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 having a church wedding.” That was Big Brother putting his foot down. Renata hoped that was Stefania’s plan, as well. She had a feeling brother and sister were evenly matched in the stubbornness department.
“Many of the dresses are quite appropriate for a church wedding, if that is what Stefania has in mind. Excuse me, I need to check on your sister.” She’d been so wrapped up in the brother that she’d almost forgotten about the bride. And if the bride wasn’t happy, nobody was happy.
Renata poked her head through the cubicle curtain. Stefania sat on the gray velvet chaise texting someone. She’d been interrupted while undressing and wore a lacy bra and jeans. She looked up from her phone. “Sorry. Dieter is flying home from England and wanted to text me before they make him turn his phone off.”
“No problem—let me know when you’re ready.” Renata wasn’t exactly unhappy to return to Giorgio. He still stood politely, waiting for her. She’d forgotten that some men still had old-fashioned manners and would not sit down while a lady was standing. She gestured to the white leather—okay, it was vinyl—couch. “Please, Giorgio, have a seat. Your sister is texting her fiancé before his plane takes off.”
“Only if you sit with me for a minute.”
Renata hesitated. She never sat down during an appointment, was usually too busy to do so. And she never, ever sat with the bride’s family, even if it only consisted of an extremely sexy older brother. She was there to work, not flirt.
“Please, signorina. I will not sit unless you do. My grandmother taught me better manners than that, and what kind of man would I be to embarrass my grandmother?”
Okay, now he was flirting, but subtly, not in a wolf-whistle, kiss-the-tips-of-his-fingers type flirting. Maybe she’d flirt back, if she wasn’t too rusty to remember how. “If you insist, but only until Stefania needs me.”
“Of course.” He waited for her to settle onto the couch before sitting about eight inches away from her.
Renata rested her hands on her knees, acutely aware of his presence. He was the epitome of men’s elegance, his silk-clad ankle resting on the opposite knee, his black leather shoes immaculately polished. Even his cologne was classy and masculine, the scent of star anise and sandalwood rising off his warm caramel skin. Her nipples tightened under her blouse and she shifted on the couch to distract herself—in vain, of course. Well, she was a warm-blooded American woman with the male equivalent of an all-you-can-eat Italian buffet sitting next to her, complete with dessert. Mmm, Giorgio as dessert…she thought about that until she realized his delicious lips were speaking.
“Stefania is quite the whirlwind. She did not give you any information about herself or the wedding?” For some reason, he leaned forward, almost as if to gauge her reaction.
Back to business. “None at all. She told me over the phone that she’d just become engaged and was bringing her brother to shop for a wedding dress. I assumed the rest of your family was back in Italy and couldn’t come over right away.”
He sat back and sighed. “The rest of our family is our grandmother, who is indeed back in Italy, recovering from pneumonia.”
If his grandmother was all he and Stefania had left…oh, dear.
He must have read her growing
