The Argentine's Price

EPILOGUE


THE past three years had been the best of Vanessa’s life. She felt as though all the time spent apart from Lazaro was slowly being restored, as though wounds were truly healing, the past no longer something filled with hurt and regret.

She took a deep breath and looked around the gallery, at the people looking at her photographs. It was her first real exhibition. She hadn’t been confident enough in her skills to have one right away, and she’d wanted to earn the right to have one, not simply have it handed to her because of her maiden name or her husband’s position in the community.

The picture that drew the biggest crowd was the one that was still her favorite. Lazaro, in their bed, looking at her with so much desire in his eyes that it made her burn to see it even now.

She walked over to the photo, drawn to it still.

“That’s a man in love.” It came from one of the women gazing at the print.

Vanessa smiled.

Lazaro came to stand beside her, his arm around her waist. “Yes, it is.” He leaned in and kissed her neck. “I’m still in love with you, too.”

“I know,” she said.

“Sure of yourself,” he said, smiling at her.

“Sure of you,” she said.

He’d never given her reason to doubt. He showed her his love every day in a thousand different ways. He loved her as she was, in all her moods.

He kissed her again. “Have I mentioned how very proud I am of you?”

“About a hundred times, but tell me again.”

“I’m proud of you,” he whispered, pulling her close. “Of everything you’ve accomplished. Of everything you are.”

Vanessa blinked back tears and leaned into his embrace, love filling her. “The feeling is one-hundred-percent mutual.”