“Give her my love, and make sure this fiancé of hers is a decent guy. If he isn’t, then you and Jack and I will talk some sense into her.”
“Or I’ll just drag her back to Vinciguerra and put her in the dungeon.” They had three actually, one cleaned up for the tourists and two that hadn’t been used since the Napoleonic Wars.
“Human rights organizations be damned.” Frank sounded more cheerful. “We’re just living up to the time-honored European tradition of locking stubborn princesses in towers and such.”
“Do the time-honored traditions mention princesses with black belts in tae kwon do cleaning their brother’s clock?”
“You can only blame yourself for that. You insisted she go to those self-defense classes if she was going to travel to the arts school in that awful neighborhood.” Frank laughed. “Come on, things will be fine. If her young man is okay, then pick a date. Jack and I will help you plan her wedding—don’t worry.”
“The three of us?” Giorgio yelped. “Since when are we wedding experts?” He had fought very hard to be the exact opposite.
“Once you get the dress and the date, everything else falls into place. My mother planned my sisters’ weddings. We run large estates—hell, you even run a whole country. How hard could it be?”
“You weren’t even living in Portugal at the time—you merely flew in for the weddings and missed months of preparation.”
“I did see some of what my mother and her wedding planners did.” Frank sounded a bit hurt. “They have notebooks at the bookstore that explain what to do.”
“Fine, okay, Frank, we’ll all help Stefania as much as we can.” Giorgio had no intention of being the lead wedding planner. It sounded like a nightmare in the making.
“Maravilhosa. Great.” Frank cheered up. “I’ll fix up the island however she likes. And I’m good for several barrels of the family sherry.”
Giorgio could use a barrel of sherry about now, but his flight was about to board. “Thanks again, Frank. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Send me the report on her fiancé from the private investigator when it comes in. Adeus!” His friend hung up.
Giorgio wasn’t sure if Frank was kidding or not about having Dieter investigated. Probably not kidding. He tapped his fingers on the small glass table. Should he? Stefania had several million euros in trust funds, some of which were to be released on either her marriage or her twenty-fifth birthday, both coming up within the next year.
He sighed, remembering the trouble some other European royals had run into with their unwise marriages. Maybe erring on the side of caution…he quickly called his assistant. “Alessandro? Please call that private investigator from that insurance fraud case last year and have him research my sister’s fiancé.”
Oh, well. If Stefania found out and lost her temper with him, it wouldn’t be the first time—or the last.
“WELCOME TO PEACOCK DESIGNS—you must be Stefania.” Renata came from behind her workstation and warmly shook the bride’s hand. She would be a dream to dress, slim but not too skinny, with rich brown eyes and olive skin. Her dark hair lay in curls on her shoulders. She looked like she should be modeling for an Italian tourism poster.
“Yes, I’m Stefania di Leone.” Her bride gazed raptly around the salon. “The dresses are all so wonderful. I can’t wait to get started.” She made a beeline for a full-skirted, tea-length dress.
“Would you like to try this one?” May as well jump right in. “Absolutely!” She pointed at the other dresses. “And that one, and that one, and that one.”
Renata took her client’s expensive leather coat and hung it next to her. “The changing room is right here.” She ushered Stefania across the pearl-gray carpet into the large curtained alcove that served as her changing room and hung a couple of dresses on the hooks.
Stefania pulled off her pine-green sweater and then stopped. “George! I almost forgot.”
“George?”
“My brother—he got a phone call right before we arrived here so he dropped me off. He should be here by now.” She pulled an expensive phone out of her leather purse and rapidly sent a text. “There. I told him to get off the phone and get his butt in here.”
Renata tried to hide a grin. Good luck with trying to get a guy off his phone and into a bridal salon.
“Do you mind sticking your head out to see if he’s here?” Stefania unbuckled her belt. “George is definitely out of his element in a place like this.”
“Aren’t they all?” Renata backed out of the alcove and made sure the curtains were closed before she went looking for the missing George di Leone. Poor guy. She had conjured up a picture of the hapless Italian brother of the bride, nice enough but not a clue about fashion—just like her own brothers. Probably about average height, maybe running a bit thick around the middle from too much of Mamma’s lasagna and cannoli—like her own brothers.
And then he walked in.
Renata forced herself to close her jaw at the specimen of exotic Italian manhood that had stepped into her humble little shop.
Not like her brothers, thank the good Lord. A couple inches over six feet, black wavy hair and emerald-green eyes set against the same olive skin as Stefania and no lasagna potbelly in sight. His hair was perfectly cut, short over the ears and slightly longer on top.
He was dressed like Cary Grant in a fantastic suit tailored in Italian charcoal wool by a master. Renata couldn’t even begin to guess how much that would have set him back, combined with the finely woven snow-white shirt and expensive gold silk tie.
Renata smoothed her hands along her hips, fiercely glad she’d worn her high-waisted, ruby red 1950s “wiggle” skirt and snug-fitting black blouse. “Are you George?”
“George?” His honeyed voice positively dripped sex, even with that one syllable. “Ah, yes. Stefania has wasted no time. She calls me George.” He spoke perfect English with a charming Italian accent.
“I’m guessing you’re actually Giorgio.” Giorgio di Leone—the lion. Rrrrrawww. She’d purr for him anytime.
“You may call me whatever you’d like, signorina. And what may I call you?”
“Renata Pavoni. This is my shop.” She offered her hand and he took it, bowing slightly in a European manner.
He released her hand slowly and looked around the shop. “And these are the bridesmaid dresses?” He gestured at a short strapless number in blush pink satin and tulle.
“It could be—but that’s a popular style for many brides, as well.”
He stared harder. “That is a wedding dress? And so is this?” One had black leaves embroidered on the white satin skirt with a black-trimmed chiffon petticoat.
“Those are perfect for an informal wedding, not necessarily a church wedding. For example, one bride who sang in a rock band got married onstage in a gown much like this to her lead guitar player. They gave a concert after the ceremony.”
“A rock band wedding?”
“Lots of fun,” she reassured him. She had attended that wedding and had enjoyed the trip down memory lane when they played several hits from her Goth-girl phase. “But not for everyone.” She wouldn’t tell him about the tiny embroidered black skulls the rocker bride had requested for one of her petticoats. Aunt Barbara had flatly refused to do that embroidery—the handwork of the Devil, she called it, so Renata had sewn skulls until she saw reverse images of them when she closed her eyes at night. Not exactly sweet dreams.
“Not for Stefania. She is