By Royal Decree. Оливия Гейтс

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       7

      THE NEXT MORNING, GIORGIO stood on the apartment’s terrace and gazed at the bright blue sea dotted with white sails. A fresh breeze ruffled his hair, and he couldn’t stop grinning. So much so, his face was starting to hurt.

      So this was what freedom felt like. Freedom to wear a battered football shirt—not that Dieter’s team, of course—and battered cargo shorts and just stare at the water. Freedom to spend time with a wonderful woman without prying eyes wondering who she was, how long they had been dating and whether or not she would be the next Princess of Vinciguerra.

      He didn’t have to worry about weddings, deepwater port negotiations or the price of coffee in Vinciguerra. Alessandro was ably manning the fortress and had been providing daily email briefs with strict instructions to call only if absolutely necessary. Even Paolo’d made himself scarce.

      He slipped on a pair of sandals, a baseball hat and sunglasses. Once he hid his distinctive green eyes, he pretty much looked like any other young Italian man going to buy coffee and rolls for his sleeping girlfriend.

      The café down the street was narrow but fragrant with the scents of coffee beans, cream, vanilla and sugar. He purposely put on a thick Roman accent when ordering, just in case the counter girl enjoyed flipping through People magazine. World’s Most Eligible Bachelor, pah! Jack and Frank had busted a gut laughing, as the Americans said, and he wouldn’t have put it past his sister to have been the person who nominated him. They had had a tiff last winter when she had wanted to drop out of grad school to follow Jack’s merry men of medicine to Ulaan Baator or Timbuktu or Bora Bora.

      Fortunately Jack had declined her offer since a background in international politics was of little use in treating infections and parasites. Although several international politicians he’d met somehow brought parasites and infection to mind.

      He accepted the caffe lattes and pastries with a smile of anticipation at waking Renata. She’d roll over in bed, smile sweetly up at him—maybe even beckon him to her as the coffee grew cold and the pastries grew stale. Yes, a sweet morning wake-up for both of them.

      RENATA SQUINTED AS A BAND of dreaded sunlight crossed her eyelids. She wrapped the sheet tighter around her naked body. After their long, exciting night she hadn’t bothered pulling on a sexy negligee or cotton T-shirt, her normal sleepwear.

      “Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty,” a husky male voice crooned. “I know you have jet lag but it’s almost ten o’clock. Come get some sun and you’ll feel better.”

      “No, I won’t.” Renata rolled onto her stomach and buried her head under a pillow.

      “I have coffee, cara mia,” Giorgio coaxed. “Lots of cream and sugar and fresh pastries. Just the thing to wake you up.”

      She pried open a gritty eye to stare at him. He sounded entirely too perky for her liking. But she did like how the thin soccer T-shirt outlined his chest muscles nicely and his shorts showed strong brown legs. He obviously got more exercise than pushing a pencil across his desk and cracking the whip over peasants. “Giorgio, it’s five o’clock in the morning New York time and I’m achy from that long flight.”

      “Okay, Renata.” He set the tray onto the dresser and crossed the room. “Let me loosen you up.”

      The mattress dipped as he moved onto the bed next to her. Warm hands moved over her shoulders, massaging and loosening them. She sighed as he found all the knotted muscles. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

      “I took classes as a massage therapist in case the prince thing didn’t work out for me.”

      A snort escaped her.

      “What? You don’t believe me? Europe can be a very volatile place and it is always good to have a backup plan.”

      With that sexy five o’clock shadow, his backup plan ought to be a new career as a male underwear model. Somehow she doubted the massage school. “What’s your degree in?”

      “International finance. If you ever have trouble sleeping some night, I will tell you all about the Mundell-Fleming model, the optimal currency area theory and the purchasing power parity theory.”

      It made her yawn just to hear their names. “Good Lord, are those for real?”

      He leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “The purchasing power parity theory originated in Spain in the sixteenth century and was modernized by Gustav Cassel in the early twentieth.”

      “Oh, don’t stop, don’t stop,” she teased him. “Keep talking finance to me, Giorgio.”

      He laughed. “Will emerging market economies ever become decoupled from developed market economies?”

      “Oooh, coupling. Now that sounds kinky.”

      He brushed her hair to the side and rubbed her neck. “Glad to hear that. There are many more theories where those came from.”

      He pulled the sheet away and did long strokes down her back to her ass, kneading each cheek with strong hands. She gasped as wetness grew between her thighs. “Oh, so tense here. You will need plenty of massage to loosen such a delicate area.”

      Somehow his massage had passed from therapeutic to intimate when he stopped massaging and bent to kiss his handiwork. He murmured in between kisses. She squirmed against his mouth. “Soft and round. I have wanted to do this since I saw you walking away from me in that tight black skirt. I almost drooled right there.”

      Oh, yes, Giorgio liked traditional Italian butts.

      He СКАЧАТЬ