LITMIR.BIZ

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He’d named his company after his title. It was also the name of his family’s ancient castle in Sicily, as well as the nearby village, neither of which he’d seen since he was a boy.

      It was strange that he suddenly missed it now. For most of his life, he’d thought of Gioreale as the lonely prison of his childhood, before his parents had sent him to an American boarding school at twelve. Why did he now yearn for that warmth, for the scent of lemons and the exotic spice of the Mediterranean Sea?

      Getting in his Ferrari, he drove back to the 7th arrondissement lost in thought. He reached his elegant residential building and parked in the garage, then took the private elevator to the penthouse floor. He felt he’d barely seen Tess or Esme all week.

      He arrived to find his luxurious, sprawling apartment was dark. Of course. They’d gone to bed. He set down his briefcase and hung up his coat. Through the windows, he saw the illuminated Eiffel Tower shining brightly in the night. Then, late as it was, that too went dark.

      He noticed a single light gleaming down the hall. His wife was awake. Tess had waited for him every night, no matter how late, no matter how often he told her she should get her rest.

      “You’re back earlier than usual,” Tess said, smiling. Hiding a yawn, she sat up in bed, setting aside her novel. “I’m so happy you’re home.”

      Her green eyes shone up at him adoringly. As if she—

      As if she—

      No. Stefano turned away, not wanting to see the love in her eyes. He told himself it wasn’t there. Tess would be too smart to love him, knowing it could only bring her pain. He said shortly, “You didn’t need to stay awake.”

      “I don’t mind.” She gave him a wistful smile. “It’s the only way I can see you.”

      Looking at her, he caught his breath. She was wearing his favorite silk negligee, her brilliant red hair tumbling down her shoulders. His eyes drank her in hungrily, down her swanlike neck to the open neckline of her negligee, with the top of her breasts peeking out. Leaning down, he kissed her, and the tension in his shoulders eased.

      When he finally pulled away, she gave a satisfied sigh. Her eyes twinkled. “Now that was definitely worth staying up for.”

      He was tempted to press her back against the bed and make love to her, without another word. Instead, he sat down abruptly beside her. He pulled off one expensive Italian shoe, then the other, tossing them to the floor.

      “What would you think,” he said slowly, “about taking a vacation?”

      “Like a honeymoon?”

      Stefano blinked. “Honeymoon?”

      “Don’t get me wrong,” she said quickly. “I loved Milan and London. And Paris is lovely. It’s just...” She focused on the closed book in her lap. “So much of your time has been spent promoting Mercurio and negotiating for Zacco and working in your Paris office. It would be nice to have a little time just...with us.”

      Stefano stared at her.

      She was right, he realized. They hadn’t had a honeymoon, not a real one. He’d spent the last three weeks dragging her all over Europe, consumed by things that didn’t matter, things that had all come to nothing.

      He looked away. “Sure.”

      “Oh, do you mean it?” She clasped her hands eagerly. “Where?”

      He knew he could suggest all kinds of places. His beach house in St. Barts. A villa in the south of France. A yachting trip around the coast of Sardinia. Exploring the autumn foliage of New England. The Greek Isles.

      Instead, he heard himself say, “Would you like to see my castle in Sicily?”

      Tess’s eyes lit up. “You know I would.”

      “It’s not glamorous. But I was raised there.” He lazily twirled a tendril of her red hair. “You can see the sea. There’s vineyards. A half-ruined village.”

      “Sounds dreamy.”

      He gave a low laugh. “I can’t guarantee that. I haven’t been back to Gioreale since I was twelve.”

      “Gioreale.” Her eyes looked enraptured. “Like your title?”

      “It’s your title now, too,” he reminded her. “Yes, the name is from the castle. And the village is also called Gioreale. But like I said...it’s a ruin.”

      “I remember.” She nodded solemnly. “Prince of ghosts.”

      He barely remembered saying that. But it was true. The last time he’d seen the village, through the back window of the car as his parents’ chauffeur drove him to the airport where he would travel alone to America, Gioreale had looked desolate, the shops abandoned, the young people all gone.

      Tess looked thrilled at the prospect of a visit. “When can we go?”

      “Tomorrow.” He hoped he wasn’t making a mistake taking his family there. His childhood hadn’t been a happy one. Still, Tess seemed overjoyed, and he wanted to get away from the world. What could be more remote than a half-ruined castle in the Sicilian countryside?

      “Thank you,” she whispered, putting her hand on his cheek, rough with five-o’clock shadow. “You’re so good to me.”

      “Am I?” His gaze traced from her full lips to her bare throat. The strap of her lilac-colored negligee had slid down her shoulder. He kissed her bare skin, golden in the lamp’s soft glow.

      Tess’s expression changed. Reaching up, she loosened his tie, tossing it to the floor. Then, with a sensual smile, she switched off the lamp so the only light in the bedroom was the silvery moonlight cascading through the translucent window curtains.

      Desire rushed through him, and amazement. Tess had never initiated lovemaking before. He kissed her hungrily, pushing her back against the enormous bed.

      His hands ran roughly over her silk nightgown, and the even softer silk of her skin. He kissed her with all the passion in his soul, determined to make her body sing. And as he did, he tried to ignore the way his own heart threatened to come alive.

       CHAPTER EIGHT

      TESS SIGHED WITH PLEASURE, closing her eyes as she turned her face to the warm Sicilian sun.

      The wind blew through her hair as Stefano drove the vintage red convertible. Her hair was pulled back with a scarf, and she was wearing a sundress and sandals. From the front seat of the car, she glanced back, smiling as their baby cooed happily from her car seat.

      As soon as they’d arrived in Sicily on Stefano’s smallest private jet, Tess had felt free, like they’d left all their troubles behind, along with their bodyguards, assistants and even the trusted nanny. Stefano’s suits had disappeared, and he wore a casual black T-shirt and jeans that seemed to caress his powerful muscles. It was a different world.

      Leaving the airport behind, they’d driven through the small city of Ragusa, where she’d goggled at an old mansion with stone faces carved into the balconies.

      “The Palazzo Zacco,” he’d told her.

      Her eyebrows rose almost to her hairline. “Zacco?”

      He snorted. “Don’t get excited. It’s not ours. It was built by a totally different family. No—” he’d looked up, switching the car’s gears with a grin “—our little place is up in the hills.”

      They’d traveled the slender coastal road on the edge of the cobalt blue sea. Now they were going deeper into the island, past orange and olive groves. As the road climbed up the hills, they passed vineyards heavy with the last grapes waiting for harvest. In the distance, she saw a village tucked into a small valley.

      “The village of Gioreale,”

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