The Consequences of That Night (At His Service #6)(42)

A hard pressure in Cesare’s chest suddenly released. For a moment, they just looked at each other, and though they were in the middle of a dance floor surrounded by a hundred guests, it was as if it were just the two of them in the world.

He never should have brought her back to London, Cesare thought suddenly. Of course not. How could he have expected Emma to return as a wife to the house where she’d once been his employee, and sleep in the same lonely bedroom down the hall from the bed where he’d seduced other women, again and again? The house where he’d once expected her, as a matter of course, to make breakfast for his one-night-stands and escort them out with gifts and a shoulder to cry on?

“We don’t have to stay here,” he said slowly. “There’s someplace else we can go. A place where we can be married and start fresh, just the three of us. As a family.”

“Where?”

His heart twisted to remember it. But he forced himself to meet her gaze. To smile.

“Home,” he said simply.





                      CHAPTER NINE

THE TWO-HUNDRED-year-old villa on the shores of Lake Como stood like an ancient castle, caught in the shadows between the gray water and lowering clouds of dusk.

Emma took a deep breath, savoring the cool air against her cheeks and crunch of gravel beneath her feet as she walked along the forest path around the lake toward home. From the cushioned front pack on her chest, Sam let out another low cry, waving his plump arms. She sighed, looking down at her baby, then rubbed his soft downy hair.

“I thought for sure that a walk would do it,” she said mournfully. He was irritable because he hadn’t gone down for a nap all day, not for lack of her trying. “Ah, well. Let’s see what we can rustle up for dinner, shall we?”

Her own stomach was growling after their long walk. She had spent hours trying to coax him to sleep, but as tired as Sam was, as soon as he started to nod off, he kept jerking himself awake. Now, she was finally forced to admit failure. The darkening October sky was drawing her back home.

That, and knowing Cesare was waiting for them...

Emma smiled to herself as she walked the lake path back toward the villa, which had been in the Falconeri family for hundreds of years. They’d been living here a month now, and it was starting to feel like home, though their first day, when he’d shown her around, she’d been shocked. “You grew up in this palace?” she’d blurted out, thinking of her two-bedroom bungalow on the Texas prairie.

He’d snorted. “It didn’t always look like this. When I was a child, we barely had indoor plumbing. Our family ran out of money long before I was born. And that was even before my parents decided to devote their lives to art.” His lips quirked. “Five years ago, I decided I wouldn’t let it fall apart.” His voice turned grim. “Although I was tempted.”

“I remember you talking about the remodel.” Emma had walked through room after room, all of them with ceilings fifteen feet high, with gilded details on the walls and even a fresco in the foyer. “I never imagined I might someday live here as your wife.”

She could see why the remodel of this house, which she remembered him grumbling about, had required so much money and time. Every detail of the past had been preserved, while made modern with brand-new fixtures, windows, heated floors and two separate kitchens.

She’d been amazed when she saw a beautiful oil painting of Cesare as a young boy of maybe three or four, with chubby cheeks and bright innocence in his eyes—along with a determined set to his jaw. His clothes were ragged and covered with mud. She’d pointed at it with a laugh. “That was you?”


“My mother painted me perfectly. I was always outside in the garden, growing something or other.”

“You liked to garden?” It astonished Emma. She couldn’t reconcile the image of the happy, grimy boy in the painting with the sophisticated tycoon who now stood before her.

He rolled his eyes. “We were that kind of family. If I wanted fruit, I had to grow it myself. My parents’ idea of childcare was to give me a stick and send me outside to play in the dirt.” He fell silent. “But for all that, we were happy. We loved each other.”

“I’m sorry,” she’d whispered, seeing the pain in his eyes. She’d put her arms around him. “But we’re here now.”

For a moment, Cesare had allowed her to hold him, to offer comfort. Then he’d pulled away. “It all worked out,” he said gruffly. “If I hadn’t had my little tragedy and been sent to New York, I might never have started Falconeri International.” His lips curved. “Who knows. I might still have been living here in a ruin, growing oranges and flowers, digging in the garden.”

Now, as Emma walked along the lake’s edge with her baby in her front pack, she stared at that overgrown garden. Alone of everything on the estate, the villa’s garden had not been touched. It had been left untended and wild, choked with weeds. It was as if, she thought, Cesare could neither bear to have it destroyed, nor have it returned to its former glory.

A white mist was settling across the lake, thick and wet. Emma shivered as she pushed open the tall, heavy oak door that led into the Villa Falconeri. The scrape of the door echoed against the checkered marble floor and high ceiling with its two-hundred-year-old fresco above, showing pastoral scenes of the countryside.