Royally Romanced (6 page)

On and on the sweet torture went until she was too limp to do anything but finally put a hand on his head. He lifted his face and gave a satisfied smirk. “What, no more?”

“I am all done, and you know it.” Renata was glad the limo driver didn’t hit any potholes because she would have slid bonelessly off the seat. On the other hand, she was so floppy she wouldn’t be injured. She struggled to her elbows. “My God, Giorgio, where did you learn to do that?”

He moved to sit back on the seat, sighing in relief as he stretched out his back and shoulders. He pulled her to his lap and she noticed he was just as aroused as before. “A trip through the fleshpots of Europe, of course,” he enunciated with a perfect upper-crust British accent.

She cracked up. He sounded like the leading man of a Masterpiece Theatre miniseries but was probably telling her the truth. “Sounds like a fun trip to me.”

“This trip is much better,” he assured her, caressing her bare breasts. They both sighed in pleasure as he cupped the heavy weight, lazily brushing her nipple with his thumb. “Renata, you have the most perfect body.
Le tette bellissimas.
”

She gasped in mock horror. “Why, Prince Giorgio! Such slang from your royal lips.” He had told her she had beautiful tits.

“You understand that slang? Then how about this?
Ti voglio fare l’amore questa notte.
”

“You want to make love to me tonight.”

“There is always the Plaza,” he offered.

Renata glanced at the small digital clock in the back of the partition and almost cried with disappointment. “Is it so late already?”

Giorgio stroked her knee. “Is that a problem?”

She nodded. “I have an appointment at seven tomorrow morning.”

He groaned. “Why so early?”

“The bride has a last-minute business trip and it’s the week before her wedding. These high-powered brides can be a lot of work.”

“Lucky for Stefania that you are so conscientious.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “Tell me when you are free and I will be waiting on your doorstep.”

“How about now?” She certainly hadn’t minded the backseat atmosphere.

He looked tempted for a second but shook his head. “I am selfish. What I have in mind will take more time than Paolo has gas in the tank. And if I let you touch me, we will be parked at the side of the road making the limo rock while Paolo walks to a gas station.”

She didn’t doubt for one second that Giorgio could go for hours, judging from what was poking her through his pants. But, oh, what was she missing tonight? Stupid high-powered bride.

It took all of her willpower to decline his offer but she needed to be alert for her appointment since that bride was a live wire at best and out-of-control crazy at worst. “I’m sorry I can’t go to the hotel with you, but I have to get at least a few hours’ sleep. My client is difficult and I need my wits about me.”

He flopped back onto the car seat. “Duty first. Unfortunately I understand.”

“Thank you.” She cupped his jaw and kissed him slowly and passionately until they were both breathing hard again.

He suddenly jerked away from her. “Stop that. Or else I will not wait until tomorrow.”

Renata grinned. “It is tomorrow. Almost one-thirty.”

“Ah, better. Then I will see you later today. That sounds much better.” He programmed his number into her phone and took her number. “That is my private line. Only my family and my personal assistant have that number.”

“Wow.” She checked her phone’s display and he had programmed his name in as
G.

He smiled at her. “We try to guard our privacy but it doesn’t always work out.”

“I won’t let this fall into the wrong hands,” she promised.

“I know you won’t.” He kissed the tip of her nose, surprising Renata with the pure affection behind the gesture.

Her surroundings finally caught her eye. “Oh, we’re a block from my place. Turn left at the next light.” She directed Giorgio and he relayed the directions to his driver.

“I’m going to ask you to park here around the corner. Many of my neighbors are elderly insomniacs and me pulling up in a limo this time of night will only further convince them I’m a woman of dubious morals.”

“I will testify on your behalf that your morals are not nearly as dubious as I would prefer.”

She choked with laughter and slapped him in the chest. “Somehow I don’t think they would believe you.” He looked dangerously sexy with his shirt yanked out of his waistband, his hair mussed and a glittering look of barely suppressed lust in his green eyes.

“Pity.” The limo stopped and he handed her out of the door. “I will walk you to your door.”

Her neighborhood was fairly safe but she wanted to drag out every moment with him that she could. He constantly glanced around them and inspected her dark exterior basement entrance for any stray wino or mugger. The only man she wanted to take advantage of her was standing beside her. “All clear.”

She unlocked her door and was struck by a weird wave of awkwardness. “Well…thank you for everything.” That should cover it. Wedding dresses, art museums, chili dogs, heavy petting in the limo backseat—what a wild day.

He drew her into his arms. “Don’t thank me, Renata. I owe you much more than a dinner. Your dress has made Stefania extremely happy and meeting you has made me extremely happy, as well.” He lowered his head and kissed her lips softly. “Until later, Renata. I’ll call you later in the morning after your appointment.”

She hated to leave him but a big yawn escaped her mouth.

Giorgio smiled and shooed her into her place. “Go, get some sleep. I can take a hint.”

“Fine.” She floated into the tiny entryway and locked the door behind her. Once he was sure she was tucked away, he gave a wave and took the steps two at a time up to street level.

Renata glided to her bathroom and gazed at her reflection. Her hair was tousled, her blouse was buttoned crookedly and her face was flushed. So was her mouth, her lipstick smeared.

She grinned. Giorgio was a man who kept his promises. Given enough time and effort, he had smeared her smear-proof lipstick.

G
IORGIO WET HIS HANDKERCHIEF
and cleaned his mouth of traces of Renata’s lipstick, a wide smile reflected in the small mirror in the backseat. The day certainly hadn’t turned out the way he’d expected, but he took pride in the fact that he had been smart enough to take the opportunity of getting to know Renata.

Especially since Stefania had accused him of being a, what was the American expression? Ah, yes, a stuffed shirt. The girl certainly had a way with words, much to his chagrin. Perhaps his day-to-day duties had encouraged a certain amount of rigidity—and not the good kind.

He laughed out loud. Oh, the tabloids would laugh if they saw what his true life was like. The Crown Prince sneaking around and making out in the backseat of a car like some teenager, stopping his pursuit of passion because of his archaic ideas of proper behavior. He already went further than he intended with the lovely Renata, but her words and body had urged him on past his good sense.

Stuffed shirt, hah! He rubbed his chest—no stuffing needed thanks to dutiful workouts, but maybe a bit sore. He took a deep breath and his muscles loosened a bit.

The Brooklyn Bridge loomed overhead and they sped over it for the second time in a day. It was impressive, young or not. These Americans had an eye for design, he admitted to himself. Whether it was the bridge or Stefania’s dress, New Yorkers knew how to make things work.

He patted his chest again—heartburn from that damned chili dog? He pressed a button to roll down the partition. “Have any antacids, Paolo?”

“You are ill,
signore?
”

“No, I don’t think so.” He chewed the chalky discs Paolo found for him and chased it down with a bottle of water. He closed his eyes, feeling Paolo’s worried gaze on him. Not to worry, the worst thing he had going was a bit of indigestion and a massive case of blue balls. And yes, he’d known that American phrase all on his own.

They weaved through Manhattan traffic toward the hotel and Giorgio felt every bump. This was not good. The antacids hadn’t helped a bit and he was starting to sweat.

Agonizing pain ripped through his chest up into his shoulder and down his arm. Dear God, was he having a heart attack? His sister’s face flashed to mind, strangely followed by Renata’s. Stevie he understood, but Renata? Stevie needed him—her only brother. And Renata—he needed her and he’d only met her.

It felt like a fist was squeezing his heart. He couldn’t help groaning.

“Signor! Signor! Are you all right?”

Giorgio looked up at Paolo’s panicked face and spoke with a calmness he didn’t feel. “I don’t think so, Paolo. Get me to the hospital.”

“M
R
. M
ARTELLI
? I’
M
D
R
. W
EISS
.” Young and skinny with glasses, the E.R. physician was in need of a shave but looked awake enough.

Giorgio extended his hand, IV tubing dangling from his arm. “I am George and this is my friend Paul.”

Dr. Weiss laughed. “And where are John and Ringo?”

Ah, a jokester. Giorgio suppressed a sigh. He guessed working in a New York City emergency department was grim enough that even the doctors tried to lighten things up.

“
Chè dice?
What is he saying?” Paolo asked in Italian.

“
Niente
—nothing. A Beatles joke,” Giorgio replied in the same language.

“A joke? He dares joke with the Crown Prince of Vinciguerra when he is ill?” Paolo had no sense of humor under normal circumstances, and a doctor who thought he was a comedian was not helping.

Giorgio gestured for him to calm down. “This place is sad enough, Paolo. It is harmless.”

Paolo subsided, but stared hard at the doc, who cleared his throat and got down to business.

“Okay, Mr. Martelli, I got your lab and EKG results back. The good news is, you’re not having a heart attack. We think you had a major attack of indigestion, probably from those chili dogs you mentioned.”

Giorgio blew out a sigh of relief. He had avoided the one thing he feared for himself. He quickly translated for Paolo, who crossed himself in thanks.

Dr. Weiss continued, “But the bad news is, I don’t know why you haven’t had one already. You look like a sixty-year-old man on paper. A sick sixty-year-old man.”

His stomach churned. He was only thirty years old—what the hell was going on?

“You have a family history of heart disease?”

Oh, no, not that. He blinked rapidly. “Yes, my father.”

“Okay.” The doctor nodded. “It can run in the family. Your good cholesterol is down, your bad cholesterol is sky-high, your entire body is in a state of silent inflammation and your blood pressure when you got here about blew the top of your head off. It’s minimally improved since we got your pain under control.”

He muttered to Paolo what the doctor said. Paolo drew in a shocked breath. “So what do you recommend?”

“I don’t know what you do for a living but you need to take some time off to get your health under control. Get to your primary care doctor and get a note if your boss gives you any grief. You have a primary care doctor?”

Giorgio nodded. “Yes, yes, I will see him as soon as I get home.” He had been neglectful—it had been over three years since his last checkup.

“I mean it. I see young, strong guys like you all the time roll in here grabbing their chests. Sometimes they only roll out in a box,
capeesh?
” His Italian accent was straight out of
The Godfather,
but Giorgio understood all too well.

“I understand.”

“Good.” Dr. Weiss extended a hand and Giorgio shook it. “Watch your diet—more fruits, vegetables, lean meats and a splash of olive oil. Cut back on the pasta, bread and sweets. A glass or two a day of red wine is actually good for you, but no more than that. You don’t want to rev up your liver on top of everything. Any questions?”

He had a million questions—like how fate could be so cruel as to start him along the same path as his father, but Dr. Weiss had no answer for that—no one did. “No, and thank you.”

The doc left and Giorgio dropped his head back onto the hard gurney, covering his eyes with his forearm. He didn’t want to be in the hospital, didn’t want to have this sword hanging over his head. What if he hadn’t eaten those damned chili dogs with Renata and instead had gone along his blissfully ignorant way until he dropped dead on the street, his office or God forbid, driving along the mountainous roads of Vinciguerra?

What would happen to Stefania if he died? She would have to run Vinciguerra alone once their grandmother passed away.

He swallowed hard and felt a beefy hand on his shoulder. “
Signore.
You will be all right—I promise.”

“
Grazie,
Paolo.” He removed his hand and sat up. A prince of Vinciguerra did not swoon and cry like a Victorian maiden. “We leave out the back door. I don’t want anyone to know about this, especially the princess.”

Paolo nodded. “I will bring the car to a side door.”

Giorgio changed into his own clothing and met Paolo at the agreed-upon door. He slid into the backseat 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.

R
ENATA 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.

“S
O 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?”