LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

      “Miss Foster?” the manager demanded.

      Tess felt Stefano’s strong arms tighten around her, pressing her body against his powerful chest. As she looked at him, her lips tingled from his savage kiss by Times Square.

      “No,” she admitted, her heart in her throat. “He’s right. I fainted.”

      Stefano turned icily to the manager. “I’m taking her to my suite, Loggia. Send up the doctor. And room service. What would you like?” he asked Tess.

      Food. He was talking about food? She shook her head dimly. “I don’t care.”

      “Are you sure you don’t want me to call Mrs. Moretti?” the manager asked her with a frown.

      For a moment, Tess was tempted to take the offered escape. Then she glanced back at her whining, hungry baby in the stroller. She knew what it was like to grow up without a father. If there was even a chance that Stefano wanted to be part of their baby’s life, didn’t she have to find out?

      Even if that meant she had to take a paternity test to make him finally believe her.

      “It’s all right, Mr. Loggia,” she said, quietly resigned. “I want to go with him.”

      She felt Stefano’s arms relax slightly.

      “If you’re sure,” the manager said, looking between them in disbelief. “I’ll have room service send up your usual at once. And the hotel doctor, as well.”

      “Grazie,” Stefano bit out sardonically, and turned away, carrying her to the elevator. The doorman pushed the stroller behind them.

      “Mr. Loggia doesn’t seem to like you much,” Tess said.

      “No,” he agreed, not seeming perturbed about it. “In spite of the fact I’m their highest-paying guest. But his bastard boss despises me.”

      “Cristiano hates you?” Tess blinked in surprise. “Why would he?”

      “You know Moretti?”

      “His wife Hallie is one of my best friends.”

      “Ah.” He shrugged. “He and I were drivers in a charity car race last year. We were fighting for the win. His car was in my way, so I—very gently—bumped him over.”

      “You hit his car?”

      “He was blocking me. Cheating. He left me no choice. After I won, he tried to punch me in the face.”

      Tess couldn’t imagine Cristiano losing his temper. He seemed so nice, especially tonight, when he’d declared his love for Hallie. “He punched you?”

      “I said he tried to.” Stefano hid a smug smile. “His friends held him back. I felt no need to return his attack. He simply couldn’t accept that his attempts to sabotage me in the race had failed and I’d still managed to win.”

      “Winning isn’t everything.”

      He looked at her in disbelief. “Of course it is.”

      The elevator door opened, and he carried her inside, with the doorman and the stroller behind them.

      “If you dislike Cristiano Moretti so much, why do you stay at his hotel?”

      “Because it amuses me to force him and his manager to serve me.”

      “They might spit in your food.”

      “They would not dare. Would they, Dalton?”

      “Certainly not,” the doorman replied indignantly. He added with a grin, “You tip far too well for that, Your Highness.”

      Stefano returned his grin, then looked at Tess. “Besides. I know Moretti, and he has too much pride in his hotel to ever serve any guest badly. Even me. He contents himself by merely marking up my bill to an exorbitant amount.”

      Tess glanced at Dalton, feeling awkward to be discussing Cristiano like this, in front of one of his employees. She asked Stefano helplessly, “Don’t you mind all the conflict?”

      “No.”

      “You like it!” she accused.

      Stefano said with a careless smile, “A man can be measured by the quality of his enemies.”

      “My mother used to say that you can be measured by the strength of your love for family and friends.”

      He snorted. “That is the most sentimental thing I have ever heard in my life. What was your mother’s profession?”

      “Theater actress.” A flash of grief went through her as she thought of her loving but impractical mother, dragging her as a child through summer stock plays and minor roles in small New England towns. She added softly, “Though she was never very successful at it.”

      “And your father?”

      She felt a different kind of grief. “My mother raised me alone.” She raised her chin. “You can set me down anytime. I’m perfectly able to stand.”

      “Not yet,” he said shortly. “Not until we reach my suite.”

      With a sigh, Tess watched the elevator numbers go higher. Her baby gave another soft whine from the stroller. Esme was tired and she needed to be fed. At this rate, they wouldn’t be home till midnight. Tess hated the thought of coming home so late and facing her uncle’s wrath.

      The elevator door slid open, and Stefano carried her down the hall. As Dalton held open the door, he took her into the suite.

      Tess looked around her in amazement.

      The royal suite was lavish, spread out across the corner of one of the Campania’s highest floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows provided views of Manhattan from every room. Carrying her into the elegant living room, which had a grand piano in the corner, Stefano finally set her down gently on a white sofa.

      “Are you cold? Do you want a blanket?”

      “You’re being ridiculous. I’m not an invalid.” She started to get up from the sofa, then felt dizzy and fell back against the pillows. “I just want my baby—”

      Without a word, Stefano went back to the foyer. She saw him reach into his pocket.

      “Thank you,” he said, handing Dalton a folded fistful of bills.

      “You’re so welcome,” the doorman replied fervently, and, with a respectful nod toward Tess, he left.

      Kneeling in front of the stroller, Stefano unbuckled the unhappy baby, lifting her up into his arms.

      Father

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