At the center of the village, near a small, well-maintained church, outdoor cafés lined a square filled with tourists taking pictures of the lavishly sculptured stone fountain.
“I thought you said it was a ruin,” Tess breathed as the convertible slowed. “A ghost town.”
Stefano was staring around with amazement that exceeded her own. “It was.” Blinking hard as if he didn’t believe his own eyes, he looked back at it through the rearview mirror. “The fountain—did you see that? It had water! It never did before.”
Tess tilted her head. “So it’s changed since you left?”
“Yes...” Stefano’s eyes widened. “But I never thought...” Not finishing the thought, he pressed on the gas. The red convertible flew up the next hill, as, in the back seat, Esme giggled and clapped her hands, clearly relishing the wind on her face.
Tess smiled back at her baby, then looked out at the rolling hills and took a deep breath of the fresh, fragrant air.
“It’s more beautiful than I ever imagined.” She held her hand out, in the direction of the sheep placidly grazing in a nearby field, and felt almost like she was flying. She looked at him. “I can’t believe I’m princess of this magical place.”
“Magical is right.” Shaking his head, he gave an amazed laugh. “Tourists. In Gioreale.”
Leaning back against the soft leather seat, Tess closed her eyes. She tried to remember the last time she’d felt so happy. The drama of Paris already felt like a world away.
Stefano had told her that his company’s stock price was down nine percent. Costing him hundreds of millions of euros.
Costing him Zacco.
Which wasn’t to say Mercurio hadn’t gotten lots of press. It had mostly just been negative. The story was everywhere, first of the runway show itself, with the models in animal masks, capped by poor Kebe tripping and falling into the audience; then of the aftermath. The video of Tess chewing out Caspar von Schreck had already been viewed a million times. Many people were calling her defense of the young model admirable, but a good few had been insulting and rude, asking how a mere trophy wife had the right to attack a true artist like von Schreck. The one thing everyone agreed on: Mercurio might not survive this disaster.
It was all so horrifying that Tess had quit social media entirely. On the flight to Sicily, she’d called Hallie and Lola. Her friends had both been indignant on her behalf.
“Some bully was yelling at a girl? Of course you had to say something,” Hallie said.
“You can’t let bullies win,” Lola had said, her voice oddly restrained.
Tess had been happy to hear her friends’ voices. Stefano had spent much of the flight pacing, speaking tersely to shareholders and board members from Buenos Aires to Berlin. Grimly he’d laid down the law: no new clothing would be manufactured or shipped out until they’d found a new designer. It would be a crushing blow for their business, especially the flagship boutique in New York.
But they’d left that all behind. In the convertible, Tess glanced at Stefano out of the corner of her eye. He was so handsome, and never more so than now.
Golden sunlight frosted the edges of his strong features, his black eyes and olive-toned skin. His square jawline was already dark with five-o’clock shadow, though it was only noon. His short dark hair waved in the wind as his hands gripped the steering wheel.
How would Stefano feel if he lost Mercurio, on top of Zacco?
She couldn’t bear to think of it. Not when he meant the world to her. Not when she...
“Look.” He nodded forward. “The castello di Gioreale.”
Following his gaze, she gasped.
At the top of the hill was an old fortified castle, surrounded by vineyards and lit up by sunshine.
“Wow,” she breathed. Not only had he made her a princess, but he’d brought her to his castle, just like a fairy-tale prince. All her childhood dreams were coming true.
Especially this. Especially him. Looking at Stefano, her handsome prince, a lump rose in her throat. He was an incredible lover. An amazing husband. A wonderful father.
He could have been angry at her—for causing the scene with von Schreck, and for wearing her own design on the red carpet. Instead, he’d supported her. He’d announced proudly that the dress was Tess’s own design. He’d protected her from von Schreck when the man had tried to hit her. And then he’d brought her here. Tess looked at him, her heart in her throat.
Dust kicked up around them as Stefano drove the vintage red convertible behind the castle. Stopping the car, he got out and rolled up a garage door, then drove into a stable that had been converted into a six-car garage.
“No wonder it’s not locked.” Turning off the gas, he looked around. The converted stable was mostly empty inside, with only a few old estate cars. “My father used to fill this with his Ferraris.” He gave her a smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “Let’s see what else has changed.”
Lifting their baby out of the car seat, Tess waited as he took three small suitcases from the tiny trunk of the convertible. Then she followed him out of the garage.
Outside, the stone castle was sprawling and magnificent. Manicured gardens stretched to the edge of endless vineyards, broken up by pretty clusters of trees. Far below, at the bottom of the hills, she could see the smoky blue haze of the sea.
Tilting back her head, she looked up at the castle in awe. Red bougainvillea climbed the walls like scarlet flames. Tears filled her eyes.
“What do you think?” Stefano said quietly.
Turning to face him, she tried to smile, holding their baby on her hip.
“I love it,” she whispered. She lifted her tremulous gaze to his. “I just can’t believe it’s real.”
He grinned. “Oh, it’s real, all right. As you’ll discover once you actually live in it. The castle was built in the late Middle Ages, but the foundations are much older. It was a palace in the days of the emirate.”
“Emirate?”
“Sicily was the crossroads of the Mediterranean. Everyone’s had a piece of it at one time or another. Ancient Greeks, Romans, Vikings, Arabs, Normans, Spaniards. And now Italians.” He shrugged. “Conquerors come and go. My own ancestors came to Sicily six hundred years ago, in service to the king of Aragon.”
It all sounded very romantic to Tess. She imagined the clash of swords between knights, a damsel languishing in a rose-covered bower. “It sounds lovely.”
He gave her a strange look. “Lovely?”
“Romantic.”
He snorted. “That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose.” Gazing up at the castle, he said, “I haven’t been home in a long time.”
“Everyone will be so excited to see you!”
“They all hated my father.” He lifted their suitcases higher against his shoulders. “I doubt they’ll be glad to see me.”
The back door of the castle was unlocked. Inside, it was dark and quiet. Tess craned her head. The closest she’d ever been to the inside of a castle was the time she’d visited the Cloisters, the medieval museum in northern Manhattan.
She looked down at her feet. Even the floor appeared ancient, with a worn, colorful mosaic that looked almost Byzantine. Everything was old. The walls were rough stone, and the furniture was obviously hundreds of years old. There was actually a suit of armor in