The Forgotten Daughter Page 15

  Who else could she turn to for comfort? Who? Her ex-assistant Marie was busy with her husband and newborn baby. Annabelle’s brothers were getting married and settling down.

  They didn’t need to be bothered by their poor pathetic sister yet again.

  Then she thought of one person who’d remained at Wolfe Manor all these years, even after Annabelle’s brothers had left. One person who’d refused to completely let Annabelle fall off the face of the earth.

  Mollie Parker.

  Annabelle turned on her mobile, and sudden hope rose to her throat. She looked to see if Stefano had left any messages, messages like I changed my mind. I love you. I need you.

  But there were no messages.

  And Annabelle realized she did have tears left, after all.

  She was being stupid. She’d be back in London by midnight, she told herself, wiping her eyes. Soon, she’d be home.

  Except her empty flat didn’t feel much like a home anymore. Now, home meant blue skies and wide golden fields, laughing teenagers and a kindly, plump-cheeked housekeeper keeping them all in line. And most of all, home meant Stefano.

  Gone. All gone.

  Huddled in the driver’s seat of her parked truck, she wiped her eyes even harder. She’d throw herself back into her career just like always. She’d forget Stefano. She’d bury herself in work until she died.

  But the thought just made her cry harder. Once, she’d been numb and content in such a life, with her heart frozen and dead. Stefano had changed that. He’d brought her to life.

  Then … he’d taken it all away.

  With a shaking finger, Annabelle dialed Mollie’s mobile number in the U.K. But she reached only voice mail. “Hi, this is Mollie.”

  Annabelle didn’t leave a message. Desperately, she rang the main house instead, praying that Mollie would be there.

  Instead, she heard a man’s deep voice.

  “Hello?”

  “Jacob?” she said in shock.

  “Annabelle?” Her brother sounded surprised, too. “Is that you?”

  “I didn’t expect you to be at the house,” she stammered. “Mollie said you were in London all week …”

  “I was, yes, but then something happened and—”

  Nervously, Annabelle spoke over him. “Actually, I was ringing for Mollie …”

  “She’s not here.” He paused. “But can I help you with anything, Belle?”

  Her first instinct was to say no, to make an excuse and ring off. But instead, something made her grip the phone to her ear and take a deep breath, which came out as a sob. “Have you been crying?” Jacob demanded.

  “What’s happened?”

  “No.” She choked in answer to his first question, then, “Yes. But I can’t tell you.”

  “Why?”

  “Haven’t I already done enough to you?” she said fiercely. “Everything you did to save me, with Dad.” She took a shuddering breath, remembering that awful night her father had nearly killed her in a drunken rage. “It wasn’t enough that I forced you to protect me, and made you go through those horrible months of the trial. Then I finally drove you away from England with all my whinging and complaining.”

  “You weren’t whinging.” His deep voice was gentle. “You were going through a hard time. You felt scarred and isolated and alone. I never blamed you for that, Belle. Never.”

  She looked up at the busy gas station nearby. The colors of the cars blurred. “But you left!” she cried. “The next morning you were gone. You didn’t come back for twenty years!”

  She heard his deep intake of breath.

  “All this time, you’ve thought it was your fault?” he said. “You came into the study seeking comfort. I was drinking and nearly. I could see myself turning into …” He choked back his words. “You all were better off without me.”

  “But can you forgive me?” she whispered. “For ruining your life?”

  “You never ruined my life,” he said in a harsh voice. “I left because it was the only way to protect you—all of you.”

  “Protect us—from what?”

  He paused. “From me.”

  Something about his dark, bleak tone reminded her of another man’s voice.

  What do you want from me, Annabelle? Should I give you a list of pretty promises to keep you here with me? I’m telling you the truth! Should I lie and tell you I love you, when I don’t even know what I feel right now?

  “Oh, my God,” she breathed aloud.

  “Belle? What is it?”

  Stefano hadn’t taken her home away from her.

  She’d done it to herself. Her fear and lack of faith had demanded a promise for him that he wasn’t ready to give. She’d accused him constantly of being a faithless playboy, but the truth was that, for Stefano, a commitment was a sacred thing. He hadn’t wanted her to go.

  But he’d accepted her decision, rather than lie to her.

  She’d been so afraid he would someday hurt her, but she’d beaten him to the punch.

  She’d deserted the only man she’d ever loved. All because she was afraid.

  Pain is how you know you’re alive, he’d once said to her. If you are too afraid to feel pain, you’ll never know joy.

  Closing her eyes, Annabelle took a shuddering breath. Her life had been so full of pain already. It was a cold, cruel world. She’d learned the only way to be safe was to be alone.

  But what if … that wasn’t true?

  What if playing it safe just was playing dead?

  Memories came through her like the burst of dawn. The sound of Stefano’s joyful laugh. The depth of his black eyes. The way he’d held her so tight against his naked body in the tender, sacred night. He made her feel safe. He made her feel loved.

  I care for you, Annabelle. More than I’ve ever cared for anyone.

  He’d wanted her to stay. She was the one who’d run away.

  For too long, she’d lived in fear. But from now on, she would be brave enough to become the woman she was born to be.

  Annabelle gripped her mobile phone. “I have to go.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Bless you, Jacob,” she whispered. “I love you. Talk to you more soon.”

  Her hands shook as she started the engine of her truck. Backing it out of the parking lot, she got back on the motorway—headed not north toward Calais, but back toward the Spanish border. Back home. Back to Stefano.

  People didn’t change, she thought.

  Except … when they did.

  Stefano had lost that afternoon. Lost big.

  And as he walked through the enormous white tent that night after dinner, his teammates were not being terribly forgiving about it.

  “Nice going,” his polo team’s number-two player snarled as Stefano passed by in his tuxedo.

  “Did you have to take us all down with you?” his number three growled from the dance floor.

  “Were you drunk?” the fourth member of his polo team jeered from the bar.

  “Not yet,” Stefano muttered, heading toward the opposite bar. “But I will be.”

  The enormous white tent, erected in the biggest field near the hacienda, had been turned into a glamorous ballroom. Lilies and greenery decked with fairy lights overlooked the dance floor, which was filled with guests now that the surrounding dining tables had been cleared of dinner plates. Four different bars lined the edges of the tent and everyone was guzzling champagne like water. People would dance all night, Stefano knew. They’d dance till the music stopped.

  But for Stefano, the music had already stopped hours ago.

  “Bartender,” he growled, holding out his hand. Fifteen seconds later, he took a long gulp of a double Scotch.

  The polo game should have been close. On paper, the players were evenly matched.

  Instead, it had been a rout. Stefano’s team usually won but this time, for him, each chukka had been worse than the last. Even Stefano’s pony kept rolling his eyes at his rider’s pathetically weak performance.
>
  Stefano’s heart hadn’t been in the game. His heart had left the ranch that morning in a battered 1973 Land Rover.

  Ignoring all the sexy women who were, even now, trying to get his attention, Stefano turned away from the frivolity of the dance floor. He stared bleakly at the white canvas of the tent behind the bar and loosened his tie. He could still hear her sweet, trembling voice.

  I love you.

  Should I have lied to her? he snarled at himself. Should I have told her I love her when it’s not true?

  At this moment, he almost wished he had. He took another gulp of Scotch, and the amber liquid burned down his throat like fire. Setting the glass back onto the bar with a hard clink, Stefano wiped his mouth. Yes, he wished he’d lied. He wished he’d said any damn thing to keep her at his side.

  Because he missed her. He missed her like he’d miss his heart if it had been ripped out of his chest.

  He had the sudden destructive urge to smash his glass against the bar. To insult his famous guests and order them off his ranch. To sell all his horses for a single euro. What difference did it make, when he’d lost everything he’d cared about the instant Annabelle Wolfe had disappeared through his gate?

  He felt a small hand on his arm. For an instant, he held his breath. Then he turned.

  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.

  “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.

  Annabelle gasped. Her gentle hands brushed against his hair. “What are you doing?”

  The whispers built in noise. The dancers halted on the dance floor. Even the musicians stopped playing their instruments.

  Or maybe Stefano just couldn’t hear the music over the pounding of his own heart.

  Closing his eyes, he pressed his cheek against her waist. Then he looked up at her.

  “Annabelle, I love you.”

  She bit her full, pink lip. Putting her hands on his cheeks, she looked down at him, her face bemused and uncertain. “Are you sure?”

  Rising to his feet, he cupped her face, stroking her tearstained cheeks. “Look at my face. And ask if it’s true.”

  She searched his gaze, then tears filled her eyes. “I love you, Stefano,” she whispered.

  “So much.”

  Her lips trembled and it was too much for him to resist. He kissed her with passion so searing and pure it burned through his heart, and he knew his love for her would last forever.

  He heard whistles and ribald comments from nearby guests. Pulling away, Stefano looked down at her beautiful face. Her eyes were still closed, her lips still swollen from their summer days of endless kisses. He wanted to kiss her forever.

  But what he felt for Annabelle was private. Tucking her hand over his arm, he led her away from the gossiping, chattering, madding crowd.

  Outside the white tent, the warm Spanish night was dark with illuminated stars like scattered diamonds. Stefano heard the distant call of birds and whinny of horses. He loved this land with all his heart.

  No. It now took second place in his heart. His guiding star, his love, stood before him now in a white dress.

  “I have
a question for you,” he said, pulling her into his arms.

  Beneath the night sky, she looked at him. She didn’t push. She just waited, her gray eyes glowing with trust and love. He stroked her cheek, tilting her head back beneath the dark canopy of stars. Her sweet, innocent, beautiful face held such love and promise that it brought tears to his eyes. He loved her more than life. He never wanted to be without her …

  “Marry me,” he said.

  Her lips parted. She looked up, searching his face.

  “Marry me,” he demanded, more forcefully. With a choked gasp, she threw her arms around his neck.

  “Yes,” she said. “Oh, yes.” Pulling away from him, she vowed, “I will cancel my assignment in Argentina. I will cancel everything. I never want to leave you again.”

  But he frowned, furrowing his brow. “But photography is your passion.”

  She pressed her cheek against his chest. “Fou are my passion.”

  He stroked her hair softly, his heart aching with love. But he could not allow her to make the sacrifice. Looking down at her, he took a deep breath. “I will come with you.”

  She looked up in shock. “But I’ll be away for a month.”

  “So?”

  She shook her head, tears in her eyes. “I can’t ask you to leave your home!”

  “Oh, Annabelle.” Holding her face in his hands, Stefano looked down at her with adoration. “Don’t you understand? It’s you, querida.” With a low laugh, he shook his head.

  “You. you are my home.”

  A month later, flying first class back from Buenos Aires to London, Annabelle was so nervous that she could barely hold still in the white leather seat.

  “Champagne, Señora Cortez?” the flight attendant asked, holding out a silver tray.

  Señora Cortez. She and Stefano had married in a simple ceremony at Santo Castillo, the day after she’d turned in her photo essay to Equestrian magazine. When the magazine’s editors had seen her pictures, they’d instantly forgiven her for missing the polo match and gala. They’d retitled the cover story to Stud Ranch Wedding: Stefano Cortez Elopes with Equestrian Photographer in Whirlwind Affair. The publishers had already ordered a double printing as they expected the gossipy exclusive to be their best-selling edition ever.