Читать книгу By Royal Decree - Оливия Гейтс - Страница 13

GIORGIO 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.”

“MR. MARTELLI? I’M DR. WEISS.” 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.

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. “What is his full name, Miss How-Do-You-Say-Torrid-Vacation-Fling-In-Italian?”

Renata pursed her lips. “Giorgio di Leone. And no, I don’t know his middle name.”

“Middle names, plural. He has about five. But you only have to know the first. ‘Oh, yes, Giorgio. Oh, just like that, Giorgio.’ Et cetera.” She ducked out of the way as Renata flung a fat illustration marker at her head, having uttered those very words last night in his limo. “Don’t waste your energy on me—save it for Prince Loverboy.”

Deciding she didn’t want to pay for a replacement desk lamp if it broke when she hurled it at Flick, Renata restrained herself. “Speaking of names, Felicity, you really are annoying sometimes. I thought your name meant happiness and joy.”

Flick, who had the hide of an elephant, blew her a kiss. “I’m the annoyance who’s going to watch your shop while you go happily and joyfully off to Italy. And if you promise me a nice souvenir, I’ll even lie to your aunt so she doesn’t find out how sex-crazed you really are.”

Renata repressed a shudder. If her aunt found out, that meant her whole family found out. “Just what would you tell her?”

“What does your aunt want to sew more than anything?”

“Big poufy dresses,” she replied promptly.

“Exactly. So you are going to Europe on a buying trip for lace, ribbons, beads—”

“Sequins and pearls.” Renata got the picture. “But I don’t want to shop for all that stuff.”

“Dumbass, what do princes have secretaries for? Tell the man you need to take some Italian fabric and notions samples home and he will get his staff to pull together a nice portfolio while you romance the hours away.”

“Hmm.” She tapped her teeth with an unflung marker. “And what do I do when Aunt Barbara asks me about actually making a dress with that? I won’t use most of it.”

“Have that geeky cousin of yours set up a website for her. She can advertise traditional Italian-American wedding gowns and call it Gowns of Amore or something.”

“Not bad, Flick. You put the ‘genius’ in ‘evil genius.’”

“I aim to please. Now if I’m going to be babysitting your biz for the next ten days, you need to get me up to speed.”

Renata emailed Flick’s phone a copy of her schedule. “Open the file and I’ll go over it with you.”

“Fine, but don’t forget that souvenir you promised me. No airport gift shop crap—you’ll have to drag yourself out of the boudoir and actually buy me something nice.”

“Sorry, I don’t think an Italian gigolo would fit in my suitcase.”

“I think your prince Giorgio would be able to make arrangements. Young, hot and stupid are my top requirements.”

Renata had to laugh. “I love you, Flick.”

Her friend made a noise like a cat with a hair ball. “My God, the prospect of illicit nooky is making you absolutely maudlin. Put a sock in it and tell me about your crowd of Bridezillas. And don’t think I won’t text you if they give me any crap—loverboy or not.”

“I still love you, anyway.”

“Arrgh! Get laid already, will you?”