“How do you make them so fluffy?” a woman begged.
Rosalie leaned forward confidentially. “I’m not supposed to share this.” Her great-aunt, watching from the doorway, rolled her eyes. She’d seen this before. Rosalie continued, “It’s a family secret, but maybe I’ll share it. Just this once.” The entire table waited, rapt and breathless. She whispered, “It’s love.”
The tourists sat back in their chairs, groaning.
Rosalie grinned. In answer to their good-natured complaining, she replied firmly, “I’m serious. That’s how everything truly special is created in this world. Love.”
And she had to believe that. Sometimes life seemed like one heartbreak after another—but love existed. It was love that gave meaning and magic to everything.
And it worked in mysterious ways. How else to explain that, in her darkest hour, filled with grief and despair, she’d become pregnant—she, who’d never even slept with a man before? How else to explain the miracle that she could keep her baby?
Rosalie knew how lucky she was. She had to fiercely cherish every drop of joy. She wrapped one hand around her baby bump. This was more than a drop. This was an ocean.
She didn’t understand why Alex Falconeri had been willing to abandon his own child, but whatever the reason, she would be grateful to him for the rest of her life.
But even as she had the thought, she heard a husky voice.
“Miss Brown.”
Frowning, she straightened, glancing behind her. Then her lips parted in a silent gasp.
Alex Falconeri stood in the restaurant’s doorway, his broad shoulders blocking the light from the hallway entrance. His handsome face, half-shadowed in silhouette, was wreathed in a scowl.
Her body went weak. Trembling, she set down her tray.
“Thank you again. We’ll tell all our friends about this place,” the Americans said, and tossing money down on the table for the bill, they wobbled to their feet and wavered happily and drunkenly out of the restaurant.
But Rosalie barely heard them. She stared at the darkly charismatic man that she thought she’d left behind forever.
“Miss Brown,” he said again, his voice low and husky. The vibrations curled around her like mist, and she swallowed, her teeth suddenly chattering.
“H-how did you f-find me here? What do you want?”
He blended with the shadows in his dark gray shirt and black trousers and long dark coat. “It was not difficult to find you. I called a few hours ago and spoke with your aunt.”
“My—” She whirled around accusingly at Odette, who was scooping all the piles of euros from the table into her apron.
The elderly lady drew herself up haughtily to her full five feet. “He is the father. As I told you, he has a responsibility, non?”
“No,” Rosalie informed her, then turned and glared at him. “You verbally terminated your parental rights in Venice.”
Alex’s eyebrows rose. “Is that what you think?” he said incredulously. “You just show up out of the blue and tell me some ridiculous story, and when I don’t immediately believe it, you think I terminated all my rights to my child?”
Yes. That was exactly what Rosalie had thought. Her heart fell to the floor, and her knees trembled. She leaned against the table.
There was only one reason he could be here: he wanted to take her baby from her after all. And he could. With all his money and power, who could stop him?
“Please,” she whispered. “Just leave me alone.”
Alex Falconeri started to speak, then hesitated, glancing at her great-aunt. Narrowing his eyes, he turned back to Rosalie.
“Come with me.”
Mont-Saint-Michel’s tiny cobblestoned street, dark beneath the moonlight, was empty except for the departing group of American tourists.
Alex looked at Rosalie Brown, who was dressed as a waitress in a simple black shift dress and white apron. She looked angry—and terrified.
“Goodbye!” one of the tourists called back to her, waving. Rosalie didn’t respond.