later he found himself on the same mountain where he’d nearly died six years ago. It was a cold, crisp morning in another December, and he treated the winding mountain road with a great deal more respect than he had back then.
And this time he pulled off to the side of the road when he reached the top, because he could see the village before him.
It looked like a storybook, which only made him more determined to scrape it off whatever passed for his battered soul. It was like a dream in the morning light. Snowcapped mountains all around, and down in the small valley, fields cut by a tumbling river. What passed for the center of town was a clump of old buildings that dated from centuries past. The church stood at one end of the village with the abbey behind it and off to one side, the hospital where he had survived his recovery. He stared at it a long while, aware that his fingers were on his scars again.
Something in him turned over, with a low hum.
He told himself it was sheer horror that a man like him, raised in the middle of one of the most frenetic and sophisticated cities in the world, not to mention the luxurious lifestyle he now enjoyed, should ever have imagined that he could stay here.
Here.
It beggared belief.
He started up the car again, following the road down and around and around, until it reached the valley floor.
Where everything was exactly as he’d left it.
There was no reason that his heart should be clattering about in his chest as he drove the familiar road to the church. He would find the old priest and ask after Cecilia. He would almost surely find such a reunion faintly horrifying, and once he did, he would leave. The truth was, he’d come a very great distance for what he expected to take all of a few moments. He could have—and should have—sent Guglielmo. Or some other underling, who could have reported back on whether Cecilia was still here. For that matter, there had been no earthly reason for him to drive through the night like a man possessed. He could have taken his helicopter and landed it in the field behind the church, the same field he’d stared at week after week after week from his hospital bed.
No wonder he’d become fixated on the novice nun who’d cared for him. There had been nothing else to do. Except, Mother Superior had told him serenely, pray.
Pascal had not prayed then. He considered a prayer for deliverance now instead. Because he had surrendered to this fantasy for absolutely no good reason. This appalling tour through his own nostalgia.
“You might as well get it over with,” he growled at himself.
He unfolded himself from the low-slung sports car and stood beside it a moment. It was midmorning now, and though it was a clear day, the wind rushed down from the mountain peaks and sliced straight through him. He was dressed for a sophisticated dinner in Rome, not a trip to the hinterland.
He adjusted the jacket of his bespoke suit with two impatient tugs of his hands, and didn’t bother looking around. The village felt deserted. If memory served, what few villagers there were rarely congregated before the afternoon, if then. The nuns had chosen this valley well. It was the perfect spot for silent contemplation.
Pascal walked up the steps to the front door of the church. The weathered door stood open a crack, and he pushed his way inside, and then paused for a moment in the vestibule as he was walloped with memories.
It smelled the same. It looked the same. And it made his head spin as if he’d overindulged again.
What year is this? he asked himself.
The church might not have changed in the past century. But Pascal had changed tremendously since he’d left here. That was what he needed to remember.
He moved into the church proper, his gaze moving from the quiet, empty pews to the candles flickering in the alcoves. He saw no hint of the old, garrulous priest who he recalled so vividly from six years ago. The place was deserted—
But then he heard a noise. He took a few more steps and saw a washer woman on her hands and knees, scrubbing at the floor before the altar with her back to him.
She did not look around as he started down the aisle, and that gave Pascal ample opportunity to remember all the other times he’d done this exact same walk. All the times the priest had encouraged him to look within for a change, rather than continuing to look outside himself.
What is the point of all this power you seek if your heart is empty? the old man had asked him.
What do you know of either power or a heart? Pascal had replied. And he’d laughed.
But Pascal did not think the old man had been kidding. And those sneaky words were one more ghost that he couldn’t quite get to leave him alone.
He dropped his gaze from the stained glass in the small nave, and stood there, several feet away from the woman on the floor. He expected her to stop what she was doing, for she must have heard him, but she didn’t. Not even when he cleared his throat.
“If I might have a moment of your attention, signorina,” he said, his voice echoing back at him from all around.
She moved then. She sat back on her knees, and tugged the headphones out of her ears in one smooth motion. And Pascal was caught, somehow, in the smoothness of it.
But then she shifted around to face him, still down there on the stone floor. And everything…stopped.
That face.
Her face.
He’d been seeing it for years.
He knew every millimeter of her heart-shaped face, and the rich brown hair touched with gold that surrounded it. He knew that wide, generous mouth, and the delicate nose.
Most of all, he knew those eyes. Startling violet set above cheekbones made for poetry.
He knew her, his angel of mercy and the ghost that had haunted him for years.
It was Cecilia. His Cecilia.
“My God,” he whispered. “It’s you.”
“It’s me,” she replied, her voice flat. Hard. And that was when he noticed that those violet eyes of hers were bright on his. And murderous. “And you can’t have him.”
CECILIA REGINALD WAS no stranger to fear or disappointment.
It was right there in the name she’d been left with all those years ago when the English lady—her mother, presumably—had stayed in the only pensione in the village for the weekend, given a fake name, and then had left her three-year-old behind when she’d run off. Never to return.
Cecilia had always known that she was disposable, though she happily remembered very little of that first, lost life. Just as she’d always known that Pascal Furlani, who had discarded her when she was fully grown and able to recall every painful second of it, would be back.
At first, she had dreamed of his return. Wished for it, fervently, as if he’d disappeared from the village by mistake somehow. Because assuming he did the right thing—and she’d assumed he would then—would have solved her problems in a neat, orderly and time-honored fashion. Because his coming back would have made sense of the wreckage that her neat, orderly life had become in the chaotic wake he’d left behind him.
And because she had imagined herself in love with him.
But of course, that was not when he had deigned to tear himself away from his meteoric rise to wealth and prominence and return at long last. Not when she would have greeted his return with nothing short of delight. Instead, he came back now, when she wanted it least. And not only because she no longer believed in such childish notions as being in love.
“Who is him?”