A Perfect Stranger by Danielle Steel Read Free Book Online

her a moment sooner than you must? You could have years left! He had meant to be encouraging, but John Henry had faced him with despair. Years' and by then how old would Raphaella be? Thirty-five? Forty? Forty-two? She would be so totally unprepared to start looking for a new life. These were the thoughts that rambled agonizingly through his mind, that left him filled with silence and his eyes glazed with anguish and grief, not so much for himself, but for her. He insisted that she go away as often as possible, but she felt guilty for leaving him, and going away wasn't even a relief. Always John Henry was on her mind.
    But John Henry repeatedly urged her to break out of her prison. Whenever he learned from Raphaella that her mother was going to New York for a few days, on her way to Buenos Aires or Mexico City, or wherever else, with the usual crowd of sisters and cousins, he was quick to urge Raphaella to join them. Whether it was for two days or ten, he always wanted her to join them, to get out into the world if only for a moment, and he knew that in that crowd she would always be safe, well protected, heavily escorted. The only moments in which she was alone were on the flights to Europe or New York. His chauffeur always put her on the plane in San Francisco, and there was always a rented limousine waiting for her at the other end. The life of a princess was still Raphaella's, but the fairy tale had considerably changed. Her eyes were larger and quieter than ever now, she would sit silent and pensive for hours, looking into the fire, or staring out at the bay. The sound of her laughter was barely more than a memory, and when it rang out for a moment, it somehow seemed like a mistake.
    Even when she joined her family for their few-day visits to New York or wherever, it was as though she weren't really there. In the years since John Henry's illness Raphaella had increasingly withdrawn, until she was scarcely different from John Henry. Her life seemed as much over as his. The only difference was that hers had never really begun. It was only in Santa Eugenia that she seemed to come alive again, with a child on her lap, and another teetering on her knees, three or four more clustered around, as she told them wonderful tales that kept them staring at her in rapture and awe. It was with the children that she forgot the pain of what had happened, and her own loneliness, and her overwhelming sense of loss. With the grown-ups she was always reticent and quiet, as though there were nothing left to say and joining in their merriment seemed obscene. For Raphaella it was like a funeral that had gone on for half a lifetime, or more precisely for seven years. But she knew only too well how much he suffered and how much guilt he felt for his invalid state over the last year. So when she was with him, there was only tenderness and compassion in her voice, a gentle tone, and a still gentler hand. But what he saw in her eyes cut him to the very core of his being. It was not so much that he was dying, but that he had killed a very young girl and left in her place this sad, lonely young woman with the exquisite face and the huge, haunted eyes. This was the woman he had created. This was what he had done to the girl he had once loved.
    As Raphaella walked swiftly down the thickly carpeted steps onto the next landing, she glanced quickly down the hall and saw the staff already dusting the long antique tables that stretched down the endless halls. The house they lived in was one that John Henry's grandfather had built when he first came to San Francisco after the Civil War. It had survived the earthquake in 1906 and was now one of the most important architectural landmarks in San Francisco, with its sweeping lines and five stories perched next to the Presidio and looking out at the bay. It was unusual also because it had some of the finest stained-glass skylights in the city, and because it was still in the hands of the family that had originally