His executive assistant, Agathe, had told Tess privately that when her young grandson had fallen desperately ill the previous year, Stefano had flown the boy to Switzerland and paid for him to get experimental treatment. Tears rose to the Frenchwoman’s eyes. “My grandson might not be alive now if not for Prince Stefano’s kindness. But he won’t let me thank him, or even mention it.”
It was a story Tess would hear again and again. The very next day, the head of a children’s charity had come up to Tess at a party. “Prince Stefano has given our charity millions, but he insists on complete anonymity. He won’t let us thank him, so I’m thanking you. He’s made such a difference.” Wiping his eyes, the elderly man had smiled. “But you’re his wife. You know how he is.”
She hadn’t, though she was quickly learning.
Returning to the Leighton from a party, Stefano and Tess had overheard the night manager talking anxiously on the phone. He had a relative trapped in another country, and war had broken out. Stefano had interrupted. “Call this number,” he’d said, handing the distraught manager a card. “Your relative will be evacuated within the day.”
When the older man tried to tearfully thank him, Stefano brushed him off. “It’s nothing. Anyone would do the same.”
Tess doubted that. After all, the manager wasn’t Stefano’s friend or even his employee. He was simply someone who happened to work at Stefano’s favorite London hotel. But Stefano chose to get involved.
At his own company, Gioreale S.p.A., she learned Stefano was revered for the way he promoted his employees, based not on who they knew or where they’d gone to school, but purely on their hard work and talent. The company’s social marketing manager, a former addict who’d gone to prison for two years before getting clean, had made a point of finding Tess at a runway show to tell her, “No one else wanted to hire me, but Prince Stefano gave me a chance. He changed my life.”
Over and over, she heard these whispered stories of secret kindness, of changed lives. But whenever she tried to ask Stefano about it, he was brusque.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I hired Thomas Martin because he’s the best damn social media director in Europe.” He gave a swift smile. “You know me. I just want the best.”
For some reason, he seemed embarrassed by his kindness, as if it was a weakness. But his employees worked hard to please him, and he returned their loyalty in full, paying them double what other firms paid. It was almost shocking, Tess thought, in this modern age, to see a boss who cared more about his employees than about maximizing every penny of profit.
Who wouldn’t love a man like that?
Not her, Tess told herself stonily. She felt nothing for him at all, except—except friendship. And pride, perhaps, but who could blame her?
Their last morning in London, Tess woke up before dawn in their hotel suite, thinking she’d heard a noise from Esme’s room. She yawned, glancing at the clock. It was just past four.
Stefano’s side of the bed was empty. He’d made love to Tess before midnight, then she’d fallen asleep in his arms. He must have gotten up to make an overseas phone call, she thought, perhaps to the Tokyo office. His appetite for work was superhuman. It was what had made him so successful, but sometimes she wondered how anyone could work so hard, and sleep so little.
Blearily she stuck her feet into slippers and pulled on a robe, then headed to Esme’s room to feed and change her. She stopped when she heard a noise inside.
Peeking through the open door, she saw to her surprise that Stefano was sitting in the rocking chair, tenderly crooning an Italian lullaby to Esme. The baby, cradled against his powerful chest, was holding a bottle and staring up at her father with big, adoring eyes.
At the tender image, Tess’s knees went weak. She closed her eyes, leaning against the hallway wall for support. Seeing the way he was caring for their child in the middle of the night, deliberately leaving Tess to sleep, made her eyes fill with tears.
Perhaps he didn’t know how to love Tess. But he cared for her, and he loved their child.
Holding her breath, she watched as he rocked the baby to sleep, then took the empty bottle from her lips and lifted her carefully into the crib. For a moment, he watched their baby sleep, and Tess’s heart swelled in her chest. Then, with a sigh, he started to turn.
Hurriedly Tess ducked back down the hall. Rushing back to their bedroom, she leaped into bed, pretending to be asleep in the dark. A moment later, she felt him climb into bed beside her.
“Stefano?” she whispered.
He paused. “I was just checking on the baby. She’s fine.” He kissed her forehead. “Go back to sleep.”
Who wouldn’t love a man like that?
Not her, Tess repeated to herself desperately. She’d been burned. She’d been warned outright. She wasn’t stupid enough to go back for second helpings of pain!
She liked him, that was all. They shared a child. Shared a life. She liked how he listened when she talked, as if every word she said was fascinating. She liked how he looked at her, as if she was the most beautiful creature in the world. She liked how he cared for their baby so carefully, learning how to be a father when he’d barely had one himself.
She wouldn’t love him. Of course she would not.
Fiercely determined, she held back her heart. She felt like she was clinging to the edge of an abyss, with white knuckles. It almost seemed like he was taunting her, the way he’d suddenly become the man she’d always dreamed of. Desperately she looked for his flaws.
After London, they spent an idyllic week in Milan, attending the most important runway shows and parties, staying in the best suite in the best hotel in the city. See? Flaw!
“You always want the best of everything,” Tess grumbled, rolling her eyes.
“Yes, I do,” he said huskily, pulling her into his arms. “Why do you think I married you?”
He kissed her, his lips hot and smooth as silk. Another flaw, she thought. His kisses. They tempted her to believe lies and to want things she could not have. Specifically: his heart.
It was like he wanted to destroy her.
She hid her growing misery over the next week in Milan as she wore new couture dresses every night, made by famous Italian designers that she’d previously only seen in magazines. Stylists did her makeup and hair. With their wonderful nanny watching their contented baby, Tess and Stefano went out every night. She met fascinating people, made lots of new friends, ate delicious food and, best of all, wore designer clothes to every event. Clothes that felt like art.
Clothes that, in her growing panic, suddenly felt like her only escape.
Growing up, Tess had often played dress-up, trying on her mother’s old costumes from an ancient trunk that had always come with them wherever they traveled.
After her mother died, her uncle had refused to allow Tess to bring the trunk into the already crowded apartment above the bakery. But Tess had never forgotten the difference clothes could make.
On the nights her mother performed on stage, Tess had seen the transformation. Clothes could change who you were and who people took you to be. Clothes could make you appear—even make you feel—old or young, hopeful or sad, rich or poor. Clothes could make you stand out or they could make you disappear. During her lonely years in high school in Brooklyn, when she couldn’t afford to buy new clothes, Tess had learned to sew.
Getting into fashion design school had been the happiest day of her life. She’d won a scholarship with her good grades, but she’d still had to scrimp and save for two years, which made her older than most of