The Consequences of That Night (At His Service #6)(27)

For a moment, the phone fell silent.

“You think you know me,” he said in a low voice.


“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.