From Paris With Love: The Consequences of That Night / Bound by a Baby / A Business Engagement

CHAPTER SEVEN

CESARE STOOD BEFORE her, waiting for her answer. He hadn’t even thought of bending down on one knee. His legs were shaking too badly. He was relieved his voice hadn’t trembled at the question. The words felt like marbles in his mouth.

Hearing a soft gasp, he glanced behind him. Five members of the restaurant’s staff were peeking from the kitchen door, smiling at this moment, waiting for Emma’s answer, in that universal interest in the drama of a wedding proposal.

Will you marry me?

Four simple words. A promise that was easy to say, though not so easy to fulfill.

Cesare had the sudden memory of his father’s bleak face after his beloved wife had died in his arms. The same look of stark despair on Angélique’s face when Cesare had come home and found her dead, an empty bottle of sleeping pills on the floor beside her.

No. He wouldn’t let himself remember. This was different. Different.

Cesare held the black jewelry box up a little higher, to disguise how his hand was shaking.

“Marry you?” Emma’s eyes were shocked. Even horrified. She gave an awkward laugh. “Is this a joke?”

“You think I would joke about this?”

Biting her lip, she looked at the ring. “But you don’t want to get married. Everyone on earth knows that, and from the day I’ve known you, every woman has tried to marry you anyway. We used to laugh about it.”

“I’m not laughing now,” he said quietly. “I’m standing in front of you with a twenty-carat ring. I don’t know how much more serious I can be.”

Her beautiful face looked stricken. “But you don’t love me.”

“It’s not a question of love—at least not between us. It’s a question of providing the best life for our son.”

Her gaze shuttered, her green eyes filling with shadows in the flickering candlelight of the restaurant. She backed up one step—physically backed away—wrapping her arms across her body, as if for protection.

Nothing prepared him for what came next.

“I’m sorry, Cesare,” she said quietly. “My answer is no.”

He was so shocked, his hand tightened on the jewelry box, closing it with a snap. He’d assumed she would say yes. Instantly and gratefully.

He heard gasps behind him and whirled to face the restaurant staff hanging about the kitchen doorway.

“Leave us,” he growled, and they ran back into the kitchen. He turned to face Emma, his jaw taut. “Might I ask—why?”

She swallowed. He saw her face was pale. This was hard on her, too, he realized. “I told you. I won’t be a burden.”

“Burden. You keep using that word. What does it mean?”

His dangerous tone would have frightened most. But standing her ground, she lifted her chin.

“You know what it means.”

“No, I don’t. I know you’ve lied to me for months, that you stole my son away without a word. But instead of trying to take him away from you, instead of seeking revenge, I’m trying to do the right thing—a new experience for me, I might add—while you keep whining words like love and burden.”

Her shoulders drooped as, biting her lip, she looked down. For a long moment, she didn’t answer, and he looked at her in the darkness of the restaurant. She looked so beautiful in the flickering candlelight, with all of the lights of Paris at her feet.

Cesare’s throat tightened.

He thought of the night he’d found her in the dark kitchen, after her stepmother’s funeral. He’d taken one look at her tearstained face, at the anguish in eyes which had never shown emotion before, and his own long-buried grief had risen in his own soul, exploding through his defenses. He’d thought he was offering her solace, but the truth was that he’d been seeking it himself. Against his will, in that moment, Emma had made him feel again....

Now he heard her take a deep breath.

“Whatever you think now, this desire to commit won’t last. You don’t want the burden of a wife and child. We both know it. You don’t know what marriage means.”

“We both know I do,” he said quietly.

Her eyes were anguished as tears sparkled—unheeded, unfought—down her cheeks like diamonds. “But you don’t love me,” she whispered again.

“And you don’t love me,” he said evenly. “Do you?”

Wordlessly she shook her head. He exhaled. “This marriage has nothing to do with romance.”

She gave a half-hysterical laugh, swooping her arm to indicate the roses, the view of Paris, the twenty-carat diamond ring. “What do you call that?”

He gave her a crooked half grin. “I call it...strategic negotiation.”

Emma gave another laugh, then her smile fell. “A marriage without love?”

“Without complications,” he pointed out. “We will both love our son. But between us—the marriage will be in name only.”

“In name only?” He’d shocked her with this. He saw it in her face. “So you wouldn’t expect us to...”

He shook his head. “Sex complicates things.” Not to mention made it hard to keep the walls around his heart intact. At least where she was concerned. He hesitated. “Better that we keep this relationship...”

“Professional?”

“Cordial, I was going to say.”

She took a deep breath.

“Why would I agree to give up any chance at love?”

“For something you want more than love,” he said quietly. “For a family. For Sam.”

“Sam...”

“I will love him. I’ll be there with him every step of the way. Every single day. Isn’t that better than trying to shuttle him between two separate lives, where he never knows where he belongs?”

Raw yearning filled her soft green eyes. Blinking fast, she turned away, to the dark, sparkling view of Paris. “I’ve worried about what would happen to Sam, if anything ever happened to me...” Looking up at him, she swallowed. “I’ve been in remission a long time, but there are no guarantees. If the cancer ever came back...” She looked up at him. “I’ve been selfish,” she whispered. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe even a flawed father is better than none.”

“I will be the best father I can be.”

“Would you?” she said in a small voice. Her beautiful face was tortured, her pink lips trembling, long dark lashes sweeping against pale cheeks. “Or, if I were crazy enough to accept, would you panic within a month and run off with some lingerie model?”

Coming toward her, he took both her hands in his own. “I swear to you, on my life,” he said softly. “Everything your father was for you—I will be for him.”

He felt her hands tremble in his.

“I won’t let you break his heart,” she whispered.

“I don’t lie, and I don’t make promises. You know that.”

Her voice was barely audible. “Yes.”

“I don’t make promises because I consider myself bound by them.” Gently he placed the black jewelry box with the silver Harry Winston logo into her palm. “I’m making you a promise now.”

Her anguished eyes lifted to his. “Please...”

“You are the mother of my child. Be my wife.” Brushing back long tendrils of black hair from her shoulder, he lowered his head to her ear. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her. She smelled like vanilla and sunlight, like wildflowers and clean linen and everything good he’d once had but had lost so long ago. He felt a shudder of desire, but pushed it aside. He wouldn’t let sex complicate this relationship. He couldn’t. Pulling back, he said softly, “Be my wife, Emma.”

Were her hands still trembling? Or were his?

“Cesare....” He saw how close she was to falling off the precipice. She tried, “We don’t have to marry. We can live apart, but still raise Sam together....”

“In separate houses? In separate cities? Sending a small child with a little suitcase back and forth between two lives? You already said that wouldn’t work. And I agree.” Slowly, so slowly it almost killed him, he pulled her into the circle of his embrace, encircling her like a skittish thoroughbred into an enclosure. His gaze searched hers. “Marry me now. Take my name, and let my son be a Falconeri. I swear to you. On my life. That I will be the father you dreamed he could have.”

She swallowed. “You swore you’d never get married again,” she breathed. “We both know—” their eyes met “—you’re still in love with your lost wife, and always will be.”

He didn’t deny this. It was easier not to.

“But we won’t be lovers,” he said. “We’ll be equal partners.” His fingers stroked her black hair, tumbling in glossy waves down her back. “And together—we’ll raise our son.”

She exhaled, visibly trying to steady herself. “For how long?”

“For always,” he said in a low voice. “I will be married to you...until death do us part.”

Her skin felt almost cold to the touch. He could almost feel her heart pounding through her ribs. “It would be a disaster.”

“The only disaster would be to let any selfish dreams—yours or mine—destroy our son’s chance for a home.” Stroking down her cheek, he cupped her face. “Say you’ll be my wife, Emma,” he said huskily. “Say it.”

Tears suddenly fell off her black lashes, trailing haphazardly down her pale cheeks.

“I can’t fight you,” she choked out. “Not when you’re using my own heart against me. My baby deserves a father. It’s all I’ve wanted since the day I found out I was pregnant.” Her beautiful eyes were luminous with emotion, her body tense, as she stood in his arms in the rose-strewn restaurant of the Eiffel Tower, all the lights of Paris beneath them. “You win,” she said. “I’ll marry you, Cesare.”

* * *

“Do you want me to come up with you?”

For answer, Emma shook her head, though she didn’t let go of Cesare’s hand. She hadn’t let it go for the whole walk home from the Eiffel Tower. Her knees still felt weak. Now, as they stood outside Alain’s gated courtyard, she was trembling. Possibly from the weight of the enormous diamond on her left hand.

Either that, or from the knowledge that she’d just thrown all her own dreams away, her precious dreams of being loved, for someone she loved more than herself: her son.

“Are you sure? Bouchard might not be pleased at the news.”

“It will be fine.” She still couldn’t believe she’d agreed to Cesare’s marriage proposal. He’d loved only one woman—his long-dead wife—and would never love another. Knowing that, how could she have said yes?

But how could she not? He’d offered her everything she’d ever wanted for Sam. A home. A family. A real father, like she’d had. How could she not have made the sacrifice of something so small and inconsequential as her own heart?

At least she didn’t need to worry about falling in love with Cesare again. She’d burned that from her soul. She had...

“You won’t change your mind the instant I let you out of my sight?” he said lightly.

She shook her head.

“I think I’d better stay close, just to be safe.” Cesare’s voice was husky as he carefully tucked her jaunty pink scarf around her black coat. “Bouchard might try to talk you out of marrying me.”

Even though she didn’t love him anymore—at all—having Cesare so close did strange things to her insides. Emma took a deep breath. But she couldn’t let herself feel anything. Not love. Not even lust. Not this time.

She was going to be his wife. In name only. She’d have to keep her distance, while living in the same house.

“Seriously, don’t come,” she said. She looked past the gate at Alain Bouchard’s mansion. “I’d better give Alain this happy news on my own.”

Cesare gave her a lopsided grin that made her heart go thump, thump in her chest. “I’ll get the car, then. Meet you back here in ten minutes?”

“Ten?” she said incredulously.

“Twenty?”

“Better make it an hour. It’s amazing how long it takes to pack up a baby.”

“Really? He seems small.”

“He is, but he has a lot of stuff.” At his bemused expression, she snorted. “You’ll learn.”

“Can’t wait.” Pulling her close, Cesare looked down into her eyes. Cupping her face, he looked down at her one last time as they stood on the street with the lights of Paris twinkling around them. “Thank you for saying yes. You won’t regret it.”

“I regret it already,” she mumbled, then gave a small laugh to show she was joking, holding up her left hand. “This diamond ring weighs, like, a thousand pounds. See you in an hour.”

Turning, she went through the gate, past the security guard into Alain’s courtyard. One of his personal bodyguards was waiting by the mansion door.

“Monsieur Bouchard is not happy with you, mademoiselle,” Gustave said flatly.

She stopped. “Were you—following me?”

The man jutted his chin upward, toward the house. “He’s waiting for you.”

Emma had meant to tell Alain her news in the most gentle way possible. Instead it seemed he already had a good guess what was coming. Well, fine. She narrowed her eyes. He shouldn’t have had her followed.

Going upstairs, she walked right past Alain’s office, but not before she saw him scowling at his desk. First, she went to check on her baby, and found him sleeping in his crib. For a moment, she listened to his soft breath in the darkness. Tenderness and joy caught at her heart. Smiling to herself, she whispered aloud, “You’re going to have a family, Sam. You’re going to have a real dad.”

Creeping out, she closed the door, and went to the next-door sitting room, where she found Irene Taylor reading tranquilly in an armchair.

“How was everything?” Emma asked.

“Oh, he was perfect. An angel.” Smiling, Irene tucked her book, a romantic novel by Susan Mallery, carefully into her handbag. “Did you have a nice evening?”

Wordlessly Emma held out her left hand. Irene gasped, snatching up her hand and staring at the ring.

“Are you kidding?” She made a big show of rubbing her eyes. “Ah! It’s blinding me!” She looked up at Emma with a big grin. “You sly girl, I didn’t even know you were dating someone.”

“Well—I wasn’t. But Sam’s father came for a visit, and one thing led to another...”

“Oh, how wonderful,” Irene sighed. “True love prevails.”

“Um. Right.” Emma’s cheeks went hot. She couldn’t tell Irene that love had nothing to do with it, that she’d kept her pregnancy a secret and now they were only getting married for Sam’s sake. “Well. I’m leaving for London with him right now. Would you mind helping me pack Sam’s things?”

“I’d love to. All his cute, tiny baby things. And now you’re off to London, swept away to be wed like a princess in a story.” Irene looked wistful. “I hope I find a love like that someday, too.”

Her friend’s idealistic notion of love, the same dreams she’d once had for herself, cast a pall over Emma’s heart. How could she tell Irene that she had nothing to be envious about—that Emma was settling for a loveless marriage so her baby would have a father?

Sam deserves it, she told herself again. She tried to remember the calmness she’d had about her decision just a moment before, when she’d stood in her baby’s room, listening to him sleep. She turned away. “I’ll be back.”

Squaring her shoulders, Emma went down the hall to Alain’s office. She took a deep breath and went in.

Her employer was sitting at his desk. He didn’t look up. When he spoke, his voice was sour. “Have a good time at the Tour Eiffel?”

She was glad he was taking that tone with her. It made this so much easier. “Yes, I had a wonderful evening,” she said sweetly. “Thank you.”

Alain glared at her. “I don’t appreciate you staying out so late. I was worried.”

“I don’t appreciate you having me followed.”

“I wanted to keep you safe.”

“Safe,” she said.

“I don’t trust Falconeri. You shouldn’t, either.”

“Right. Well. I’m sorry to tell you, but I have to turn in my notice.”

Alain’s eyes widened. He slowly rose to his feet. “What?”

“And by notice, I mean I’m leaving right now.” Her cheeks flamed. “I am actually sorry to do it to you, Alain. It’s not very professional. In fact it’s completely rude. But Cesare and I are going back to London with the baby....”

“He’s stringing you along, Emma, toying with you! I can’t believe you would fall for his lines. He’ll leave you high and dry when...”

“We’re getting married,” she said flatly.

Alain’s mouth literally fell open.

“What?”

Emma held up her engagement ring, then let her hand drop back to her side. “You’ve been good to me, Alain. I know you deserve better than me leaving you like this.” She swallowed. “But I have to take this chance, for Sam’s sake. I’m sorry. I’ll never forget your kindness and generosity over the past year....”

“I’m sorry, too,” Alain said shortly. “Because you’re making a mistake. He ruined Angélique’s life.”

“Your sister’s death was a terrible tragedy, but the coroner ruled the overdose an accident....”

“Accident,” he said bitterly. “Falconeri drove my sister to her death. Just as surely as if he’d poured the sleeping pills down her throat.”

“You’re wrong.” Steadying herself, she faced him in his office, clenching her hands at her sides. “He loved her. I know that all too well. He loves her still,” she said quietly.

“She gave him everything,” Alain continued as if he hadn’t heard. “He lured her into marrying him. She loved him. Trusted him.” His eyes were wild. “But from the moment they were wed, he neglected her. So much so that she told me she meant to divorce him—then she mysteriously died before she could.”

Emma blinked at his implication. “You can’t think—”

“If she’d divorced him, he would have gotten nothing. A few hundred thousand dollars. Instead he got her entire fortune. He used that money to turn his shabby little hotel in New York into a multibillion-dollar international hotel conglomerate. You know he’s ruthless.”

“But not ruthless like that,” she whispered. She reminded herself that Alain’s words were spoken in anger, that he was a grief-stricken brother. Going toward him, she put her hand gently on his shoulder. “I’m sorry about Angélique. I truly, truly am. But you have to stop blaming Cesare. Her death wasn’t his fault. He loved her. He never would have hurt her.”

Alain slowly put his hand over her own. “Someday you’ll see the man he really is. And you’ll come back to me. I’ll give you your old job back...or better yet...” His eyes met hers. “I’ll give you exactly what Falconeri is offering you now.”

Marriage. He meant marriage. Emma swallowed, then pulled her hand away. “I’m sorry, Alain. I care about you deeply, but not in that way.” She stepped back from him and said with her heart in her throat, “I wish you all the best. Please take care of yourself.” She turned away. “Goodbye.”

“Wait.”

She turned back at the door. Alain’s jaw was tight as he looked at her.

“My sister shone like a star,” he said. “She was so beautiful, the life of every party. But even Angélique couldn’t keep his attention for long. Don’t think you will, either.” He faced her across the shadows. “Loving him destroyed her, Emma. Don’t let it destroy you.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

WHAT A RIDICULOUS warning. Emma still couldn’t believe it. It was laughable.

Yes, laughable. Emma felt pleased at the word. She hardly knew which was more ridiculous: the idea that Cesare would have caused his wife, the only woman he’d ever loved, to kill herself with sleeping pills, or that Emma would still be stupid enough to love him, knowing he’d never love her back.

Because she wouldn’t.

Love him.

At all.

Ever again.

Even though Cesare had been so wonderful since they’d arrived in London two weeks ago. He’d taken days off from work just to spend time with them, walking across the city, seeing the sights, pushing Sam together in his baby buggy, strolling like all the other happy families along the Thames. But what did Emma care about that?

She certainly wouldn’t fall in love with him just because they’d shared champagne while riding the huge Ferris wheel of the London Eye. Or because he’d agreed to a lunch of fish and chips at the Sherlock Holmes pub, when he’d wanted sushi, purely because she’d begged. She didn’t care that they’d gone to Trafalgar Square to show Sam the stone lions, and Cesare had taken about a thousand pictures, and let her take some of him making funny faces as he pretended to fall from the stone pedestal. Those memories didn’t matter. Her heart was made of stone.

Stone.

They’d visited the National Gallery. The British Museum. They’d gotten a tour of the new Globe Theatre, then bought fresh bread and cheese at the outdoor Borough Market. But her heart was completely safe. Cesare wasn’t doing this for her. He was just following through on his promise to be an amazing father to Sam. That was all.

But he was keeping that promise beyond her wildest dreams.

Just yesterday, he’d insisted on going to Hamleys on Regent Street, where he’d bought so many toys that they’d needed to order an extra car to bring all the bags back to the Kensington house.

“When exactly are you expecting Sam to be interested in this?” Emma had asked with a laugh, looking from their sleeping five-month-old baby to the cricket bat and ball on the top of the toy pile.

“He is already fascinated with cricket. Can’t you tell?” Cesare had leaned the foam cricket bat across Sam’s lap, placing it in the baby’s tiny hand as he slept on with a soft baby snore in the stroller. He stepped back. “Look. He’s clearly a prodigy.”

Holding a foam ball, Cesare elaborately wound his arm, then gently tossed the ball underhand. It bounced off the plastic edge of the stroller and rolled across the floor.

“Prodigy, huh?” she said.

He picked the ball up with a grin. “It might take a bit of practice.”

“For him or you?”

“Mostly me. He already seems to have the knack.”

“You’re just a big kid yourself,” she’d teased. “Admit it.”

They’d looked at each other, smiling—then the air between them suddenly changed, sizzled with electricity.

Cesare had looked away, muttering something about going to the cashier to pay. And Emma’s hands had gripped the stroller handle, as in her mind she repeated the words In name only about a thousand times.

Now she shivered as she went up the stairs of the Kensington house. He’d shown her every bit of attention he’d promised, and more. And as promised, he hadn’t once tried to kiss her. Not even once.

But that was starting to be a problem. Because in her heart of hearts, she was starting to realize that she wanted him to...

She veered past his bedroom, and continued to her own bedroom, down the hall, where Sam was currently sleeping.

Emma told herself she was being stupid. They weren’t even married yet, and she wanted to give him her body? Stupid, stupid. Because how much harder would it be not to give him her heart in the bargain?

We won’t be lovers, he’d said in Paris. We’ll be equal partners.

Her brain had accepted this as the best possible course when she’d agreed to his proposal. And yet...

She was supposed to be planning the wedding right now. But every time she started, something stopped her. Something that had nothing to do with choosing the cake or venue or church.

She was sacrificing her heart. For her son. She could accept that. There was one thing she was trying not to think about.

A marriage in name only would inevitably mean that Cesare would take lovers on the side.

What else could it mean—that Cesare would do as she planned to do, and go without sex for the rest of her life? No. For a red-blooded man like him, that would be impossible.

She was trying not to think about it. Trying and failing.

Emma leaned heavily back against her own bedroom door, closing it behind her. She didn’t want to be jealous. She didn’t want to be afraid.

But the day they’d returned to Kensington, Emma had fired the housekeeper. Miss Maddie Allen was an attractive young blonde, and Emma had instantly felt she hadn’t wanted her within a million miles of Cesare. He’d said he was glad to see her go, that she was the worst housekeeper imaginable and had regularly left iron marks on his shirts. But Emma had given her a year’s salary as severance, out of guilt for the real reason she’d fired the beautiful Miss Allen—out of pure, raw fear.