By Royal Decree: Royally Romanced. Margaret Way

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       4

      GIORGIO HATED THE ART—if he even thought of it as art. Renata wasn’t convinced from the sideways glance out of the corner of her eye. Scary how well she could read him after only meeting him this morning. He had sent his beefy driver back to their hotel.

      “And this signifies…” He gestured elegantly at the smelly mess of vegetation on the floor.

      She peered at the information tag. “The broken corn-stalks and soybean plants tell the plight of the family farmer in the ever-growing domination of industrial agriculture.”

      He blinked. “Ah.” Giorgio was a good sport, though, examining what looked like his nonna’s compost heap.

      “Let’s see the next.” She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow to tug him to another dubious installation. Lovely. A tangle of rusty barbed wire. Her heel caught on the rough concrete floor and he steadied her.

      “Careful, Renata. I do not want to take you for a tetanus shot.” He smiled down at her and she forgot for a second that he was an honest-to-God prince of someplace in Italy and his suit cost more than she made in a year. No, when he smiled at her, he was just Mr. Hot Guy who made her want to shred that expensive suit off him with her teeth. Her breathing sped up, pressing her breasts into the nice bodice of her black blouse.

      He noticed, his fingers tightening on hers. Not so cool on the inside, then. “And this represents the tangle of modern life?”

      “No, the plight of refugees.”

      Giorgio nodded. “Stefania is patroness of a charity for women and children that often works with refugee and displaced families.”

      “At her age?” Stefania wasn’t much younger than Renata.

      “Since she was thirteen.” His tone was full of love and admiration. “She testified in front of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees when she was nineteen. Stefania has become a better strategist since then. Perhaps I should have discouraged her from studying political science, but when a twelve-year-old reads Machiavelli’s The Prince so she can pass political tips on to her older brother, what else would I expect?”

      Renata let him guide her along to the next exhibit. It was a video installation with a variety of blurry faces grimacing in turn as loud static played in the background. Giorgio regarded it with the same pleasant expression he’d pasted on his face as soon as they’d walked in. He really was a polished man.

      Renata went up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “This is just awful. Do you mind if we leave now?”

      “Aren’t you enjoying yourself.” His eyes twinkled.

      “You’ll know when I’m enjoying myself,” she assured him.

      “Indeed?” He turned his head slowly so their faces were almost touching. Renata swallowed hard. She thought he was going to kiss her but he clenched his jaw instead. Perhaps public displays of affection were against the Vinciguerran Royal Book of Etiquette. “I will call Paolo to pick us up.”

      “No, don’t.” She didn’t want anyone intruding in what was turning out to be a very intriguing afternoon. “It’s a nice day—let’s walk.”

      “Where?”

      “A surprise.” She tugged him out of the gallery and onto the sidewalk, tipping her face up. “Ah, sun. Makes up for a long and gloomy winter.”

      “An Italian girl like you should always get plenty of sun.”

      She patted her jaw. “Bad for the complexion. The rest of my family has the typical dark hair and olive skin like you, but I only burn.”

      “No wonder you have such lovely skin. You must be careful when you travel to Italy the next time. You know our sun can be very strong.”

      “The next time? I’ve never been to Italy before.”

      He stopped and stared down at her. “Your name is Renata Pavoni and you’ve never visited Italy? How can that be?”

      She laughed and led him along the busy street. “My parents have five of us. You’ve never priced out airfare to Europe for seven, but my mother did once. We heard her scream of shock down the street.”

      Giorgio looked momentarily startled—budget concerns didn’t cross his radar. He nodded thoughtfully. “What part of Italy did your family come from?”

      “After the war, my grandparents on my mom’s side came from a little village on the Italian Riviera called Corniglia. My nonna says the town is perched on a huge rock surrounded by grapevines. They make this special kind of wine found nowhere else in the world.”

      “Scciachetrà.”