Private Entrance (The Butterfly Trilogy) by Kathryn Harvey

an owl hooted and wind rustled dry palm fronds. She had no idea where she was going. Her eyes were blinded by angry tears. How could Ed do this to her? What had she done to drive him to such deception?—and suddenly she came upon a beautiful little scene that made her stop and stare and sniff back her tears.
         The path ended at an arching wooden bridge, the type seen in Japanese gardens, curving over a pond so still it looked like glass. Moonlight reflected on the water like a perfect pale opal on black velvet. The bridge and pond were secluded amid dense shrub and tall trees. Sound was blocked out. Not even a breeze got in. A place suspended in time.
         Sissy walked to the center of the bridge and leaned on the rail to look at the water, noticing an occasional gold glint as exotic fish swam about.
         Her world had disintegrated. Ed cheating on her. Lying. Hotels, jewelers, florists. Spending money on other women. She felt betrayed and furious beyond belief.
         The tears started up again. She couldn't help it. And because she was completely alone, she let herself break into sobs.
         "Why are you sad?" a deep voice gently asked. And Sissy was startled to see a perfectly starched and folded handkerchief enter her vision.
         She looked up into a pair of searching eyes. He was a older than she, his dark hair silvered at the temples and his mouth nicely framed by lines of maturity. Impeccably dressed in a blue blazer, white shirt with a maroon tie, and casual gray slacks. He looked rich, a gentleman. She took the monogrammed handkerchief and dried her eyes.
         "Why are you sad?" he asked again.
          Because my husband has been cheating on me. God, what sort of fool did that make her? For five years it had been going on and Sissy had not had a clue.
         "I'm sorry you're sad," the handsome stranger said softly.
         He had a hypnotic voice. And eyes so blue you could swim in them. Sissy couldn't speak, couldn't breathe.
         "A beautiful lady shouldn't be crying."
         She handed him the damp handkerchief. Fingertips touched. The only men Sissy had ever touched were relatives or close friends. She wondered where the stranger had come from. Had he materialized from the stars and moon and the pond?
         "I'm Alistair," he said, holding out his hand.
         To her amazement, Sissy delivered her own into his, clasping his hand as if it were a life preserver. She tried to say her name but the jolt she felt from his touch did something to her throat.
         He smelled good.
         "Do you want to talk about it?"
         "I've...lost someone," she said.
         "Ah." He nodded, knowingly, as if she had spoken a thousand words. "I sympathize." And a new look came into his eyes, one of pain and sadness and Sissy thought: He has lost someone, too.
         She saw his eyes in the moonlight and they reminded her of a boy she had known in high school, before Ed, when she was a virgin. He had been a good kisser, that boy. She looked at this man's lips, wondering if he was a good kisser. Impulsively, she lifted up on tip-toe and touched her mouth to his. He didn't flinch or frown or draw back or look surprised. He gave her a secretive smile, bent his head and kissed her right back.
         "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm married and I should never drink wine."
         He placed a fingertip to her lips. "This is no place for apologies," he said softly. "You're supposed to be happy here."
         "Is that why you're here?" She couldn't believe she was asking such a personal question of this stranger. But she suddenly wanted to know.
         "I'm here because," he began, leaving the sentence unfinished and full of mystery. He looked out over the pond into the night darkness as if searching for ghosts.
         "I'm sorry," she said again.
         He brought his eyes back to hers. "You keep apologizing."
         "No, this time it was for you. I'm sorry for your loss."