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With an intake of breath, Stefano suddenly knew he could be faithful forever. But only for her. Only Annabelle. She was his woman. The woman he wanted. The woman he adored.
The woman he loved.
His hands clenched. He loved Annabelle. He loved her. And. he’d let her go.
“Well?” the brunette murmured as she swayed her body against his, barely in time to the music. “What do you think?”
Looking down at the woman, he stopped.
“Sorry,” he said roughly. “I changed my mind.”
Turning, he left her on the dance floor. He had to find Annabelle. Right now. He would drive to London. Fly around the world. Cross the Sahara or climb Mount Everest. He would find her and make her his own.
As he walked off the dance floor, he heard a man give a low whistle behind him. “Look at that woman, mate. Great pity that.”
“What? Who?” another man said.
“At the door. Beautiful woman scarred across the face.”
Sucking in his breath, Stefano turned. There in the parted doorway of the tent, beneath the beams of fairy lights from above,
Annabelle stood dressed in a white gown. Her wavy blond hair cascaded down her shoulders.
He saw her pause, watched her search the crowd with her eyes.
Then she saw him.
Stefano couldn’t wait. He went toward her, shoving recklessly through the crowds.
Once they were in front of each other, in the moving shadows beneath the swaying fairy lights, Stefano stopped. Looking at her beautiful face, the rest of the crowds disappeared. And he sucked in his breath.
For the first time in public, Annabelle wore no makeup over her scar. He could see the harsh red line slashing her lovely face, but it did not hide her incredible beauty. Nothing could.
“You—you’re showing your scar,” he whispered.
“Yes.” Her gray eyes were shining. “I’m not afraid anymore. I’m not afraid of anything, except … losing you.”
She held out her hand.
Stefano stared at it, then looked up at her face. She looked like an angel. Like a dream.
She looked like the answer to the question of the rest of his life.
Stefano took her hand. He exhaled, almost shuddering at the exquisite bliss of her touch. He hadn’t realized how much he’d feared she was a mirage, a ghost who would disappear if he tried to touch her. The feel of her hand proved otherwise. She was no ghost. She was flesh and blood.
Like a miracle, she’d come back to him. Dios mío. Stefano’s hand tightened over hers. What had he done, what good thing had he ever done in his life, to deserve this second chance?
“Forgive me, Annabelle,” he said in a low voice.
“Forgive you?” Her voice was gentle and soft as water as she shook her head. She laughed, and it was like the chiming of bells. “I am the one who is sorry. I tried to force you to make a promise you weren’t ready to give—”
“But I am.” He took a deep breath. “I thought I’d lost you, and it nearly killed me,” he whispered. “I never want to feel that way again. I never want to lose you.”
He pulled her into his arms, and passionately kissed her.
Around them, he heard shocked whispers and gasps. He pulled away from Annabelle, and from the corner of his eye, he saw the people in the tent starting to elbow one another and point.
Stefano didn’t care. He fell to his knees before her.
