Читать книгу By Royal Decree - Оливия Гейтс - Страница 10

“OUR LITTLE STEVIE’S getting married?” Giorgio’s old friend Francisco Duarte das Aguas Santas was obviously as dumb-founded 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 out-ranked 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.