By Royal Decree: Royally Romanced. Margaret Way
of the limo and closed his eyes. “Back to the hotel, Paolo.”
He would make himself healthy again so that he could walk Stevie down the aisle, hand her off to that German footballer and watch his nieces and nephews come along. She had always wanted a large family after being so lonely as a child.
He had been lonely, too—a nineteen-year-old university student in New York raising an eleven-year-old girl. He had wanted to set a good example for her and spent much of his time with her instead of freely dating like other men his age. And despite what his sister had told Renata, running Vinciguerra did take a good deal of time. Was he still lonely?
Yes, but not when he was with Renata. He’d met her less than twelve hours ago and aside from his terror-filled medical emergency, she had occupied his thoughts ever since. Her sarcastic New York wit, her talent for handling his sister. And more personal memories, like how her mouth opened under his, how her breasts filled his hands, how her thighs softened for him as he discovered her tender flesh.
He shifted uneasily at his arousal, cautious after the doctor’s warning. But the doctor hadn’t told him to avoid sex—just bread, pasta and sweets. He’d rather have sex than spaghetti, anyway. And the doctor told him to take a vacation. Giorgio remembered how Renata had talked about her ancestral homeland—Cinque Terre—the Five Lands, a beautiful curve of beach on the Italian Riviera. Relatively quiet this time of year and perfect for a holiday. A holiday for two? She had wanted him as much as he wanted her.
Before he could second-guess the wisdom of inviting a woman he barely knew to visit Europe with him, he found her number on his phone and pressed Send. For once, he would put his own needs before his country’s. He would put aside his princely duties this once, and instead just be a man pleasing a woman.
RENATA FUMBLED FOR HER ringing phone and managed to answer it. She’d just fallen asleep after mentally reliving her tumultuous day.
“Renata? It’s Giorgio.”
“Giorgio?” She yawned. “Are you okay?”
“No.”
She sat up in bed, alarmed at the roughness of his voice. “What’s wrong? Do you need help?”
“I need you.”
“Oh.” She looked at the clock. A 4:00 a.m. booty call was not something she’d ever answered. “It’s very late and I have to go to work soon.” How disappointing he would pull a stunt like this.
“No, not now, I realize that.” He exhaled harshly. “I am making an ass of myself. Let me try again. Renata, I can’t stop thinking about you. Ever since I dropped you off, all I see is the smile on your face, your hair falling around your shoulders, the scent of you, the taste of your skin…”
She gulped. If this was a booty call, it was a very poetic and arousing one. Maybe she should reconsider her policy…
But he was continuing. “I do need you. I want to know you better, know what you think about things, what you like to read, see at the movies, do for fun. And I want to show you your family’s ancestral village on the coast. Come with me to Italy.”
Renata patted herself on the cheek to make sure she was really awake having this conversation and not just a really weird dream. If it was a dream about Giorgio, wouldn’t she come up with something a little more erotic like actually having sex with the man instead of receiving odd phone calls inviting her to Europe?
“Renata? Will you come?”
Oh, yes, she was awake after all and therefore had to decide what to do. “But, my business—”
“Your assistant you mentioned or your artist friend Flick can manage, can’t they? I will pay for a temp if you need one. You have a passport?”
“Yes, I suppose they could manage for a few days.”
“A week?”
Her eyebrows shot up. “A week? And I have a passport.” She’d gone to Montreal for a short vacation last year. Enough of this beating around the bush. “But, Giorgio, why me? We just met this—well, yesterday morning. Why should I upend my life and take off to Italy with you like some royalty groupie?”
“You know why.” His 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 sucked on your nipples last night? Remember how I touched your silky thighs and hot, sweet center?”
She let out a moan in remembrance.
“That was just a taste of how it could be.” Triumph tinged his voice. “I may be a prince in public, but I would be your slave in the bedroom.”
A whimper escaped her lips. With talk like that, he could take her to bed anywhere and she’d be more than happy. “Yes.”
“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.