Royally Romanced. Marie Donovan

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, signorina. I will not sit unless you do. My grandmother taught me better manners than that, and what kind of man would I be to embarrass my grandmother?”

      Okay, now he was flirting, but subtly, not in a wolf-whistle, kiss-the-tips-of-his-fingers type flirting. Maybe she’d flirt back, if she wasn’t too rusty to remember how. “If you insist, but only until Stefania needs me.”

      “Of course.” He waited for her to settle onto the couch before sitting about eight inches away from her.

      Renata rested her hands on her knees, acutely aware of his presence. He was the epitome of men’s elegance, his silk-clad ankle resting on the opposite knee, his black leather shoes immaculately polished. Even his cologne was classy and masculine, the scent of star anise and sandalwood rising off his warm caramel skin. Her nipples tightened under her blouse and she shifted on the couch to distract herself—in vain, of course. Well, she was a warm-blooded American woman with the male equivalent of an all-you-can-eat Italian buffet sitting next to her, complete with dessert. Mmm, Giorgio as dessert … she thought about that until she realized his delicious lips were speaking.

      “Stefania is quite the whirlwind. She did not give you any information about herself or the wedding?” For some reason, he leaned forward, almost as if to gauge her reaction.

      Back to business. “None at all. She told me over the phone that she’d just become engaged and was bringing her brother to shop for a wedding dress. I assumed the rest of your family was back in Italy and couldn’t come over right away.”

      He sat back and sighed. “The rest of our family is our grandmother, who is indeed back in Italy, recovering from pneumonia.”

      If his grandmother was all he and Stefania had left … oh, dear.

      He must have read her growing dismay. “Yes, unfortunately, our parents were killed in a car accident many, many years ago.” He shrugged wide shoulders. “Nonna and I raised Stefania as best as we could, but searching for a wedding dress to wear on what I hope will be the happiest day of my sister’s life?” He clenched his hands on his knees. “This is for our mother to do, not a stupid older brother.”

      Renata grabbed his hand, wrapping her fingers around his tense ones. “You are not stupid. Stefania waited to come in because she wanted you here with her. I know you both must miss your mother, but you are the person she loves and needs for this.”

      He looked down at their entwined fingers. She inwardly groaned. Her impulsive nature had gotten the best of her again and now she was holding hands with her client’s sexy brother whom she’d met, oh, approximately twelve minutes ago. Talk about professional and businesslike.

      She tried to tug her hand away, but he tightened his grip. “Signorina Renata, how did such a beautiful, young lady become so wise?”

      An unladylike snort escaped her. “Years of foolishness.”

      The curtain rustled. “Renata, how do you zip this?” Stefania called.

      Renata leaped to her feet as if one of her straight pins had fallen into the cushion and stabbed her in the butt. “Excuse me, please.” He was there for dress-shopping, not getting mushy glances from the hired help. Giorgio released her hand and stood politely as she disappeared into the dressing room.

      The bride held the bodice against her and Renata zipped up the back, slipping into sales mode. “All right, this is a tea-length, white lace dress over a white tulle petticoat. As you can see, the skirt is very full.” So full that it was pushing Renata away from the bride as she fastened the hook-and-eye closure at the top of the zipper. “It has three-quarter-length sleeves that reach about to the middle of your forearm and a wide neckline that shows off your neck and shoulders nicely.” She backed away so Stefania could get the full picture of how she would look.

      “Is it the lighting or is there some pink at the bottom?”

      “Yes, the neckline and petticoat are hemmed with a pale pink thread for decoration.”

      Stefania shook her head. “Not for me.”

      “No problem.” Renata helped her out of the dress and carefully hung it up. “Here’s one without the pink.” Renata fitted her into a few more white dresses but Stefania just looked at herself in the mirror with a worried look.

      “Sorry, Renata. I’m not usually this picky.”

      “Yes, you are,” her brother called over the curtain.

      “Can it, George,” she retorted. “This is important.”

      Renata intervened. “You want to make sure to get the right dress for your special day.”

      “Whatever you pick will be a trend-setter,” Giorgio predicted. What a nice brother—her own brothers would be loudly pitying whatever poor idiot Renata had suckered into marrying her.

      “Yeah, I know.” Stefania still looked glum. And pale, which was odd considering her beautiful warm skin tone.

      “How often do you wear white?” she asked.

      Stefania twirled back and forth, her eyes glued to the mirror. “I have a nice winter-white cashmere coat, and some ivory turtlenecks. Oh, and an eggshell silk short-sleeved blouse with the cutest tie at the neck. Dieter loves me in that,” she confided. “He thinks it makes me look sexy.”

      A loud groan startled them. “Dio mio, Stefania, save the racy stories for your bachelorette party, will you?”

      They both snickered at the typical brotherly response. But Renata returned to the dress subject quickly. “All of those whites you like to wear are actually not pure white. With your lovely coloring, you’re attracted to ivories and off-whites. I think this pure white is washing you out.”

      “Oh. I thought it was the lighting.”

      “Nope, it’s the fabric color.” Renata had actually paid one of her lighting designer friends to install the most flattering light possible. “Wait here.”

      She ducked out of the cubicle. Giorgio looked up from his phone. Renata thought his interest would drop when he saw it was just her, but instead his gaze sharpened. “And which one of your dresses did you pick out for yourself?”

      “For me?” She was flustered for a second. “I like all of them, but I’ve never needed one, I mean …”

      “Your boyfriend hasn’t, how do they say, popped the question?”

      Exhilaration roared through her. “Boyfriend? What boyfriend?” She strutted into the stockroom, making sure her wiggle skirt lived up to its name.

       3

      GIORGIO FOUGHT TO KEEP the drool from shorting out his phone. Renata Pavoni was the sexiest woman he’d met in a long time, her dark blue eyes gleaming in a knowing manner. Even the tiny diamond decorating 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