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CHAPTER ONE

Salon des Reines, Paris, France

THE CHAUFFEUR OF Le Comte Jean-Michel Ardois pulled the limousine up in front of the bridal salon on the Rue de L’Echelle. In the last two weeks Princess Tuccianna Falcone Leonardi of Sicily had been here with her mother three times for the bridal dress fitting. Each time they’d come, she’d made excuses to visit the bathroom in order to study the layout of the exclusive shop.

This morning was her final fitting to make sure everything was perfect for the wedding ceremony tomorrow. Only Tuccia had no intention of showing up for the elaborate nuptials arranged by her parents and Comte Ardois ten years ago in a horrifying, ironclad betrothal forced upon her. She’d dreamed of her freedom forever. Now had come the moment for her escape.

Madame Dufy, the owner, welcomed them inside. After fussing over Tuccia and telling her how excited she was for her forthcoming marriage to the comte, she took them back to the dressing room befitting a queen.

“Delphine will be with you in just a moment with your gown. It’s as exquisite as you are, Princess.”

The second she left, Tuccia turned to her mother, the Marchesa di Trabia of Sicily. “I need to go to the restroom.”

“Surely not!”

“I can’t help it. You know how I get when I’m nervous.”

“You are impossible, Tuccia!”

“If I don’t go, it might happen in here.”

Her mother’s hands flew up in the air. “All right! But don’t take too long. We have a long list of things that must be done today.”

“I’ll hurry, Mamma.”

Yes, she’d hurry. Right out of the clutches of the comte!

She knew he planned to assign her a bodyguard the moment they were married and never let her out of his sight for the rest of their lives. After overhearing him discuss it with her parents, who’d said she needed a strong hand, she’d been planning how to disappear.

Tuccia opened the door and walked down the hall to the door of the bathroom. But she only went inside to leave her betrothal ring on the floor near the sink. Whoever found it could think what they wanted. After looking around to make sure no one had seen her, she rushed down another hallway straight out the back door of the shop.

From there it was only a short run down the alley used for delivery trucks to the street where she climbed in a taxi.

“Le Bourget Aeroport, s’il vous plait.”

Her heart refused to stop thudding as they drove off. She looked behind her. No one had come running out of the alley chasing after her yet. Tuccia prayed all the way to the airport where she boarded an Eljet chartered for her under a fake name and paid for her by her aunt Bertina. Once it landed in Palermo, Sicily, she’d take a taxi to her aunt’s palazzo.

Before long Tuccia’s favorite person in the whole world would be offering her sanctuary. Her life would continue to depend on Bertina’s help, or all was lost.

The next day, Milan, Italy

Dinner had concluded in the private dining room of the legendary fourteenth-century castello, the home of the former first Duc di Lombardi in Milan, Italy.

Vincenzo Gagliardi, the present-day duc, lifted his goblet with the insignia of the Gagliardi coat of arms. “Buona fortuna this trip, Cesare. Our business is depending on you. May you return with my wife’s replacement soon. The baby will be here in two months. I want Gemma off her feet ASAP.”

“Amen,” Takis declared, raising his glass. “You’re going to have to be quick, amico.” He touched his goblet to Cesare’s, and they sipped the local vintage Lombardia that Vincenzo had produced from the vast wine cellar for his send-off.

Cesare Donati eyed his two best friends with a smile. They’d been like brothers to him for more than a decade. Together they’d turned the former fortress palace of Vincenzo’s family into the five-star Castello Supremo Hotel and Ristorante di Lombardi, Europe’s most sought-after resort.

“I have a surprise for you. I’ll be back in two days with our new pastry chef. I told Gemma as much this morning.”

“That soon?” they said in unison.

“It’s been arranged for a while, so have no concerns.”

His friends smiled in relief. For Cesare’s contribution to their successful enterprise, he’d already found the perfect person to replace Gemma as the castello’s new executive pastry chef.

But he’d been keeping the identity of his choice a secret until he could present Ciro Fragala in person with one of his many specialties for their delectation.

Vincenzo’s wife had learned to make Florentine pastry from her mother who’d cooked for the last duc. Though her cooking was perfection and drew the elite clientele that came to the castello, in Cesare’s opinion the best cook in the world was his own Sicilian mother.

She’d learned from the nuns who made divine pastries and ran the orphanage where she’d been raised until she turned eighteen. On her say-so—and she would know better than anyone else—Cesare had done the necessary research on Signor Fragala, the pastry cook she’d declared to be the finest in all Sicily. After a visit to the Palermo restaurant with his mother two months ago, he’d agreed totally with her assessment.

Hiring Ciro meant sensational new desserts for their business enterprise in Milan. The two of them had met with the fifty-five-year-old widower several times in the last few weeks. The chef had said he would leap at the chance to work at the famous castello restaurant.

Since he didn’t have children, it wouldn’t be a problem to move. He’d given his notice and Cesare planned to fly him to Milan. The new chef would work well with their executive French chef at the castello. Most of all, the guys would be pleased by the man’s amiable personality.

“We’ll drive you to the airport,” Vincenzo stated.

Cesare shook his head. “Thanks, but you’ve done enough by surprising me with this dinner. You’ve both got pregnant wives who’ve been generous enough to let us have this meal together. By now they’ll be wondering where you are. The limo is waiting as we speak.”

“Then we’ll walk you out,” Vincenzo murmured.

“Grazie.”

He drained the rest of his wine and got to his feet. Reaching for the suitcase he’d left by the double doors, he moved ahead of them to the portrait-lined corridor of the former ducs with their legendary silvery eyes.

“Stay safe,” Takis said as Cesare climbed in the rear of the limo.

“Always.”

Vincenzo smiled. “We can’t wait to meet this mystery paragon of pastry chefs.” He patted Cesare’s shoulder and shut the door before it drove away from the castello.

Two hours later, the Lombardi ducal jet arrived at Palermo International Airport, where another limousine waited for him on the tarmac. Cesare told the driver to take him to the posh Mondello borough. It was there he’d bought a villa in the famed art nouveau style for his mother and sister who was now married and lived in the city with her husband and their toddler.

He’d wanted nothing but the best for his wonderful mamma, Lina Donati.

She would never leave Palermo. After being raised by the nuns and learning how to cook from them, she’d started out working in a local restaurant after leaving the orphanage.

Her subsequent marriage was short-lived. Abandoned by her husband, she’d cooked her way through life to support their little family and had made a name for herself. Cesare believed she made the best food on earth. In her honor he’d had a state-of-the-art kitchen installed because he couldn’t do enough for her.

Thanks to a bad back from being on her feet all the time, she now cooked exclusively for Bertina Spadaro, who wasn’t a demanding employer. Cesare had begged her to retire. He would take care of her forever. But his mother said she couldn’t imagine not having work to do and she loved Bertina. The aristocratic older sister of the Marchesa di Leonardi di Trabia had become her friend.

The Leonardi family descended from the royal Sicilian family of the commune of Trabia, thirty miles from Palermo, and could trace their roots back to the 1400s, when the land and castle were granted them by Frederick III. The present marchese and marchesa had established their own palazzo in the heart of Palermo.

Bertina and Lina had become fast friends over the years and were in each other’s confidence. The rest of the time his mother spent with Cesare’s family, or tended her spectacular herb garden.

The elite area of Mondello had everything: exclusive yachting clubs dotting its sandy beach, restaurants, shops and a marina with numerous yachts, including the marchese’s gleaming white royal yacht that stood out from the others.

Before buying the villa for her, Cesare, too, had been captivated as he’d walked through the sand of its private beach front, inhaling the air filled with the heady scent of orange blossoms and jasmine. Whenever he flew to Palermo, Cesare was reminded that with all its rich history, there was nowhere else in the world he found more fascinating.

But tonight as they drove into the ancient, colorful city, he was met with the strong smells of fish and spices that always brought back memories of his youth. There was a hint of the old Arab souks, taking him back to his childhood. As a boy, these streets with their subtle niches and labyrinths had been his backyard.

His father had been in the merchant marines, but ran off before Cesare was a year old, leaving his mother to work in a trattoria and support him and his older sister Isabella. They’d lived in the apartment above it in a rougher neighborhood of Palermo. Cesare’s world had been filled with lots of purse snatchers, few showers that usually didn’t work, grueling heat. Everything had been run-down and chaotic.

Since he’d been too young to remember his father, he didn’t miss him, only the idea of him. Cesare had envied his friends who had fathers and taught them things. Early in life he’d felt embarrassed at times that he was the only one who went to mass unaccompanied while the other boys walked in the church with their own fathers.

As he grew up, the embarrassment went away, but he lacked the confidence he saw in his friends whose sense of belonging seemed to give them an extra layer of it.

Cesare couldn’t comprehend a man abandoning his wife and children, never caring about them again. Sometimes in his teens he’d dreamed about meeting his father, but those dreams were unsatisfactory because his father always turned away from him. The dreams eventually stopped, but not the feeling that there was something lacking in him.

At the age of thirty, Cesare was living a different life. Thanks to the college mentor who’d taught him and his partners how to invest, his worth now figured in the billions. But the past could never be forgotten and had formed him into the man he’d become.

Over time he’d seen enough to decide romantic love was transitory at most. Of course there were exceptions, like his partners’ marriages. But at this stage in his life Cesare wasn’t that confident that he was marriage material. He hadn’t witnessed two parents loving each other. So far he felt he was better off alone like his mother. With a sister and brother-in-law and their daughter Elana, Cesare was happy enough with the family he loved.

In fact he had all he needed, including the occasional relationship with a woman. There was no guarantee that one would stay with him if he did get married, or that it would last.

Or that he might not be more like his father than he thought...

From time to time that thought haunted him because he hadn’t met a woman who meant everything to him. Maybe he’d subconsciously pushed them away so he didn’t have to deal with commitment. Though he didn’t want to bring up past pain to his mother, one of these days he would have a talk with her about the man who’d disappeared on their family, on him.

When the limo finally reached the villa, Cesare put his darker thoughts away and paid the driver before getting out. His mother was expecting him, and knew he’d be flying Ciro Fragala back to Milan with him the next day. But it was close to one o’clock. She always went to bed early.

He’d told her not to wait up and they’d talk in the morning before Ciro arrived at the villa in a limo Cesare had arranged for ahead of time. The man would be shipping his belongings to Milan and he’d stay in a room at the castello until he decided where he wanted to live.

Every time Cesare came to Palermo, he was charmed by the large ochre-colored villa spread over two floors with three beautiful terraces and a Mediterranean garden. The small pool was lined with glazed tiles of North African origin.

From the terrace off the dining room he was met with a glorious view of the Gulf front. It was a sight he’d always loved after climbing the bluff called Mount Pellegrino many times in his youth. From there he could imagine himself escaping the suffocating heat and madness of the city and sailing away to America. Incredibly that dream had come true.

Once he’d entered the foyer, he turned off the outside light and moved across the stone tiles of the villa in the dark to the kitchen with his suitcase. After setting it down, his first instinct was to grab himself a small bottle of his favorite grappa digestivo from the cabinet where he knew it was kept, then head upstairs to his suite with it. Before sleep, all he wanted was to take a few sips to remind him he was back in the land of his roots.

But as he turned to pick up his suitcase, he bumped into another body and heard a cry.

“Mamma?” He automatically hugged her to him. “Mi dispiace tanto. I didn’t think you’d be up this late. Did I hurt you?”

That’s when the bottle slipped from his hand and cracked on the floor. But the strong scent of the 60 proof alcohol wasn’t nearly as shocking as the feel of the woman in his arms.

She wasn’t built anything like his wiry brunette mother or her housekeeper who came in several times a week. In fact she was taller than both of them. To add to his surprise, the flowery scent from her hair and skin intoxicated him. It took him a second to gather his wits.

“Don’t move. There’s broken glass. I’ll turn on the light.” He let her go and walked to the doorway to flip the switch. Cesare was shocked yet again.

If he didn’t know better, he would think he’d released a gorgeous enchanted princess from her bottle. Her stunning figure was swathed in a lemon silk robe. Thank heaven she was wearing sandals. Between her medium-length black curls and eyes gray as the morning mist off the ocean, his gaze managed to swallow her whole before he realized she looked familiar to him. He knew he’d seen her before but couldn’t place her.

She stared back as if disbelieving before taking a few steps away from the wet mess on the stone flooring. A hand went to her throat. “You’re Cesare,” she murmured, sounding astonished.

“I’m afraid you’ve got me at a disadvantage, signorina.” Maybe he was in the middle of a fantastic dream, but so far he hadn’t awakened. Quickly he walked over to the utility closet for a cloth and brush to pick up the glass and clean the floor.

“My name is Tuccia. I’m so sorry to have startled you.”

Tuccia. An unusual name.

Tuccia. Short for... Princess Tuccianna of Sicilian nobililty?

Over the years there’d been photos of her in the newspapers from time to time, mostly stories about her escapades away from the royal palazzo where she got into trouble with friends and was seen partying in local clubs to the embarrassment of the royal household. But Cesare had never seen her up close.

The latest news in the Palermo press reported she was engaged to be married to some French comte who lived in Paris and was one of the wealthiest men in France.

No. It couldn’t be, yet he realized it was she.

“I’m afraid I don’t recognize it,” he dissembled until he could work out why the daughter of the Marchese and Marchesa of the ancient Sicilian House of Trabia, was in his mother’s villa.

“You probably wouldn’t. It’s not common.”

She was trying to put Cesare off, but he intended to get to the bottom of this mystery. “Did Mamma hire you to be a new maid?”

She averted her eyes. “No. Signora Donati allowed me to stay with her for tonight.” He frowned, not having known anything about this. Why hadn’t his beloved mother told him what to expect when he arrived? “I—I thought I heard a noise, signor,” she stammered, “but I didn’t have time to turn on the light.”

“No. We were both taken by surprise,” he murmured, still reeling from the sensation of her incredible body clutched to his so she wouldn’t fall.

Cesare had enjoyed various relationships with attractive women over the years, but he’d never gotten into anything serious. Yet the feel and sight of the beautiful young princess, whose face was like something out of Botticelli, had shaken him.

“I guess you know you have the most wonderful mother in the world,” she gushed all of a sudden, breaking in on his private thoughts. He was amazed by her comment. It had sounded completely sincere.

He closed the utility door and turned to her, growing more curious by the second. “I do. How did you two meet?”

His question caused her to hesitate. “I think it would be better if you ask her. I’m truly sorry to have disturbed you and will say goodnight.” She darted away, leaving him full of questions and standing there wide awake in the trail of her fragrance.

The princess, reputed to be a spoiled, headstrong handful, had elegance and manners. Damn if she didn’t also have an unaffected charm that had worked its way beneath his skin.

He took a deep breath. Though Cesare didn’t like waking his mother, he knew there’d be no sleep until he had answers. Before heading upstairs to her bedroom, he opened the cabinet for another bottle of grappa. All he found was a half-opened bottle of cooking sherry.

That’s what he got for not turning on the light earlier. That and the memory of a moment in time he feared wasn’t about to let him go.

* * *

With a pounding out-of-control heart, twenty-five-year-old Principessa Tuccianna Falcone Leonardi rushed to the guest room down the hall at the rear of the villa. She should never have made a trip to the kitchen, but needed something to drink. Lina had told her to help herself to anything, including the soda she kept on hand in the fridge.

Being crushed unexpectedly against a hard male body in the dark had come as such a huge surprise that her mind and body were still reeling. She could still feel the male power of him and smell the faint scent of the soap he’d used in the shower. The combination had completely disarmed her.

After he’d turned on the kitchen light, she’d had her first look at Lina’s tall, incredibly attractive brown-haired son. Tuccia knew of him, but had no idea that Lina had given birth to the most striking man she’d ever seen in her life. Those deep blue eyes and his masculine potency had managed to make such an indelible impression her heart still kept turning over on itself.

“I didn’t know there was a man in Palermo who looked like that,” she whispered to herself. Tuccia was positive there wasn’t another one in all Europe who could match him.

More than ever she was revolted at the thought of marrying her forty-year-old French fiancé who had only stared at her with lust. The fabulously wealthy Comte Jean-Michel Ardois, who would soon inherit the title after his ailing father passed away, was always trying to touch her, and lately more and more inappropriately.

On occasion she’d seen him be quite ruthless with the people who worked for the Ardois family. He was a cold, calculating man whom she could never love or bring herself to marry.

Her betrothal at the age of sixteen had been a political necessity arranged by her parents, the Marchese and Marchesa di Trabia, whose funds needed constant bolstering. Since that time she’d felt doomed to an existence she’d dreaded with every fiber of her being.

After careful planning, she’d seized the moment to run away twenty-four hours before the ceremony was to take place. Taking flight from the boutique, she’d flown back to her home in Sicily. Thanks to her Zia Bertina, her mother’s widowed elder sister, she’d been given the help she needed to escape on that jet.

Bertina lived in her own palazzo in Palermo where she entertained close friends and loved Tuccia like the child she’d never been able to have. Tuccia’s zia was a romantic who’d always been in sympathy with her niece’s tragic situation, and had prevailed on her cook, Lina Donati, to let her hide at her villa overnight. In the meantime she was still trying to arrange transport for Tuccia to stay with a distant cousin living in Podgorica in Montenegro until the worst of the scandal had passed.

But Tuccia had placed her in a terrible position. Bertina had continued living in the palazzo after her husband died, but she needed monetary help on occasion. Tuccia’s zio, Pietro Spadaro, hadn’t been a wealthy man. If Tuccia’s parents got angry enough at Bertina, they could stop giving her extra money. They might throw her out of the only home she’d known since her marriage.

Worse, if they knew Bertina had involved a cousin in another country, let alone asked such a desperate favor of her adored cook to help solve Tuccia’s problems, who knew how ugly the situation could get. If Bertina were forced to lose the palazzo and any extra money, she wouldn’t be able to pay Lina for being her cook. Lina could be out of a job for harboring her. All of it would be her fault.

She couldn’t believe her bad luck in running into Lina’s son. Naturally he was going to wonder why she was here and question his mother. What she needed to do was get dressed and pack her bag so she’d be ready to steal from the villa at dawn before anyone was up.

Tuccia knew a full-scale search by Jean-Michel and her parents had been underway for her since she had disappeared from the salon. At least with her gone from Lina’s villa, Bertina wouldn’t be implicated.

She had saved enough money to take a bus and travel to Catania where she could get a job through a friend who would help her. If she were careful, she could subsist for a while. She didn’t dare access her bank account even though its pitiful balance had never been big enough to pay for as much as an airline ticket.

Tuccia had no idea how long she would have to remain hidden. But even if it meant being disowned and disinherited, it didn’t matter because she’d rather be dead than have to marry Jean-Michel. She was sickened at the thought of him taking her to bed, let alone living with him for a lifetime.