The Consequences of That Night (At His Service #6)(18)

Cesare’s eyes widened as he saw a woman crossing the street. She passed by quickly, before he could see her face. But he saw the black, glossy hair tumbling down her shoulders, saw the way her hips swayed and the luscious curve of her petite frame as she walked away from him. No. It couldn’t be her. This woman was pushing a baby stroller. No, he was imagining things. Paris was a city of over two million people. There was no way that...

Cesare gripped the headrest of the seat in front of him.

“Stop the car,” he said softly.

The chauffeur frowned, looking at Cesare in the rearview mirror. “Monsieur?” he said, sounding puzzled. When the light turned green, he drove the Rolls-Royce forward with traffic.

Cesare watched the woman continue walking away. It couldn’t be Emma for a million reasons, the most obvious being the stroller.

Unless she’d really meant what she said about finding a man who would give her a child, and she’d done it in a hurry.

I’m going to have a baby. And a home. And a man who loves us both.

Watching her disappear down the street, he remembered the cold, gray morning last November, when he’d watched Emma walk down Hornton Street. He’d been so sure she’d come back. She never had. Not a message. Not a word.

He watched this woman go, with one last sway of her hips, one last shimmering beam of sunlight on her long, glossy black hair, before she turned toward the Champ de Mars. Disappearing...again...

Cesare twisted his head savagely toward the driver. “Damn you!” he exploded. “I said stop!”

Looking a little frightened, the driver immediately plunged through traffic to the side of the road. The Rolls-Royce hadn’t even completely stopped before Cesare opened the door and flung himself on the sidewalk, causing several pedestrians to scatter. People stared at Cesare like he was crazy.

He felt crazy. He turned his head right and left as he started to run, getting honked at angrily by a tour bus as he crossed the street.


Where was the dark-haired woman? Had he lost her? Had it been Emma? He clawed his dark hair back, looking around frantically.

“Attention—monsieur!”

He moved just in time to avoid getting run over by a baby carriage pushed by a gray-haired woman dressed in Gucci. “Excusez-moi, madame,” he murmured. She shook her head in irritation, huffing. Even Parisian grandmothers, even the nannies, wore designer clothes in this arrondissement.

He ran down the Avenue de la Bourdonnais, where he’d last seen her, and followed the crowds into the nearby park, the Champ de Mars, looking right and left, turning himself in circles. He walked beneath the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, past long queues of people. He walked down the paths of the park, past cheery couples and families having picnic lunches on this beautiful autumn day. Wearing his suit and tie, Cesare felt unbearably hot, running all over Paris in pursuit of a phantom from his past.

Cesare stopped.

He heard the soft whir of the wind through the trees, and looked up at the blue sky, through leaves that were a million different shades of green, yellow, orange. He heard the crunch of gravel beneath his feet. He heard children’s laughter and music. In the distance, he saw a small outdoor snack stand, and beyond that, a playground with a merry-go-round.

What the hell was he doing?

Cesare clawed back his hair. Basta. Enough. Scowling, he walked to the snack stand and bought himself a coffee, then did something no true Parisian would ever do in a million years—he drank it as he walked. The black, scalding-hot coffee burned his tongue. He drank it all down, then tossed the empty cup in the trash. Grimly he reached into his pocket for his cell phone, to call his driver and get back on schedule, back to sanity, and return to the private airport on the east of the city where his jet waited. Walking, he lifted the cell phone to his ear. “Olivier, you can come get me at...”

He heard a woman gasp.

“Cesare?”

He froze.

Emma’s voice. Her sweet voice.

“Sir?” his driver said at the other end of the line.

But Cesare’s arm had already gone limp, the phone dropping to his side. Even now, he was telling himself that it wasn’t her, it couldn’t possibly be.

He turned.

“Emma,” he whispered.

She was standing in front of a park bench, the stroller beside her. Her green eyes were wide and it seemed to Cesare in this moment like every bit of sunlight had fled the sky to caress her pink blouse, her brown slacks, her long black hair with a halo of brilliant golden light. The rest of the park faded from sight. There was only her, shining like a star, ripping through his cold soul like fire.

“It is you,” she breathed. She blinked, looking back uneasily at the stroller before she turned back, biting her lip. “What are you...doing here?”

“I’m here...” His voice was rough. He cleared his throat. “On business.”

“But you hate this city. I’ve heard you say so.”

“I bought an old hotel on the Avenue Montaigne. Just this morning.”

He’d somehow walked all the way to her without realizing it. His eyes drank her in hungrily. Her cheeks were fuller, her pale skin pink as roses. Her dark hair fell in tumbling soft waves over her shoulders. She’d put on a little weight, he saw, and it suited her well. The womanly softness made her even more beautiful, something he wouldn’t have thought possible.