Читать книгу By Royal Decree - Оливия Гейтс - Страница 16

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. “My grandmother taught me how to make pesto. Fortunately we have a food processor now and don’t need to grind everything in her old marble mortar and pestle.”

“My mamma’s specialty was desserts. She was an assistant pastry chef when she met my father. He had an amazing sweet tooth and ordered tiramisu at the hotel where she was working. He asked to meet the chef, and—” he spread his hands wide “—the rest is Vinciguerran history.

Renata’s heart tugged at his wistful smile. “What was your favourite dessert she made?”

He looked startled briefly, as if he’d been far away in memory. “Lemon cookies. Lemon bars. Lemon cake.”

“Lemon anything.” She laughed.

“Oh, yes, especially at the end of a long, gloomy winter. Her lemon cookies were a snap of springtime in my mouth.”

Renata wondered if anyone made him lemon cookies anymore. Probably wouldn’t be the same if he had to ask. Something so powerful as that was made freely and spontaneously, out of love. Did his grandmother or sister have the recipe? Maybe it wasn’t too complicated.

“Hopefully our pesto will live up to your grand mother’s high standards.” Giorgio offered her a forkful of pasta and she moaned with delight. The nutty flavor of the pasta balanced the tang of the cheese and pine nuts in the pesto. He watched her in satisfaction. “I thought I was the only one who made you sound like that.”

She winked. “What can I say? I’m a hedonist at heart.”

“You are in the right place.” He gestured at the vista in front of them. “Food, wine, song and passion. Even though you were not born here, you belong here. The land and the sea are calling you.”

Renata stopped midbite. The land and the sea. Yes, she did feel a connection to this slice of Italy perched between the sea and the mountains. But she thought it was more because of Giorgio’s presence. He was the lens through which she had focused so intensely. But she couldn’t stay in the Cinque Terre forever.

“And your country, does it call to you?” She hoped so, because he couldn’t exactly give two weeks’ notice and pack up.

“Yes, but in a different way. I hear the call of my father and my mother, the call of my ancestors who ruled Vinciguerra and fought for her people. I know it’s my solemn duty to protect them and make sure they thrive in a modern world while preserving our national heritage.”

“That’s a big job. No wonder you’re so serious.” Their main course arrived, a whole fish that had been wandering around in the Ligurian Sea that morning.

Giorgio served them each a portion, the fish flaking enticingly under his fork. “Eh, too serious according to my sister. She thinks I need to lighten up. Be sure to drink your wine with the fish. The waiter says if you drink water with fish, it will start swimming around in your stomach.” He grinned at her.

Renata sipped some wine. No reanimated fish for her. “Maybe Stefania should cut you some slack since she’s not the one in charge of a country and several thousand people.” Renata winced after that. Criticizing his sister was probably a dumb idea. He loved her very much. She stuffed some fish into her mouth to shut herself up. Holy cow, were they all geniuses in the kitchen here or just this restaurant? She’d have to get the recipe for her mother.

But he wasn’t offended. “No, you are both correct. I do need to lighten up and yes, I am the one in charge of a country. However, do not let my people hear you say I am in charge of them. They are even more stiff-necked than I am and do not hesitate to point out my errors. I don’t know why I ever introduced technology like the internet and email to Vinciguerra.” He stopped to dip some fish into the garlicky olive oil and hummed in appreciation.

“Before, they had to buy the newspaper, read it and then either call the palazzo or mail me a letter to complain. Now all they have to do is read electronic news on their phones and immediately text me to tell me what exactly I am doing wrong. I should have left them in the twentieth century.” But he was grinning as he said this. “I even had to hire a nineteen-year-old email assistant to decipher the acronyms and lack of vowels. I can tell you I wasn’t LOL-ing.”

Renata did LOL—laugh out loud. His affection for his country and his subjects—if they even considered themselves as such—was evident. “They boss you around terribly, don’t they?”

“It’s like I have thousands of nosy but well-meaning aunts and uncles.” He raised his wineglass and gestured to the terrace. “Which is why we are here and not in Vinciguerra. No privacy there whatsoever.”

“What a pair we are. I have to fly across the Atlantic and you have to sneak out of your country for any time together.”

He brushed the corner of her mouth with his thumb. “I would have swum the Mediterranean Sea to be with you.”

“How sweet.” An unfamiliar wave of mushy sentiment swirled up into her throat as she heard herself practically coo at the man. But she couldn’t help it. Large helpings of delicious food, romantic settings and of course hot sex with a capital H and a capital S.

“How true.” He slid his arm around her shoulder. “When I’m with you, you are my only responsibility. I’ve let my duties deprive me of the normal pleasures of being a man. I’m grateful you reminded me.”

Renata played with the fish with her fork. “I’ve been working like a madwoman for the past several years. I was full-time at the traditional bridal salon and spent evenings and days off designing fun dresses and writing my business plan. I finally opened Peacock Designs two years ago and work even harder than ever.”

“We are two of a kind. Driven, ambitious and determined.”

“I hate being beholden to anyone,” she admitted. “Just so you know, our trip is the first time I’ve ever accepted anything like this.”

He nuzzled her neck. “Renata, Renata, please don’t worry. If you were only interested in my money and status, you would have tripled the charges for Stefania’s dress, accepted my offer to the hotel immediately and then dragged me to the nearest jeweler for a ‘little remembrance’ of our time together. And I would have realized what kind of person you were, and extricated myself with a polite excuse.”

Jealousy swelled in her stomach and she pointed her fork at him. “Been in that situation before?”

Giorgio kissed her cheek. “Yes, a couple times when I was young and stupido. Not in the last several years, of course.” His free hand came to rest on her knee, stroking her thigh. “I have become a much better judge of character, but I have never been so impulsive as this.”

“Me, neither.” She set down her fork. “And since we’re being impulsive, why don’t we order dessert to go?”

“I impulsively agree.” He sat up and signaled the waiter, his hand still on her knee. “Dessert is best eaten in private.”

THE NEXT MORNING, Giorgio slipped from their bed and pulled on a pair of shorts. Renata murmured in her sleep and rolled over, a lock of red hair falling over her round white breast to curl around her coral-pink nipple. He nearly changed his mind and slipped back into bed, but realized they had only fallen asleep a few hours earlier and he hated to wake her.

He contented himself with staring at her for a minute, something he couldn’t do while she was awake. She reminded him of an Andrew Wyeth painting he had seen at a museum in New York during college—a beautiful redhead sleeping, the sheets falling to her waist to bare her breasts.

Something about the painting had intrigued him, and it wasn’t just the sight of a naked woman. The sheer peacefulness of the painting, pale linens, pale skin and a dark window behind, the only color from her hair and the crests of her nipples.

Giorgio realized why he’d been so struck by both the painted woman and Renata, the real woman—it was the sheer trust exhibited to be vulnerable to a man in sleep.

He gazed at her for a minute longer and gave a deep sigh of contentment before walking into the living room. After a quick call, the café across the street was happy to send over a carafe of coffee and platter of pastries. He thought for a second and added an assortment of fruit for him. His doctor had made him promise to eat better. He had wanted Giorgio to stay for more tests and not leave Vinciguerra at all, but once he learned Giorgio was taking a vacation, he stopped protesting.

He tipped the delivery boy and checked on Renata again. She’d rolled onto her back, a round arm slung above her head in sleeping abandon. He couldn’t get enough of her, but she’d had enough of him—at least until she woke again.

Some grapes, melon and a small pastry were enough to tide him over and he realized he hadn’t checked his phone. Although he almost never turned it off, his time with Renata was an exception. The palazzo had Paolo’s number and would notify him if there were a serious problem.

A text from Stefania, inviting him to Germany to have a meet-the-parents dinner with Dieter’s family. Lovely, beer and brats for everyone—oh, and maybe sauerkraut and some of those lead ingots that masqueraded as German dumplings. He’d have to check his schedule with Alessandro for the week after his vacation, since hell would freeze over before he cut short his time with Renata.

Mmm, a text from Frank, asking him how New York was and if the German footballer was a suitable match for Stefania. Too complicated to text back.

Frank answered on the second ring. “Hey, George! How’s New York?”

“I’m actually back in Italy.”

“So quickly? Did they drag you back for the grand opening of an orphanage? Senior citizen center? School for wayward girls?”

“Not exactly,” he said cagily.

“Ah,” Frank said understandingly. “The Royal Vinciguerran Society for Unwanted Puppies and Kitties?”

Giorgio laughed.

“Ah, you think I’m kidding, but put aside your dislike for animal fur on those expensive suits and think of the possibilities. Prince Giorgio surrounded by frolicking baby animals. Prince Giorgio petting a kitten. Prince Giorgio having his royal face licked by a white fluffy puppy. I tell you, George, the women would fall all over you in a heartbeat.”

“Frank, I don’t need women falling all over me.”

Something in his voice alerted Frank. “Because you already have one?”

Giorgio protested but Frank went charging ahead. “George! You never mentioned this to me when you called about Stevie’s engagement. Is it because you didn’t want to distract from her news?”

“No, Frank, it’s because I didn’t know her then.”

Well, that got Frank to put a sock in it. But not for long. “My, my, my! Aren’t you the fast worker. Someone we know?”

“You may meet her—she’s designing Stevie’s wedding dress.”

“So you just met her last Wednesday?”

“Yes,” Giorgio muttered.

“So why aren’t you back in New York with her? You may have a lot of advantages over us non-princes, but sometimes out of sight means out of mind.”

Giorgio rolled his eyes. Francisco Emiliano José Duarte das Aguas Santas was the duke of one of the largest estates in Portugal plus a whole island in the Portuguese Azores and wasn’t exactly hurting for female interest. He also happened to know that Frank hadn’t always been one to talk about “out of sight, out of mind” when it came to women, one in particular, but that was his business. And Giorgio’s business was apparently Frank’s business, as well.

“Go back to New York, George. You deserve to have a private life, too.”

“You know, I couldn’t agree more. That’s why I am on the Italian Riviera—and not all by myself.”

Another silence—that had to be a record. Then Frank started to laugh. “You must have swept her off her feet, George. Good job.”

“I think she likes me, yes.” Giorgio started to wonder how Renata did feel about him, thanks to Frank’s line of questioning.

“Obviously, if you convinced her to go to Europe with you after only a few days.”

Only a few hours, but that wasn’t Frank’s business.

“Any progress on planning Stevie’s wedding?” That would distract Frank for a second.

“Yes, but I asked my mother for some advice and she laughed, George. When I told her one day of a wedding was simple compared to a lifetime of running our estates, she laughed even more.”

Giorgio rolled his eyes as Frank continued, “And that was not a nice laugh, George. She told me not to be stupid, that men didn’t know anything about weddings except how to get stinking drunk at them.”

“We are bachelors, Frank.”

“Since she wasn’t in the mood to be helpful, I ordered a wedding planner notebook from the bookstore and Stevie and I have been emailing back and forth. Her wedding colors will be gold and ivory, and she and Dieter are looking at their calendar to set a date at the Cathedral of Vinciguerra. We’ll work on the guest list later.”

Wow, Frank needed a different hobby. Or more likely, a woman. Another thought struck him. “About my trip here on the Riviera, Frank…Stevie doesn’t know I’m here and doesn’t know I’m here with Renata, okay?”

“Renata Pavoni, the dress designer? Stevie emailed me a photo of her dress so I could see the style.”

“Right. But keep it quiet, Frank. As far as Stevie knows, I’m back in Vinciguerra.”

“Cutting ribbons for dog pounds, right?” Frank laughed again. “Don’t worry, I won’t say anything. I told you last week you were burning the candle at both ends, eh? A nice vacation with a pretty girl is just what you need.”

“Thank you. Speaking of burning the candle at both ends, have you heard from Jack?” Dr. Jacques needed to write himself a prescription for some R & R.

“He sent me a quick email from his satellite laptop that said he was going upriver and would be incommunicado for a few days. The news service says the flood casualties are even worse than originally reported.”

Giorgio shook his head. “He won’t be happy until he’s come down with some previously unknown dread tropical disease that medical science can name after him.” Jacques stupidii.

“Or being chased by pirates,” Frank agreed. “Talk about a man who needs to relax, huh?”

“If he makes it that long. Especially since we have a wedding to pull off.” Not that Jack knew anything about that sort of task, either.

“Right, George. Don’t worry about a thing. Stevie and I have it all well in hand, so you enjoy your vacation, okay?”

“And not a word to her about where I am, right?”

“Right. We’re just emailing and texting, so she can’t tell if I am lying or not.” Frank was a terrible liar.

“Good. I’ll let you know when I am back in Vinciguerra.”

“Take your time—and give that pretty signorina a kiss from ol’ Frank, okay?”

“Not okay, Frank. Find your own. You should settle down and make little dukes for your mother to spoil.”

“Right.” His voice was cool for the first time. “What’s the American phrase? ‘Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.’ Well, I am happy to be the wedding planner and never the groom.”

Giorgio winced. “Frank—”

“Tchau, Giorgio.”

“Ciao, Franco,” he replied, but to an empty line. Ah, he’d touched a nerve there with his offhand comment. As if Giorgio ever talked seriously about settling down. He’d apologize later when Frank had regained his normally sunny mood.

He stared at his phone. Frank was more of a home-body than any of them, preferring to work in the fields or build some new and elaborate project for his estate. Giorgio was the dutiful one, working in the palazzo like some CEO, and Jack had been bitten by the travel bug, probably the least harmful than the rest he’d encountered, and put more stamps in his passport saving the world than the Dalai Lama.

But none of them had had more than short-term relationships that fizzled instead of sizzled. He knew about Frank’s unhappy foray into first love only because of a late-night, wine-soaked confession of misery. Giorgio had poured Frank back into his bed that night right before the start of their second year at the university.

Jack had an aloof vibe that drove the girls crazy to learn what was behind the charming, but remote French facade. He’d preferred to go out with the cool, brainy types he met in his premed classes, and once he started medical school, dating fell by the wayside.

And Giorgio had had several girlfriends but had always put Stefania, his grandmother and his country before them—in that exact order. If he’d been his ruthless medieval ancestor, the original Giorgio Martelli di Leone, the Hammer of the Lion, who had carved out a principality from the rugged Italian hills, he would have put country first and women relatives a distant last. He would have sold Stefania off to a husband who offered the most advantage for him, chucked his grandmother in a nunnery if she gave him any grief and would have married the woman with the best dowry, regardless of looks or appeal. That original Giorgio had done pretty much the same thing, additionally fathering roughly a dozen children with nearly as many women. He’d often met other green-eyed Vinciguerran men who looked enough like him to be a cousin, if not a brother.

An odd thing, the fortuitous circumstances of his birth. He’d never thought much about it, traveling through his life like a swimmer in a river, constantly moving and dealing with rocks as they popped up. But if his great-something grandfather had been the son of the dairymaid instead of the son of the lady of the manor, Giorgio would be another tall, green-eyed Vinciguerran man reading the morning paper at his breakfast table and wondering aloud at great volume what that idiot prince of theirs was up to again.

He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. In that cozy Vinciguerran flat, his beautiful Italian wife, a redhead from the Cinque Terre, would shrug at the mysteries of foreigners as she poured him a caffe latte and kissed the nape of his neck.

He brought himself up short. That humble, sweet life that happened every day in his country was not his life. His flat was a gigantic palazzo and his life was not conducive to a normal marriage.

But while he and Renata were here in this lovely town along a lovely sea, he would make little memories like that imaginary breakfast and newspaper. And maybe when he was back at his immense desk arguing over traffic crossings and fishing rights, he would think back to how her hair curled over her breast as she slept on a sunny spring morning.

He set his cup down forcefully, awkwardly so the handle cracked off. Memories. Scraps of life. He was a man who had almost everything, could get almost anything with the snap of his fingers or the ring of his phone—and he was jealously hoarding mental snapshots to remember like an old widow staring at family photos.

Giorgio jumped to his feet, strangely disconcerted. Who was he to live like this? Had he not been living like this since his parents had died? Remembering how they had been happy and whole, Papa, Mamma, brother and sister. Making Stevie’s life happy and whole again seemed to have left a hole in his.

He stalked toward the bedroom. Well, if he was to be a man of memories, he was damn well going to make more.

Slipping off his robe, he slid into bed with Renata. She turned toward him in her sleep, wrapping her soft white arms around him. He swallowed hard and kissed the top of her head. Another memory for Prince Giorgio, rich in worldly goods but a pauper in the things that really mattered.