“No, what did it say?”

“Ask her. I could tell she meant every word.” Alessandro winked.

Christopher nodded. “Yes, she seemed very sincere.”

“Definitely. You're a lucky man, Christopher Bennett.”

“I know it. Thank you.” And now I need to find out what my wife was singing

to me.

Despite her concerns, Katerina enjoyed the party once she found her husband and took his arm. Being close to Christopher made anything seem possible, even

conversing comfortably with strangers in a foreign country. She stood as near to

him as she was able, until she could feel the heat from his body, and she smiled

sweetly at the people around her.

I am not a mouse, not a rabbit. I stood up to a bully, challenged her and won.

Not the contest. I never cared about winning that. I won the battle of wills. I'mbraver than ever before. Aimée will never bother my husband again, and if she

does, I will give her a piece of my mind she'll not soon forget.

The hours went by, neither flying nor dragging, just passing until at last the

appointed ending time arrived. The guests who lived nearby returned home, and

those from farther away retired to guest rooms. Finally, Katerina pleaded

exhaustion, kissed her grandfather goodnight, and led her husband to their room.

Alessandro waited for the last lingering attendees to depart before finally heading off to bed. Ending his liaison with Aimée had left him unhappy. Her behavior was unconscionable, and I'm still angry, but damn it, I love the wench.

He undressed and slid between the sheets, knowing sleep would be difficult.

He drew an unsteady breath. The bed felt cold and empty without his warm, vital

woman filling it.

The mattress sagged. Familiar arms slipped around him.

“Alessandro, my love,” the sweetly accented voice washed over him, “I'm so

sorry. So very sorry. It was so bad of me. Please, please forgive me. Please don't

throw me out. I never meant to hurt or embarrass you.”

“Aimée,” he shook her off, “why was claiming my piano so important to you

that you put my granddaughter through all of that?”

“Why do you think?” she demanded, fiery as always. “You have so little for

me. The music room is one place where I have always been able to please you,

where you've always been proud of me. Without that, I'm just the putain you're sleeping with. If she replaces me, what am I but a whore?”

“You're an artist, not a whore,” he protested.

“I know. I also know what you and everyone else thinks of me. Do you

honestly believe I lay with you because I have no morals? Do you know how many other men I've had in my bed?” she demanded.

He rolled to face her, taking in her expression. “How many?”

“Only one. Only my husband.”

He raised his eyebrows. “So there really was a Monsieur St. Jean?”

She nodded, her hand lifting as though to touch his face, but she hesitated and let her fingers slip back to the bed. “There really was. We married young, and he died young, but he left me a little money, and I used it to study music.”

“I never knew,” Alessandro said.

“You never asked,” she retorted.

“But if that's true, then why me?” he asked. “I'm old enough to be your father. Why are you here, Aimée?”

“I don't exactly know,” she replied, speaking slowly while she considered.

“When we started, you were so… comforting, so safe. Life is hard and

frightening, and in order to survive alone, a woman has to be strong. With you, I

could be soft again, be a woman. I wanted you, and then, after we came together,

and you still cared for and respected me, I never wanted to leave. I'm afraid, Alessandro.”

“Of what?” he asked.

“Of what comes next. If we separate, my heart will be broken, but if we don't… I've already buried one husband…”

“And I've already buried one wife. No matter what, life is hard, Aimée. Tell

me what you want.”