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Between fashion events, Stefano took Tess and Esme to see the sights of Milan. He seemed to relish her gasps at every tourist attraction. As she went into raptures over the Duomo or the Teatro alla Scala, he always kissed her, which made her blush. Which made him kiss her more.
Family was what mattered. Her baby’s happiness mattered. Tess’s romantic dreams? Those were in the past, to be put away like childhood toys.
But, sometimes, she had to hide how much it hurt.
Stefano wasn’t always happy, either. She knew he was brooding about the upcoming Mercurio show and the stalled negotiations for Zacco. Sometimes, she caught him glaring at nothing, his hands clenched. Once she overheard him yelling at his lawyers. Apparently, they’d hit a brick wall. The Montfort woman was still flatly refusing to sell.
The afternoon before they left Milan, Stefano announced they needed a getaway and took them to a villa on Lake Como owned by one of his friends. There, their family had a picnic on the terrace, beneath a rose-covered trellis.
As their baby played, Tess looked out at the autumn sunlight shining off the lake, matching the soft glow in Stefano’s dark eyes. Sitting beside her at the stone table, he took her in his arms as the first cold wind blew down from the mountains across Lake Como.
How can you be so cruel? Tess thought wildly, looking up into the gleam of his dark eyes. How can he look at me like that unless he loves me?
I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea... I’d never want to make you unhappy or break your heart.
Remembering his words, she felt a chill. Whatever she imagined in his eyes, she couldn’t let herself believe it. He’d told her outright not to love him. So she wouldn’t. Her heart ached. What else could she believe in?
She had to find a new dream. But what?
Then she suddenly knew.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HANDS IN POCKETS, Stefano paced back and forth across his sprawling Paris apartment. He stopped, turning to glare at Tess, who was sitting in a chair, getting her hair and makeup done.
“Where is it?” he demanded for the tenth time. She gave him a tranquil smile.
“It will be here. Any minute.”
“What’s taking so long?” he growled, clawing back his hair. “We’re supposed to leave in ten minutes.”
“We have time.”
He exhaled, grateful for Tess’s calm smile. He didn’t know what he’d do without her. It was funny, he thought. He’d owned this Paris apartment for years, the entire top floor of an exclusive building in the 7th arrondissement, with balconies overlooking the Eiffel Tower and autumn-hued trees of the Champ de Mars. It had never felt like home to him. Now, having a family here, it did. Esme didn’t just have her own bedroom, she had her own nursery suite. Ann Carter was already there, playing with the baby.
“I’m dying to see Mercurio’s new spring collection,” said Genevieve Vincent, the stylist doing Tess’s hair, a friend of his. She smiled, tilting her head. “I’m sure you’ve already seen it, Stefano. What’s your honest opinion? I promise not to mention it in my blog—much.”
“Sorry, Genevieve. I can’t discuss it,” Stefano said. “But it’s going to be amazing.”
“Really? So you have seen it.” Genevieve looked hopeful. “Amazing, eh? Can I take that as a quote?”
He hesitated. The truth was, Caspar von Schreck, his new designer, had refused to let Stefano see any of the designs in advance, saying it would interfere with his creative process. But the man had promised to send samples of the best dresses for Tess to wear to the big runway show tonight.
The last thing Stefano needed was for rumors like “CEO tepid about new collection” to sink Mercurio’s new season before it even started. Praise seemed safe enough.
“It’s wonderful,” he said firmly. “The whole world will be impressed. And, yes, quote me.”
There was a hard knock at the door. The three of them looked at one another.
“See, Stefano?” Tess said cheerfully. “You worried over nothing!”
He heard his bodyguard in the foyer, answering the door. A moment later, Leon rolled in a large garment rack. The clothing was hidden by a thick canvas printed with the Mercurio logo of big block Ms.
“Finally,” Stefano said under his breath. Hurrying forward, he yanked off the cover.
His eyes went wide. Only three hangers, looking forlorn, hung from the enormous rack. He grabbed the first dress, hoping to be reassured that the new collection would be the success that Mercurio—and he—so desperately needed.
But he couldn’t make sense of it. He looked at the first dress, then the next, then the last. All three dresses were an unattractive shade of beige, with ragged, asymmetrical hems and strangely placed cutouts on the hips and breasts that seemed to defy the bounds of decency.
