Red Hot Romeo (The Royal Romeos, #1)

by Jenny Gardiner

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  Black Sheep Romeo

  by Jenny Gardiner

  Chapter One

  Free-spirited wanderer Lizzie Moretti liked nothing better than to up and move on, which was ironic, considering for the past couple of years, all of her efforts had gone toward putting down roots. Only those were of the plant variety, and by the time they germinated and took hold in the rich soil, usually she was long gone and on to the next farm. Lizzie—Lizard, to her friends—never stayed in one place for very long, and that was fine by her. She loved to see the world and had traveled extensively, usually working on farms in exchange for room and board.

  In recent years, she’d planted coffee beans in Indonesia, rice in Bangladesh, hops in Germany, and now grapes in Italy—although here she’d not plant but instead help the intensive efforts to pick grapes at their peak of ripeness with the impending harvest. She loved the idea of learning how to make wine, and had hoped while there to spend a little time looking into her own Italian heritage, as her father’s grandparents had emigrated from Italy to America at the turn of the last century. Maybe that’s where her wandering came from. No doubt about it, she lived a nomad’s life, but it suited her. But perhaps a lengthy stay in Italy would be a nice way to spend the autumn.

  Growing up in a military family, she’d learned the hard way not to get too comfortable in a place, never establishing her own roots, because inevitably her family was displaced each time her father got assigned to yet another military base, which gave them virtually no time to pack and go, and left little chance even for farewells. Not that she was one for long goodbyes anyhow: it was too painful to make good friends because it was too hurtful to then watch them in the rear-view mirror as her mom drove down the street yet again en route to a new destination—her father having already moved to his newest posting.

  So she learned to appreciate each new place, to live with wings on her feet, always at the ready to take off on a moment’s notice. As a young adult, she’d grown to love this transient existence, with little more than a pack on her back and a pair of Teva sandals on her feet. It made it hard to collect mementos of her travels—after all, there was no place to store them in a forty-pound backpack. Besides, where on earth would she ever put them? Her father had died from a roadside bomb in the Anbar Province of Iraq more than a decade ago, and her mother had remarried and moved on with yet another military man, leaving no true home to which Lizzie could even return, if and when she ever chose.

  Besides, her lifestyle kept things light and carefree, and gave her the chance to follow her impulses, and—more importantly—trust her instincts, which so far hadn’t steered her wrong. She’d arrived at a small farm in the Chianti region of Tuscany only a few days ago, hoping to work the grape harvest, then stick around to harvest the olives several weeks later. She’d heard it was a lot of fun—despite being hard work—and she was excited to experience the lush, green countryside of central Italy, the land of fabulous food and wine.

  She’d organized the job online, and the host farmer was responsible to ensuring she was legal to participate in the harvest, a coveted job often left only to experts and family members at the large vineyards. But this place was supposedly small, so the opportunity presented itself to her. Lizzie’s plan was to stick around for maybe six weeks, then perhaps work her way toward Australia or New Zealand just in time for the antipodean summertime, maybe find a coastal area, some sun, sand, and a new land and people to discover.

  She was a bit disappointed that this vineyard had no other fellow travelers like herself to work the harvest, though. She’d arrived two days ago to learn that the sleeping accommodations were primitive at best: a stone shed with no heat, and judging from the scratching and squeaking sounds she’d heard at night, plenty of mice as unwanted roommates. The bathroom was in another shed she had to walk to in the middle of the night and featured a stinky, rudimentary composting toilet.

  Alas, it seemed this wasn’t going to be a holiday in Tuscany that would involve long, filling lunches followed by exploring the countryside. Not that she’d expected as much, but a girl could dream, right? She had, however, hoped to be able to wander the region a bit. Her host, an older, grizzled, surly Italian man named Luigi Scalfone, had stated in their email exchange that there would be transportation, but that turned out to be a rusty, decrepit bike with two flat tires. So far the meals promised her hadn’t met basic standards either: they were mostly composed of half-ripened season-end tomatoes that he himself rejected, along with the rotting unsellable vegetables left over from the fields, paired with tins of tuna fish. Even for breakfast. It would be a test of Lizzie’s stamina—and stubborn streak—toughing it out for six weeks at this rate. Clearly this agreement wasn’t to be a cultural exchange as she’d hoped, but rather a one-sided labor exploitation on Luigi’s part.

  Over the past few years she’d had mixed experiences wherever she settled in temporarily, but most often things worked out well. Occasionally another farm hand was disagreeable. Sometimes the job description didn’t live up to expectations. But for the first time since she’d started as an itinerant helper, she had a bad feeling. First off Luigi was clearly drunk when she arrived just before dusk on that first evening. She’d hopped off a bus about three miles away and walked the rest of the distance, her heavy pack weighing her down, but the walk doing her good.

  She’d passed a gorgeous, very large vineyard, anchored by a massive manor home, on her way to her destination, and half-wondered what it would be like to work there instead. It was so beautiful—and sprawling-—from what she could see from a distance. Maybe if she volunteered there as a guest worker she could sleep like a princess on six-hundred thread-count sheets and after a few hours toiling in the fields, take some time to lounge poolside, or better yet float the afternoon away on a raft, admiring the rolling hillside, peppered with olive groves and vineyards as far as the eye could see. As if. Lizzie could hardly fathom that lifestyle, but she enjoyed the fantasy while her feet hit the pavement, en route to Fattoria Luigi.

  When she arrived at the vineyard, she was met by the namesake himself, slurring his words and occupying her personal space, his alcohol-laced breath hot and strong beneath her nose, in a manner that made her feel most uncomfortable. He spoke few words, ushered her to the less-than-plush accommodations, and left her to figure out dinner on her own when he passed out on his bed.

  “Welcome to Tuscany,” Lizzie muttered as she scrounged in the tiny kitchen for some pasta. She fixed a serving of plain noodles before retiring to the privacy of the small hovel she would call home for the next several weeks.

  For the first couple of days, she was assigned particularly menial work: sweeping the house, washing dishes, moving wheelbarrows full of rocks, and mucking donkey stalls. Though she was supposed to be working the grape harvest, she was perfectly happy to help out where needed. But she felt terribly unwelcome around her host, who mostly grunted and snapped out short commands to her while he drank until he again passed out.

  Clearly this wasn’t going to be one of her favorite destinations, the way things were shaping up so far. She held out hope that other workers would soon show up to lighten the mood of the place, but so far none. On the third evening, Lizzie took a look at herself in the muted reflection of one of the stainless steel wine tanks in the fermentation room. She had looked better.

  Understatement of the year, she thought.

  Her large, damp brown eyes poked out from a dirt-encrusted face. Her hair looked like it was going in the direction of Bob Marley. If she didn’t wash it she’d have dreadlocks by the end of the week. Using what little warm water was afforded her in the outhouse, Lizzie washe
d her face, scrubbed her long, dark brown hair, then plaited it into two pigtail braids, and tucked herself in for bed, ready for a good night’s sleep.

  Soon after she’d lapsed, exhausted, into a deep slumber, she felt the press of a large body against her back. She turned her head and in the darkness made out the grizzled face of her drunken host, whose obvious arousal was insinuating itself into the cushion of her backside. Terrified, she knew she couldn’t even scream for help; there was no one here but the two of them, save but a host of mice who would be of no help.

  Fortunately, Lizzie had learned long ago to be prepared, so she never went to bed without her minimal belongings together in one place. Thinking quickly, she thrust her elbow hard into his solar plexus, rolled immediately out of bed, grabbed her pack and her boots, and took off before Luigi had a chance to regain his breath, writhing as he was in a drunken stupor. She felt no pity for the man as she rushed out the rickety shed door, shutting it tightly behind her.

  As soon as she was past the sight line of the house, Lizzie stopped to put on her hiking boots, secured her pack onto her back, and quickened her pace to get well beyond the fattoria before her disgusting, drunken host could ever catch up with her. Sure Lizzie liked to move on at will, but usually it was when she was good and ready, not because she was nearly assaulted. She’d had some squeamish experiences occasionally while traveling as what was essentially a migrant worker, but never had she felt personally violated.

  Once she reached the road, she decided to turn right and follow her tracks the way she’d arrived here days earlier, knowing there would be at least be other farms and vineyards along the way. Perhaps a car would pass and she could hitch a ride somewhere—anywhere—just to get some distance between her and the creepy farmer. Before she could even think about being comfortable, she needed to keep herself safe. The last thing she’d expected to have to worry about in the welcoming hills of Tuscany.

  Chapter Two

  Matteo Romeo had arrived back at his family’s vineyard just in time for the grape harvest. After a year away from his mother and siblings and the burdensome familial obligations he wasn’t sure he wanted to accept as his own, he knew at the very least he had to return for the vendemmia, the annual grape harvest that all of Italy anticipates as much as a child would the arrival of Santa on Christmas morning.

  And even though Matteo had felt a downright dire need to get away from the disapproving eyes of his mother and his older brother Sandro—who made him feel like a failure for not wanting to carry on with the family name as expected—there was an inexplicable magnetic pull back to Chianti at this time of year, despite his determination to stay away. Yet he was conflicted, because when it came down to it, Sandro was the oldest of the five Romeo siblings, and Cantine dei Marchesi Romeo was ultimately going to land in his hands, so why should Matteo put too much of his own blood, sweat and tears into it?

  He asked himself that, but in fact he knew the real reason he’d flown the nest was because of his propensity to scandalize: be it his mother, his brother, or even the residents of the nearby small, ancestral town of Santa Romeo. They expected Matteo to carry on responsibly and uphold the family name at all times, and so when he supposedly got a local girl pregnant, everyone was outraged. Even though ultimately it was he who was indignant, because the baby turned out not to be his. As he’d suspected, his one-off fling with the young woman wasn’t what “took”, but rather the many nights of her sleeping with the married husband of a local schoolteacher had.

  Matteo didn’t really think he deserved to be lumped into the scandal between the lot of them; he’d just had sex with her after the town festa celebrating last year’s grape harvest. One time. And sure, once was all it took, he knew that. But eventually he realized she was much further along than the timeline that would have pegged him as the baby daddy, and once he realized that and coerced a confession from the woman, he decided it was time to put some distance between him and this suffocating one-horse town that had owned him his entire life.

  He wasn’t sure when he’d return back to the ancestral fold, and surprised even himself when the yearning for that sense of belonging that only came from family and terroir began to stir deep within him. He’d spent the past year of his life wandering; he was lucky he had the unlimited funds to do this. And he did it with a vengeance, traveling first class to the far reaches of the world, first China, then Thailand, next to Africa, eventually to Central and South America. He’d enjoyed himself immensely, staying at top-tier hotels and bedding down beautiful women in every port along the way. But with the vendemmia looming, his heart was calling him back home, despite himself.

  He arrived days before the harvest was to begin, just in time for a huge family Sunday lunch.

  “The prodigal son!” his sister Valentina squealed, running to embrace him when she saw him drop his bags on the terrace where a long table was set for the meal. “I knew you’d come home for the harvest. I just knew you couldn’t stay away from your favorite sister.”

  Matteo stood back to take a good, long look at his younger sister. “Don’t you mean my only sister?” he said with a grin. “Ahhh, Valentina. It’s hard to imagine how it’s possible, but you’ve gotten even more beautiful in my absence. I’ve come back to keep the men away from you.” He kissed her cheeks.

  She waved him away. “Don’t you dare keep them away from me. I need all the help I can get to attract them. Mamma,” she called to her mother, who was inside putting the finishing touches on the meal. “You’ll never guess what the cat dragged in.”

  “I hope it’s not another snake,” his mother Fabiana said, looking up as she walked onto the terrace. As soon as she saw her son, she wiped her hands on her dress and ran to him. “Matteo! Finalemente. Finally you have returned home.” She kissed his cheeks and hugged him fiercely.

  “Mamma,” he said, inhaling the aroma from platters of food being placed on the table by staff. “I couldn’t stay away from your cooking.” He rubbed his belly.

  “I knew I could lure you home, my sweet boy,” she said, kissing him again. “Sit, eat.”

  “Did you just call for your sweet boy?” Matteo’s brother Sandro came out to the terrace, only to see Matteo being smothered with hugs from their mother.

  “Look who’s come home!” Fabiana said.

  Sandro stared at his brother, finally giving a short nod. “Matteo.”

  The two of them could almost be twins, both in age and appearance. Both had wavy dark hair, Matteo’s a little shorter, and their mother’s warm, brown eyes. Sandro had a moustache and goatee, providing the distinguishing factor between the two.

  Matteo nodded back. “Sandro.”

  The last thing Matteo had wanted was an immediate stand-off with his brother. They’d long been good friends, though they parted ways when it came to family expectations, which was why Matteo left in the first place.

  The two men looked at each other for a brief moment until the standoff was broken by a gorgeous tall, blonde with an unmistakable American accent.

  “It’s about time,” his brother’s girlfriend said, Taylor McFarland. “I was beginning to think it was something I’d said!” She enveloped him in a hug, then remembered she forgot the obligatory cheek kisses so threw them in for good measure. It wasn’t long after Taylor had taken up with Sandro that Matteo and his brother had their falling out and Matteo had fled.

  “Taylor, you look as magnificent as ever,” Matteo said. “I don’t know why you put up with my brother, when you could have me instead.”

  She laughed. “Thanks, but I like the hardship cases. More of a challenge.”

  “You’ve got a challenge with Sandro, no doubt,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Everyone, sit,” Fabiana said as they sat down to their feast. “Sandro, pour the wine. Lorenzo, Francesco and Giorgio are coming late for lunch today. It will be perfect to have all of my children together at last. What a way to start the vendemmia.”

  Matteo looked at his family
members who were already gathered around the table, happy to see them, yet apprehensive after being away for so long, wondering where he would fit in once he’d stepped even further away from the fold. What a way to start the vendemmia, indeed.

  Black Sheep Romeo

  coming December 6, 2016.

  Available now for pre-order!

  About the Author

  Jenny Gardiner is the author of #1 Kindle Bestseller Slim to None and the award-winning novel Sleeping with Ward Cleaver. Her latest works are the It’s Reigning Men series, featuring Something in the Heir; Heir Today Gone Tomorrow; Bad to the Throne; Love is in the Heir; Shame of Thrones; Throne for a Loop; It’s Getting Hot in Heir; A Court Gesture; and her new Royal Romeos series, featuring Red-Hot Romeo and the upcoming Black Sheep Romeo She also published the memoir Winging It: A Memoir of Caring for a Vengeful Parrot Who's Determined to Kill Me, now re-titled Bite Me: a Parrot, a Family and a Whole Lot of Flesh Wounds; the novels Anywhere but Here; Where the Heart Is; the essay collection Naked Man on Main Street, and Accidentally on Purpose and Compromising Positions (writing as Erin Delany); and is a contributor to the humorous dog anthology I'm Not the Biggest Bitch in This Relationship.

  Her work has been found in Ladies Home Journal, the Washington Post, Marie-Claire.com, and on NPR’s Day to Day. She was also a columnist for Charlottesville’s Daily Progress for over a decade, and is the Volunteer Coordinator for the Virginia Film Festival.

  She has worked as a professional photographer, an orthodontic assistant (learning quite readily that she was not cut out for a career in polyester), a waitress (probably her highest-paying job), a TV reporter, a pre-obituary writer, as well as a publicist to a United States Senator (where she first learned to write fiction). She's photographed Prince Charles (and her assistant husband got him to chuckle!), Elizabeth Taylor, and the president of Uganda. She and her family and menagerie of pets now live a less exotic life in Virginia.