The Consequences of That Night

tempted.”
    “I remember you talking about the remodel.” Emma had walked through room after room, all of them with ceilings fifteen feet high, with gilded details on the walls and even a fresco in the foyer. “I never imagined I might someday live here as your wife.”
    She could see why the remodel of this house, which she remembered him grumbling about, had required so much money and time. Every detail of the past had been preserved, while made modern with brand-new fixtures, windows, heated floors and two separate kitchens.
    She’d been amazed when she saw a beautiful oil painting of Cesare as a young boy of maybe three or four, with chubby cheeks and bright innocence in his eyes—along with a determined set to his jaw. His clothes were ragged and covered with mud. She’d pointed at it with a laugh. “That was you?”
    “My mother painted me perfectly. I was always outside in the garden, growing something or other.”
    “You liked to garden?” It astonished Emma. She couldn’t reconcile the image of the happy, grimy boy in the painting with the sophisticated tycoon who now stood before her.
    He rolled his eyes. “We were that kind of family. If I wanted fruit, I had to grow it myself. My parents’ idea of childcare was to give me a stick and send me outside to play in the dirt.” He fell silent. “But for all that, we were happy. We loved each other.”
    “I’m sorry,” she’d whispered, seeing the pain in his eyes. She’d put her arms around him. “But we’re here now.”
    For a moment, Cesare had allowed her to hold him, to offer comfort. Then he’d pulled away. “It all worked out,” he said gruffly. “If I hadn’t had my little tragedy and been sent to New York, I might never have started Falconeri International.” His lips curved. “Who knows. I might still have been living here in a ruin, growing oranges and flowers, digging in the garden.”
    Now, as Emma walked along the lake’s edge with her baby in her front pack, she stared at that overgrown garden. Alone of everything on the estate, the villa’s garden had not been touched. It had been left untended and wild, choked with weeds. It was as if, she thought, Cesare could neither bear to have it destroyed, nor have it returned to its former glory.
    A white mist was settling across the lake, thick and wet. Emma shivered as she pushed open the tall, heavy oak door that led into the Villa Falconeri. The scrape of the door echoed against the checkered marble floor and high ceiling with its two-hundred-year-old fresco above, showing pastoral scenes of the countryside.
    “Cesare?” she called.
    There was no answer. Emma heard a soft snore from her front pack and looked down. After hours of trying, Sam had finally dropped to sleep. His dark eyelashes fluttered downward over his plump cheeks. Smiling to herself, she went upstairs to tuck him into his crib.
    She was sharing her beautiful bedroom with her baby. There was plenty of room for his crib and changing table. The room was enormous, in powder-blue, with a canopy bed and a huge window with a balcony overlooking the lake. Gently lifting her sleeping baby out of the carrier, she tucked him into his bed.
    Alone in the room, without her baby’s warmth against her, she felt a shiver of cold air in the deepening twilight. Even here, in this beautiful place, she slept alone.
    You are special. I need you as a partner. As my friend. Sex would ruin everything.
    Emma took a deep breath.
    Tomorrow, their three-day wedding celebration would begin, first with a church ceremony, followed by a civil service the next day. Private celebrations with just a few friends: a white dress. A cake. Vows that could not be unspoken.
    How she wished it all could be real. She longed to be his real wife. She looked at her empty bed. She wanted to sleep in his arms, to feel his lips on hers, to feel his hard, naked body cover hers at night. A flash of heat went through her and she touched her lips with her fingers. She could remember him there...
    She shivered, closing her eyes.
    As much as her brain told her that marriage was the rational solution, as much as her heart longed to be permanently bound to the man she loved, her body was tense and fighting the wedding every step of the way.
    Marry a man who would never touch her?
    A man who was still in love with his long-dead wife?
    A man who would satisfy his sexual needs elsewhere, discreetly, leaving Emma to grow old and gray and die in a lonely, solitary