It was clear to her now that Freddie was not that man. He didn’t want to be a father. He only wanted Lillian to take care of him—and to never leave him.
That night, Lillian couldn’t sleep. Freddie, on the other hand—due to the extra glass of Madeira port he’d ordered with dessert—had fallen into a deep, snoring slumber as soon as his head hit the pillow.
Before that, he had hinted at making love, but Lillian told him she didn’t feel well. It wasn’t a total fabrication. The day had been emotionally taxing, and she hadn’t been able to finish her meal in the restaurant. They’d switched plates. Freddie had finished hers.
Rolling to her side, she rested her cheek on a hand and gazed out the open window. The night was dark, the moon a small sliver of light in the inky-black sky. A thin cover of wispy clouds blocked out the stars.
Lillian’s mind teemed with stressful thoughts. After her dinner with Freddie, she couldn’t imagine leaving Tuscany and returning to America, never to see Anton again—only to continue working at a job she didn’t truly care about while waiting indefinitely for Freddie to want to have a child with her.
As she lay gazing up at the midnight sky, listening to him snore on the pillow beside her, her thoughts drifted to Anton. Her imagination came alive with excitement as she recalled all the moments they had shared, the conversations they’d had. There was no question that Anton aroused her passions more than Freddie ever had or ever could, in every sense of the word. She loved Freddie, but their relationship had never been passionate, not even in the beginning.
Her heart thudded and her emotions spun as she realized that she could not continue to lie in bed with anyone who wasn’t Anton, so she slipped out, quietly pulled a dress from the wardrobe, and carried it to the bathroom. She changed out of her nightgown and stared at herself in the mirror.
What in the world are you doing?
She tried to convince herself to go back to bed with her sleeping husband, but there was no fighting what she felt.
Five minutes later, she was jogging up Cypress Row, through the darkness without a flashlight, but it wasn’t a problem, because she knew every inch of the road by heart. She reached the main gate to the villa and keyed in the security code, then hurried up the wide stone steps to the front door.
It was locked. All the windows were dark. Anton slept on an upper floor, but Francesco’s apartment was on the ground level, so she scurried around to the side of the house and rapped on his window.
The drapes flew open almost instantly, and he raised the sash. “Lillian. What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry to wake you,” she replied, “but I need to speak with Anton. It can’t wait until morning.”
“Sì ,” he replied. “Go around to the front. I’ll let you in.”
He met her there a moment later and led her into the main reception room, where he switched on a lamp. “Wait here. I’ll wake him.”
She had no idea if Francesco knew what was going on between her and Anton. They had always tried to be discreet, but people weren’t stupid. They had watched him walk her home every night while her husband was away, and he did not return for hours, sometimes not until dawn.
Still out of breath from her hasty scuttle up the hill, she sat down on the sofa in front of the fireplace and prayed that Anton would forgive her for ending things the way she had, earlier that day.
At last, he appeared in the doorway wearing plaid pajama bottoms. Shirtless. A thrill erupted inside her—a beautiful passion that made it impossible to imagine her future without him. He had done something to her. She was not the same woman who had married Freddie Bell five years ago. She understood that now. She had come into this world destined for something else—to be with someone else.
“Tell me you’ve changed your mind,” Anton said in a deep, husky voice that burrowed into her soul in the most pleasurable way.
“Yes,” she replied. “I’m so sorry. I was so stupid. Can you forgive me?”
He shut the door and locked it behind him, then crossed the room in a series of swift, sure-footed strides. Her question was answered when he pulled her into his arms and buried his face in her neck.
Pure, unadulterated euphoria exploded in the depths of her heart, and she whispered, “Thank God.”
The next thing she knew, Anton was easing her onto her back on the sofa. His flesh was hot upon hers, and she disappeared into the pleasure of their deep, soulful connection. It delved into her bones—deeper still—as they made love passionately, with a mixture of both joy and anguish.