The Consequences of That Night

“Am I wrong?”

“I’ll pick you up at nine.” There was a dangerous sensuality in his voice that caused a shiver down Emma’s body. She suddenly remembered that Cesare had ways of making her agree to almost anything.

“Make it seven,” she said nervously. “I don’t want to be out too late.”

“Have a curfew, do you?” he drawled. “He keeps tight hold on you.”

“Alain doesn’t have anything to do with—”

“And Emma? Wear something nice.”

The line went dead.

* * *

The sun was setting over Paris, washing soft pink and orange light over the white classical facades of the buildings as Emma stood alone on the sidewalk of the Avenue Rapp. It was three minutes before seven. She’d dressed carefully, as requested, in a pink knit dress and a black coat.

She’d considered showing up in a T-shirt and jeans, just to spite him. Instead she spent more time this afternoon primping than she’d spent in a year. For reasons she didn’t like to think about. For feelings she was trying to convince herself she didn’t feel.

Emma had stopped wearing the severe chignon when she’d come to Paris. Now her black hair had been brushed until it shone, and fell tumbling down her shoulders. Her lipstick was the same raspberry shade as her dress. She was even wearing mascara to make her green eyes pop. She hoped.

No. She ground her teeth. She didn’t hope. She absolutely didn’t care what Cesare thought she looked like. She didn’t.

It was only for Sam’s sake she was meeting Cesare tonight. Where her own romantic dreams were concerned, she’d given up on him that cold, heartbreaking morning in London when he’d informed her he would never ever: 1. love her, 2. marry her or 3. have a child with her. He’d said it outright. What could you do with a man like that?

What indeed...

Emma shivered in her thin black wool coat, tucking her pink scarf more firmly around her neck. Pulling her phone out of her pocket, she glanced at the time: six fifty-eight.

She sighed, wondering why she’d bothered to be on time. Cesare would likely be half an hour late, as usual, and in the meantime she was standing out here looking like a fool as taxi drivers gawked at her standing on the sidewalk. She would have gone back to wait inside, except the bad blood between Alain and Cesare made her reluctant to allow the two men to meet.

She’d already tucked her baby son into bed, leaving him with Irene Taylor, the extremely capable young woman who until recently had been an au pair for the Bulgarian ambassador. Irene was bright, idealistic and very young. Emma had never been that young.

Her eye was caught by a flash of light. Looking up over the buildings, she could see the tip of the Eiffel Tower suddenly illuminated with brilliant sparkling lights. That meant it was seven o’clock. Her lips turned down. And just as she’d thought, Cesare was late. He’d never change....

“Buona sera, bella.”

With an intake of breath, Emma turned to see Cesare on the sidewalk, looking devastatingly handsome in a long black coat.

“You’re on time,” she stammered.

“Of course.”

“You’re never on time.”

“I am always on time when it matters to me.”

Her cheeks turned hot. Feeling awkward, she looked right and left. “Where’s your car?”

Cesare came closer. “It’s a beautiful night. I gave my driver the night off.” He tilted his head. “Why are you waiting on the sidewalk? I would have come to get you.”

“I didn’t want to start World War III.”

He snorted. “I don’t hold any grudge against Bouchard.”

She looked at him steadily. “He holds one against you. The things he has said...”

His eyes narrowed. “On second thought, perhaps you are right to separate us. I am starting to resent the way he’s taken possession of something that should belong only to me.”

Emma trembled at the anger in his dark eyes. He meant Sam. He had to mean Sam.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he said huskily.

“Oh. Thanks,” she said, suddenly shy. Cesare looked even more handsome than she remembered, and cripes, was that a tuxedo beneath his black coat? “So do you.” Her cheeks flamed. “Er, handsome, I mean. Not that it matters,” she added hastily, “because we’re just going out to talk about our son....”

She stopped talking as he took her hand in his own. She felt the warmth of his palm against hers. He glanced at her high-heeled shoes. “Do you mind walking a few blocks?”

In this moment, it was hard for Emma to remember what pain felt like. Wordlessly she shook her head.

He smiled, an impossibly devastating smile, and her heart twisted in her chest. “Too bad. I would have offered to carry you.”

Carry her? Against his chest? Her mouth went dry. She tried to think of a snappy comeback but her brain suddenly wasn’t working quite right. His smile increased.

Still holding her hand, he led her across the street and up the narrow, charming rue de Monttessuy. The Eiffel Tower loomed large, directly ahead of them. But it wasn’t that world-famous sight that consumed her.

She glanced down at Cesare’s hand as they walked up the quiet street, past the brasseries and shops. He held her hand as if she were precious and he never wanted to let her go.

“Is something wrong, cara?”

Emma realized she’d stopped on the sidewalk right in front of the boulangerie. “Um...”

He pulled her closer, looking down at her with dark intense eyes as his lips curved. “Perhaps you want me to carry you, after all?”

She swallowed.

Yes.

No.

She took a deep breath of air, scented with warm, buttery croissants and crusty baguettes, and reminded herself she wasn’t in London anymore. She didn’t love Cesare. She’d left that love behind her. He had no power over her here. None.

“Absolutely none,” she whispered aloud.

Moving closer, he stroked her cheek. “None?”

She pulled away from him, trembling. “Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like you care.”

“I do.”

She shook her head, fighting tears. “I don’t know what you’re planning, but you—”

“Just dinner, Emma,” he said quietly. “And a discussion.”

“Nothing more?”

He gave her a lopsided grin that tugged at her heart. “Would I lie?”

“No,” she sighed.

He pulled her across the Avenue de la Bourdonnais, which was still busy with early-evening traffic. They walked down the charming tree-lined street into the Champ de Mars, to the base of the Eiffel Tower. She exhaled when she saw the long lines of tourists. In spite of all his promises, she still almost feared Cesare might try something. Not seduce her, surely?

No, why would he?

Unless it was a cold-blooded calculation on his part. Unless he thought he could overwhelm her with sensuality until she was so crazy she agreed to give up custody of Sam. Her hands tightened at her sides. He wouldn’t even get a single kiss out of her if he tried. And the next time he contacted her, she really would have a lawyer....

“Elevator or stairs?” he asked, smiling.

Tilting her head back to look up the length of the tower, Emma had a sudden image of tripping on the stairs in her high heels, and Cesare sweeping her up into his arms. She could almost imagine how it would feel to cling to him, her arms around his body, her cheek against his chest.

“Elevator,” she said quickly.

They went to a private elevator at the south pillar of the Eiffel Tower. There was no queue here. Strange, she thought. She’d heard this restaurant was really popular.

She was even more shocked when the elevator opened with a ding on the second platform of the Eiffel Tower, and they walked into a beautiful restaurant...

And found it empty.

Emma stopped cold. With an intake of breath, she looked at Cesare accusingly. “Where is everyone?”

He shrugged, managing to look guilty and innocent at the same time. “What do you mean?”

She looked over all the empty tables and chairs of the modern restaurant, with its spectacular views of Paris from all sides. “No one is here!”

Coming behind her, he put his hands on her shoulders.

“We are here.”

Slowly he pulled off her coat, then handed it to a host who discreetly appeared. Cesare’s eyes never left hers as he removed his own coat, revealing his well-cut tuxedo. Emma shivered beneath his gaze for reasons that had nothing to do with being cold. As he led her to a table by the window, the one with the best view, she felt suddenly hot, as if she’d been lying beneath the sun. No, worse. As if she’d been standing on it.

They sat down, and a waiter brought them a bottle of wine. Emma glanced at the tables behind them and saw they were all covered with vases of long-stemmed roses.

“Roses?” she said. Her lips curled humorlessly. “To go along with the watch you gave me? The finishing touch on the parting-gift extravaganza for one-night stands?”

“I should think it’s obvious,” he drawled, pouring wine into her glass, “you’re not a one-night stand.”

“A two-night stand, then.”

He looked at her without speaking. Her cheeks burned.

“I won’t let you talk me into signing custody away,” she said hoarsely. “Or seduce me into it, either.”