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“You think I’m hard and distant and cold.” She shook her head, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I wasn’t always like that. My father had eight children by five different women.
He hated all
of us. He drove each of our mothers away, by force, death or insanity. But we children couldn’t leave.” Blinking fast, she looked down at her hands. “He hit my brothers for the slightest excuse. But not me, never me. I looked too much like my mother, you see. I thought I was lucky. And then …”
Swallowing, she looked away. “At fourteen I decided it would be fun to sneak away to a party, dressed in a low-cut shirt to see if any of the village boys might notice me.”
Stefano set his jaw. “And did they?”
Annabelle sank to her knees abruptly, sitting in the field of red poppies and purple flowers. Her eyes stared blindly at the blue sky.
“My brother sent me home early from the party to protect me. But I found my father drunk, just returned from an unsatisfactory day of hunting.” She blinked. “He was furious when he saw me. He screamed at me as he raised his whip. ‘You whore,’ he said, ‘no boy will ever look at you again!’”
Stefano felt a sickening rage inside that nearly turned his vision to black. But she was looking up at him through her lashes, nervously waiting for his reaction. Clenching his hands into fists, he forced himself to sit down beside her amid the flowers.
“Go on,” he said tersely.
She exhaled. “My brother saved me,” she said. “Jacob knocked my father aside and pulled the whip out of his hand. My father fell and hit his head on the bottom stair. He died almost at once. And we were glad,” she said dully. “We were all of us glad.”
“I’m sorry,” Stefano said in a low voice. His hands were still clenched, wanting to punch someone long dead.
“Now you know.” Annabelle looked down at her own hands, and for the first time he saw that the tiny red lines he’d thought were scratches were actually scars. “Now you know how ugly I really am inside.”
Stefano stared down at her.
“Ugly?” A warm breeze ran through the meadow, causing the flowers around them to dance softly in waves of red and purple. Fiercely, he grabbed her by the shoulders. “You are not ugly. You are beautiful and strong. Far stronger than the past actions of a coward like your father.”
She looked away. Blinking back tears, she whispered, “You were right about what you said. I like being behind a camera. It makes me feel … like I’m invisible. So after living alone for years at Wolfe Manor, I went to university to study photography. But my most trusted mentor, the one I thought was my friend, turned on me after my first success. He was twice my age, but tried to seduce me. When I refused him, he called me a monster. He said no one would ever love a scarred woman like me. He said he’d only tried to seduce me out of pity.”
Stefano sucked in his breath. “Was that Patrick Arbuthnot?”
She looked away, not meeting his eyes. That was answer enough.
“I met him once, did I tell you?” Stefano said flatly. “The man came to my charity event a few years ago. When I refused to sell him a horse he wanted, he bragged about being your first lover. I think he was trying to impress me.” He set his jaw. “Say the word and I’ll go hurt him for you.”
Annabelle gave a surprised laugh, then shook her head tearfully. “He was thirty years older than I was, and weighed over twenty stone. He died last year of a heart attack while in bed with a Ukrainian model.” She took a deep breath. “But still. What he said about me was true. No one can ever truly love a scarred monster like me.”
Stefano cursed in Spanish, so loudly and fluidly that her eyes went wide. “You are beautiful. Talented. Lovely and kind. I’ve never wanted any woman as badly as I want you, Annabelle,” he said harshly. “I’ve been tortured with wanting you.”
He saw her blink, heard her ragged intake of breath. “You really think I’m still beautiful?” she whispered. “Even like this?”
He took a shuddering breath. Reaching forward, he traced her scar with his fingertip.
“This is only a small part of you. You are more than this. You are also this,” he said, lightly running his fingertips down her soft, unblemished cheek. “And this,” he said, stroking her long, creamy neck. He moved his hand to her sensitive lower lip, unable to look away from her pink, full mouth. “And this.”
He felt her tremble beneath his touch. He wanted to kiss her so badly he couldn’t bear it. But he forced himself not to do what every cell in his body screamed to do.
He’d given his word not to kiss her. So dropping his hand, he turned away.
Then, like a miracle, he felt her soft hand on his cheek, turning him back to her. He had a brief vision of her eyes, shining like a summer mist.
And she kissed him.
He felt the tremble of her mouth as her lips parted. He felt the softness of her skin.
Dios mío. His body shook as he kissed her back ferociously, with all his pent-up need.
A gasp came from low in his throat. He needed more of her. All of her. He’d never wanted any woman like this. Feeling her slender body against his own, wrapping his arms around her, was like embracing pure fire.
