he’d only met her.
It felt like a fist was squeezing his heart. He couldn’t help groaning.
“Signor! Signor! Are you all right?”
Giorgio looked up at Paolo’s panicked face and spoke with a calmness he didn’t feel. “I don’t think so, Paolo. Get me to the hospital.”
“MR. MARTELLI? I’M DR. WEISS.” Young and skinny with glasses, the E.R. physician was in need of a shave but looked awake enough.
Giorgio extended his hand, IV tubing dangling from his arm. “I am George and this is my friend Paul.”
Dr. Weiss laughed. “And where are John and Ringo?”
Ah, a jokester. Giorgio suppressed a sigh. He guessed working in a New York City emergency department was grim enough that even the doctors tried to lighten things up.
“Chè dice? What is he saying?” Paolo asked in Italian.
“Niente—nothing. A Beatles joke,” Giorgio replied in the same language.
“A joke? He dares joke with the Crown Prince of Vinciguerra when he is ill?” Paolo had no sense of humor under normal circumstances, and a doctor who thought he was a comedian was not helping.
Giorgio gestured for him to calm down. “This place is sad enough, Paolo. It is harmless.”
Paolo subsided, but stared hard at the doc, who cleared his throat and got down to business.
“Okay, Mr. Martelli, I got your lab and EKG results back. The good news is, you’re not having a heart attack. We think you had a major attack of indigestion, probably from those chili dogs you mentioned.”
Giorgio blew out a sigh of relief. He had avoided the one thing he feared for himself. He quickly translated for Paolo, who crossed himself in thanks.
Dr. Weiss continued, “But the bad news is, I don’t know why you haven’t had one already. You look like a sixty-year-old man on paper. A sick sixty-year-old man.”
His stomach churned. He was only thirty years old—what the hell was going on?
“You have a family history of heart disease?”
Oh, no, not that. He blinked rapidly. “Yes, my father.”
“Okay.” The doctor nodded. “It can run in the family. Your good cholesterol is down, your bad cholesterol is sky-high, your entire body is in a state of silent inflammation and your blood pressure when you got here about blew the top of your head off. It’s minimally improved since we got your pain under control.”
He muttered to Paolo what the doctor said. Paolo drew in a shocked breath. “So what do you recommend?”
“I don’t know what you do for a living but you need to take some time off to get your health under control. Get to your primary care doctor and get a note if your boss gives you any grief. You have a primary care doctor?”
Giorgio nodded. “Yes, yes, I will see him as soon as I get home.” He had been neglectful—it had been over three years since his last checkup.
“I mean it. I see young, strong guys like you all the time roll in here grabbing their chests. Sometimes they only roll out in a box, capeesh?” His Italian accent was straight out of The Godfather, but Giorgio understood all too well.
“I understand.”
“Good.” Dr. Weiss extended a hand and Giorgio shook it. “Watch your diet—more fruits, vegetables, lean meats and a splash of olive oil. Cut back on the pasta, bread and sweets. A glass or two a day of red wine is actually good for you, but no more than that. You don’t want to rev up your liver on top of everything. Any questions?”
He had a million questions—like how fate could be so cruel as to start him along the same path as his father, but Dr. Weiss had no answer for that—no one did. “No, and thank you.”
The doc left and Giorgio dropped his head back onto the hard gurney, covering his eyes with his forearm. He didn’t want to be in the hospital, didn’t want to have this sword hanging over his head. What if he hadn’t eaten those damned chili dogs with Renata and instead had gone along his blissfully ignorant way until he dropped dead on the street, his office or God forbid, driving along the mountainous roads of Vinciguerra?
What would happen to Stefania if he died? She would have to run Vinciguerra alone once their grandmother passed away.
He swallowed hard and felt a beefy hand on his shoulder. “Signore. You will be all right—I promise.”
“Grazie, Paolo.” He removed his hand and sat up. A prince of Vinciguerra did not swoon and cry like a Victorian maiden. “We leave out the back door. I don’t want anyone to know about this, especially the princess.”
Paolo nodded. “I will bring the car to a side door.”
Giorgio changed into his own clothing and met Paolo at the agreed-upon door. He slid into the backseat of the limo and closed his eyes. “Back to the hotel, Paolo.”
He would make himself healthy again so that he could walk Stevie down the aisle, hand her off to that German footballer and watch his nieces and nephews come along. She had always wanted a large family after being so lonely as a child.
He had been lonely, too—a nineteen-year-old university student in New York raising an eleven-year-old girl. He had wanted to set a good example for her and spent much of his time with her instead of freely dating like other men his age. And despite what his sister had told Renata, running Vinciguerra did take a good deal of time. Was he still lonely?
Yes, but not when he was with Renata. He’d met her less than twelve hours ago and aside from his terror-filled medical emergency, she had occupied his thoughts ever since. Her sarcastic New York wit, her talent for handling his sister. And more personal memories, like how her mouth opened under his, how her breasts filled his hands, how her thighs softened for him as he discovered her tender flesh.
He shifted uneasily at his arousal, cautious after the doctor’s warning. But the doctor hadn’t told him to avoid sex—just bread, pasta and sweets. He’d rather have sex than spaghetti, anyway. And the doctor told him to take a vacation. Giorgio remembered how Renata had talked about her ancestral homeland—Cinque Terre—the Five Lands, a beautiful curve of beach on the Italian Riviera. Relatively quiet this time of year and perfect for a holiday. A holiday for two? She had wanted him as much as he wanted her.
Before he could second-guess the wisdom of inviting a woman he barely knew to visit Europe with him, he found her number on his phone and pressed Send. For once, he would put his own needs before his country’s. He would put aside his princely duties this once, and instead just be a man pleasing a woman.
RENATA FUMBLED FOR HER ringing phone and managed to answer it. She’d just fallen asleep after mentally reliving her tumultuous day.
“Renata? It’s Giorgio.”
“Giorgio?” She yawned. “Are you okay?”
“No.”
She sat up in bed, alarmed at the roughness of
