by Trish Morey
‘It doesn’t have to be like that,’ she offered softly, but knew it could indeed be like that. ‘It never has to be like that again.’
‘No. Not if I stay here.’
And she knew she had to play her final card—the final truth she had taken this long to admit. ‘And if I told you that I loved you?’
He looked at her then, savagery mixed with tragedy. ‘Then I would say you are the most cursed of all.’
CHAPTER TEN
THE applause rang out loud and long in the Washington auditorium, and Dr Grace Hunter smiled in her sensible suit and bowed one final time to the audience, finally able to withdraw to the quiet of the room generously labelled her dressing room—little more than a closet to store her things, really, but at least it provided her with a bolthole.
The lecture in London three months ago had been such a resounding success that she’d been booked almost solid ever since. City after city wanted to hear the story of the lost pages, wanted to see her presentation and hear the lost messages from the fabled book of healing.
She felt a fraud every time—tonight more than ever. How could it be a book of healing, she wondered, when she felt so heartsick every minute of every day? And yet she had the fame she had sought. She had the respect of her peers and her colleagues. She had a book deal and offers of chairs at universities all around the world. Even, in her latest coup, a last-minute slot on a prime time chat show.
How was it possible, with all that success, to feel so wretched?
Or had Alessandro been right? Was she the most cursed of all, loving a man who could not return her love?
She peeled the jacket from her shoulders and pulled the court shoes from her feet, remembering another outfit—a waterfall of silk atop silver sandals that shimmered with every step. His fiancée’s dress. Had he realised how much he’d hurt her when she’d heard that? Or hadn’t he cared because in his mind she’d already ceased being his fiancée before she had died? Whatever, she supposed she should be thankful that at least he’d taken the trouble to find her something that had never been worn. And it had been a beautiful dress.
She sighed, picking up her programme folder to remind herself of where she would be next. There was no point focusing on the past. She must look to the future. She had career decisions to make and continents to decide between.
There was a knock on the door and she pushed herself from her chair reluctantly, remembering the drinks organised for after her presentation. No doubt a reminder call. She was probably already late.
She pulled open the door, ready to make her excuses, but the words dried up in her throat, incinerated by the lightning bolt that coursed through her. She blinked up at him, her eyes moving past his beauty and his horror to drink in the man himself.
‘I heard your lecture,’ he told her, when he clearly realised she was incapable of speech. ‘You were amazing.’
She swallowed. ‘You heard it?’
‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’ And then, perhaps because he sensed she was incapable of rational thought, ‘Perhaps you might invite me in?’
And she shook her head to scatter her woolly thoughts and remembered her manners. ‘Please, Count Volta.’
‘Alessandro,’ he corrected, and her stunned heart—not yet ready to hope—warmed just a little.
There was barely room for the two of them. He refused to sit, his wide frame shrinking what little space there was. ‘What’s happened?’ she asked, knowing what it must have cost him to leave the castle—knowing what it must have cost him in the stares and whispers of strangers, in the camera flashes of the paparazzi. ‘Why are you here? Someone will have seen you.’
His tortured eyes confirmed it, but he shook his head, as if dispensing with that mentality. ‘You once said to me that I should not define myself by my scars—’
‘No—please. I had no right. I had no idea of what had really happened.’
‘Grace,’ he said, taking one of her hands in his own, ‘you had every right. You were right.’ He took a breath, and then another, and she could see how much it was costing him to tell her this. ‘Don’t you see? I became my scars. I hid behind them because it was easier to live in the dark. Because it was easier than facing the light.’
‘It’s okay,’ she said, wanting to spare him any more pain, knowing what it must have cost him in media attention to get here, suspecting there was a pack of photographers waiting outside right now to see him. ‘You don’t have to explain it to me.’
‘But I do. Don’t you see, Grace?’ He took hold of her other hand, held them both up in his. ‘You brought me back the light. You were the one who chased the darkness away. You made me see it was all right to live again.’
Her heart skipped a beat, and then another, because she didn’t want to believe what it might possibly mean. ‘I did?’
He smiled. ‘You did. You turned up in my dark world and showed me what life could be like with your enthusiasm, with your joy of discovery. At first, I admit, I hated you for it, because you reminded me of all the things I had lost and of all the things I would never know again. But bit by bit I wanted to be part of it. I wanted to share your light. I wanted to share your joy.’
She thought back to the disastrous dinner and his cruel comment about the dress. ‘You were protecting yourself.’
‘I couldn’t let myself crumble. It took me years to recover after the accident. I couldn’t let anything like that happen again, even if it meant losing the best thing that had ever happened to me. I was desperate to find some kind of outlet. I hadn’t played the piano for ten years until you came. It was something I associated with her. It was part of my former life and I couldn’t bring myself to touch the keyboard until wanting you drove me to it. Drove me back to something I loved. Just as you drove me back to life and living and I realised it didn’t have to be the same.’
Tears leaked from her eyes. Her heart was pounding in her chest.
‘You kissed my scars, Grace. I was shocked and I overreacted, but do you have any idea what was happening to me? You broke something free inside me, something dark and poisoned and toxic. And bit by bit you chased the blackness away.’
For the first time she noticed the moisture glazing his eyes too, as he brought her hands up to his mouth, closed his eyes and kissed them.
‘I had to come,’ he said at last. ‘I knew it from the first day you left. I knew I had missed an opportunity so golden that it might never come again. But still I couldn’t do it. I told myself you were busy becoming famous, that you could not possibly have any place for me in your life. Fear bound me to the castle, just as you said. But as the days and weeks went on I had to know. I had to find out for myself, whatever it took.’
He hesitated then, as if searching the depths of his soul for words. ‘Grace, you once told me you loved me. Is there any chance you might love me again? Love a man who was too blind to recognise his own love when it stared him in the face?’
Her heart swelled so large with his words she thought it might explode with happiness. She threw herself into his arms, drinking in his scent, relishing the hard plane of his chest. ‘I will always love you, Alessandro. Always.’
And he sighed, almost with relief, as if there had ever been any doubt, and drew her closer into his embrace. ‘You do not know how I have longed to hear those words again—if only for the opportunity to tell you that I love you with everything this scarred heart can offer. You have it all. But I know you have your career, and that must come first—’
Alarm bells sounded. ‘What do you mean that must come first? Before what?’
‘We can work it out. You will prefer to continue working, of course. You will not want to be tied down…’
‘Alessandro, what are you saying? Maybe you should spell it out first.’
His dark eyes were troubled and uncertain, and she had never seen him so vulnerable. He had risked everything for her today, she realised. Everything. And she would love him for what that had cost him
for ever.
‘You have your work.’
‘Tell me!’
‘I hoped—I wondered—so long as it doesn’t interfere with your work—’ she glared at him ‘—I wondered if you might agree to become my wife?’
‘Yes!’ she cried, tears of joy springing to her eyes. ‘Yes, I will marry you, Alessandro. Yes, I will become your wife.’
And his face lit up brighter than she had ever seen it, until both sides of his face were beautiful, both sides of him magically, wonderfully hers.
EPILOGUE
THE dock had been sanded and oiled till it gleamed in the sun, the rocks bordering the track freshly painted white. Flags fluttered gaily along the route, and the small harbour was filled with dozens of bobbing white pleasure craft.
It was to be a small affair, he’d promised her. No more than two or three hundred guests. And under the lure of a perfect summer’s day they spilled out of the massive ballroom and filled the grounds around the castle, admiring the view across the sea to the Italian coast or having their pictures taken in front of the dolphin fountain, where the water played and splashed like jewels in the bright sunshine.
He looked magnificent, she thought as she caught a glimpse of him through the crowd, in one of his beautifully tailored suits that showed the long, lean line of his body to perfection. He looked magnificent and at ease with himself at last—as if he’d cast his demons from his shoulders, as if he’d come to terms with his past. He’d even wooed the inevitable media, so it was now fully behind him, and covering his wedding as if it was some kind of fairytale. And it was a fairytale, she knew.
But it was much more than that. He was much more than that. Right now he was talking to someone hidden by the crowd, his beautiful scarred face animated and alive.
He caught her eye across the space and held it, and she felt that now familiar slow burn of heat flare up inside her as he excused himself and headed her way, looking neither left nor right as he cut a swathe towards her. He was at her side a heartbeat later, sweeping her up in one arm and swinging her around.
‘Have I told you how beautiful you look today, Countess Volta?’
She smiled. ‘Maybe once or twice,’ she said, though they both knew it was many, many more times than that. ‘And have I told you how magnificent you look, my husband?’
‘So many times,’ he growled, nuzzling her ear, ‘that I fear I may just start to believe it.’
‘Believe it,’ she said. ‘You are the most handsome man here.’
‘Grace—’
‘No, it is true. You are smiling so much you are like a beacon. Everyone wants to talk to you. Why else has it taken this long to have a moment with you alone?’
‘I was just talking to Professor Rousseau.’
Grace looked around, trying to find her through the crowd. ‘Oh, I should have come over to you. She doesn’t know many people here, Alessandro.’
‘She’s fine. I left her talking to my best man.’
‘To Bruno? I wouldn’t have thought they would have much in common.’
‘On the contrary. It turns out they both have pirate ancestors. Bruno has offered to show the Professor through the caves below the castle.’
‘He has?’ She scanned the crowd, which finally parted enough that she could see them both in deep conversation. As if aware he was being discussed, Bruno suddenly looked up and gave a bashful smile. ‘He smiled at me,’ she said. ‘Bruno actually smiled.’
The man beside her laughed, and she found so much joy in the sound that she wondered… ‘Do you think it’s true, Alessandro—the legend of the Salus Totus? Do you think it really is a book of healing? Do you think it a coincidence that it was found here?’
He took her hands in his own. ‘I think you are the healer here, Grace. You came to an island where a monster resided, where only darkness existed. You lit up that world and shook it until your light and your love chased the darkness and the monster away. And I will love you for it for ever.’
He kissed her as tears sprang to her eyes. Tears of love. Tears of joy. Tears for the wasted years, and tears for all the years that were yet to come.
Years they would spend together.
THE RELUCTANT QUEEN
Caitlin Crews
CAITLIN CREWS discovered her first romance novel at the age of twelve. It involved swashbuckling pirates, grand adventures, a heroine with rustling skirts and a mind of her own and a seriously mouthwatering and masterful hero. The book (the title of which remains lost in the mists of time) made a serious impression. Caitlin was immediately smitten with romances and romance heroes, to the detriment of her school social life. And so began her lifelong love affair with romance novels, many of which she insists on keeping near her at all times. She currently lives in California, with her animator/comic book artist husband and their menagerie of ridiculous animals.
Books by Caitlin Crews
Harlequin Presents®
3006—THE DISGRACED PLAYBOY**
2980—KATRAKIS’S SWEET PRIZE
CHAPTER ONE
“HELLO, Princess.”
It was a dark voice, low and deep, and echoed hard and deep in Lara Canon’s bones—making them sing out in recognition. She turned without conscious thought, as if compelled, searching for the man responsible, though some part of her knew at once who he must be. Her gaze flicked across the parking lot of the unremarkable supermarket in her Denver, Colorado, neighborhood, scanning out from the side of her car where she’d stopped still.
She found him at once, unerringly, as if he’d commanded it. Her heart began to beat wildly, even as her skin prickled.
He was even more compelling than his voice, tall and broad like a warrior, with jet-black hair and deep gray eyes above a hard, unsmiling mouth. He held himself with an ease she knew at once was deceptive—he was too watchful, too ready. He wore a black, tight shirt that strained against the tautly packed muscles of his broad chest and flat abdomen, and trousers in the same color that clung to powerful legs and lean hips. He was beautiful in the way that dangerous thunderstorms were beautiful, and Lara discovered that she was breathless.
He was the most gorgeous thing she’d ever seen, for all that he was the most arresting. And more than that, she recognized him. She knew him.
She had thought she’d never see him again. She felt her pulse pound beneath her skin.
“I did not expect that you would grow to favor your father,” he said, those remote, storm-colored eyes seeming to see right through her, shocking her, looking straight into the past she’d long denied. The shopping bag in her arms slipped a few inches as her fingers lost feeling. As panic surged through her.
She realized two things, clutching at the brown paper bag before it fell to the asphalt at her feet. First, that he was not speaking English. And second, that she could understand the language he was speaking.
It made her think at once, of course, of Alakkul. Her father’s tiny, oft-contested country in the Eurasian, sometime-Soviet mountains, where his family had ruled with iron fists and an inflated sense of their own consequence for generations.
The country she and her mother had escaped from, in the dark of night, when she was sixteen years old. The country that she had been running from, in one way or another, ever since. And the last place she had seen this man, when he had still been more of a boy. When he had been far less beautiful, far less dangerous, and had still managed to break her teenaged heart.
Her stomach clenched into a thick, tight knot. She told herself it was panic—that it could not be that old, familiar desire she’d been so overwhelmed by as a girl. They were in a busy parking lot, filled with people on this bright June evening. He was standing far enough away that she didn’t think he could reach over and grab her—and anyway, she was twenty-eight years old. Her father could hardly attempt to regain custody now. There was no reason for him to be here. And therefore no reason for her to acknowledge their shared history.
“I’m sorry,” she said. In English.
She shrugged to indicate her lack of comprehension and, hopefully, polite disinterest. It had been so long. Maybe she was seeing ghosts. Maybe it wasn’t him at all. “Can I help you with something?”
He smiled, and it was far more disturbing than his voice, or his hard, shocking beauty. It made his gray eyes warm slightly, with a flash of what looked like sympathy. It confused Lara even as it set off a tiny trail of flickering flames across her skin, licking up and down her limbs. Reminding her. Making her yearn for things she dared not name.
“You are the only one who can help me,” he said, in his perfect, exotically accented English. His mouth crooked. “You must marry me. As you promised to do twelve years ago.”
She laughed, of course. What else could she do? She laughed, even as old memories chased through her head—long-buried images of crystal-clear mountain lakes, snow-capped peaks jutting in the distance, the spires of an ancient castle hewn from the very rock of the steep hills. A lean, feral young man with dark gray eyes, looking down at her with a fierce expression while her heart beat too fast and the white-cloaked priests murmured archaic, improbable words through the haze of incense and ritual. His head bent close to hers to whisper secrets in the middle of a great festival dinner, making her shiver. His smile, his occasional laughter, that fire in his stormy eyes when he gazed at her…
How long had she told herself those images were part of a dream? That they could not be anything but a dream? Yet the man who stood before her was undeniably, inarguably real.
And worse, she knew him. Her body knew him—and was reacting exactly as it had then, when she had been so young. She’d spent a long time convincing herself that all that fire had been no more than a young girl’s fantasy. That he could not possibly do these things to her. That she had embellished, exaggerated, as young girls did.