were here, that his parents were still here on earth, but all he could do was muddle along on his own.
Renata seemed to sense his turmoil and glided toward his sister. “This is a tea-length satin dress with a portrait neckline and ruching down the front.” He understood the satin dress part but that was about it.
“Look at all these cool petticoats, George.” Stefania lifted her skirt and he winced, but all he saw was layers of fluffy fabric.
“Yes, um, very nice.”
“Renata is going to edge a couple petticoats in gold satin ribbon so they catch the light when I turn. And she says her aunt is absolutely fabulous at embroidery and can decorate one with my and Dieter’s initials. Don’t you just love the color? Renata calls it champagne.”
“But—it’s not white.” Giorgio was still thunderstruck by Stefania’s womanly transformation and couldn’t think of anything to say but the obvious.
His sister shrugged. “Princess Diana didn’t wear a white dress, either—hers was ivory.” Renata circled her, pulling at the fabric to check the fit.
“Yes, and Nonna always said look what happened to that marriage.”
She stabbed a slender finger at him. “Stop it, Giorgio! The Princess was very kind to me at Mamma and Papa’s funeral.”
Renata dropped a handful of satin and stared at them. “Wait—Princess Diana came to your parents’ funeral?”
Giorgio and Stefania exchanged glances and faced her. Giorgio spoke first. “Yes, she did, and you’re right, Stefania. She was kind to both of us.”
“I didn’t tell Renata about our family, George.” Stefania blinked rapidly. “I just wanted to be a regular bride looking at dresses without any fanfare or fuss.”
“Tell me what?” Renata folded her arms across her magnificent chest.
“We should introduce ourselves again, Stefania, don’t you think?” Giorgio bowed again, hoping that the truth wouldn’t send the woman screaming out the door or straight to the tabloids. “May I present my sister Stefania Maria Cristina Angela Martelli di Leone, principessa di Vinciguerra and I am Giorgio Alphonso Paolo Martelli di Leone, il principe di Vinciguerra.”
“Come on, every bride is a princess on her wedding day, but you—you’re a real princess?”
His sister nodded. “But it’s a small country, really. Giorgio hardly needs to do anything to keep it running.”
He glared at his sister—now Renata would think he was a brainless dilettante. She wore a peculiar expression as it was. “So you’re a prince? Correct me if I’m wrong, but Italy is a republic now.”
“Our grandmother, Giorgio and I make up the royal family of Vinciguerra, which is one of only two principalities on the Italian peninsula that wasn’t taken over when Italy unified in the 1800s,” Stefania explained glibly, having given the history lecture many times before. “The rest of the small duchies and kingdoms were absorbed into the greater Italian republic—but not ours. Our father was the Crown Prince, and now Giorgio’s got the gig.”
His slacker-prince/do-nothing gig. “Yes, I do my best. I do apologize, Signorina Renata, if we have not been up front with you from the beginning, but it is difficult to know if someone will call the infernal paparazzi. They can be very unpleasant.”
“Like when Mamma and Papa died.”
Giorgio’s face hardened into grim lines, remembering the brokenhearted little girl who had sobbed into his chest for years after the awful loss. “So far those jackals do not know about Stefania’s engagement, but they will find out eventually.”
“Not from me, they won’t!” Renata’s eyes snapped, her New York accent thickening.
“Of course not,” Stefania defended her. “But once they know that I am getting my wedding dress from you, they will not give you a moment’s rest. It will be good for your business, though,” she added quickly. “Lots of publicity.”
“Oh.” Renata obviously hadn’t considered that aspect, and he appreciated it. “I never blab about our clients and I’ll make sure my aunt doesn’t, either.”
“We appreciate it, Renata.” Stefania hugged her, and Giorgio wished he could do the same.
“So this is the dress you want, Stefania?”
His sister turned to him, her eyes shining. “Oh, yes, George, I love it. I know it’s shorter than what Vinciguerran brides usually wear, but won’t it look lovely in the cathedral with its marble and gold decorations?”
“You will look lovely.” He cupped her shoulders and kissed her on the forehead. His eyes watered a bit—had to be the Brooklyn air. He faced Renata, who wore a knowing smile on her red lips. “We’d like to get this dress—perfect for a princess.”
“Absolutely.” Renata hustled Stefania over to the trifold mirror and they baffled Giorgio with their discussion of fabric options, cuts and embellishments. His only contribution was his credit card once Stefania went to change into her regular clothing.
He blinked at the total on the slip—surely all that fine custom work had to cost more. He glanced up at Renata. “That’s all?”
She put her hands on her hips. “Did you expect me to mark it up just because you’re this, this royalty thing?”
“Yes,” he answered truthfully.
“Then those other shop owners are scumbags. You should find someplace better.”
He pushed the signed slip toward her. “I believe we have.”
A faint flush crept up her neckline into her cheeks. She busied herself by shutting down the computer and fussing with a stack of papers.
“You are finished for the day?”
She glanced over her shoulder at a black cat clock with a swinging tail. “I’m meeting my friend at the art school to see a new student exhibit.”
Stefania burst out of the dressing room. “And I have class in an hour, George. Can you take me back to Manhattan?”
“Of course.” Stefania inexplicably refused to use the car service most of the time in favor of the subway but she was in a hurry. “And, Signorina Renata, are you going to Manhattan, as well?”
“Well, yes, but I don’t want to inconvenience you.”
“No inconvenience.” Stefania tugged on her short wool coat and belted it. “Come on, it’ll be fun.” Her merry gaze darted between her brother and her dress designer.
Giorgio gave her a neutral smile. So his little sister had picked up on his attraction to Renata and was playing matchmaker. She was in love, ergo, the whole world should be in love. He was a grown man—he knew better. Love was for fresh young girls and foolish young men.
“If you’re sure.” Renata wrapped herself in a black trench coat, her red lips and hair heating him up. She looked like a sensual spy from a war movie—the brave secret
