don’t sell flannel nighties here, Flick.”
“Not that. You’d sweat to death. How about a nice demure pure white nightgown, as in the ‘please be gentle with me, it’s my first time’ look.”
“Ah, the virginal wedding night, but isn’t that a bit cliché?”
“No more so than running off to Europe with a hot Italian guy. Trust me, ‘Virgin Princess’ is the way to go.”
Renata snorted. “Guys do love that, even if they know better.”
“It lets them pretend they’re breaking new ground, so to speak.”
“Okay.” Renata moved to a billowy rack of white garments. She pulled one off the rack. “Honestly, Flick, this first one here looks like I should be fleeing the manor on the moors in gothic-y terror as the brooding lord chases me.”
“That’s the idea, dummy. If the gothic-y chick has any sense, she’ll pretend to twist her ankle on a rock and let Lord Longmember catch her.”
“Really, Flick. Lord Longmember?” she muttered into the phone.
“Or Laird Lang-member, if you prefer the Scottish fantasy. What’s under his kilt gives new meaning to the phrase auld lang syne.”
Renata groaned and reached for another gown. “Hey, this looks promising.”
“Send me a pic.”
Renata hung it back on the rack and took a quick picture and emailed it to Flick. “What do you think?”
“Positively diaphanous.”
“Yep.” The nightgown was a sheer white silk with blousy three-quarter sleeves and a satin ribbon fastening the neckline. The gown was cut on the full side but that didn’t matter since it was practically see-through. “You have to buy it. ‘Oh, milord, I do not understand all these strange new feelings in my forbidden places. Are you ill? You have the strangest swelling in your trousers. Ooooohh.’” Flick made a noise as if she were about to swoon.
Renata cracked up. Her aunt Barbara loved books like that, and Renata had “borrowed” them when she was younger just to read the racy parts. Hmm, maybe that was where she got her taste for hot, dark and handsome upper-crust men. On the other hand, Giorgio would be to any woman’s taste. Yum. “Okay, I’ll get it. Never hurts to change things up a bit.”
“Wear your hair down with some hanging in your face so you can peep from behind it like that blonde starlet. What was her name?”
“Veronica Lake,” Renata answered promptly. “Cool, Flick.” She’d enjoy this—and of course so would Giorgio.
“Thank you,” her friend said smugly. “And about my gigolo? What flight does he arrive on?”
“Sorry, I can’t in good conscience send a poor innocent like that into your clutches. How about a nice ceramic vase?”
Flick’s response would have shocked a real gigolo but only made Renata laugh. “Okay, no vase. I’ll find you something else.” Renata spotted the saleswoman who had been lurking nearby straightening piles of panties. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“And in excruciating detail,” Flick warned her. They said their goodbyes and Renata carried the nightgown to the counter to pay for it. After mentally calculating the euro-to-dollar rate, she winced but put it on her credit card. She probably had enough cash from Giorgio, but that was her present to him.
The saleslady wrapped it in a white box with matching white satin ribbon. Renata supposed that made sense since it looked like a wedding present. She tucked it under her arm and rejoined Paolo outside. “Ready?”
“Of course, signorina.”
She sighed. “You can call me Renata, Paolo.”
The look of horror on his face made her fight back a smile. It was practically the first real emotion she’d seen from the man since they’d met.
“I cannot do that, signorina. Much disrespect for you and disgrace for me.”
“Really?” She tipped her head to the side as they started down the narrow cobblestone street. “But I am not exactly in a position of respect here—traveling with the, um, boss.” She’d almost forgotten and said “prince” in public.
Paolo shook his head. “He say I will serve you as I serve him. Molto rispetto for him—and you.”
Renata nodded. Feudalism was alive and well in the Italian culture, even in her own watered-down New York version. What the guy in charge said, went. If you showed disrespect for someone the boss approved of, you showed disrespect for the boss. She got it.
“Do you think the boss will be finished with his business now?” She had something in mind for an afternoon siesta.
“Si, signorina.” Paolo turned a corner through narrow houses and led her back up several narrow sets of stairs.
She was pretending not to gasp for breath when she heard an annoying male voice with a thick Italian accent catcalling. “Eh, bella ragazza! Give me a kiss, red-hair girl.”
Renata looked around, pissed off. She had enough hooting and hollering at her living in New York, and the Italian version was just as bad.
“Come up here, pretty lady, and I show you good time, huh?” That was followed by several loud smooching sounds.
She tipped her head back and was about to give the man an international gesture when she saw Giorgio grinning down at her from the terrace. “What do you say, gorgeous?”
“I say, ‘Okay!’” She opened the door and climbed the stairs to the second-floor living room. She gave Giorgio a quick kiss and made a beeline for the bedroom. Renata the Innocent Virginal Maiden was about to make an improbable and unprecedented return.
10
“IS THE SIGNORINA ALL RIGHT, Paolo?” Renata had disappeared into the bedroom with an armful of packages and hadn’t reappeared yet. Maybe she’d gotten a bit of sun or was unpacking her finds.
“She seemed fine, signor. Although she did ask me to call her by her first name.” Paolo looked as if that request were enough to doubt her mental capacity.
“And you complied with her request?”
“Signor!” Paolo appeared torn, as Giorgio knew he would. His natural formality and knowledge of what was proper conflicted with obeying a request from his prince’s current lady friend.
Giorgio let him stew for a second before letting him off the hook. “You of course told her why that was not possible.”
“Si, si, I did.” Paolo would never slump with relief but relaxed slightly.
“Americans are very informal, as you know. It can be quite appalling how much personal information they share with each other on merely a short acquaintance.”
He nodded eagerly. “That is so true, signor. The other drivers I met in New York…” He winced. “I am not a dottore, signor. Why do they think I want to know about their prostate problems?”
Giorgio winced, as well. “Paolo, you’ve had a busy day. Why don’t you have a glass of wine at the trattoria across the street? The signorina and I will be staying in this afternoon.”
Paolo nodded and left. Giorgio headed to the bedroom. He wasn’t sure what awaited him on the other side of the door, but was eager to find out.
He tapped on the door. “It’s me. May I come in?”
“Of course.” Her voice was sweet and soft, and he grinned in anticipation as he twisted the doorknob.
“Mamma mia!” The exclamation escaped him just before his jaw dropped.
Renata