Royally Romanced. Marie Donovan
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“Why should I take off to Italy with you like some royalty groupie?”
“You know why, Renata.” Giorgio’s 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 touched you last night?” She let out a moan in remembrance.
Undone by her own feminine nature. That one time had whetted her appetite for more. No question.
“That was just a taste of how it could be, Renata. Come with me.” He paused, his deep breathing turning her on even more. “I command you.”
Dear Reader,
Ever since I was a girl watching Princess Diana marry Prince Charles on live TV, I have been an avid royal wedding fan. My mother splurged on the miniature commemorative book and I spent hours poring over the photos with my sister. At one point, I had memorized the line of succession to the British throne!
Although the royal princes were a bit young for me, I still enjoyed reading about royal weddings—the beautiful brides, the (hopefully) handsome grooms, and most of all, the dresses. Satin, silk, velvet, taffeta. Diamond tiaras and pearls. When I thought of a trilogy surrounding three royal heroes and one royal wedding, I knew one heroine had to be a wedding dress designer.
Brash New Yorker Renata Pavoni designs hip, vintage-style gowns but definitely has a modern attitude—perfect to shake up the stuffy but sexy Prince Giorgio of Vinciguerra, accompanying his beloved sister Princess Stefania as she searches for the ideal wedding dress. Stefania selects the dress of her dreams, and Giorgio realizes he may have found the woman of his dreams.
A fun story about buying my own wedding dress—my mother and I met on her lunch hour, and it was the fourth dress I tried on. Once I put it on, I knew that was The Dress. Forty minutes of shopping might be a world record. Many years later, my good friend looked at my wedding portrait and told me, “That looks like Princess Diana’s dress!”
Happy reading!
Marie Donovan
About the Author
MARIE DONOVAN is a Chicago-area native who got her fill of tragedies and unhappy endings by majoring in opera/vocal performance and Spanish literature. As an antidote to all that gloom, she read romance novels voraciously throughout college and graduate school.
Donovan worked for a large suburban public library for ten years as both a cataloguer and a bilingual Spanish story time presenter. She graduated magna cum laude with two bachelor’s degrees from a Midwestern liberal arts university and speaks six languages. She enjoys reading, gardening and yoga.
Please visit the author’s website at www.mariedonovan.com.
Royally
Romanced
Marie Donovan
To Dad,
A prince in a book for a prince of a man in my book.
Happy reading!
1
“YOU’RE WHAT?” GIORGIO’S gold pen dropped from his fingers and rolled forgotten off his polished wooden desk as he gripped his phone.
His sister, his baby sister, Stefania, giggled from four thousand miles away in New York City. “I’m engaged to be married.” She repeated it in Italian to make sure he understood. “Fidanzata.”
“But, but …” he stammered, normally not at a loss for words. “To whom? And when?”
“Well …” She drew out the news teasingly and then her excitement bubbled over in a rush. “His name is Dieter von Thalberg and we met a few months ago when he traveled here for business.”
“Only a few months?” Giorgio interrupted. “And you want to marry him already?” Stefania was impulsive sometimes, but not foolish.
“Of course.” She giggled again. “Oh, Giorgio, I can’t wait for you to meet him.” She lowered her voice. “He’s German nobility from a little place in Bavaria. You have to trust me, I’ve never felt this way about any other man. When he kisses me and we … well, anyway …” He practically heard her blush as she continued the catalog of wonders that was Dieter.
Giorgio fought the urge to start an international incident over Dieter, his future brother-in-law, for showing her the wide world of womanly delights. Giorgio couldn’t think of it in more specific terms without his fine lunch of sausages and polenta sitting uneasily in his stomach.
He sighed and wished he had finished the rest of the bottle of wine rather than restraining himself to the two glasses he normally imbibed.
Rotten Dieter.
He hoped the man’s ancestral holdings were overrun with mold and rats. But then Stefania would be unhappy, and that was the last thing in the world Giorgio wanted.
Actually, he hoped Dieter had some money of his own for the ancestral holdings and wouldn’t constantly hit Giorgio up for loans. Giorgio had enough trouble with his own palazzo, molto grazie.
“But, Giorgio, you must realize none of this will be official until you give us your blessing. Dieter insisted it be so.”
Hmm. He quirked his mouth. It was true. As ruling head of the Most Serene Principality of Vinciguerra, Giorgio had the right to approve or deny betrothals of members of the royal family, i.e. his sister, Principessa Stefania Maria Cristina Angela Martelli di Leone. It said so on his business card. Well, not really.
The only other members of the royal family were his grandmother, who at eighty was not expected to seek permission to wed again, and himself: Giorgio Alphonso Giuseppe Franco Martelli di Leone, Prince of Vinciguerra. Long ago, Giorgio had decided that if he never wed and had the requisite heir-and-a-spare, he would pass the title to Stefania and her children. After all, he was an enlightened, twenty-first-century monarch. One with the power to send Dieter the Dunce packing. He snickered.
“Giorgio?” his sister asked nervously. “Are you still there?”
“Si, si.” He lapsed into silence, pondering what to do and how many heavy items Stefania would hurl at his head if he refused her undoubtedly golden-haired, Teutonic Prince Charming.
“Come to New York,” Stefania commanded.
“What? Now?”
“Yes, now. I called Grandma today and she told me to get you out of her hair. She says you’re driving her nuts.” Having spent most of her childhood in New York, Stefania had a definite command of American idioms.
“What?” Giorgio sat bolt upright in his ergonomic Corinthian leather chair. “I am doing no such thing!”
“She begs to differ. She says you poke your nose in on her day and night so she can’t get any rest.”
Now he was insulted. Their grandmother had had a nasty bout of flu that had settled into pneumonia. After a couple touch-and-go weeks of around-the-clock care, she had pulled through but still needed nursing visits, respiratory therapists, physical therapists and doctor visits. And it was his job to make sure they were doing their jobs. He was more at ease if he could be present for all their consultations.
He reconsidered. Maybe that was a bit too much. After all, his grandmother had run