“Oh, no, thank you, Caldenas, please don’t trouble. After music like this I prefer to be alone. I’m sure you understand?”
She stepped to the railing and picked up her gloves and her opera glasses. As she did so, her eyes swept absently over the dispersing crowd and lighted upon a tall man almost directly beneath her. Something familiar about the cut of his head, the slope of his broad shoulders, penetrated her to the core. She leaned over the railing in sudden apprehension. As if in response, the man turned and their glances flamed to a focus.
With a confusion at once sickening and sweet, Anne found herself looking into the eyes of Vittorio Torrigiani. For a second, she felt as if all the blood in her body had seeped to her heart. Then it poured back in a crimson stream from her feet to the roots of her hair. An instinctive desire for flight overcame her. She turned and made for the back of the box, where Gerald was patiently waiting. Vittorio, how ghastly! How could she ever face him? And yet after that flaming interchange of glances, how could she let him go? She returned to the railing and called after the retreating figure softly. From the back of the box Gerald watched her in amazement.
“Vittorio?”
“Anne!”
A moment later and he stood within the box. He took her icy fingers in his and pressed them to his lips.
“I had not intended to have you see me,” he said quietly. “Please don’t think that I meant to intrude, cara. Only as I was passing by Carnegie Hall I saw the announcement of the concert. I couldn’t resist coming in, and perhaps catching a farewell glimpse of you.”
“A farewell glimpse?” Her voice faltered. He looked down at her longingly.
“Yes, I am sailing for Sicily in the morning.”
“So soon! Without even letting me know! How long have you been in New York?”