By Royal Decree: Royally Romanced. Margaret Way
are as lovely as always.”
“Thank you.” She returned the inspection. “You look great, too.” He wore a short-sleeved black silk button-down shirt over loose linen trousers and leather sandals, a summer uniform for many European men, but he made it look like the cover of Italian GQ.
“I’m glad you approve.” He said it seriously, as if there were some miniscule chance in this universe that she wouldn’t. Short of donning a seventies’ leisure suit and fifteen gold chains, Giorgio could never look bad. And even then, the clothing’s ugliness would just highlight his good looks.
“Who picks out your clothes?” she asked.
“My clothes?” He looked confused and then glanced at his pants and shirt.
“Yeah, do you go shopping, or do they bring items for you to try?”
“I have a personal shopped in Rome,” he admitted, as if it were a deep, shameful secret. “Unfortunately I don’t have much time for shopping but have many outings and functions to attend, so Antonio has my measurements and brings me new outfits every month or so.”
Renata whistled under her breath. That would be a cool gig for a menswear salesman. “He does a nice job,” she reassured him. “You look very distinguished.” She had another thought. “So when we go out for dinner, do we need to do a perp walk?”
“A what?”
She pulled her pashmina over her head to hide her face. “When the FBI arrests gangsters, they always pull their suit jackets over their head and scuttle by the reporters on the way back to the jail. Of course it’s not like there aren’t a million pictures of them floating around there anyway.” She popped her head free and patted her hair.
He was staring at her in amazement.
“Seriously, you lived in New York for all of your college years and you never heard of the perp walk?”
He nodded. “Must have missed it.”
“Another trick is to drape your jacket over your wrists so it hides the handcuffs. But who carries their suit coat that way? Who do they think they’re fooling?”
“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.