A Court Gesture: It's Reigning Men, #8

What people are saying about Jenny Gardiner's books:

A fun, sassy read! A cross between Erma Bombeck and Candace Bushnell, reading Jenny Gardiner is like sinking your teeth into a chocolate cupcake...you just want more.

—Meg Cabot, NY Times bestselling author of Princess Diaries, Queen of Babble and more, on Sleeping with Ward Cleaver

With a strong yet delightfully vulnerable voice, food critic Abbie Jennings embarks on a soulful journey where her love for banana cream pie and disdain for ill-fitting Spanx clash in hilarious and heartbreaking ways. As her body balloons and her personal life crumbles, Abbie must face the pain and secret fears she's held inside for far too long. I cheered for her the entire way.

—Beth Hoffman, NY Times bestselling author of Saving CeeCee Honeycutt on Slim to None

Jenny Gardiner has done it again—this fun, fast-paced book is a great summer read.

—Sarah Pekkanen, NY Times bestselling author of The Opposite of Me, on Slim to None

"As Sweet as a song and sharp as a beak, Bite Me really soars as a memoir about family—children and husbands, feathers and fur—and our capacity to keep loving though life may occasionally bite."

—Wade Rouse, bestselling author of At Least in the City Someone Would Hear Me Scream

A Court Gesture

(book eight of the Royals of Monaforte series)

by Jenny Gardiner

Copyright © 2016 by Jenny Gardiner

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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Chapter One

Larkin Mallory normally loved her job. Retained unexpectedly in the Rome bureau of the International Chronicle after her one-year internship suddenly morphed into a staff position (thanks to a reporter who decided not to return after maternity leave), she often found herself waking up in the most breathtaking European cities, sent there by her editor to cover stories that ranged from hard-hitting journalism to special-interest features.

It gave her a chance to spread her wings professionally, sometimes doubling down with her journalistic chops to cover meaty stories, but also delving into fluffier pieces about, say, cheese-rolling contests in England. She liked to say, You’ve not lived until you’ve watched a bunch of less-than-sober revelers race down a steep hill in pursuit of runaway wheels of cheddar. Especially considering paramedics are at the ready for the inevitable injuries that come with being accidentally run over by nine-pound spools of wayward cheese coming at you with the velocity of a speeding train.

Never once had she challenged her editor, Piers Woodberry, a paunchy, balding, white-haired Brit who’d held stints at various European tabloids before settling down to work for the more austere international paper. He was usually evenhanded when assigning stories, and Larkin couldn’t think of a time she was stuck having to interview someone she didn’t want to talk to.

The fair-skinned reporter with cascading blond curls and soft blue eyes tended to hide behind thick tortoise-shell eyeglasses and frumpy clothes and enjoyed her quiet little slice of the world. She dressed in neutral colors, so as to not draw attention to herself, and loved to travel, but only when she could do so on her terms. Not one to indulge in expensive hotel rooms, fine dining, or fancy clothes, she was perfectly happy wandering the streets of a given city in yoga pants and trainers, grabbing easy street food (crêpes in Paris, kebobs in Istanbul, or supplì in Rome) rather than having to dine alone in a restaurant where she feared she’d stick out like a sore thumb simply because she was on her own.

The reality, though, was that she was alone, and she made no mistake about it. The very nature of her job meant she didn’t get to focus on nurturing friendships apart from interacting with a few colleagues in her office. So while Larkin’s professional life was fulfilling, her personal life was somewhat lacking, right alongside with her wardrobe and her sense of self.

Somehow, she wasn’t particularly good at envisioning herself as more than the nuts and bolts reporter she was, even though she had the good fortune of doing it in a wonderful part of the world. After all, she wasn’t stuck covering city sewer commissions into the wee hours of the night back home in Virginia where she grew up. Instead, she could as easily find herself strolling along the Champs-Ëlysées as through the rabbit warren-like alleyways of the medieval medina in Marrakesh. In some ways, it was a gilded life she led, but somehow she managed to tamp down the exotic nature of it by insisting on being plain old Larkin Mallory, the girl who played flute in her high school marching band and wore thick corrective glasses that perhaps prevented others from seeing her for who she was, which was fine by her.

Larkin was putting the finishing touches on a story about a man who was walking through the Swiss Alps backward when her boss shouted for her.

Mallory, he barked. You’re going to Fashion Week. Milan. I just lost Silvia, who was supposed to cover it. She has bed bugs and isn’t coming back until she’s rid of them. Which means you’re on the Fashion Week beat until I say you aren’t.

Larkin blanched. Fashion Week? She no sooner belonged in the rarified world of high fashion than she belonged in a medical lab concocting the cure to cancer. Both environments were so not in her stratosphere. She knew precisely nothing about fashion except that you put on your clothes every day and hoped they matched. And wearing all black kept you from having to even worry about that.

But Mr. Woodberry, she said, a pleading look in her eyes as if she were a cow imploring the butcher sharpening his knife not to proceed with the slaughter. You’d be better off asking anyone to do that but me. Take Paolo, for instance, she said, pointing at her colleague who stood at the Nespresso machine fixing his fourth espresso of the morning. Paolo, see, he’s Italian. He knows the world of fashion. Just look at him! He dresses in various shades of black, always so chichi and clearly up on the best of what to wear.

Paolo looked up from his task. But of course, he said, tossing back his espresso as he returned to sit at his desk. "La bella figura. It’s the Italian way."

"Bella figura? Larkin said. What the heck is that?"

Paolo stood up again, placing his hands casually in his pockets and striking a pose. He cut quite the handsome figure in his hipster-cut black wool pants and dark gray pinstriped button-down, with a coordinating lighter gray silk tie. His dark hair was perfectly groomed, his face cleanly shaven, his sleek shoes polished and stylish. La bella figura is the Italian way of life, he said, adjusting the knot in his necktie, punctuating his point. It’s about presenting our best face to the world. He swept his hands along his body as if to demonstrate.

Larkin nodded. So yeah, she said, nodding at her colleague. That.

That? Piers said.

I mean Paolo’s your man, she said. He’d be perfect to cover Fashion Week. He’s clearly knowledgeable about it and very fashion forward. He’s Italian, and that helps. Plus, he’s handsome, which I’m sure will get him in with all the beautiful fashion models for interviews and such.

Her boss shook his head. Too late, he said. Paolo’s traveling with the Pope to Africa.

Awwww, man, she said. I’d love to go with the Pope to Africa. I’d do a great job. I like that Pope. He’s a good guy. Besides, I’m Catholic. He’s my people. Of course, she knew Paolo was likely even more Catholic than she, being Italian and all.

No can do, Piers said, shaking his head. Paolo’s up on his shots and has been taking his malaria medicine. Besides, you don’t cover someone to be a cheerleader for them. If I wanted that, I’d give you pom-poms and a megaphone. Sorry, Mallory, everyone around here is locked into assignments and you’re the only one I can spare, he said, tapping her on the nose with the tip of his pen. That’s what comes with being low man on the totem pole. But chin up! Maybe you can get some fashion pointers while you’re there.

Larkin sighed and grumbled. Fashion pointers, indeed. Crap. It was going to feel like high school all over again: the dowdy girl in the band trying to blend in with the prima donna in-crowd beauties. This was going to suck massively.

Chapter Two

His Royal Highness, Monaforte’s Prince Luca Francesco DeMaio, Duke of Bartolomea, had the reputation of being a bit of a player. If you asked him if this was indeed fact, he’d flat out deny it. Although he did make a point of never publicly responding to such assertions, opting instead to do his own thing and not caring about whatever judgments were made about him. He was all about enjoying his life and couldn’t be bothered with what others thought of him, even if maybe he did tend to opt for the love the one you’re with philosophy more than your average guy.

Nevertheless, he was easy to judge, what with his soothing blue eyes and fresh-out-of-bed head of wavy black hair, and so the tabloids loved to regale readers with eyewitness accounts of his latest conquests, most of whom were famous celebrities, supermodels, and other European royalty. Luca’s reputed love interests seemed to enter and exit through a revolving door with the regularity of the change of seasonal fashions, a veritable parade of who’s who and who’s wearing what. Which was fitting, since the prince was often seen with them at the premier fashion events in New York, Paris, and Milan.

He hadn’t planned to attend Milan this time, however, until his friend and distant cousin, Alessandro Romeo, principal of the world-famous Cantine Marchesi Romeo, makers of some of the best Chiantis Italy had to offer, enlisted his support at the last minute.

"I’m begging you, mio cugino, he said, imploring his cousin in his Italian-interspersed English, you know I wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t important to me."

Important to Sandro meant that his latest girlfriend, one very tall, very thin, very demanding Gia Sandretti, was walking the catwalk for one of the hottest new Italian designers, and Sandro had promised to bring along plenty of moral support. Not like she’d have a cheering squad or anything while strutting her stuff, but Sandro knew that it mattered to Gia, and he knew his cousin would be happy to accommodate him.

Dude, no need to grovel, Luca said. That’s what family’s for. I’m totally down with a few days in Milano, he said. I’ll stay at Nonna’s villa and enjoy some home-cooked meals. It’ll be perfect.

~*~

Sandro greeted Luca as his driver dropped him off in front of Ciao, Bella, a hot new nightclub where all the most beautiful people in Milan could be found. Of course, with this being the Fashion Week launch party, that meant that Ciao, Bella, would be crawling with preternaturally gorgeous humans, all pressed flesh-to-flesh on the dance floor surrounded by a throbbing backbeat and a multitude of sweat-gleaming bodies.

Ciao, Luca, Sandro said, kissing his cousin on both cheeks as was the custom in Italy. Sandro had classically handsome Italian good looks: warm brown eyes, dark hair that was pulled back in a ponytail, and a sexy goatee that women swooned over. "It’s been too long. Grazie mille. Thank you for showing up for Gia’s big debut."

"Mio amico, Luca said to his good friend, how could I refuse? Besides—he gently elbowed Sandro in the ribs—I know you’ll make it worth my while to visit, no? I’ve seen Gia with her friends in all the magazines, one more stunning than the other. Who do you have lined up for me tonight?"

Sandro shook his head. Surely you don’t want me to choose for you, he said. I presumed you’d rather have the pick of the litter yourself. He winked at him as he led Luca past a long line of club goers hoping to gain admission into the place. As they reached the front of the line, a large mustachioed bouncer with a shaved head and steroid-swollen arms that looked like they could drill pilings into concrete unhooked the velvet rope to let them by.

The bouncer motioned for them to walk past one more doorman who was vetting the wannabes to his right just as Luca noticed a somewhat plain young woman raising her voice at the man surprisingly loudly. It was amazing that he could even hear her with the din of the crowd in line and the pulse of music seeping out from inside, but for such a tiny thing, her voice sure carried.

Listen, sir, the woman said with a stern no-bullshit voice, flicking her wavy, long blond hair back over her shoulder as she reached for some sort of pass dangling from her neck. Luca turned to stare at her. Something about her was intriguing despite her somewhat plain appearance, garbed as she was in a nondescript gray smock dress, simple flat shoes, and large glasses that obscured too much of her face. She was clearly not a fashionista; the woman looked nothing like the type of guests he’d expect to be in attendance. I have a press pass, see? she said in her American accent as she pointed to the name tag dangling from her neck. I’m allowed to be here.

The only problem was that the bouncer clearly spoke no English and appeared to be fluent only in the language of beautiful people. In other words, if you were extraordinarily beautiful, you got in. If not, you were out of luck. He folded his arms across his ample chest, frowned, and shook his head, pointing past the woman’s shoulder and looking through her as if she were invisible, indicating in no uncertain terms that she should leave.

The woman started