By Royal Decree: Royally Romanced. Margaret Way
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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,