Black Sheep Romeo Read online

  Table of Contents

  What people are saying about Jenny Gardiner's books:

  Black Sheep Romeo

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

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  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

  Black Sheep Romeo

  (book two of the Royal Romeos 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

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

  In recent years, she’d planted rice in Indonesia, coffee beans in central Africa, hops in Germany, and was now working with grapes in Italy—although she’d not plant here but instead would help the intensive effort to pick grapes at their peak of ripeness during 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. 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. This time, though, 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 and never to establish her own roots because inevitably, her family was displaced each time her father was assigned to yet another military base. They’d had virtually no time to pack and go, leaving little chance even for farewells. Not that she was one for long good-byes anyhow. It was too painful to make good friends only to watch them in the rearview mirror as her mom drove them down the street yet again en route to a new destination—her father having already moved to his newest post.

  So she’d 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 grew to love this transient existence, with little more than a pack on her back and a pair of Teva sandals or hiking boots 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 at the hands of a suicide bomber in Kunduz Province five years ago, and her mother had quickly remarried and moved on with yet another military man—his best friend, to add insult to injury—leaving no true home for Lizzie to return to.

  Besides, her lifestyle kept things light and carefree and gave her the chance to follow her impulses and—more importantly—trust her instincts. So far, they 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 for 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. Her plan was to stick around for maybe six weeks and perhaps work her way toward Australia or New Zealand just in time for the antipodean summertime. Maybe she’d 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 her 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 around three in the morning, 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, wine-soaked lunches followed by afternoons spent 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 e-mail 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 w
ould 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 visibly 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 yet 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. The word fattoria was often the designation in Italy for small working farms and wineries.

  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 in front of the house.

  “Welcome to beautiful, hospitable Tuscany,” Lizzie muttered as she scrounged in the tiny kitchen for some pasta. She opened the tin of tuna and ate from the can with her fingers 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 ended up snoring loudly in unusual locations—slumped over a hay bale in the barn or facedown at the kitchen table.

  The way things were shaping up so far, this evidently wasn’t going to be one of her favorite destinations. She held out hope that other workers would soon show up to lighten the mood of the place, but not a one had materialized. On the fourth 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 pay it some serious attention with soap and water, she’d be sporting dreadlocks by the end of the week. Using what little warm water was afforded her in the outhouse, Lizzie washed her face, scrubbed her long, dark brown hair, plaited it into two pigtail braids, and tucked herself in for bed, ready for a good night’s sleep. She hadn’t been feeling terrific lately; with a bit of a sore throat and a cough starting to emerge, she felt as if her body was definitely fighting something—maybe just this place—so sleep sounded desperately good.

  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 a host of mice that would be of no help. Where was a fairy godmother when you needed one?

  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 Luigi’s solar plexus, rolled immediately off the other side of the 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, slamming it tightly behind her. She’d had some squeamish experiences occasionally while traveling as what was essentially a migrant worker, but never had she felt personally violated, and this left her shaken to the core.

  As soon as Lizzie was past the sight line of the house, she stopped to put on her hiking boots. She 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 she liked to move on at will, but usually it was when she was good and ready, not because she was nearly assaulted.

  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 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 put some distance between the creepy farmer and herself. Before she could even think about being comfortable, she needed to keep herself safe—the last thing she’d expected to worry about in the welcoming hills of Tuscany.

  Chapter Two

  Matteo Romeo 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 his older brother Sandro—who made him feel like a failure for not wanting to carry on with the family name as expected—Chianti’s inexplicable magnetic pull this time of year made it difficult for him to stay away. He was conflicted about returning, though. When it came right 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. 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 she’d slept 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. Eventually he realized she was much further along than would be humanly possible had he been the baby daddy, and he coerced a confession from her. That’s when 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 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 so. And he did it with a vengeance, traveling first class to the far reaches of the world, first China, then Thailand, next to Africa, and event
ually to Central and South America. He’d enjoyed himself immensely, staying at top-tier hotels and occasionally even bedding down beautiful women in a few of those choice destinations 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 become 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 gasped, wiped her hands on her dress, and ran to him. “Matteo! Finalemente, mio figlio. Finally, my son, 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 kissed him again. “Sit, eat.”

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

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