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“Thank you, Dalton,” she whispered. Then she glared at the powerful man carrying her. “Put me down.”
“No.” Stefano kept walking. His handsome face was implacable. “You fainted on the street.”
“I’m better now,” she said, struggling in his arms. “Put me down.”
His arms tightened around her. “When is the last time you ate?”
Tess struggled to remember. “This morning?”
“Aren’t you sure?”
She shook her head weakly. “I started work at four. The bakery opens at six, and my uncle doesn’t approve of eating in front of customers. On breaks I’m busy with Esme.” She looked away. “I meant to eat something tonight, but I had to feed Esme. So I just had a glass of champagne.” She put her hand on her forehead, still feeling dizzy. “She’s been teething, so I didn’t sleep much last night...”
Stefano shook his head as they approached the hotel’s gilded revolving door. “I’m taking you upstairs until a doctor looks you over.”
“It’s not necessary,” she said desperately. The last thing she wanted was to be vulnerable—in his arms or his hotel suite.
“A doctor,” he repeated, his glare fierce. “He’ll make sure you’re all right. Then we’ll get a paternity test.”
She stiffened in his arms even as he carried her through the door. How could he ask for a test? Her word should be enough!
The grand lobby of the Campania was huge and luxurious, with midcentury decor and turn-of-the-century architecture. Molded plaster ceilings with crystal chandeliers soared high above the marble floor and paneled walls. Glamorous hotel guests and patrons crowded around the gleaming oak bar at the center.
Tess felt conspicuous as they walked past. They made a strange parade, with Stefano carrying her in his arms and the doorman pushing the stroller behind them. People turned to stare.
A group of gorgeous, very tall, very thin young women gaped at them openly from their table at the lobby bar. Models, Tess thought. They were their own tribe in this city, and you could always tell.
“Good evening, Your Highness,” a man said as he passed, his eyes wide.
“Your Highness,” a woman greeted him, looking as if she were dying to ask all kinds of questions.
Stefano responded only with a nod and kept walking.
“Your Highness?” Tess looked up at him. “That other girl called you that earlier. I thought it was a joke.”
“I’m technically a prince,” he said tersely.
“Technically?”
“Italy is a republic. Aristocratic titles are now merely honorary,” he said flatly. “But my ancestors have been princes of Gioreale for hundreds of years.”
“Gioreale is a place?”
“In Sicily. Once it was an important market village. Now it’s a ghost of its former self. That is what I am.” His lips curved. “Prince of ghosts.”
Prince of ghosts. She thought she saw something haunted in his eyes. What was it? Emptiness? Pain? Despair?
“Miss Foster.” Mr. Loggia, the hotel’s general manager, came forward with an anxious frown. “What has happened? Are you injured?”
“She fainted, sir,” the doorman said from behind them. “Prince Stefano alerted me from down the street, and I rushed to help.”
“I see.” The manager, who’d never been anything but kind to Tess, turned to Stefano with a scowl. “What did you do?”
Stefano replied coldly in Italian, and the manager responded in the same language, lifting his chin.
Mr. Loggia whirled to face her. “Is he taking you against your will?”
Stefano bit out something in Italian that sounded very rude.
