By Royal Decree. Оливия Гейтс
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going to ask you to park here around the corner. Many of my neighbors are elderly insomniacs and me pulling up in a limo this time of night will only further convince them I’m a woman of dubious morals.”
“I will testify on your behalf that your morals are not nearly as dubious as I would prefer.”
She choked with laughter and slapped him in the chest. “Somehow I don’t think they would believe you.” He looked dangerously sexy with his shirt yanked out of his waistband, his hair mussed and a glittering look of barely suppressed lust in his green eyes.
“Pity.” The limo stopped and he handed her out of the door. “I will walk you to your door.”
Her neighborhood was fairly safe but she wanted to drag out every moment with him that she could. He constantly glanced around them and inspected her dark exterior basement entrance for any stray wino or mugger. The only man she wanted to take advantage of her was standing beside her. “All clear.”
She unlocked her door and was struck by a weird wave of awkwardness. “Well…thank you for everything.” That should cover it. Wedding dresses, art museums, chili dogs, heavy petting in the limo backseat—what a wild day.
He drew her into his arms. “Don’t thank me, Renata. I owe you much more than a dinner. Your dress has made Stefania extremely happy and meeting you has made me extremely happy, as well.” He lowered his head and kissed her lips softly. “Until later, Renata. I’ll call you later in the morning after your appointment.”
She hated to leave him but a big yawn escaped her mouth.
Giorgio smiled and shooed her into her place. “Go, get some sleep. I can take a hint.”
“Fine.” She floated into the tiny entryway and locked the door behind her. Once he was sure she was tucked away, he gave a wave and took the steps two at a time up to street level.
Renata glided to her bathroom and gazed at her reflection. Her hair was tousled, her blouse was buttoned crookedly and her face was flushed. So was her mouth, her lipstick smeared.
She grinned. Giorgio was a man who kept his promises. Given enough time and effort, he had smeared her smear-proof lipstick.
5
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