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Stella Harper, her signature.

And beneath that—Stella Harper, Location Consultant (Palazzo Rinaldi) and Permits.

Once he’d turned the page on the reams of enclosed documentation, there was always reams of it, and his heart had twisted with each turn, his parents’ portrait, the clock with which his grandfather had taught him to tell the time, all catalogued and carefully stored away…

Items approved for controlled use:

Gabe had skimmed through the list, about to sign his approval, when he’d seen:

Attached: documentation photos. SH

It wasn’t the photos of familiar objects that had felt like a punch to his solar plexus, instead it was the image of her, wearing white gloves, carefully holding a crystal and silver gilt decanter. Her dark hair was in a ponytail, her eyes sparkling more beautifully than the crystal she held.

In a year, an entire year, it had been the only glimpse of her and every day since he had fought not to bring up that file on his screen.

He fought it now.

Pulled his gaze from the Duomo and back to his team.

‘Let’s move onto the European markets.’

Chapter Ten

‘SURPRISE!’ DAISY BEAMED as, instead of pulling in, they were driven straight past the hotel Bella Vista. ‘You’re not staying there.’

‘What?’ Stella, on her first day back from maternity leave, really didn’t want any surprises.

‘Sir Charles scored you rooms at the palazzo. This way you’ll be on location and able to slip off and feed…’ she peeked into the infant carrier that held a sleeping Sophia. ‘Gosh, she’s so beautiful.’

Sophia really was, with unexpected blonde curls and china blue eyes and, despite Stella’s terror when she’d first found out, despite the difficulties with work it had caused, she had forgotten to be daunted by motherhood the moment Sophia had been born.

It was instant love and with that came guilt.

Did Gabe know?

When she’d had her pregnancy confirmed, Stella had attempted to call him, but as it turned out, one couldn’t simply call Rinaldi Finanziaria and ask to be put through to their chief billionaire.

There were channels, she’d been tartly told.

Even when she’d used her work title and said she needed to discuss the palazzo, she’d been told there were more appropriate channels there too—there were others who dealt with all that.

Such details were too small for him.

It wasn’t as if she’d hidden she was pregnant; she’d travelled back and forth to Sant Lavia on numerous occasions, right up to thirty-six weeks, packing up the private contents of the piano nobile, cataloguing the artwork, working with lighting, who would rig cameras and scaffolding on ancient stone walls, taking all the care she had promised.

Gabe had kept his word and not returned.

Not once.

Her ears would strain for the sound of his helicopter, her eyes at times scanned the horizon, nervous at the thought of telling him, while at the same time hoping he would fly in.

Missing him.

Wanting him.

And he had to know.

And so on her final day before maternity leave, she’d sat at the table on the terrazzo and written to him.