The Consequences of That Night (At His Service #6)(28)
“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.”
He gave a low laugh. “Ah, you really do think I’m a coldhearted bastard.” He held out her glass, filled with wine a deeper red than roses. “That’s not what I want.”
“Then, what?”
He just looked at her with his dark eyes. Emma’s heart started pounding.
Her hand shook as she reached out for the glass. She realized she was in trouble. Really, really big trouble.
He held up his own wine. “A toast.”
“To what?”
“To you, cara,” he murmured.
He clinked her glass and then drank deeply. She looked down at the glass and muttered, “Should I wonder if this is poisoned?”
He gave a low laugh. “No poison, I promise.”
“Then, what?” she whispered.
Cesare’s dark eyebrow quirked. “How many times must I say it? I want to have dinner. And talk.” He picked up the menu. “What looks good?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Not hungry? With a menu like this? There’s steak—lobster...”
“Will you just stop torturing me with all this romantic nonsense and tell me why you’ve brought me here?”