Читать книгу From Paris With Love Collection - Кэрол Мортимер, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 17

CHAPTER TEN

“OH, EMMA,” IRENE whispered. Her eyes sparkled with tears. “You make such a beautiful bride.”

Looking at herself in the gilded full-length mirror, Emma hardly recognized herself. The sensible housekeeper had been magically transformed into a princess bride from a nineteenth-century portrait. Her beautiful cream-colored silk dress had been handmade in Milan, with long sleeves and elaborate beadwork. Her black hair was pulled up in a chignon, tucked beneath a long veil that stretched all the way to the floor.

The green eyes looking back at her in the mirror were the only thing that seemed out of place. They weren’t tranquil. They were tortured.

Just last night, passion had curled her toes and made her cry out with pleasure. That morning, she’d risen from the warmth of their bed early to feed Sam. She had drowsed off while rocking the baby back to sleep, and when she returned later, Cesare was gone.

But something had changed in him. All day, as they welcomed their newly arriving guests—who, with the exception of Irene, were all Cesare’s friends, not hers—he’d barely looked at her. She’d told herself he was just busy, trying to be a good host. But the truth was that in the tiny corner of her heart, she feared it was more than that. No. She knew it was more than that.

This marriage was a mistake.

Emma looked at herself again in the mirror, at the beautiful wedding gown. She smoothed the creamy silk beneath her hands. The decision is already made, she told herself, but her hands were trembling.

Since she’d left his bed that morning, the day had flown by, in a succession of celebrations leading up to tonight’s first wedding ceremony, at twilight in the chapel. Emma had been genuinely thrilled to see Irene, who’d been flown in from Paris courtesy of Cesare. But as she’d shown the younger woman around her new home, Irene’s idealistic joy had soon become grating.

“It’s all like a dream,” she’d breathed, seeing her beautifully appointed guest room, with its Louis XV furniture and accents of deep rose and pale pink. She’d whirled to face Emma, her rosy face shining. “You deserve this. You worked so hard, you put your baby first, and now you’ve been rewarded with a wedding to a man who loves you with all his heart. It’s just like a fairy tale.”

Feeling like a fraud, Emma had muttered some reply, she couldn’t even remember what. Later, as she was congratulated by his friends, even a sheikh of some sort with long white robes who, in perfect British English, wished her well, the feeling only worsened.

Out of everyone at the villa, only one person didn’t speak to her. He didn’t even look at her. Not since he’d made love to her last night.

How could he turn so fast from passion to coldness?

The answer was clear.

Cesare didn’t want to marry her.

It was only his promise that was forcing him to do it. Emma’s gaze fell on baby Sam, who was currently lying on her soft bed, proudly chewing the tip of his own sock, which was stretched out from his foot.

“Here’s your bouquet,” Irene said now, smiling as she wiped her own happy tears away. She handed her a small, simple bouquet of small red roses. “Perfect. This is all so romantic....”

Emma looked down at the flowers, feeling cold. How could she destroy Irene’s dreams, and tell her that romantic was the last thing this wedding would be? She exhaled.

“I just wish my father were here,” Emma whispered. With his steady hand and good advice, he’d know just what to do.

Irene’s face instantly sobered. “It must be so hard not to have him here, to walk you down the aisle. But he’s with you in spirit. I know he is. Looking down on you today and smiling.”

Emma swallowed. That thought made it even worse. Because today, marrying Cesare, she was doing something her heart told her was wrong. Doing something that her heart told her could only ultimately end in disaster, no matter how good their intentions might be for their son.

It’s too late to back out, she told herself. There’s nothing I can do now.

Irene looked at the watch on her slender wrist.

“It’s time,” she said cheerfully. She picked up Sam, who was wearing a baby tuxedo in his strictly honorary capacity of ring bearer. “We’ll be sitting in the front row. Cheering for you both. And probably crying buckets.” She waved a linen handkerchief. “But I came prepared!” She tucked it in her chiffon sash. “See you in the chapel.”

“Wait.” Emma swallowed, feeling suddenly panicky. She held out her arms. “I need Sam with me.”

Irene looked bemused. “You want to walk up the aisle holding a baby?”

“Yes. Because—” she grasped at straws “—we’re a family.”

“But your hands are full....”

Emma instantly dropped the bouquet on the floor in a splash of petals, and stretched out her hands desperately. She needed to feel her baby in her arms. She needed to remind herself what she was doing this for—marrying a man who was forever in love with his dead wife. His real wife. She needed to feel that she was sacrificing her life for a good reason. “Give him to me.”

“Aw, your poor flowers,” Irene sighed, looking at the bouquet on the floor. Then, looking up, she slowly nodded. “But maybe you’re right. Maybe this is better. Here you go.”

Emma took Sam in her arms. She felt the warmth of his small body and inhaled his sweet baby smell, and nearly cried.

Turning away, Irene paused at the door of Emma’s bedroom. “The three of you are already a family,” she said softly, “but today makes it official. Thanks for inviting me. Seeing what’s possible...it makes me more happy than you’ll ever know.”

And her young friend left, leaving Emma holding her baby against her beaded silk dress, her throat aching as she fought back tears that had nothing to do with joy.

“All right, Sam. I guess we can’t be late.” She looked out the window, at the vast sky above the lake, already turning red in the twilight. “I only wish I had a sign,” she murmured over the lump in her throat. “I wish I knew whether I’m making the right choice—or ruining all our lives.”

Sam, of course, didn’t answer, at least not in words she could understand. Holding her baby close, she walked out of her bedroom as an unmarried woman for the last time. When next she returned, she would be the mistress of this villa. From now on, her place would be in Cesare’s bed.

Until he grew tired of her. And started sleeping elsewhere. She pushed the thought aside.

Emma’s white satin shoes trembled as she walked down the sweeping stairs. The villa was strangely silent. Everyone had gone to the chapel, even the household staff. She heard the echoing footsteps of her shoes against the marble floor before she pushed open the enormous oak door and went outside.

Holding her baby close, she walked down the path carved into the hillside, along the edge of the lake. “This marriage is for you, Sam,” she whispered. “I can live without your father loving me. I can live without him being faithful to me. For you, I can live the rest of my life with a numb, lonely heart....”

Emma stopped in front of the medieval chapel, which was lit by torchlight on the edge of the lake. Such a romantic setting. And every drop of romance a lie.

Trembling, she walked toward it, nestling her baby against her hip as the veil trailed behind them.

The twelfth-century chapel had been carefully and lovingly restored to its Romanesque glory. The medieval walls were thick, with just a few tiny windows. The arched door was open.

Heart pounding, she stepped inside.

The dark chapel was illuminated by candlelight, its tall brass candlesticks placed along the aisle. She heard the soft music of a lute, accompanied by guitar. As she appeared in the doorway, there was an audible gasp as the people packed into the tiny chairs rose to their feet.

Emma’s legs felt like jelly. She felt a tug on her translucent silk veil and saw Sam had grabbed it in his pudgy fist, and was now attempting to chew it. She smiled through her tears, then took a deep breath as the music changed to the traditional wedding march.

Looking at all the faces of the guests, she didn’t recognize any of them as she slowly walked forward, feeling more dizzy with every step. She tried to focus on Cesare at the end of the aisle. She took another step, then another. She was six steps from the altar.

And then she saw his face.

Cesare looked green, sick with fear—as if only sheer will kept him from rushing straight past her in a panic. He tried to give her a smile.

Her footsteps stopped.

“Stop! Don’t do it! Don’t ruin your life!”

The man’s voice was a low roar, as if from the deepest reaches of the earth, coming up through the stone floor. For an instant, Emma couldn’t breathe. Her father’s voice from beyond the grave...? Then she saw Cesare glare at someone behind her.

Whirling around, she saw Alain.

The slim salt-and-pepper-haired Frenchman took another step into the chapel. “Don’t do this,” he pleaded. “Falconeri has already caused the death of one woman I loved. I won’t let him take another.”

There was a gasp and growl across the crowd. Cesare gave a low hiss of fury. He was going to come down and smash Alain’s face for doing this, she realized.

For stopping a wedding that Emma never should have agreed to in the first place.

“Don’t marry him.” Alain held out a trembling hand to her. “Come with me now.”

She’d wanted a sign?

With tortured eyes, she turned back to Cesare.

“I can’t do this,” she choked out. “I’m sorry.”

Cradling her baby, she picked up the hem of her cream-colored silk gown with one hand, and followed Alain out of the chapel. She ran from Cesare as if the happiness of her whole life—and not just hers, but Sam’s and Cesare’s—depended on it.

Which she finally knew—it did.

* * *

As a thirteen-year-old, coming home in a strange big city, Cesare had once been mugged for the five dollars in his pocket. He’d been kicked in the gut with steel-toed boots.

This felt worse.

As if in a dream, Cesare had watched Emma walk up the aisle of the chapel, a bride more beautiful than he’d ever imagined, with their child in her arms. Then, like a sudden deadly storm, Alain Bouchard had appeared like an avenging angel. Emma had looked between the two men.

Cesare had been confident in her loyalty. He’d known she would spurn Bouchard, and marry him as she’d promised.

Instead she’d turned on him.

She’d abandoned him.

For a moment, as the chapel door banged closed behind her, Cesare couldn’t breathe. The pain was so intense he staggered from it.

The chapel was suddenly so quiet that he could hear the soft wind blow across the lake. The deepening shadows of the candlelit chapel seemed relentlessly dark as endless eyes focused on him, in varying degrees of shock, sympathy and worst of all—pity.

The priest, who’d met with them several times over the past weeks, spoke to him in Italian, in a low, shocked voice. He could barely hear.

Cesare’s tuxedo tie was suddenly too tight around his throat. He couldn’t let himself show his feelings. He couldn’t even let himself feel them.

Emma had left him.

At the altar.

With Bouchard.

And taken their child with her.

He looked at the faces of his friends and business acquaintances, including the white-robed, hard-eyed sheikh of Makhtar in the back row, who alone had no expression of sympathy on his face. Cesare parted his lips to speak, but his throat was too tight. After all, what was there to say?

Emma had betrayed him.

Ripping off his black tie, he tossed it on the stone floor and strode grimly out of the chapel in pursuit of her.

So much for mercy. So much for the high road.

He never should have listened to old Morty Ainsley. Cesare’s throat was burning, and so were his eyes. He should have sued Emma for full custody from the moment he learned of Sam’s existence. He should have gotten his revenge. Gotten his war.

Instead he’d offered her everything. His throat hurt. His name. His fortune. His fidelity. Hadn’t he made it clear that if she wished it, he would remain true to her? Hadn’t he proven it with more than words—with his absolute faithfulness over the past year? How much more clear could he be?

And Emma had spurned all of it. In the most humiliating way possible. He’d never thought she could be so cruel. Making love to him last night—today, leaving him for another man.

He pushed through a grove of lemon trees. He would make her pay. He would make her regret. He would make her...

His heart was breaking.

He loved her.

The realization struck him like a blow, and he stopped. He loved her? He’d tried not to. Told himself he wouldn’t. But all this time, he’d been lying to himself. To both of them. He’d been in love with her for a long time, possibly as long as she’d loved him.

He’d certainly been in love with her the night they’d conceived Sam. It wouldn’t have made sense for him to have taken such a risk otherwise.

His body had already known what his brain and heart refused to see: he loved her. For reasons that had nothing to do with her housekeeping skills, or even now her skills as a mother, or her skills in bed. He didn’t love her for any skills at all, but for the woman she was inside: loving, warm, with a heart of sunlight and fire.

And now, all that light and fire had abruptly been ripped out of his life, the moment he’d started to count on her. He wasn’t even surprised. He’d known this would happen. Known the moment he let himself love again, she would disappear.

He had only himself to blame....

“Thank God you saw sense.” Hearing the low rasp of Alain Bouchard’s voice, Cesare ducked behind a thicket of orange trees. Peering through the branches, he saw two figures standing on the shore, frosted silver by moonlight. “Here.” Bouchard’s accented voice was exultant. “Get in my boat. You’ve made the right choice. I won’t let him hurt you now.”

Clenching his fists, Cesare took a step toward them. Then he saw Emma wasn’t making a move to get in the boat. She had turned away, and was trying to calm the baby, who had started to whimper in her arms. Her long white veil trailed her like a ghost in moonlight.

“He didn’t hurt your sister, Alain,” she said in a low voice. “He would never hurt her. He loved her. In fact, he’s still in love with her. That’s why I...why I couldn’t go through with it.”

Cesare stopped, his eyes wide, and a branch broke loudly beneath his feet. Bouchard twisted his head blindly, then turned back to Emma. “Hurry. He might come at any moment.”

“I’m not getting in the boat.”

The Frenchman laughed. “Of course you are.”

“No.” Emma didn’t move. “You have to accept it. Cesare is always brutally honest, even when it causes pain. Her death was a tragic accident. He’s never gotten over it. Cesare is a good man. Honorable to his core.”

Bouchard took a step closer to her on the moonlit shore.

“If you really believe that,” he said, “what are you doing out here?”

Cesare strained to hear, not daring to breathe. He saw Emma tilt up her head.

“I love him. That’s why I couldn’t marry him.”

Cesare stifled a gasp. She loved him?

Bouchard stared at her, then shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense, chérie.”

She gave a low laugh. “It actually does.” She wiped her eyes. “He’ll never love anyone but Angélique. Heaven help me, I might have married him anyway, except...except I saw his face in the chapel,” she whispered. “And I couldn’t do it.”

Cesare took a deep breath and stepped out of the thicket of trees. Both figures looked back at him, startled.

“What did you see?” he asked quietly.

“Falconeri!” Bouchard stepped between them. “You might have fooled Emma, with her innocent heart. But we both know my sister’s death was no accident.”

“No.”

“So you admit it!”

“It’s time you knew the truth,” Cesare said in a low voice. “I’ve kept it from you for too long.”

“To hide your guilty conscience—”

“To protect you.”

Bouchard snorted derisively. “Protect me.”

“When she married me, she didn’t want a partner. She wanted a lapdog.” Cesare set his jaw. “When I threw myself into work, trying to be worthy of her, she hated the loss of attention. She hated it even more when I started to succeed. Once I no longer spent my days at her feet, worshipping her every moment, Angélique was restless. She cheated on me. Not just once, but many times. And I put up with it.”

“What?” Emma gasped.

Bouchard shook his head with a snarl. “I don’t believe you!”

“Her last lover was an Argentinean man she met while visiting Paris, who frequently traveled to New York on business. She decided Menendez was the answer to the emptiness in her heart.”

Bouchard started. “Menendez? Raoul Menendez?”

“You know him?”

“I met him once, as he was having a late dinner in a hotel in Paris with my sister,” he said uneasily. “She swore they were just old friends.”

Cesare’s lips curved. “Their affair lasted a year.”

He frowned. “That’s why she wanted a divorce?” For the first time, he sounded uncertain. “Not because you cheated on her?”

“I never could have done that,” he said wearily. “I thought marriage meant forever. I thought we were in love.” He turned to Emma and whispered, “Back then, I didn’t know the difference between lust and love.”

Emma caught her breath, her eyes luminous in the moonlight.

Bouchard stood between them, his thin face drawn. “She called me, the night before she died—sobbing that her only love had betrayed her, abandoning her like trash, that he’d been sleeping with someone else all the while. I thought she meant you. I never thought...”

Cesare shook his head. “She wore me down over that year, demanding a divorce so she could marry Menendez. She hated me, accusing me of being her jailor—of wanting our marriage to last longer just so I’d get more of her fortune. Do you know what it’s like? To live with someone who despises you, who blames you for destroying her only happiness?”

“Yes,” Emma whispered, and he remembered her stepmother. His heart twisted at the pain in her beautiful face. He wanted to take her in his arms and tell her she’d never feel that kind of grief again. Trembling, he took a step toward her.

“So you let her go,” Bouchard said.

“I finally set her free so she could marry him,” Cesare said. “She ran off to Argentina, only to discover Menendez already had a wife there. She came back to New York broken. I’m still not sure if she was trying to kill herself—or if she was just trying to make herself go to sleep to forget the heartbreak....”

Bouchard paced, then stopped, clawing back his hair. He looked at Cesare. “If this is true, why did you never tell me? Why did you let me go on believing you were at fault—that you were to blame?”

“Because you loved your sister,” he said quietly. “I didn’t want you to know the truth. That kind of blind love and faith is too rare in this world.”

“I insulted you, practically accused you of...” He stopped. “How could you not have thrown the truth in my face?”

Cesare shook his head. “I thought I loved her once. And I had my faults, too. Perhaps if I hadn’t worked so much...”

“Are you kidding?” Emma demanded incredulously, juggling their baby against the hip of her wedding gown. He smiled.

“I’m telling you now because you both deserve to know the truth.” He looked at Emma. “I didn’t want anyone to know my weakness, or the real reason I never wanted to marry again. I thought love was just delusion, that led to pain.” He paused. “Until I fell in love with you...”

Emma’s lips parted in a soft gasp.

The Frenchman tilted his head, looking thoughtfully between them. “I think it’s time for me to go.” Stepping forward, he held out his hand. “Merci, Cesare. I have changed my mind about you. You are—not so bad. You must not be, for a woman like Emma to love you.” Turning back, he kissed her softly on the cheek and gave her one final look. “Adieu, ma chérie. Be happy.”

Climbing into his small boat, Alain Bouchard turned on the engine and drove back across the lake.

Cesare turned to face Emma. As he looked down at her beautiful stricken face, so haunted and young beneath the long white veil as she held his child, her eyes were green and shadowed as the forest around them. His heart was pounding.

“You left me at the altar,” he said.

She swallowed. “Yes. I guess I did.”

“You said you saw something in my face that drove you away,” he said in a low voice. “What did you see?”

Moonlight caressed her beautiful face. She took a deep breath.

“Dread,” she whispered. “I saw dread.” Her voice caught. “I couldn’t marry a man with a face like that. No matter how much I was in love with you. I couldn’t trap you into a loveless marriage for the rest of your life. And pretend not to notice as you—cheated on me, again and again.”

“Cheated on you?” he demanded.

The baby started to whimper. Comforting him, she nodded miserably. “I assumed—”

“No.” Going to her, he grabbed her shoulders and looked down at her. “Now you know the story, you have to know I would never betray you.”

“I thought you still loved your wife,” she whispered. “That I had no chance of holding your heart—”

“I was too proud to tell you the truth. I never wanted to appear vulnerable, or feel weak like that ever again. I did love her. I loved my parents, too. And all I learned was that when you love anyone—they leave.”

“Oh, Cesare.” Her eyes glimmered in the moonlight as she shook her head. “I’m so sorry...”

“I swore I’d never let anyone that close to me again.” His lips lifted at the edges as he looked down at her. “Then I met you. And it was like coming home.”

“You never said...”

“I told myself you meant nothing to me. That I’d only brought you from the hotel to be my housekeeper. But I think it was for you that I bought that house. Even then, some part of me wanted to settle down with you. With you, I lowered my guard as I never did with anyone else. And when I found you crying that night in the kitchen, it broke through me,” he said hoarsely. “When I finally took you in my arms, I took everything I’d ever wanted and more....” He looked at Sam, then back at her fiercely. “Do you think it was an accident that I took such a risk? I’ve long since realized that my body and my heart must have known what my brain spent years trying to deny.”

“What?” she whispered.

He looked down at her. “That you are for me. My true love. My only love.”

She was crying openly now. “I never stopped loving you—”

He stopped her with a finger to her lips.

“I nearly died when I saw you leave with him,” he said in a low voice. “It was like all my worst fears coming true.”

“I’m sorry,” she choked out. “When he broke into our wedding, I thought it was a sign, the only way to save us both from a life of misery—”

“Won’t you shut up, even for a minute?” Since his finger wasn’t working, he lowered his head and covered her mouth with his own. He felt her intake of breath, felt her surprise. He kissed her in the moonlight, embracing her with deep tenderness and adoration. Her lips were sweet and soft like heaven. When he finally pulled away, his voice was hoarse.

“All this time, I was afraid of loving anyone again. Because I didn’t think I could handle the devastation of losing them. But I think I’ve always been in love with you, Emma.” Reaching out, he cupped her face. “From the day we first met. And I told you that you looked smart. And that I was glad you came into my life.”

A little squeak came out of her lips.

“Do you think I really came to Paris for some deal over a hotel? No.” He searched her gaze. “I was looking for you. When I found out about the baby, I asked you to marry me. Then I slept with you. I did all the things I swore I’d never do. I kept breaking my own rules again and again. Over you.”

“What are you saying?” she whispered.

He looked down at her in the moonlight, caressing her cheeks, running the pads of his thumbs over her pink full lips.

“Where you are concerned, from now on there is only one rule.” He smiled, and her image seemed to shimmer as he said hoarsely, “I’m going to love you for the rest of my life.”

“You—you really love me,” she breathed.

He saw the incredulity in her eyes, the desperate hope. He thought of her years of devotion going far beyond that of any paid employee. Thought of how she’d always been by his side. How she’d always had the strength and dignity to stand up for what was right. Even today.

Especially today.

“You’ve shown me what love can be,” he whispered. “Love isn’t delusion, it isn’t trying to avoid grief and pain, but holding your hand right through it, while you hold mine.” He took her hand, cradling it in his own. “All this time,” he said in a low voice, running his other hand along her pale translucent veil, “I was afraid of loving someone and losing them. I turned it into a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

She swallowed, shifting Sam’s weight against her shoulder. “It still could happen. I could get sick again. I could get hit by a bus.”

“Or you could stop loving me. You could leave me for another man.”

“Never,” she cried, then suddenly blushed, looking down at her wedding gown. “Er, except for just now, I mean. And I didn’t leave you for Alain, I never thought of him that way.”

“I know.”

“I couldn’t marry a man who didn’t love me. Because I’ve realized it’s love that makes a family. Not promises.”

Slowly Cesare lowered himself to one knee, as he should have done from the beginning. “Then let me love you for the rest of our lives. However long or short those lives might be.” Taking her hands in his own, he fervently kissed each palm, then pressed them against his tuxedo jacket, over his chest. “Marry me, Emma. And whatever your answer might be, know that you hold my heart. For the rest of my life.”

“As you hold mine,” she said as tears ran down her face. Moving her hands, she cupped his face. And nodded.

“Yes?” he breathed, searching her gaze. “You’ll marry me?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling through her tears.

“Now,” he demanded.

She snorted. “So bossy,” she said with a laugh. “Some things never change.” Her expression grew serious. “But some things do. I want to marry the man I love. The man who loves me.” Her eyes grew suddenly shadowed as she shook her head. “And if anything ever happens to us...”

“We’re all going to die someday.” Cesare’s eyes were suspiciously blurry as he looked down at her. Beneath her veil, several pins had fallen out of her chignon, causing her lustrous hair to tumble wildly down her shoulders. He pulled out the rest, tangling his fingers in her hair. “The only real question is if we’re ever going to live. And from now on, my darling,” he whispered as he lowered his lips to hers, “we are.”

* * *

“Emma!”

“We’re over here!” she called, but she knew Cesare wouldn’t be able to see her in the villa’s garden. It was August, and everything was in bloom, the fruit trees, the vegetables, even the corn. She tried to stand up, but being over eight months pregnant, it wasn’t easy. She had to push herself up off the ground with her hands, and then bend around in a way that made Sam, now fifteen months old and digging in the dirt beside her with his little spade, giggle as he watched her flop around.

“Mama,” he laughed, yanking a flower out of the ground.

“Fine, go ahead and laugh,” she said affectionately, smiling down at him. “I did this for you, too, you know.”

“Fow-a.” With dark, serious eyes, he handed her the flower. Every day, he looked more like Cesare, she thought. But he’d also started to remind her of her own father, Sam’s namesake. She saw that in the toddler’s loving eyes, in his sweetly encouraging spirit.

“Emma!” Cesare called again, more desperately.

“Over here!” She waved her hands over the bushes, trying to make him see her. “By the orange grove!”

The garden had been transformed. Just like her life. The gold-digging supermodels of London would have been shocked and dismayed to learn that, as a billionaire’s wife, Emma now spent most of her days right here, with a dirty child, growing fruits and vegetables for their kitchen and beautiful flowers to fill the vases of their home. Except, of course, when they had to fly down to the coast and go yachting along the Mediterranean, or take the private jet to see friends in London or New York. It was nice to do such things. But nicer still, she thought, to come back to their home.

The wedding had been even better than she’d imagined. After their breathless declaration and kiss by the lake, she and Cesare had gone back to the chapel arm in arm—only to discover their guests had already given up on them and started to mill back to the villa to gossip about them over some well-deserved limoncello. Even Irene looked as if she’d almost given up hope.

They’d called them all back to the chapel, and with some small, blushing explanation, the wedding had gone forward as planned. Right up to their first married kiss, which had been so passionate that it made all the guests burst into applause, and made Emma’s toes curl as she’d thought she heard angels sing. The priest had been forced to clear his throat and gently remind them the honeymoon hadn’t quite started yet.

She exhaled. They were a family now. They were happy. Cesare still had his international empire, but he’d cut back on travel a bit. Especially since they’d found out she was pregnant again.

“Cara.” Cesare came into the clearing of the garden and took her in his arms for a long, delicious kiss. Then he knelt by their son, who was still playing in the dirt, and tousled his dark hair. “And did you have a good day, piccino?”

Watching the two of them, father and son, tears rose in Emma’s eyes. Slowly she looked over the beauty of the garden. The summer trees were thick and green, and she could see the roof of the Falconeri villa against the bright blue Italian sky. How happy her parents would be if they could see how her life had turned out. Cesare’s parents, too. She could feel their love, every time she looked at Cesare. Every time she looked at their son.

And soon, their daughter would join them. Emma’s hand ran over her huge belly. In just a few weeks, their precious daughter would be born. They had already picked her name: Elena Margaret, after her two grandmothers.

Emma felt the baby kick inside her, and smiled, putting both hands over her belly now. “You like that, do you?” she murmured, then turned her face back to the sun.

“What happened while I was gone today?” Cesare rose to his feet, a frown on his handsome face. “You are crying.”

Smiling, she shook her head, even as she felt tears streak down her cheeks.

Reaching out, he rubbed them away. “What is it?” he said anxiously. “Not some problem with the baby? With you?”

“No.” The pregnancy had been easy. She’d been healthy all the way through, in spite of Cesare’s worry. All her checkups had put her in the clear. She was safely in remission, had been for over a decade, and all her life was ahead of her. “I can’t explain. I’m just so—happy.”

“I’m happy, too,” he whispered, putting his arms around her. He gave a sudden wicked grin. “And I’ll be even happier, after Sam is tucked in bed...”

She saw what he was thinking about, in the sly seduction of his smile, and smacked him playfully on the bottom. “I’m eight months pregnant!”

“You’ve never been more beautiful.”

“Right,” she said doubtfully.

“Cara.” He cupped her face. “It’s true.”

He kissed her until she believed him, until she felt dazed, dazzled in this garden of flowers and joy. She knew they would live here for the rest of their lives. If they were lucky, they’d someday be surrounded by a half-dozen noisy children, all splashing in the lake, sliding up and down the marble hallways in their socks, screaming and laughing like banshees. She and Cesare would be the calm center of the storm. The heart of their home.

He pulled her against him, and they stood silently in the garden, watching their son play. She heard the wind through the leaves. She exhaled.

She’d gotten everything she’d ever wanted. A man who loved her, whom she loved in return. Marriage. A snug little villa. As she felt the warmth of the sun, and listened to the cheerful chatter of their son, she leaned into her husband’s embrace and thought about all the love that had existed for the generations before them. Their parents. Their parents’ parents. And the love that would now exist for generations to come.

We’re all going to die someday, her husband had once said. Emma realized he was wrong.

As long as love continued, life continued. Love had made them what they were. It had created Emma, and created Cesare. It had created Sam, and soon, their daughter. Love was what lasted. Love triumphed over death.

And anyone who truly loved, and was loved in return, would always live on—in this endlessly beautiful world.

* * * * *