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The loneliness of her entire adult life.
Annabelle’s lips turned down. “My assistant had a baby last week. She’s with her husband in Cornwall. Until I replace her,” she said in a small voice, “I’m on my own.”
“Ah. Que lástima” He held out his arms expansively. “But at least you are not the one to be tied down, sí? No dilapidated cottage garden for you to weed, no tiny babies crying and keeping you up all night. No husband to cook for every day, ironing his shirts and washing his socks. Sí,” he said approvingly. “An artist like yourself must always have solitude and freedom.” He lifted his goblet, looking down at her. “To freedom.”
Her throat hurt as she lifted her wineglass.
“To freedom.”
They clinked glasses, and he drank deeply. Annabelle took a tiny sip, but the wine now tasted sour. She’d had freedom, yes. For many, many years. Practically all her life.
What was the difference between freedom and emptiness? What was solitude, but loneliness?
Annabelle put down the glass, feeling suddenly weary. She placed her elbows on the long wooden table, leaning her forehead against her hands as she rubbed her eyes with her fingertips.
“Are you not feeling well?” he asked with concern.
“I think I’ve had too much wine,” she said in a low voice.
“I will escort you to your bedroom.”
Back to her bedroom? She looked up sharply. “No!”
He stared at her, his brow furrowed.
She exhaled. “What I mean is … I’m not ready for bed. I just need some fresh air.”
“Of course.” Tossing his linen napkin on the table, he rose gracefully to his feet and held out his arm. “Let me take you outside.”
Annabelle stared at the muscled, bare forearm revealed by the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. She was afraid to touch him again, afraid of the reaction she knew it would cause. She placed her fingers as lightly as possible on his arm.
As her fingertips felt the rough dark hair of his warm skin, she felt the same sizzle as before. She could feel the strength and grace of his body as he walked beside her. She trembled, looking up at him through her lashes.
The sprawling house was quiet and dark as he led her down the hallway. Apparently, the stablehands and housekeeper had all gone to bed. The only sound Annabelle heard was the echo of their footsteps.
They were alone.
She nervously glanced up at him through her lashes. It took a great deal of willpower, all her pride, not to turn and run away. She thought again of her truck parked in the garage. She could be back in London in seventeen hours, less if she pushed hard on the gas pedal.
As soon as they were out on the terrace, she dropped his arm, exhaling in relief. Then she blinked in amazement at the view of the wide-open night sky and moon-drenched fields beneath.
She felt the cool air against her skin and took a deep, cleansing breath.
Then Stefano spoke from the darkness beside her.
“So Moreira failed to seduce you,” he said in a low voice. He looked at her. “How would a man succeed?”
Silvery moonlight frosted his hard-edged cheekbones, the hard masculine edge of his jawline. She couldn’t look away from the sensual shape of his mouth, illuminated in soft silver light.
“Annabelle,” he said softly, and her name on his lips was like music.
With an intake of breath, she stumbled back from him, grabbing a stone column on the terrace for support. He grabbed her upper arm. She felt his warmth through the linen of her jacket sleeve and shivered.
“How could a man seduce you?” His voice was low, but his eyes were fierce.
Annabelle took a deep breath.
Like this, she thought. Everything about him seduced her. Candlelight and conversation. The comfort and beauty of his home. The strength of his body. The power of his will. The intensity of his dark ey
