By Royal Decree. Оливия Гейтс

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      “Fiery to match your blush.” He smooched her finger.

      “Must be the reflection.” Her cheeks were heating. Wow, she’d thought that autonomic nervous reaction had been permanently deactivated years ago from lack of use. Leave it to Giorgio to trip all sorts of triggers.

      “If you say so.” A mischievous gleam danced in his eyes. He was really loosening up.

      The waiter arrived with a plate of antipasti for them to sample, marinated olives, steamed mussels and fried odds and ends of fresh anchovies and other seafood. Of course there was focaccia—a savory flatbread common to the area—with olive oil for dipping. She pulled a hunk from the bread and swirled it through the oil, dotted with hunks of chopped garlic cloves and minced basil leaves. Totally delish. They couldn’t be more than an hour out of the oven. “You should really have some.” She held it up to his mouth and he took a small bite.

      “Tasty.”

      “Have some more.” She gestured at the large disc. If she ate all that bread herself, her snugly tailored skirts would split down the seams.

      He picked up an olive. “Thank you, but I will just enjoy watching you eat.”

      “You’re not on a low-carb diet, are you? I thought that was against the law in Italy.”

      He shrugged. “I have a taste for these olives tonight. Have you tried the green ones? Very good, and probably grown not too far from here.” He dished a few onto her plate, and she had to agree they were very good, especially wrapped up in focaccia.

      The waiter set a platter of pasta lavished in rich green pesto sauce in front of them. It had an unusual aroma. The waiter chatted with Giorgio for a minute as he dished up two servings. Giorgio thanked him and they were left alone again.

      “He says this pasta is called trofie and is made from chestnut flour. The pesto sauce was of course invented in this region and has the typical basil leaf base, mixed with pecorino cheese and pine nuts.”

      “Don’t forget the marjoram.” Renata smiled at his look of surprise. “My grandmother taught me how to make pesto. Fortunately we have a food processor now and don’t need to grind everything in her old marble mortar and pestle.”

      “My mamma’s specialty was desserts. She was an assistant pastry chef when she met my father. He had an amazing sweet tooth and ordered tiramisu at the hotel where she was working. He asked to meet the chef, and—” he spread his hands wide “—the rest is Vinciguerran history.

      Renata’s heart tugged at his wistful smile. “What was your favourite dessert she made?”

      He looked startled briefly, as if he’d been far away in memory. “Lemon cookies. Lemon bars. Lemon cake.”

      “Lemon anything.” She laughed.

      “Oh, yes, especially at the end of a long, gloomy winter. Her lemon cookies were a snap of springtime in my mouth.”

      Renata wondered if anyone made him lemon cookies anymore. Probably wouldn’t be the same if he had to ask. Something so powerful as that was made freely and spontaneously, out of love. Did his grandmother or sister have the recipe? Maybe it wasn’t too complicated.

      “Hopefully our pesto will live up to your grand mother’s high standards.” Giorgio offered her a forkful of pasta and she moaned with delight. The nutty flavor of the pasta balanced the tang of the cheese and pine nuts in the pesto. He watched her in satisfaction. “I thought I was the only one who made you sound like that.”

      She winked. “What can I say? I’m a hedonist at heart.”

      “You are in the right place.” He gestured at the vista in front of them. “Food, wine, song and passion. Even though you were not born here, you belong here. The land and the sea are calling you.”

      Renata stopped midbite. The land and the sea. Yes, she did feel a connection to this slice of Italy perched between the sea and the mountains. But she thought it was more because of Giorgio’s presence. He was the lens through which she had focused so intensely. But she couldn’t stay in the Cinque Terre forever.

      “And your country, does it call to you?” She hoped so, because he couldn’t exactly give two weeks’ notice and pack up.

      “Yes, but in a different way. I hear the call of my father and my mother, the call of my ancestors who ruled Vinciguerra and fought for her people. I know it’s my solemn duty to protect them and make sure they thrive in a modern world while preserving our national heritage.”

      “That’s a big job. No wonder you’re so serious.” Their main course arrived, a whole fish that had been wandering around in the Ligurian Sea that morning.

      Giorgio served them each a portion, the fish flaking enticingly under his fork. “Eh, too serious according to my sister. She thinks I need to lighten up. Be sure to drink your wine with the fish. The waiter says if you drink water with fish, it will start swimming around in your stomach.” He grinned at her.

      Renata sipped some wine. No reanimated fish for her. “Maybe Stefania should cut you some slack since she’s not the one in charge of a country and several thousand people.” Renata winced after that. Criticizing his sister was probably a dumb idea. He loved her very much. She stuffed some fish into her mouth to shut herself up. Holy cow, were they all geniuses in the kitchen here or just this restaurant? She’d have to get the recipe for her mother.

      But he wasn’t offended. “No, you are both correct. I do need to lighten up and yes, I am the one in charge of a country. However, do not let my people hear you say I am in charge of them. They are even more stiff-necked than I am and do not hesitate to point out my errors. I don’t know why I ever introduced technology like the internet and email to Vinciguerra.” He stopped to dip some fish into the garlicky olive oil and hummed in appreciation.

      “Before, they had to buy the newspaper, read it and then either call the palazzo or mail me a letter to complain. Now all they have to do is read electronic news on their phones and immediately text me to tell me what exactly I am doing wrong. I should have left them in the twentieth century.” But he was grinning as he said this. “I even had to hire a nineteen-year-old email assistant to decipher the acronyms and lack of vowels. I can tell you I wasn’t LOL-ing.”

      Renata did LOL—laugh out loud. His affection for his country and his subjects—if they even considered themselves as such—was evident. “They boss you around terribly, don’t they?”

      “It’s like I have thousands of nosy but well-meaning aunts and uncles.” He raised his wineglass and gestured to the terrace. “Which is why we are here and not in Vinciguerra. No privacy there whatsoever.”

      “What a pair we are. I have to fly across the Atlantic and you have to sneak out of your country for any time together.”

      He brushed the corner of her mouth with his thumb. “I would have swum the Mediterranean Sea to be with you.”

      “How sweet.” An unfamiliar wave of mushy sentiment swirled up into her throat as she heard herself practically coo at the man. But she couldn’t help it. Large helpings of delicious food, romantic settings and of course hot sex with a capital H and a capital S.

      “How true.” He slid his arm around her shoulder. “When СКАЧАТЬ