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He was home.

It wasn’t so much the sight of the palazzo that made Gabe feel he was in the right place—after all, there were cameras and scaffolding all set up, as well as numerous people on the terrazzo.

It was seeing Stella, waiting for him.

She stood on the steps, her hair whipped by the wind, her voice lost to the noise of the rotors, but he knew she called his name.

It felt good—it felt right.

She wore the dusty pink capri pants and a loose black top and looked both elegant and casual, but then the world as he knew it, the world as he wanted it, suddenly ceased to exist.

Oh, Stella.

He saw the changes, perhaps changes only a lover would notice, but for a year he’d captured the memory of her in his mind. As the wind or blades blew her top so he saw the roundness to her stomach, he saw too the fuller breasts, and there was a radiance to her.

Gabe thought of what his grandfather had said about his mother and the season of expectancy.

Yes, aglow.

Stella was pregnant; he was quite, quite sure.

It felt as if he’d been thwacked over the head. It should not, of course—he had told her to move on from him, insisted they were done, and of course he did not expect her to remain celibate for him…

Yet Gabe knew he had ignited the desire in her. Stella herself had said he had shown her something wonderful, and yes, he had cruelly taken it away.

But he loathed the thought of another.

The sun beat on his head as he walked towards the palazzo, rather than her…

‘Gabe?’ Her voice came into earshot now, and he could hear the question in it, the slight confusion as he brushed past without acknowledging her. ‘You can’t just fly in unannounced…’

‘Yes, I damn well can.’

He stepped into the cool, dim interior and took off his shades and waited not just for his eyes to adjust, but for his mind to adjust to what he had seen. The woman he had craved, had missed, the woman he had thought he might dare to try out his heart on, was going to be a mother.

And he was angry, though at himself.

He had let her go.

‘Gabe…’ Her footsteps followed him into the magnificent receiving room.

There were emerald-green silk couches he did not recognise, and he found that he frowned at the unfamiliar artwork, but of course the private works had been catalogued and replaced. And nothing in the world felt right as he went to pour a drink.

‘That’s not brandy.’ Her voice had sounded muffled, as if his head was underwater, but it became clearer now. ‘It’s just coloured water.’

Still, he couldn’t bring himself to look at her.

‘Gabe, we shouldn’t really be here. This is part of the film set. The reading room isn’t being used—we can discuss things in there.’

‘Why would I need to speak to you?’ he replied.

She gasped as if she’d been slapped, as if she did not recognise the man who stood before her, and in truth, she was right. He’d been lighter when with her, had allowed the sun to shine in his smile and let loose his tender side. They were gone for good now. His bastard self, his aloof, ruthless self, his usual self was back…

‘Gabe…’ she attempted, but he cut her off.

‘Conte,’ he corrected, then stared into her eyes and they were the same beautiful blue they had always been, her lashes curling just as they always had, and the slight floral scent was back now with him. ‘I think it best we keep things formal.’

‘Of course.’ Her breath hitched. ‘If you could please let us know when you’ll be flying in or out, it would be much appreciated, Gabe… I mean Conte.’ She closed her eyes. Sir Charles was trying to contact her on her walkie-talkie.