The Heir the Prince Secures

His stomach clenched. “If what you say is true and she’s my child...it will change everything. Surely you know that.”

Biting her lip, she glanced down at the sleeping baby in her arms, then said in a small voice, “It would?”

Placing his hands gently on her shoulders, Stefano said quietly, “Please stay, Tess. You’re tired and so is Esme. Just stay. You can have the bedroom. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

She gave him a startled glance, then looked at her sleeping baby cuddled against her chest. With visible reluctance, she sighed. “All right. Fine.” Going to the stroller, she returned with a diaper bag slung over her shoulder. “Where is the bedroom?”

He felt an unexpected rush of triumph that he’d convinced her to stay. “This way.”

Stefano led her down a short hallway to the hotel suite’s bedroom with its huge four-poster bed, marble bathroom and view of the sparkling city lights. He pointed toward the bathroom. “There’s a new toothbrush, toiletries, everything you might need.” He paused uncertainly. “Do you want me to have the concierge send up pajamas? A crib for the baby?”

She shook her head, her eyes looking tired. “Just leave us.”

With a nod, Stefano departed, softly closing the door behind him. As he returned to the main room, his shoulders were tense. He felt strangely restless. He played a few notes on the grand piano, then stopped, remembering Tess and the baby were trying to sleep. Turning to the wet bar, he poured himself a short Scotch and went to the windows, looking at the darkly glittering New York night.

Taking a drink, he stared out bleakly into the night, letting the potent forty-year-old Scotch burn down his throat.

Tess. The bright-eyed redhead was different than any woman he’d ever met, funny and sweet and sexy as hell. The morning he’d woken up in her arms, he’d already been planning to have her in his bed every night until he was satiated with her. Then she’d told him she was falling in love with him, and the whole world had stopped.

Stefano abruptly turned from the window. Work. Work was what he should be focusing on right now. As always.

Setting down his half-empty glass, he grabbed his laptop and sat down on the sofa. Blankly, he read through emails, including reviews of rival companies’ shows during New York Fashion Week and details about Mercurio’s upcoming event in Paris.

As Stefano read through the reports that had seemed so urgent only hours before, all the analysis and numbers seemed like meaningless symbols on the screen. From the bedroom, he thought he heard Tess’s voice singing lullabies to the baby.

His baby.

He didn’t know that yet for sure, Stefano reminded himself fiercely. Yet—he thought of baby Esme’s dark eyes—he knew.

And if it was proved that five-month-old Esme Foster was his child? What would he do then?

Tess’s singing faded and the hotel suite fell silent. Stefano stared at the cold glow of his laptop, wishing Tess would come out to talk to him.

He took a blanket and pillow from the closet and went back to the sofa. He stopped when he realized he’d forgotten to get pajamas. He didn’t want to go to the bedroom and risk waking her, but he could hardly sleep naked, either, with her here.

He compromised by taking off only his shirt. He stretched out on the sofa beneath the blanket. He folded his hands on the pillow, behind his head, and stared at the ceiling, his jaw set.

His life didn’t need to change, he told himself. He could simply tell his lawyers to arrange a generous financial settlement for Tess and the baby, and he could fly off to London as planned.

Tess was obviously a good mother. He could trust her to take care of Esme. Once they had unlimited money, they’d be fine. Tess would be free to do whatever she wanted. They didn’t need Stefano.

Still, Stefano tossed and turned, remembering how alone he’d felt as a child, abandoned by his parents. Would Esme always think her father had deliberately chosen to abandon her? And if she did, wasn’t it true?

Stefano woke from an unsettling dream to hear his phone ringing. He wrenched it to his ear. “Hello.”

“It’s Dr. Miller. I hope I didn’t wake you. You said you wanted to know as soon as possible.”

Looking out the windows, Stefano saw the light of early dawn. He gripped his phone. “Yes?”

“Esme Foster is your daughter. There can be no doubt.”

Stefano closed his eyes. Part of him had already known—from the moment he’d really looked into the baby’s dark eyes, exactly like his own.

You’re Esme’s father, Tess had said. I have no reason to wait all night to get the news. I’ve waited for you long enough.

“Your Highness?” the doctor said.

“Thank you,” Stefano said flatly. “Send me your bill.” He hung up.