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'Go?' He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed each fingertip in turn, his eyes never leaving her face. 'I never want you to go away again, cara mia , because I think I love you, too. And I really must kiss you now.'
It was the first time he had kissed her in his native land, and it was quite unlike any other kiss they'd ever had—for it was a declaration and a seal, a farewell to past misunderstandings and a celebration of all that lay ahead of them.
When it was over, Sorcha bit back the tears which were shimmering in her eyes as she saw all the possible obstacles in their way. 'But how will we work it, Cesare? How can we be together? '
'Somehow’ he promised. "We can live here—or in England. We could live apart, but I don't want that.'
'Me neither.'
His arms tightened around her, and for the first time Sorcha felt the shimmerings of true physical intimacy.
'Now that I've got you, I never want to let you go,' he whispered. 'The logistics are just details. The important thing is us.'
Us.
Such a tiny word, and yet such a big one—the most important word in any vocabulary—English or Italian.
EPILOGUE
A look of pride made his black eyes gleam, and Cesare smiled. 'You look beautiful/ he murmured.
'But you can't see me properly!' Sorcha whispered back with a smile. 'Now, shhh— here's the priest.'
Ivory tulle hung over her face like a creamy waterfall, and the bouquet she carried was of pale pink and frilly roses—the closest match Sorcha could get to those which grew around the Villa Pindaro, where she had found her heart's desire on a clear morning after a mountain storm.
Behind her stood Emma as matron of honour. Her sister was newly pregnant and glowing like a light bulb, and holding her hand was little Gino who, at the age of four, was deemed old enough to be a pageboy. He was behaving wonderfully—apart from the occasional lapse into solemn thumb-sucking.
Sorcha and Cesare hadn't rushed into marriage—they hadn't felt the need to—and they had made so many big life-changes in order to be together that they wanted to enjoy their wedding in a peaceful state of mind. And you couldn't rush peace of mind.
Sorcha had left England and gone to live in Italy—but it had been no great wrench nor an agonising decision. The world had shrunk and travel was easy, and it had felt like the place she both needed and wanted to be—the place she'd decided they would bring up their children, if they were lucky and blessed enough to have them.
Sorcha had jettisoned her career with the family firm—'Been there, done that, and wasn't particularly brilliant at it,' as she'd said to Maceo. The corporate rat-race no longer held any appeal. Sometimes you just had to do something in order to get it out of your system.
Instead she had set about becoming competent in the business of running an Italian estate. She had learned about the harvesting of the precious olives and the making of di Arcangelo wine. She'd taken lessons in Italian and grown fluent, and had just started giving English classes to the children in a nearby village.
And Cesare had wound down his corporate life, too. He found that he no longer wanted to restlessly travel the globe, making more money than he would ever need. His life was with Sorcha, and she had built for him the first real home he had ever known. She had shown him how to love, and he had discovered—as with every other thing in his life—that he happened to be exceptionally good at it!
He turned now and smiled tenderly at the woman who would soon be his wife. So far so good. The only flies in the ointment were the banks of paparazzi camped outside the church—but he had only himself to blame for asking Maceo to be his best man!
The Whittaker house was ready for another wedding reception and looking glorious— everything was just about as perfect as it was possible to be. For the first time in his life Cesare was looking forward to the rest of it.
'I love you, Sorcha, ' Cesare whispered, just before the priest began to speak.
And Sorcha was glad this wasn't a fairytale, because it would now be ending. Instead of just beginning.
