Author Niki Burnham

Prince Federico diTalora of San Rimini was all too aware of his dreaded nickname, "Prince Perfect." But when he met his sister-in-law's friend, Pia Renati, the widowed father became aware of other things. And that would never do. He had his royal duties, not to mention his two young sons, to think about.

Though Pia was in San Rimini—temporarily—to serve as a de facto midwife to her best friend, the prince with the Mediteranean good looks and unimpeachable reputation soon had another proposition for her: be nanny to his children. Pia, however, found herself wanting to shake up Federico's family life in a completely different way. But can a man so blinded by duty ever see what's in his own heart? What if the perfect prince is an imperfect man?

Falling for Prince Federico
Silhouette Romance
August 2004
ISBN: 0373197322

When Nicole was writing the the first three books in her San Rimini series (which also includes Going to the Castle, The Prince's Tutor, and The Knight's Kiss), she knew she'd eventually write a story about Federico. Though he was a secondary character in the first three books (and unhappily married in the first two), she received as many e-mails about the ultra-formal prince as she did about the main characters in the other books. Readers suspected he had a heart under all his pomp and circumstance, and they wanted to see it.

Then, when Nicole was going back and reading through e-mails she'd received asking about Pia Renati, a secondary character from Going to the Castle who distrusted the rich and famous, story ideas started spinning in her head. Perhaps opposites could attract...and Pia could end up falling for Prince Federico.

"...gosh darn it, Nicole Burnham is good...there's an effortless flow to the story, the dialogue rings true, and both Nick and Isabella were real people... Readers of series romances who don't know Nicole Burnham should definitely check her out."
—All About Romance

"Four stars...Devastatingly romantic."
—RomanticTimes Bookclub Magazine

Chapter One

I'm never going to be able to tell a placenta previa from a placenta accreta."

Pia Renati tried to keep her grumbling under her breath as she leaned one shoulder against the backlit cellular phone ad adorning the wall of the San Rimini International Airport and flipped to the next page of a thick, floral-jacketed pregnancy guide. How in the world did women have babies without a medical degree?

And why in the world had she gotten the call when her friend Jennifer Allen—now Princess Jennifer diTalora—needed someone to come stay with her during her obstetrician-imposed bedrest?

Pia's friends always looked to her in a disaster. As Pia's former boss at the refugee camp where they'd worked two years ago, Jennifer knew that better than anyone. Setting up food banks for refugees in Third World nations came as naturally to Pia as walking. Helping to build temporary housing under a hot African sun? Transporting victims of war to medical facilities, or reuniting them with loved ones? Been there, done that. As a relief worker, Pia didn't fear hard work. But caring for a pregnant woman due to deliver the newest heir to San Rimini's throne at any time? What Pia knew about pregnancy and kids she'd learned in the last hour.

Her own mother hadn't exactly emulated Carol Brady or June Cleaver. Even Peg Bundy would have been an improvement over the perpetually-absent Sabrina Renati. At least Peg was home while she sat in front of the TV eating bonbons. But Jennifer insisted she wanted Pia by her side, and Pia wasn't about to say no to a pregnant princess.

Pia skipped to the next section of the pregnancy guide Jennifer sent her, nearly dropping it to the floor of the crowded airport terminal when faced with a full-page black and white photo of a woman giving birth. Couldn't these books leave anything to the imagination? Yeesh. Well, she supposed it could have been in color.

"Signorina Renati?"

Pia barely heard the smooth baritone behind her, since at that exact moment the airport's public announcement system loudly requested that a Signore Ponizio pick up the white courtesy telephone. Instead, a sudden sense of foreboding made Pia snap the book shut. The hum of conversation around her ceased and every single set of eyes on the concourse focused on the man behind her.

Without turning around, Pia realized who had to own the distinctive, opera-caliber voice. It wasn't a palace flunkie as she'd expected, coming to show her the way to his Volkswagen minivan, but quite arguably the world's most desired single male, the recently-widowed Prince Federico Constantin diTalora. The man known by tabloid readers everywhere as Prince Perfect for his Mediterranean good looks, unimpeachable reputation and his devotion to duty.

Of course. The one time she didn't get the chance to grab a breath mint or fix her makeup before getting off an overnight flight.

Hoping he hadn't been surveying her reading material over her shoulder, Pia forced herself to smile as she turned to face Jennifer's brother-in-law, the man second in line to the thousand-year-old throne of San Rimini.

Judging from the expression on his oft-photographed face, the prince had gotten a good look at the photo in the book.

It had been years since she'd been home and able to speak her native San Riminian-accented Italian, and Pia had been anxious to yak with someone who understood her heritage. Someone who could discuss San Riminian politics, give her the latest gossip about local celebrities, maybe rate the newest restaurants and dance clubs.

But the sight of the famous royal—a six-foot-two, well-toned man who filled out his understated black suit and crisp white shirt as well as any action star walking the red carpet at the Academy Awards—took her aback, and she only managed to get out a feeble, "Prince Federico. Buon giorno. Come sta?"

What in the world was he doing here? Jennifer never mentioned sending Federico to the airport. The dark-haired, blue-eyed prince not only towered over Pia, he possessed that intangible every man coveted—charisma. When they'd been introduced during Jennifer's wedding to Crown Prince Antony nearly a year and a half ago, Pia had been so nervous she'd said the required niceties and quickly ducked back to the reception table where her co-workers from the Haffali refugee camp were seated, overwhelmed by the brief encounter.

Federico and his elegant wife, the late Princess Lucrezia, were polite enough, but both seemed above the festive, romantic atmosphere of the royal wedding. Lucrezia had been everything Pia wasn't—tall, rail-thin, and pale, with dark, straight hair, full red lips, and a catwalk-worthy sense of style. The type of woman every fashion editor clamored to have featured in their magazines.

And Federico...well, his mere presence intimidated the hell out of her. His quiet, composed demeanor, combined with his polished shoes, custom-tailored tuxedo and royal sash had stolen her breath.

And then there were those amazing cheekbones. The strong, smooth jaw that never showed a hint of five o'clock shadow. The even, olive-toned skin she imagined felt like heaven under a woman's fingertips.

Pia clasped the pregnancy book against her sage green cotton T-shirt and wished she'd thought to dress a notch above khaki pants and athletic sandals. At least the last time she'd met Federico, she'd been wearing a high-end bridesmaid's gown and designer heels.

The prince made a subtle gesture with his right hand, and a lean man standing nearby rushed forward to pick up the carry-on bag at Pia's feet. "I am quite well, Ms. Renati, thank you. However, if you do not mind, I would prefer to converse in English. I am attempting to improve my skills, and do not often get the chance to practice with someone who speaks both our language and English so well. You have spent a great deal of time in the United States, yes?"

She nodded. "English is fine." While she would have preferred Italian for casual conversation, having the prince call her Signorina, as was customary in San Rimini, made her feel like a kid, and less mature than her thirty-two years. She held back a sigh. It wasn't as if he was the casual conversation type, anyway.

"Wonderful. I arranged for your suitcase to be delivered directly to the palace by the airline. Princess Jennifer is anxious to see you, so if you are ready to depart, my car is waiting through here." He indicated a set of thick metal doors along the concourse wall. To the right, through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Pia noticed a shiny black Mercedes limousine had parked on the tarmac alongside the airplane she'd just disembarked.

The privilege of being a prince, she supposed. No need to battle for a parking spot, go through endless security checks, or wait for your suitcase alongside a hundred other tired travelers jimmying for position along the baggage claim carousel.

The crowd parted in front of Federico as he led the way through the waiting area and out the gray metal doors. The second the prince's feet hit the stairway leading to the tarmac, the concourse buzzed back to life behind them. Travelers asked each other if the man they'd seen really was the world-famous prince, and if they knew who the woman was he'd met.

Pia held onto the railing as she descended the stairs into the sunlight, forcing herself not to listen to the knot of gawkers forming near the windows. They'd be disappointed if they knew the truth.

"Ms. Renati?"

Pia glanced up at Federico as the driver opened the rear door for her, then realized that the prince was offering his hand to help her into the limousine.

"Oh. Thank you." Did she stick out like a goose among swans, or what?

She slipped her hand into his, and wasn't surprised to find his grasp solid, practiced. He must hand women into fancy cars every day. She ducked her head, praying she wouldn't smack it against the car roof, and hoped that he couldn't tell how nervous his presence—let alone his touch—made her.