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Instead of Annabelle’s angelic face and blond hair, he saw a brunette in a slinky red dress. The woman seemed familiar. Maybe he’d slept with her before. Or maybe all women just looked exactly the same now—none of them were Annabelle. “Care to dance?” she said in a sultry voice. Stefano finished off his drink and slammed the empty glass down on the bar.
“Sure,” he said harshly. “Why not?”
As he led the brunette onto the dance floor, she pressed against him. “Don’t feel bad about losing the game,” she purred, softly stroking his upper arm. “There are other prizes to be won tonight.”
Her offer couldn’t have been more blatant. Stefano stared at her. What better way to draw the line, to put Annabelle forever behind him, then to accept her offer?
But the thought of it sickened him. Even as self-destructive as he felt right now, there was only one woman he wanted. Only one woman he would ever want. Ever.
He stopped.
Annabelle was his first thought in the morning. His last thought at night. She was his sunlight. His moonlight. She lit his way. Her goodness. Her vulnerability. Her heart.
Ever since he’d been betrayed at nineteen, Stefano had been unwilling to commit to any woman. He’d thought he’d never love anyone again.
But his youthful infatuation for Rosalia had meant nothing. The truth was, he’d been waiting all these years for the right woman. The woman who would be his heart. His home.
He’d been waiting for Annabelle.
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.
