By Royal Decree. Оливия Гейтс
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the side of her lovely straight nose turned him on. Like any real man, he loved curvy women instead of the unhealthy string-bean look. And the way she worked that round ass of hers under the tight skirt—che bella ragazza—what a beautiful girl. Like those old black-and-white movies his nonna liked, where the women’s sultry eyes promised untold delights once their men removed their formfitting, low-cut dresses.
Removing Renata’s clothing—opening her sheer black blouse, button by button. Peeling down—no, pushing up her tight red skirt to discover for himself if she was vintage down to the garter belt and hose.
The image of Renata’s rich red hair spread out on his pillow as he kneeled over her was too much for his lonely, deprived cock, which immediately sprang to life.
Giorgio muttered a curse under his breath. Poor timing, to lose control in the middle of a wedding boutique with his sister only meters away. He peeled off his suit jacket and draped it over his lap, but then his phone buzzed—his assistant, Alessandro. “Pronto,” he answered.
“Signor, the investigator sent me a preliminary report on the person you requested.”
“Ah, yes.” Giorgio darted a guilty look at the dressing room, half expecting Stefania to come roaring out. “Un momento, Alessandro. I am going to step outside to talk.” He leaped to his feet and headed for the front door, his jacket slung over his forearm. “Okay, give me the highlights and then send a copy to my phone.”
“According to the report, the princess’s fiancé, Dieter von Thalberg, was born to Graf Hans and Grafin Maria von Thalberg, Count and Countess of Thalberg, thirty years ago in Bavaria. He is heir to a large brewery on his mother’s side as well as to the ancestral holdings on his father’s.”
“So he has money as long as the Germans drink beer—forever, I would think. Excellent.” He’d heard enough horror stories from acquaintances about freeloaders marrying their sisters, breaking their hearts and then demanding large sums of money in exchange for not writing a sleazy tell-all book.
“Dieter von Thalberg is also the star forward for a big German football club.” Alessandro’s voice grew animated. “I didn’t realize it was the same person—he uses a shortened version of his family name as a player. Three years ago he set the league record for goals scored. But since he turned thirty, he has not had as much playing time and was heavily recruited to come play for a team in New York, probably where he met the princess— Signor, why do the Americans call it soccer? I have always wondered. Anyway, the investigator will continue to look for any items in his past that would cause difficulties—previous marriages, illegitimate offspring, personal encounters with, um, professional ladies, videorecordings of a sexual nature, that sort of thing.”
Giorgio winced. Stefania would kill him for sure if she found out he was investigating Dieter for prostitutes and sex tapes, but so be it. If the man had something to hide, better she knew sooner than later.
Renata opened the door and poked her head out. “Stefania wants you.”
“Okay.” He got off the phone and returned to the boutique.
“Sit.” Renata pointed to the sofa and he complied. She could boss him around anytime. “Here comes the bride!” She swung the curtain aside and a glorious woman emerged. This couldn’t be his baby sister. This young goddess glowed in a golden nimbus of light, her hair a dark cloud around her radiant face.
His jaw dropped. “Stefania?” he asked, as if Renata had exchanged her for another woman.
The vision giggled and broke the spell. “Of course, stupido—who else?”
“Wow, Stefania, you look—you look—” He was stammering now.
“Amazing,” Renata supplied. “Perfect. Wonderful.”
“Yes, yes, all of those.” He rubbed a hand over his face. Mamma mia, when had she grown into such a beautiful woman? And he would be walking her down the Vinciguerra cathedral aisle to give her hand in holy matrimony to a thug footballer. He desperately wished his nonna were here, that his parents were still here on earth, but all he could do was muddle along on his own.
Renata seemed to sense his turmoil and glided toward his sister. “This is a tea-length satin dress with a portrait neckline and ruching down the front.” He understood the satin dress part but that was about it.
“Look at all these cool petticoats, George.” Stefania lifted her skirt and he winced, but all he saw was layers of fluffy fabric.
“Yes, um, very nice.”
“Renata is going to edge a couple petticoats in gold satin ribbon so they catch the light when I turn. And she says her aunt is absolutely fabulous at embroidery and can decorate one with my and Dieter’s initials. Don’t you just love the color? Renata calls it champagne.”
“But—it’s not white.” Giorgio was still thunderstruck by Stefania’s womanly transformation and couldn’t think of anything to say but the obvious.
His sister shrugged. “Princess Diana didn’t wear a white dress, either—hers was ivory.” Renata circled her, pulling at the fabric to check the fit.
“Yes, and Nonna always said look what happened to that marriage.”
She stabbed a slender finger at him. “Stop it, Giorgio! The Princess was very kind to me at Mamma and Papa’s funeral.”
Renata dropped a handful of satin and stared at them. “Wait—Princess Diana came to your parents’ funeral?”
Giorgio and Stefania exchanged glances and faced her. Giorgio spoke first. “Yes, she did, and you’re right, Stefania. She was kind to both of us.”
“I didn’t tell Renata about our family, George.” Stefania blinked rapidly. “I just wanted to be a regular bride looking at dresses without any fanfare or fuss.”
“Tell me what?” Renata folded her arms across her magnificent chest.
“We should introduce ourselves again, Stefania, don’t you think?” Giorgio bowed again, hoping that the truth wouldn’t send the woman screaming out the door or straight to the tabloids. “May I present my sister Stefania Maria Cristina Angela Martelli di Leone, principessa di Vinciguerra and I am Giorgio Alphonso Paolo Martelli di Leone, il principe di Vinciguerra.”
“Come on, every bride is a princess on her wedding day, but you—you’re a real princess?”
His sister nodded. “But it’s a small country, really. Giorgio hardly needs to do anything to keep it running.”
He glared at his sister—now Renata would think he was a brainless dilettante. She wore a peculiar expression as it was. “So you’re a prince? Correct me if I’m wrong, but Italy is a republic now.”
“Our grandmother, Giorgio and I make up the royal family of Vinciguerra, which is one of only two principalities on the Italian peninsula that wasn’t taken over when Italy unified in the 1800s,” Stefania explained glibly, having given the history lecture many times before. “The rest of the small duchies and kingdoms were absorbed into the greater Italian republic—but not ours. Our father was the Crown Prince, and now Giorgio’s got the gig.”
His slacker-prince/do-nothing gig. “Yes, I do my best. I do apologize, Signorina Renata, if we have not been up front with you from the beginning, but it is difficult to know if someone will call the infernal paparazzi. They can be very unpleasant.”
“Like when Mamma and Papa died.”
Giorgio’s face hardened into grim lines, remembering the brokenhearted little girl who had sobbed into his chest for years after the awful loss. “So far those jackals do not know about Stefania’s engagement, but they will find out eventually.”
“Not from me, they won’t!” Renata’s eyes snapped, her New York accent thickening.
“Of course not,” Stefania defended her. “But once they know that I am getting my wedding dress