by Jennie Lucas
The electronic music and flashing lights that added such drama to the darkness abruptly faded with a loud scratching squeal. The Hokey Pokey played on the loudspeakers, the old children’s song sounding somehow threatening rather than playful. The first model disappeared, and new models started rapidly coming down the catwalk one by one, wearing large, cartoonish animal masks that completely covered their heads, as if to distract the audience from all the lumpy beige and greige dresses.
A hush fell across the crowd, then tittering laughter. Camera phones came up.
And that was even before a model wearing a lion mask, who probably couldn’t see well through the huge fuzzy mane, tripped on her high heels and fell off the catwalk, landing on the lap of a senior editor of Vogue Italia. The other models kept walking as if nothing had happened.
Stefano felt his wife’s gentle hand on his arm. She was watching him with worried eyes. He realized his hands had tightened into fists.
The show seemed to last forever. When it was finally over, Caspar von Schreck, the young, trendy designer whom everyone on the Gioreale board of directors had pleaded for Stefano to hire, came out wearing a full lumberjack beard, baggy tweed trousers and an open shirt. Holding his little dog against his chest, he waved at the crowd and bowed as if he had done something amazing.
He had, Stefano realized. With one stroke, he’d just caused Stefano to lose his chance at buying back the company that had been in his family for generations.
No. That wasn’t fair. It wasn’t von Schreck’s fault. It was Stefano’s. He should have insisted on seeing the designs in advance. He should have known that just because the designer was talented, it didn’t also mean that he wasn’t crazy drunk on his own vanity.
“Oh, my God,” a socialite breathed behind them, turning to speak into her camera for social media. “Did you all see that? My Halloween costume is sorted!”
Stefano rose abruptly to his feet, his jaw tight, and headed backstage.
He already knew that the stock price would plummet tomorrow. Even though Stefano was Gioreale’s CEO and primary shareholder, he’d still have to explain this disgrace to other shareholders and the media, and explain how, under his leadership, Mercurio had gone from stock loser to international laughingstock.
“Stefano—”
Behind him, Tess’s voice was pleading, but he didn’t stop for her. He couldn’t.
There was only one person he wanted to talk to right now. And it would be all he could do not to talk with his fists.
*
Tess felt sick to her stomach as she followed Stefano backstage. This was the Mercurio fashion show?
Where was the fashion?
All she’d seen was a bunch of starved-looking girls, many of them younger than her cousins, walking in clothes that looked like ripped-up grocery bags, stumbling down the catwalk in ridiculous animal helmets. It might be called performance art; to Tess it was just silly.
This was the show her husband had so badly wanted to be perfect. She glanced at Stefano’s tight shoulders in his tailored black jacket as he strode ahead of her through the crowd. Although she felt badly for him, something told her that her sympathy would be unwelcome.
Backstage was a madhouse of stylists and models with racks of clothes and people everywhere.
An American reporter, the cohost of an influential morning talk show, stepped into his path, hovering with a live camera crew.
“Your Highness! Prince Stefano! May I get a comment? What did you think of Mercurio’s spring collection?”
“We are, of course, very proud,” Stefano ground out, “to have such a daring, avant-garde artist as our creative director. His vision is world changing.”
Tess could see from her husband’s taut jaw how he really felt about it, no matter the PR spin he was trying to put on it. Then she heard wild yelling and barking.
Turning, she saw Caspar von Schreck loudly berating a young woman. His little dog was barking, adding to the noise. The shamed girl stood in tears, holding the lion mask in her arms.
Tess recognized Kebe, the beautiful model Stefano had once given a ride home in New York. She was the model who’d tripped on stage, Tess realized. She barely looked older than her nineteen-year-old cousin Natalie.
“You idiot,” Caspar von Schreck was screaming into her face, flecks of spittle flying. “You clumsy clod!”
“Please, Mr. von Schreck,” the girl whispered. Her shoulders slumped. “It was an accident...”
“You ruined my show with your incompetence!” the bearded designer shrieked. “I’m going to make sure you never work in this business again!”
Tess moved without even realizing it. She stood between the tearful young girl and the world-famous designer.
The man’s bloodshot eyes narrowed as he sneered at Tess. “And what do you want?”
Tess stuck out her chin. “You’re the one who should never work in this business again, you horrible man!”
A gasp went through backstage, followed by a low, gleeful hiss. The designer’s eyes widened as silence fell and everyone turned to watch.
Von Schreck glared at Tess.
“And who are you?” He looked dismissively over her shimmering green gown. “You didn’t even wear Mercurio to the show. You are nobody!”
Tess felt suddenly calm.
“You’re right,” she said evenly. “I’m nobody. But I know good clothes when I see them, and the three dresses you sent us today were the ugliest clothes in history!”
“The three...” The designer’s eyes widened. “Wait. Are you—?”
“And you must know it, because why else would you force these poor girls to wear animal helmets? You should be ashamed of yourself!”
A low current of malicious laughter went through the backstage area. The designer was obviously not well liked even among his own people.
The designer’s eyes narrowed dangerously as he took a step toward her. “Shut up.”
“How dare you bully everyone!” He’d probably been cruel to his underlings, she thought, just like the poor tearful girl behind her. Imagining someone being so mean to her cousins or her daughter, Tess glared at him. “You might be famous,” she said, her back snapping straight, “but the truth is, you’re nothing but a no-talent hack!”
Von Schreck gave an enraged growl, drawing his hand back, as if to hit Tess across the face.
But his arm was caught.
“Don’t even think about it,” Stefano said coldly. He threw the man’s arm aside. “You’re fired, von Schreck.”
The designer’s face went pale. “Fired?”
“I agree with everything my wife just said.” Stefano looked at him. “Now get the hell out.”
Caspar von Schreck sucked in his breath, his cheeks red as he looked around them, at the live camera crew and the models recording the moment on their camera phones. He stiffened.
“You can’t fire me. I quit!” The designer tossed his head, causing his beard to flutter like a flag. “Mercurio doesn’t deserve my amazing talent.” Looking around, he proclaimed loudly, “Last week, Fenella Montfort offered me a job at Zacco, and I’m going to take it! That’s a real fashion house!” As his dog barked noisily in his arms, he added maliciously, “Didn’t Zacco used to be your company, Your Highness?”
Stefano took a step toward him, his dark eyes glittering. “Get out.”
“Good luck finding a designer half as genius as me!” With a final toss of his beard, Caspar von Schreck turned on his heel and left, his dog yipping back at them angrily.
Exhaling in relief, Tess smiled up at Stefano, feeling so proud of him her heart could burst. Turning to the tearstained young model behind her, she said, “Are you all right?”
Kebe nodded, her eyes big. “Thank you.” She wiped her eyes. “You had no reason to take my side.”
“I had every reason. You’re my husband’s friend.” Tess shook her head. “And no one has the right to treat people that way!”
Feeling a jacket su
ddenly covering her own bare shoulders, Tess looked up at Stefano. A strange emotion glowed in his dark eyes. He said quietly, “I’m glad you were here.”
Her heart warmed beneath his glance.
Stefano glanced at Kebe. “Your mother will be heartbroken when she hears how you were treated. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll tell her how you both rushed to my defense.” Kebe grimaced. “But first I’m going to change out of this hideous dress.”
“Prince Stefano!” The American reporter was panting in her rush to stick a microphone into his face. “There’s a rumor going around that you deliberately fired von Schreck so you could replace him with your new wife, though she has no fashion experience whatsoever... Any comment?”
Tess’s eyes went wide with shock. “No, it’s not true.”
“He was fired for gross incompetence,” Stefano said evenly. “And for abusing the staff. Mercurio will start fresh next season. Though my wife is amazingly talented, she’s focused on raising our daughter. Thank you.”
“Your Highness!” Other reporters and bloggers were already fighting their way through the crowds backstage.
Stefano grabbed Tess’s hand. “Excuse us.”
Holding her hand tightly, he pulled her away. The front of the palais was just as much of a madhouse. People were yelling things out to them and blocking their path, and everywhere Tess looked she saw camera phones recording them.
For the first time, she understood the need for bodyguards as Leon suddenly appeared to help clear a path through the crowds. She didn’t exhale until they were safely in the back seat of the limo.
The chauffeur drove them away, with Leon sitting in the front seat beside him.
Stefano turned to her. “I’m glad you were here tonight, Tess.” Reaching out, he cupped her cheek. “Thank you for what you did.”
“What did I do?”
“The right thing,” he said quietly. “No matter the cost.”
The sparkling city lights glittered beneath the autumn drizzle as the limo flew through the Paris night. Taking her into his strong arms, Stefano kissed her.
*
A week later, Stefano rose wearily from his desk in his private office of Gioreale’s Paris headquarters. It was almost midnight, and the building was quiet. Even Agathe Durand had gone home, at his orders.
Rolling his shoulders, he went to the wet bar and poured himself a drink. No ice, not water. Just Scotch. Taking it back to the window, he stood looking out at the cold October night.
The large window overlooked the modern, bright steel-and-glass buildings of La Défense, Paris’s business district to the west of the city. The moon seemed frosted with ice crystals in the darkness.
Stefano felt like a fool. He still had no designer for Mercurio. The luxury brand was in free fall. Before, it had been merely unfashionable; now it was a joke.
As threatened, Caspar von Schreck had gone to work for Zacco. Stefano took a gulp of Scotch. He thought of how often in the past he’d casually stolen key employees from rivals. In this case, he suspected Fenella Montfort might get more than she’d bargained for.
Her first mistake, he thought. Much good may it do her.
Stefano felt restless. He paced two steps in front of the window, then took another drink. He didn’t feel like himself, because Prince Stefano Zacco di Gioreale always won, and this wasn’t winning.
He’d spent the last week doing damage limitation, reassuring the press and Gioreale’s shareholders that the Mercurio disaster was trivial and the future was bright.
Stefano took one more drink, staring out at the frosty Paris night. Enough, he thought. He set down the unfinished glass.
He was going home.
Locking up his office, he bade bonsoir to the overnight security guards. When he left the building, he felt the shock of cold air against his skin. Autumn was almost over, he realized. Winter was nearly here.
He looked back at the Gioreale building. He suddenly longed to be done with it. All of it. Fashion. Shareholders. Crazy designers. He closed his eyes, imagining a soft, warm land of orange groves, with vineyards ripening in the sunshine.
Gioreale. 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 ca
n’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.