The Girl That Love Forgot

“Oh.” The smile on his face faded. He lifted a dark eyebrow, then looked toward the faded paint of the crest of arms on the far wall. “Did you know, as a boy, I used to steal horses from this estate?”

Was he changing the subject? Frowning, she gave an incredulous laugh. “Really? I can’t believe it.”

“All right, not steal,” he said. “Borrow. I felt sorry for the horses because the owners ignored them. I took them for exercise when my father wasn’t looking. Then I was caught riding a stallion bareback by one of the guests—the coach of a famous show-jumping team.

Instead of denouncing me to the owner, he invited me to join his team. I said no. I was only eighteen and didn’t want to leave my family. Until …” His lips turned downward. “Until the coach’s beautiful blond daughter asked me in a way I couldn’t resist.”

A dull ache filled Annabelle like a thud. Why? She couldn’t be jealous! What did she care about some blond girl who’d once had power over Stefano? She didn’t! “So what happened?”

Again that shrug. “Last I heard, she married a wealthy man in Mexico City. But I cared for her, once. When I was too young to know better. Until I discovered the kind of woman she really was.”

“What kind?”

“The wrong kind.” He looked at her. “Is that what you wanted to know?”

She licked her lips. “You speak of the coach and his daughter so scornfully. But … they took you from poverty, didn’t they? They gave you your start?”

“In a way,” he said grudgingly. “I used money from my year of show-jumping to buy this ranch sixteen years ago.”

She shook her head, furrowing her brow. “Then I don’t understand why you stopped your horse at the equestrian show. Why turn on the people who’d helped you?”

He looked away. “I had my reasons.”

“And—”

“I answered your question,” he said. “Now it’s your turn.”

“What do you want to know?” she said hesitantly.

“Why are you so alone?”

She stared at him in shock, her mouth open.

“You came here without an assistant,” he continued silkily. “I’d imagined most photographers of your caliber would travel with an entourage.”

Ah. So that was what he’d meant. For a moment she’d thought he’d meant … that he’d somehow seen.

The loneliness of her entire adult life.

Annabelle’s lips turned down. “My assistant had a baby last week. She’s with her husband in Cornwall. Until I replace her,” she said in a small voice, “I’m on my own.”

“Ah. Que lástima” He held out his arms expansively. “But at least you are not the one to be tied down, sí? No dilapidated cottage garden for you to weed, no tiny babies crying and keeping you up all night. No husband to cook for every day, ironing his shirts and washing his socks. Sí,” he said approvingly. “An artist like yourself must always have solitude and freedom.” He lifted his goblet, looking down at her. “To freedom.”

Her throat hurt as she lifted her wineglass.

“To freedom.”

They clinked glasses, and he drank deeply. Annabelle took a tiny sip, but the wine now tasted sour. She’d had freedom, yes. For many, many years. Practically all her life.

What was the difference between freedom and emptiness? What was solitude, but loneliness?

Annabelle put down the glass, feeling suddenly weary. She placed her elbows on the long wooden table, leaning her forehead against her hands as she rubbed her eyes with her fingertips.

“Are you not feeling well?” he asked with concern.

“I think I’ve had too much wine,” she said in a low voice.

“I will escort you to your bedroom.”