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Excerpt
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Renata forced herself to close her jaw at the specimen of exotic Italian manhood that had stepped into her humble little shop.
A couple inches over six feet, black wavy hair and emerald green eyes set against the same olive skin as Stefania and no lasagna pot belly 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 1950’s “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 must be here. 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. 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, my fiancé 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 of not sitting 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, trying to ignore the pulsing between her thighs—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.
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