Читать книгу From Paris With Love: The Consequences of That Night / Bound by a Baby / A Business Engagement - Kate Hardy - Страница 13

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.

She didn’t want to feel this way. With a sigh, Emma walked across her bedroom. A garment bag from a designer shop on Sloane Street was laid carefully upon her bed. Zipping open the bag, she looked down at the gown she would wear tonight at their official engagement party.

For a moment, she just stood there looking at it. Then she reached out and stroked the slinky silver fabric. Pulling off her clothes, she put on a black lace bra and panties and black garter she’d gotten from a French lingerie shop. She didn’t dare look at herself in the full-length mirror as she put them on, for fear she’d lose her nerve.

Tonight, she would be introduced to Cesare’s friends, and London society in general, not as his housekeeper, but as his future wife, and the mother of his child. She didn’t want to embarrass him.

And if, by some miracle, he thought she looked pretty, maybe their marriage could become real. Maybe he’d take her in his bed, and she’d never have to feel insecure again....

Even Angélique couldn’t keep his attention for long. Don’t think you will, either.

She pushed away the memory of Alain’s words. She had to stop this ugly insecurity! After all her jealousy, she’d found out Cesare hadn’t slept with Maddie Allen anyway. Emma knew this because—her blush deepened—she’d blurted out that question immediately after the housekeeper had departed. His reply had been curt.

“No. I did not sleep with her.” His jaw had been tight as he looked at the fire in the fireplace, leaving flickering red-and-gold light across the spines of the leatherbound books. He’d parted his lips, drawing in breath as if he meant to say something more, then stopped.

Nearly jumping out of her own skin, she’d said, “But did you ever...”

“No more questions. I won’t have you torture us both by asking for a list of my lovers. You of all people know the list is long.” Putting his hands on her shoulders, he’d looked down and said softly, “This home is yours now, Emma.” He’d cupped her face. “I will never disrespect you here.”

His words had thrilled her. Then. Later, she’d parsed his words. This home is yours. I will never disrespect you here. Meaning—he’d disrespect her elsewhere? At a hotel?

Now, reaching down for the silver dress, long and glamorous like the gown of a 1930s film star, she let the whisper of fabric caress her skin as she pulled it up her body. She didn’t want to be jealous. She didn’t want to worry.

She wanted him to want—her.

Emma’s throat tightened. Sitting in the chair at the vanity desk, she began brushing her dark hair with long, hard strokes. She looked at herself in the antique gilt mirror. She was nothing special. Just a regular girl, with round cheeks and big, vulnerable green eyes, who looked scared out of her mind.

How could she marry him, even for Sam’s sake, knowing that Cesare would never uphold the promise of their wedding vows? How could she allow Sam to grow up watching his father repeatedly cheat on his mother—and her explicitly allowing him to do it? What kind of sick ideas would that teach her precious boy about love, marriage, trust and family?

If only Cesare would want her. Her hand slowed with the brush. If only they could truly be lovers, in the same bed, maybe he’d stay true to their wedding vows, and they could be a real family....

“Not ready yet?”

She twisted in the chair to see Cesare in the doorway. He was wearing a tuxedo a little different than the one in Paris—less classic, more cutting edge. But with his dark hair and chiseled good looks, he melted her, whatever he might be wearing. Even wearing nothing.

Especially wearing nothing.

She gulped, turning away. She couldn’t stop thinking about the two hot nights he’d made love to her. So long ago now. Almost a year since he’d touched her...

“You look beautiful,” he said huskily, coming into her bedroom.

“Oh,” she said. “Thank you.” Their eyes met in the mirror. Her cheeks turned pink.

“You’re just missing one final touch.” Coming up behind her, he pulled a sparkling diamond necklace from his pocket and placed it around her neck. Emma’s lips parted as she saw it in the mirror, huge diamonds dripping past her collarbone. Involuntarily she put her hand against the necklace, hardly able to believe it was real.

“Almost worthy of the woman wearing it,” he murmured.

“You...you shouldn’t have.” Nervously she rose to her feet, facing him. Realizing her fingertips were still resting against the sparkling stones, she put her hand down.

“It’s nothing. A mere trinket.” His black eyes caressed her. Leaning forward, he brushed long tendrils of glossy black hair from her bare shoulders, back from the necklace, and whispered, “Nothing is too good for my future wife.”

Emma felt the warmth of his breath against her bare skin. She shuddered with a sudden pang of need. Of desire.

She couldn’t let herself want him like this. Couldn’t. It left her too vulnerable. And the one thing she knew about Cesare was that he detested needy women. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, be one.

And yet...

Turning away, she went back to the mirror and put on her bright red lipstick with a shaking hand. She tried to ignore his gaze as she ran the red tube carefully over her lips. Sitting back on the bed, she reached for her high-heeled shoes, gorgeous Charlotte Olympia pumps with bamboo on the platform sole and pink cherry blossoms crisscrossing the straps. Emma had seen them in a shop on Sloane Street and in spite of her best efforts—since they were quite expensive—had fallen instantly in love with the 1930s Shanghai glamour.

“Mr. Falconeri said you’re to have whatever you wish, madame,” the salesgirl had insisted, and Emma, with baby Sam in his stroller next to Cesare’s personal bodyguard, had quickly succumbed. It was so wrong to buy shoes that were so expensive. Wrong to want something so forbidden. So clearly out of reach. Emma looked at Cesare.

Or was it?

She rose to her feet, her long black hair tumbling over the low cowl neck of her gown, which melted like liquid silver against her body. She felt transformed—like a glamorous, mysterious starlet from a black-and-white film. She’d never felt so beautiful, or less like the plain, sensible person she’d always been. She took a deep breath, and looked at Cesare.

“I’m ready,” she said softly.

He stared at her. She saw his hands tighten at his sides as his gaze slowly went down the length of her dress. And when he spoke, was it her imagination or was his voice a little strained?

“You look...fine.” Clearing his throat, he held out his arm. “Ready to meet the firing squad?”

“That’s how you refer to your friends?”

He gave her a wicked grin, quirking his dark eyebrow. “You should hear how they refer to me.”

“I already know.” As she took his arm, Emma’s smile fell. “You’re the playboy who will never be caught by any woman.”

He winked at her, a gesture so silly and unexpected that it caused her heart to twist in her chest. “They’ll understand when they meet you.”

Their eyes locked, and the squeeze on her heart suddenly became unbearable.

I love you. The words pushed through her soul, through her heart. I love you, Cesare.

It was a realization so horrible, Emma sucked in her breath in a gasp so rough and abrupt that it made her double over, coughing.

He rubbed her back, his voice filled with concern. “Are you all right?”

She held up her hand as she regained her breath. Downstairs, she could hear the rising noise of guests arriving at the Kensington mansion for the engagement party. All of his snooty rich friends, and their beautiful girlfriends—half of whom Cesare had probably slept with over the years. Half? Probably more.

“Cara?”

She finally straightened, her eyes watery. “I’m fine,” she said, wiping her eyes. It was a lie.

She loved him.

Almost a year ago, she’d left him in despair, believing they had no chance for a future. But now, after just two weeks of wearing his engagement ring on her hand, an awful, desperate hope had pushed itself into her soul. Against her will.

She was in love with him. The truth was she’d never stopped loving him. She was utterly and completely in love with her former boss, the father of her baby.

A man who was going to marry her out of pure obligation. Who didn’t even want to touch her. Who wanted their marriage to be in name only. For their son’s sake. A shell. A sham...

“Emma?”

She couldn’t let him see her face. Couldn’t let him guess what she felt inside. Pretending not to see his outstretched arm, she walked swiftly ahead.

“Wait,” he said sharply.

Emma stopped. She took a deep breath, and looked back at him in the hallway.

Smiling down at her in a way that caused his eyes to crinkle, he took her arm and wrapped it around his own. “It’s an engagement party. We should enter the ballroom together.”

Together. How she wished they could truly be together.

“Are you cold?” He frowned. “You’re trembling.”

“No... Yes... Um.” She twisted her ankle deliberately. “It’s the shoes.”

He snorted, looking at the four-inch heels. “No wonder.”

As they walked down the stairs, she clutched his arm as if her beautiful shoes were really the problem, trying to convince herself everything would be just fine. All right, so she was in love with Cesare and he’d never love her back. All right, so her whole body yearned for him to touch her, but he insisted on separate bedrooms and was likely planning to hook up with the next gorgeous actress who struck his fancy.

But they had a child together. Their marriage would be like a business partnership. That counted for something, didn’t it?

Didn’t it?

Her throat tightened.

As they approached the mansion’s ballroom, she saw his friends—tycoons, actresses, diplomats and royalty. The women were thin and young and beautiful, in chic, tight clothes with no stretch marks from pregnancy. They all turned to look at her speculatively. She could see their sly assumption: that Emma had gotten pregnant on purpose. That was how a gold-digging housekeeper trapped an uncatchable playboy.