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“I love you,” she whispered. “I love you, Stefano.”
*
The next morning, Stefano woke with a strange feeling in his chest, finding he’d cradled Tess naked in his arms the whole night as they’d slept. A flash of vertigo went through him, leaving him woozy and sick.
I love you, Stefano.
He could still hear the tremble of Tess’s voice last night, see the piercing emotion in her emerald eyes. He’d been deep inside her, his whole body shuddering with pleasure, but when she’d spoken the words, something had gone through him, something greater than joy. Overwhelmed, he’d kissed her, again and again as she’d softly wept.
“I was so scared to tell you,” she whispered, pressing her cheek against his naked chest.
“Don’t be scared,” he’d said, his heart in his throat. And he’d found himself whispering love poetry in Italian he’d thought he’d forgotten. Since they’d arrived in Sicily, the prison of his childhood had become paradise.
He’d kissed her again, then held her until they’d both slept with their naked bodies intertwined. And for that brief moment, everything had felt right to him.
Waking in the morning was different.
I love you, Stefano.
A chill went down his spine. A pounding anxiety formed at the base of his brain. He looked at Tess, cuddled against him beneath the blanket, her beautiful face tender, smiling in her sleep.
Stefano couldn’t breathe.
He had to get out of here.
Jumping up, he went to the closet. Pulling on boxers and dark trousers, he grabbed a suitcase that Salvatore had unpacked for them the night before. He came back toward the wardrobe.
“What are you doing?”
He saw Tess watching him in the shadowy pink light. Sleepy as a kitten, she looked soft and adorable and it made the feeling in his chest tighten a little more.
“Getting dressed.”
She yawned, stretching her arms. “Is the baby awake?”
“No, not yet.”
He thought of how he’d quoted love poetry last night, and he felt sick. It didn’t mean anything, he told himself. A man could not be held to account for what he might say in the arms of a beautiful woman.
But he knew what was really happening. Why he’d slept in her arms last night better than he ever had before. And that he must not—could not—let it happen. Because the moment he relaxed, the moment he surrendered to emotional weakness, everything would crumble beneath his feet.
Stay in control, he ordered himself, clenching his hands at his sides. You feel nothing.
“Stefano?”
“I have to go,” he said flatly.
“What?” She sat up in bed, looking shocked. “Go where?”
“I must return to Paris to start the search for Mercurio’s new designer. And then London, to see if I can convince Fenella Montfort to sell her shares.”
But even as he spoke, he knew there was no way to buy Zacco now. Not unless he sold everything he owned outright, and maybe not even then. The woman had made it clear she had no desire to sell.
But Stefano had to give Tess some reason for his departure, and he couldn’t explain the real reason. Not when he barely understood it himself.
“Oh.” Tess looked down at her body, still covered by the luxurious cotton sheets. She gave him a forced, cheerful smile. “I guess it was silly of me to think we could stay in Sicily forever. Of course not. You run a billion-dollar conglomerate. So when do we leave?”
“I’m leaving now.” He paused. “You and Esme will remain.”
