renata backed out of the alcove and made sure the curtains were closed before she went looking for the missing George di Leone. Poor guy. She had conjured up a picture of the hapless Italian brother of the bride, nice enough but not a clue about fashion—just like her own brothers. Probably about average height, maybe running a bit thick around the middle from too much of Mamma’s lasagna and cannoli—like her own brothers.

And then he walked in.

Renata forced herself to close her jaw at the specimen of exotic Italian manhood that had stepped into her humble little shop.

Not like her brothers, thank the good Lord. A couple inches over six feet, black wavy hair and emerald-green eyes set against the same olive skin as Stefania and no lasagna potbelly in sight. His hair was perfectly cut, short over the ears and slightly longer on top.

He was dressed like Cary Grant in a fantastic suit tailored in Italian charcoal wool by a master. Renata couldn’t even begin to guess how much that would have set him back, combined with the finely woven snow-white shirt and expensive gold silk tie.

Renata smoothed her hands along her hips, fiercely glad she’d worn her high-waisted, ruby red 1950s “wiggle” skirt and snug-fitting black blouse. “Are you George?”

“George?” His honeyed voice positively dripped sex, even with that one syllable. “Ah, yes. Stefania has wasted no time. She calls me George.” He spoke perfect English with a charming Italian accent.

“I’m guessing you’re actually Giorgio.” Giorgio di Leone—the lion. Rrrrrawww. She’d purr for him anytime.

“You may call me whatever you’d like, signorina. And what may I call you?”

“Renata Pavoni. This is my shop.” She offered her hand and he took it, bowing slightly in a European manner.

He released her hand slowly and looked around the shop. “And these are the bridesmaid dresses?” He gestured at a short strapless number in blush pink satin and tulle.

“It could be—but that’s a popular style for many brides, as well.”

He stared harder. “That is a wedding dress? And so is this?” One had black leaves embroidered on the white satin skirt with a black-trimmed chiffon petticoat.

“Those are perfect for an informal wedding, not necessarily a church wedding. For example, one bride who sang in a rock band got married onstage in a gown much like this to her lead guitar player. They gave a concert after the ceremony.”

“A rock band wedding?”

“Lots of fun,” she reassured him. She had attended that wedding and had enjoyed the trip down memory lane when they played several hits from her Goth-girl phase. “But not for everyone.” She wouldn’t tell him about the tiny embroidered black skulls the rocker bride had requested for one of her petticoats. Aunt Barbara had flatly refused to do that embroidery—the handwork of the Devil, she called it, so Renata had sewn skulls until she saw reverse images of them when she closed her eyes at night. Not exactly sweet dreams.

“Not for Stefania. She is having a church wedding.” That was Big Brother putting his foot down. Renata hoped that was Stefania’s plan, as well. She had a feeling brother and sister were evenly matched in the stubbornness department.

“Many of the dresses are quite appropriate for a church wedding, if that is what Stefania has in mind. Excuse me, I need to check on your sister.” She’d been so wrapped up in the brother that she’d almost forgotten about the bride. And if the bride wasn’t happy, nobody was happy.

Renata poked her head through the cubicle curtain. Stefania sat on the gray velvet chaise texting someone. She’d been interrupted while undressing and wore a lacy bra and jeans. She looked up from her phone. “Sorry. Dieter is flying home from England and wanted to text me before they make him turn his phone off.”

“No problem—let me know when you’re ready.” Renata wasn’t exactly unhappy to return to Giorgio. He still stood politely, waiting for her. She’d forgotten that some men still had old-fashioned manners and would not sit down while a lady was standing. She gestured to the white leather—okay, it was vinyl—couch. “Please, Giorgio, have a seat. Your sister is texting her fiancé before his plane takes off.”

“Only if you sit with me for a minute.”

Renata hesitated. She never sat down during an appointment, was usually too busy to do so. And she never, ever sat with the bride’s family, even if it only consisted of an extremely sexy older brother. She was there to work, not flirt.

“Please, signorina. I will not sit unless you do. My grandmother taught me better manners than that, and what kind of man would I be to embarrass my grandmother?”

Okay, now he was flirting, but subtly, not in a wolf-whistle, kiss-the-tips-of-his-fingers type flirting. Maybe she’d flirt back, if she wasn’t too rusty to remember how. “If you insist, but only until Stefania needs me.”

“Of course.” He waited for her to settle onto the couch before sitting about eight inches away from her.

Renata rested her hands on her knees, acutely aware of his presence. He was the epitome of men’s elegance, his silk-clad ankle resting on the opposite knee, his black leather shoes immaculately polished. Even his cologne was classy and masculine, the scent of star anise and sandalwood rising off his warm caramel skin. Her nipples tightened under her blouse and she shifted on the couch to distract herself—in vain, of course. Well, she was a warm-blooded American woman with the male equivalent of an all-you-can-eat Italian buffet sitting next to her, complete with dessert. Mmm, Giorgio as dessert … she thought about that until she realized his delicious lips were speaking.

“Stefania is quite the whirlwind. She did not give you any information about herself or the wedding?” For some reason, he leaned forward, almost as if to gauge her reaction.

Back to business. “None at all. She told me over the phone that she’d just become engaged and was bringing her brother to shop for a wedding dress. I assumed the rest of your family was back in Italy and couldn’t come over right away.”

He sat back and sighed. “The rest of our family is our grandmother, who is indeed back in Italy, recovering from pneumonia.”

If his grandmother was all he and Stefania had left … oh, dear.

He must have read her growing dismay. “Yes, unfortunately, our parents were killed in a car accident many, many years ago.” He shrugged wide shoulders. “Nonna and I raised Stefania as best as we could, but searching for a wedding dress to wear on what I hope will be the happiest day of my sister’s life?” He clenched his hands on his knees. “This is for our mother to do, not a stupid older brother.”

Renata grabbed his hand, wrapping her fingers around his tense ones. “You are not stupid. Stefania waited to come in because she wanted you here with her. I know you both must miss your mother, but you are the person she loves and needs for this.”

He looked down at their entwined fingers. She inwardly groaned. Her impulsive nature had gotten the best of her again and now she was holding hands with her client’s sexy brother whom she’d met, oh, approximately twelve minutes ago. Talk about professional and businesslike.

She tried to tug her hand away, but he tightened his grip. “Signorina Renata, how did such a beautiful, young lady become so wise?”

An unladylike snort escaped her. “Years of foolishness.”

The curtain rustled. “Renata, how do you zip this?” Stefania called.

Renata leaped to her feet as if one of her straight pins had fallen into the cushion and stabbed her in the butt. “Excuse me, please.” He was there for dress-shopping, not getting mushy glances from the hired help. Giorgio released her hand and stood politely as she disappeared into the dressing room.

The bride held the bodice against her and Renata zipped up the back, slipping into sales mode. “All right, this is a tea-length, white lace dress over a white tulle petticoat. As you can see, the skirt is very full.” So full that it was pushing Renata away from the bride as she fastened the hook-and-eye closure at the top of the zipper. “It has three-quarter-length sleeves that reach about to the middle of your forearm and a wide neckline that shows off your neck and shoulders nicely.” She backed away so Stefania could get the full picture of how she would look.

“Is it the lighting or is there some pink at the bottom?”

“Yes, the neckline and petticoat are hemmed with a pale pink thread for decoration.”

Stefania shook her head. “Not for me.”

“No problem.” Renata helped her out of the dress and carefully hung it up. “Here’s one without the pink.” Renata fitted her into a few more white dresses but Stefania just looked at herself in the mirror with a worried look.

“Sorry, Renata. I’m not usually this picky.”

“Yes, you are,” her brother called over the curtain.

“Can it, George,” she retorted. “This is important.”

Renata intervened. “You want to make sure to get the right dress for your special day.”

“Whatever you pick will be a trend-setter,” Giorgio predicted. What a nice brother—her own brothers would be loudly pitying whatever poor idiot Renata had suckered into marrying her.

“Yeah, I know.” Stefania still looked glum. And pale, which was odd considering her beautiful warm skin tone.

“How often do you wear white?” she asked.

Stefania twirled back and forth, her eyes glued to the mirror. “I have a nice winter-white cashmere coat, and some ivory turtlenecks. Oh, and an eggshell silk short-sleeved blouse with the cutest tie at the neck. Dieter loves me in that,” she confided. “He thinks it makes me look sexy.”

A loud groan startled them. “Dio mio, Stefania, save the racy stories for your bachelorette party, will you?”

They both snickered at the typical brotherly response. But Renata returned to the dress subject quickly. “All of those whites you like to wear are actually not pure white. With your lovely coloring, you’re attracted to ivories and off-whites. I think this pure white is washing you out.”

“Oh. I thought it was the lighting.”

“Nope, it’s the fabric color.” Renata had actually paid one of her lighting designer friends to install the most flattering light possible. “Wait here.”

She ducked out of the cubicle. Giorgio looked up from his phone. Renata thought his interest would drop when he saw it was just her, but instead his gaze sharpened. “And which one of your dresses did you pick out for yourself?”

“For me?” She was flustered for a second. “I like all of them, but I’ve never needed one, I mean …”

“Your boyfriend hasn’t, how do they say, popped the question?”

Exhilaration roared through her. “Boyfriend? What boyfriend?” She strutted into the stockroom, making sure her wiggle skirt lived up to its name.

3

GIORGIO FOUGHT TO KEEP the drool from shorting out his phone. Renata Pavoni was the sexiest woman he’d met in a long time, her dark blue eyes gleaming in a knowing manner. Even the tiny diamond decorating the side of her lovely straight nose turned him on. Like any real man, he loved curvy women instead of the unhealthy string-bean look. And the way she worked that round ass of hers under the tight skirt—che bella ragazza—what a beautiful girl. Like those old black-and-white movies his nonna liked, where the women’s sultry eyes promised untold delights once their men removed their formfitting, low-cut dresses.

Removing Renata’s clothing—opening her sheer black blouse, button by button. Peeling down—no, pushing up her tight red skirt to discover for himself if she was vintage down to the garter belt and hose.

The image of Renata’s rich red hair spread out on his pillow as he kneeled over her was too much for his lonely, deprived cock, which immediately sprang to life.

Giorgio muttered a curse under his breath. Poor timing, to lose control in the middle of a wedding boutique with his sister only meters away. He peeled off his suit jacket and draped it over his lap, but then his phone buzzed—his assistant, Alessandro. “Pronto,” he answered.

“Signor, the investigator sent me a preliminary report on the person you requested.”

“Ah, yes.” Giorgio darted a guilty look at the dressing room, half expecting Stefania to come roaring out. “Un momento, Alessandro. I am going to step outside to talk.” He leaped to his feet and headed for the front door, his jacket slung over his forearm. “Okay, give me the highlights and then send a copy to my phone.”

“According to the report, the princess’s fiancé, Dieter von Thalberg, was born to Graf Hans and Grafin Maria von Thalberg, Count and Countess of Thalberg, thirty years ago in Bavaria. He is heir to a large brewery on his mother’s side as well as to the ancestral holdings on his father’s.”

“So he has money as long as the Germans drink beer—forever, I would think. Excellent.” He’d heard enough horror stories from acquaintances about freeloaders marrying their sisters, breaking their hearts and then demanding large sums of money in exchange for not writing a sleazy tell-all book.

“Dieter von Thalberg is also the star forward for a big German football club.” Alessandro’s voice grew animated. “I didn’t realize it was the same person—he uses a shortened version of his family name as a player. Three years ago he set the league record for goals scored. But since he turned thirty, he has not had as much playing time and was heavily recruited to come play for a team in New York, probably where he met the princess— Signor, why do the Americans call it soccer? I have always wondered. Anyway, the investigator will continue to look for any items in his past that would cause difficulties—previous marriages, illegitimate offspring, personal encounters with, um, professional ladies, videorecordings of a sexual nature, that sort of thing.”

Giorgio winced. Stefania would kill him for sure if she found out he was investigating Dieter for prostitutes and sex tapes, but so be it. If the man had something to hide, better she knew sooner than later.

Renata opened the door and poked her head out. “Stefania wants you.”

“Okay.” He got off the phone and returned to the boutique.

“Sit.” Renata pointed to the sofa and he complied. She could boss him around anytime. “Here comes the bride!” She swung the curtain aside and a glorious woman emerged. This couldn’t be his baby sister. This young goddess glowed in a golden nimbus of light, her hair a dark cloud around her radiant face.

His jaw dropped. “Stefania?” he asked, as if Renata had exchanged her for another woman.

The vision giggled and broke the spell. “Of course, stupido—who else?”

“Wow, Stefania, you look—you look—” He was stammering now.

“Amazing,” Renata supplied. “Perfect. Wonderful.”

“Yes, yes, all of those.” He rubbed a hand over his face. Mamma mia, when had she grown into such a beautiful woman? And he would be walking her down the Vinciguerra cathedral aisle to give her hand in holy matrimony to a thug footballer. He desperately wished his nonna were here, that his parents were still here on earth, but all he could do was muddle along on his own.

Renata seemed to sense his turmoil and glided toward his sister. “This is a tea-length satin dress with a portrait neckline and ruching down the front.” He understood the satin dress part but that was about it.

“Look at all these cool petticoats, George.” Stefania lifted her skirt and he winced, but all he saw was layers of fluffy fabric.

“Yes, um, very nice.”

“Renata is going to edge a couple petticoats in gold satin ribbon so they catch the light when I turn. And she says her aunt is absolutely fabulous at embroidery and can decorate one with my and Dieter’s initials. Don’t you just love the color? Renata calls it champagne.”

“But—it’s not white.” Giorgio was still thunderstruck by Stefania’s womanly transformation and couldn’t think of anything to say but the obvious.

His sister shrugged. “Princess Diana didn’t wear a white dress, either—hers was ivory.” Renata circled her, pulling at the fabric to check the fit.

“Yes, and Nonna always said look what happened to that marriage.”

She stabbed a slender finger at him. “Stop it, Giorgio! The Princess was very kind to me at Mamma and Papa’s funeral.”

Renata dropped a handful of satin and stared at them. “Wait—Princess Diana came to your parents’ funeral?”

Giorgio and Stefania exchanged glances and faced her. Giorgio spoke first. “Yes, she did, and you’re right, Stefania. She was kind to both of us.”

“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.

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