Читать книгу From Paris With Love Collection - Кэрол Мортимер, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 13
ОглавлениеEMMA JUMPED WHEN her phone rang.
All afternoon, since she’d left Cesare in the park, she’d been pacing the halls of Alain’s seventeenth-century hôtel particulier in the seventh arrondissement. She’d been on edge, looking out the windows, past the courtyard gate onto the Avenue Rapp. Waiting for Cesare to strike. Waiting for a lawyer to call. Or the police. Or... She didn’t know what, but she’d been torturing herself trying to imagine.
When her cell phone finally rang, she saw his private number and braced herself.
“I won’t let you bully me,” she whispered aloud to the empty air. Then she answered the phone with, “What do you want?”
“I want to see you.” It shocked her how calm Cesare’s voice was. How pleasant. “I’d like to discuss our baby.”
“I’m busy.” Standing in the mansion’s lavish salon with its fifteen-foot-high ceilings, she looked from the broom she hadn’t touched in twenty minutes to Sam, lying nearby on a cushioned blanket on the floor, happily batting at soft toys dangling above him in a baby play gym. She set her jaw. “I’m working.”
“As mother of my heir, you don’t need to work, you know.” He sounded almost amused. “You won’t worry about money ever again.”
He was trying to lull her into letting down her guard, she thought.
“I don’t worry about money now,” she retorted. As a single mother, she’d been even more careful, tucking nearly all her paycheck into the bank against a rainy day. “I have a good salary, we live rent-free in Alain’s house and I have a nice nest egg thanks to you. I sold your watch to a collector, by the way. I couldn’t believe how much I got for it. What kind of idiot would spend so much on a— Oh. Sorry. But seriously. How could you spend so much on a watch?”
But Cesare didn’t sound insulted. “How much did you get for it?”
“A hundred thousand euros,” she said, still a little horrified. But also pleased.
He snorted. “The collector got a good deal.”
“That’s what Alain said. He was irritated I didn’t offer the watch to him first. He said he would have paid me three times that....” She stopped uneasily.
“Bouchard takes good care of you.”
Cesare’s good humor had fled. She gritted her teeth. What was the deal between those two? She wished they’d leave her out of it. “Of course Alain takes care of me. He’s an excellent employer.”
“You can’t raise Sam in his house, Emma. I won’t allow it.”
“You won’t allow it?” She exhaled with a flare of nostril. “Look, I told you that Sam’s your child because it was the right thing to do...”
“You mean because I gave you no choice.”
“...but you can’t give orders anymore. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re no longer my boss.”
His voice took on an edge. “I’m Sam’s father.”
“Oh, you’re suddenly sure about that now, are you?”
“Emma—”
“I can’t believe you asked me for a paternity test! When you know perfectly well you’re the only man I’ve ever slept with in my whole life!”
“Even now?”
His voice was a little tense. Cesare was worried she’d slept with other men over the past year? She was astonished. “You think I was madly dating while I was pregnant as a whale? Or maybe—” she gave a low laugh “—right after Sam was born, I rushed to invite men to my bed, hoping they’d ignore the dark hollows under my eyes and baby spit-up on my shoulder.” She snorted. “I’m touched, really, that you think I’m so irresistible. But if I have a spare evening I collapse into bed. For sleeping, not orgies, in case that was your next question.”
For a moment, there was silence. When next he spoke, his tone was definitely warmer. “Leave Sam at home with a babysitter. Come out with me tonight.”
“Why?” She scowled. “What do you have planned—the guillotine? Pistols at dawn? Or let me guess. Some lawyer is going to serve me a subpoena?”
“I just want to talk.”
“Talk,” she said doubtfully.
“Perhaps I was a little rough with you in the park....”
“You think?”
He gave a low laugh. “I don’t blame you for believing the worst of me. But I’m sure you’ll forgive my bad manners, when you think of what a shock it was for me to learn I have a son, and that you’d hidden that fact from me for quite some time.”
He sounded reasonable. Damn him.
“What’s your angle?” she asked suspiciously.
“I just want us to share dinner,” he said, “and discuss our child’s future. Surely there is nothing so strange in that.”
Uh-oh. When Cesare sounded innocent, she knew he was up to something. “I’m not giving up custody. So if that’s what you want to discuss, we should let our lawyers handle it.” She tried to sound confident, like she even had a lawyer.
“Oh, lawyers.” He gave a mournful sigh. “They make things so messy. Let’s just meet, you and me. Like civilized people.”
She gripped the phone tighter, pacing across the gleaming hardwood floors. “If you’re thinking of luring me out of the house so your bodyguards can try to kidnap Sam, Alain’s house is like a fortress....”
“If you’re going to jump to the worst possible conclusion of everything I say, this conversation is going to take a long time. And I wouldn’t mind a glass of wine,” he said pointedly.
She watched her baby gurgle with triumph when he caught the end of his sock. Falconeri men were such determined creatures. “You’re not going to try to pull anything?”
“Like what?” When she didn’t answer, he gave an exaggerated sigh. “I’ll even take you someplace crowded, with plenty of strangers to chaperone us. How about the restaurant at the top of the Eiffel Tower?”
She pictured the long circling queues of tourists. Surely even Cesare couldn’t be up to much, amid such a crowd. “Well...”
“You left London without a word. You kept your pregnancy secret and went to work for Bouchard behind my back. I don’t think a single dinner to work out Sam’s custody is too much to ask.”
Emma was about to agree when her whole body went on alert at the word custody. “What do you mean, custody?”
“I’m willing to accept your pregnancy was an accident. You didn’t intentionally lie. You’re not a gold digger.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“But now I know I have a son, I can’t just walk away. We’re going to have to come to an arrangement.”
“What arrangement?”
“If you want to know, you’ll have to join me tonight.”
“Or else—what?”
“Or else,” Cesare said quietly. “Let’s just leave it at that.”
“You don’t want to be a father,” she said desperately. “You couldn’t be a decent one, even if you tried—not that you would try for long!”
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.
“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?”
He tilted his head, looking at her across the table, before he gave a low laugh. “It’s the roses, isn’t it? Too much?”
“I’m not one of your foolish little starlets getting tossed out after breakfast, sobbing to stay.” She narrowed her eyes. “You never try this hard. You never have to. So it must be leading up to something. Tell me what it is.”
Cesare leaned forward across the candlelit table, his dark eyes intense. Her whole body was taut as she leaned toward him, straining to hear. He parted his sensual lips.
“Later,” he whispered, then relaxed back in his chair as if he had not a care in the world. He took another sip of wine and looked out the huge wall of windows overlooking the lights of Paris, twinkling in the twilight.
Emma glared in helpless fury. He clearly was determined to take his own sweet time, to make her squirm. Fine. Grabbing her glass, she took a big gulp of the wine. Since she’d moved to Paris, she’d grown to appreciate wine more. This was a red, full-bodied Merlot that was equal parts delicious and expensive. Setting down her glass, she looked around them.
“This restaurant is kind of famous. It’s hard to even get reservations here. How on earth did you manage to get the whole place?”
He gave a low laugh. “I pulled some strings.”
“Strings?”
“It wasn’t easy.”
“For you,” she said darkly, “everything is easy.”
“Not everything.” He looked at her across the table. His eyes seemed black as a midnight sea. Then he looked past her. Turning around, she saw the waiter approaching their table.
“Monsieur?” the man asked respectfully. “May I take your order?”
“Yes. To start, I’d like...” Cesare rattled off a list that included endives, foie gras, black truffle sauce, venison and some kind of strange rose-flavored gelatin. It all sounded very fancy to Emma, and not terribly appetizing.
“And for madame?”
Both men looked at her expectantly.
Emma sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t much care for French food.”
The waiter did a double take. So did Cesare. The scandalized looks on both male faces was almost funny. Emma stifled a laugh.
“Of course you like French food,” Cesare said. “Everyone does. Even people who hate Paris love the food.”
“I love Paris,” she said. “Just not the food.”
“I can give madame some suggestions from the menu...” the waiter tried.
She shook her head. “Sorry. I’ve lived here for almost a year. Trust me, I’ve tried everything.” She looked at him. “What I would really like is a cheeseburger. With French fries. Frites,” she amended quickly, as if that would make her order sound more gourmet, which of course it didn’t.
The waiter continued to stare at her with a mix of consternation and bewilderment. In for a penny, in for a pound....
“And ketchup.” She handed him the menu with a sweet smile. “Lots and lots of ketchup. Merci.”
The waiter left, shaking his head and muttering to himself.
But Cesare gave a low laugh. “Nice.”
“Shouldn’t I order what I want?” she said defensively.
“Of course you should. Of course a nice American girl, on a romantic night out at the Eiffel Tower, would order a cheeseburger with ketchup.”
“Romantic night?” she said with a surge of panic. He gave her an inscrutable smile. To hide her confusion, she looked out the window. “I can still enjoy the view.”
“Me, too,” he said quietly, and he wasn’t looking at the window. A tingle of awareness went up and down Emma’s body.
“This is my first time inside the Eiffel Tower,” she said, trying to fill the space between them. She gave an awkward laugh. “I could never be bothered to wait in the lines.”
“Doesn’t Bouchard ever give you time off?”
She glanced at him with a snicker. “You’re one to talk.”
He had the grace to look discomfited. “I was a difficult boss.”
“That,” she said succinctly, “is an understatement.”
“I must have been an awful employer.”
“A monster,” she agreed.
“You never even got to see inside the British Museum.” He had a hangdog look, like a puppy expecting to be kicked. “Or take a picture of Big Ben.”
She squelched an involuntary laugh, covering it with a cough. Then sighed.
“Perhaps you weren’t entirely to blame,” she admitted.
He brightened. “I wasn’t?”
“I blamed you for not having time to tour London. I swore Paris would be different. But even though Alain has bent over backward to be the most amazing employer I could possibly imagine...”
Cesare’s expression darkened.
“...I still haven’t seen much of the city. At first, I was overwhelmed by a new job in a new city. Then I had the baby, and, well...if I have extra time, I don’t tour a museum any more than I go on a date. I collapse in a stupor on the couch.” She sighed, spreading her arms. “So it seems I’m full of excuses. I could have climbed the Eiffel Tower before now, and brought Sam with me, if I’d made it a priority. Instead I haven’t been willing to wait in line or pay the money.”
“What if I promised you’d never have to do either, seeing the sights of London?”
She tried to laugh it off. “What, there’s no line to see the Crown Jewels anymore?” she said lightly. “It’s a free ride for all on the London Eye?”
He took another sip of his wine, then put it back down on the table. His dark eyes met hers. “I want you both to come back to London with me.”
She set her jaw. She’d been afraid he’d say that. “There’s no way I’m leaving my job to move back to London with you. Your interest in Sam will never last.”
“You have to know I can’t abandon him, now I know. Especially not in Bouchard’s house.”
“I thought you said you didn’t bear Alain any grudge.”
“I don’t. But that doesn’t mean I’ll let him raise my son.” The votive candle on the table left flickering shadows on the hard lines of his handsome face. He said quietly, “Bouchard wants you for himself, Emma.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said uncomfortably, then recalled her own recent concerns on that front. “And anyway, I don’t see him that way.”
“He wants you. And he already knows that taking care of Sam is the way to your heart.” His voice was low. Behind him, she could see the sparkling lights of Paris in the night. “As you yourself said—Sam deserves a father.”
“Yes, he does,” she said over the lump in her throat. “An actual father who’ll love him and kiss his bruises and tuck him in at night. A father he can count on.” Looking up at him, she whispered, “We both know you’re not that man.”
“How do you know?”
The raw emotion in Cesare’s voice made her eyes widen. She shook her head.
“You said yourself you don’t want a child. You have no idea what it means to be a parent....”
“You’re wrong. I do know. Even though I’m new at being a father, I was once a son.” He looked away. “We had no money, just an old house falling down around us. But we were happy. My parents loved each other. And they loved me.”
She swallowed. “I’ve never heard you talk about them before.”
“There’s not much to tell.” His lips twisted down at the edge. “When I was twelve, my mother got sick. My father had to watch her slowly die. He couldn’t face life without her, so after her funeral, he went drinking alone on the lake at night. The empty boat floated to shore. His body was found the next day.”
“I’m sorry,” she choked out, her heart in her throat. “How could he do that—leave you?”
“I got over it.” He shrugged, his only sign of emotion the slight tightening of his jaw. “I was sent to a great-uncle in New York. He was strict, but tried his best to raise me. I learned English. Learned about the hotel business. Learned I liked hard numbers, profit and loss. Numbers made sense. They could be added, subtracted, controlled. Unlike love, which disappears like mist as soon as you think it’s in your arms.”
His wife. He was still brokenhearted over his loss of her. Emma fought back tears as she said, “Love makes life worth living.”
His lips twisted sardonically. “You say that, even after you wasted so many years trying to get love from your stepmother, like blood from a stone? All those years trying and failing, with nothing but grief to show for it.”
Pain caught at her heart.
“I’m sorry,” Cesare said, looking at her. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No. You’re right.” Blinking back tears, she shook her head. “But others have loved me. My parents. My mother died when I was four, even younger than you were. Ovarian cancer. Just like...” She stopped herself. Just like I almost did, she’d almost said.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“It’s all right. It was a long time ago. And my father was an amazing man. After my mom died, it was just the two of us. He gave me my work ethic, my sense of honor, everything.” She pressed her lips together. “Then he fell in love with a coworker at his factory....”
“Cruel stepmother, huh?”
“She was never cruel.” She sobered. “At least not at first. I was glad to see my father happy, but I started to feel like I was in their way. An outsider interrupting their honeymoon.” She glanced up at the waiter, who’d just brought their meals. He set the cheeseburger and fries before her with the same flourish he used on Cesare’s venison and risotto with black truffle sauce. It must have been hard for him, she thought, so she gave him a grateful smile. “Merci.”
“So you left home?” Cesare prompted after the waiter left.
“Well.” She dipped a fry into a ramekin of ketchup, then chewed it thoughtfully. It was hot and salty and delicious. She licked her lips, then her fingers. “At sixteen, I fell head over heels for a boy.”
Cesare seemed uninterested in his own food as he listened with his complete attention. “A boy.”
“The captain of the high school football team.” She gave a smile. “Which in Texas can be a big deal. I was flattered by his attention. I fell hard. A few kisses, and I was convinced it was love. He talked me into going all the way.”
“But you didn’t.” Taking a bite of his food, he grinned at her. “I know you didn’t.”
“No.” She swirled another fry through the ketchup. “But I went to the doctor to get birth control pills.” With a deep breath, she looked him in the eye. “That’s how I found out I had cancer.”
His jaw dropped. “Cancer?”
“Ovarian, the same as my mom had had.” She kept stirring the fry in the ketchup, waiting for him to freak out, for him to look at her as if she still had one foot in the grave. “I was on chemotherapy for a long time. By the time I was in remission, Mark had long since dumped me for a cheerleader.”
Cesare muttered something in Italian that sounded very unkind. She gave a grateful smile.
“He did me a huge favor. I’d had no symptoms. If I hadn’t gone to the doctor then, I never would have known I was sick until it was too late. So in a funny way—that broken heart was the price that saved my life.” She ate a bite of French fry, then made a face when she realized the bite was almost entirely ketchup. She set it down on her plate. “Though for a long time I wished I had died.”
“Why?”
“My illness took everything. My childhood. My dreams of having a family someday. The medical bills even took our house.” Her throat ached, but she forced herself to tell the worst. “And it killed my father.”
Reaching across the table, he grabbed her hand. “Emma...”
She took a deep breath. “It was my fault. My father wasn’t the kind of man who could declare bankruptcy and walk away from debt. So to pay all the bills, he took a night job. Between his jobs and taking care of me, he started to neglect my stepmother. They started fighting all the time. But the day my doctor announced I was in remission, I convinced my father to take me home early. It was Valentine’s Day. I talked him into stopping at the florist to buy flowers. As a surprise.” She paused. “Marion was surprised, all right. We found her at home, in bed, with the foreman from their factory.”
Cesare sucked in his breath. “And?”
“My father had a heart attack,” she whispered. She ran her hand over her eyes. “He was already so run-down from taking care of me. From working two jobs. Marion blamed me for everything.” Her voice caught as she covered her face with her hands. “She was right.”
His voice was gentle as he pulled back her hands. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“You’re wrong.” Emma looked at him across the table, and tears ran unchecked down her face. “If I hadn’t fought so hard to live, I’d never have been such a burden. My father wouldn’t have had to work two jobs, my stepmother wouldn’t have felt lonely and neglected, and they’d still be together. It’s my fault. I ruined their lives.”
“Your stepmother said that?”
She nodded miserably. “After the funeral, she kicked me out of the house. I was eighteen. She had no legal obligation to take care of me. A friend let me stay until I graduated high school, then I left Texas for New York. I wanted to make something of myself, to prove Marion wrong.” She blinked fast. “But nothing I ever did, not all the money I sent her, ever made her forgive what I did.”
Rising to his feet, Cesare came around the table. Gently pulling Emma from the chair, he wrapped her in his arms. “So that’s why you looked so stricken,” he murmured. “The night we first... The night you came back from her funeral.”
“Yes. Plus...” She swallowed. It was time to tell him the worst. To tell him everything. She thought of all her lonely years, loving him, devoting herself only to him. She looked up, barely seeing his face through her tears. “When I told you I loved you last year, you tried to convince me it was just lust. But there’s a reason I knew all along that it wasn’t.” She took a deep breath and said, “I’ve loved you for years, Cesare.”
His hands, which had been caressing her back, abruptly stopped. He looked down at her. “Years?”
“You never knew?”
Wide-eyed, he shook his head.
“I loved you from almost the first day we met,” she said quietly. She gave a choked laugh. “I think it was the moment you said you were glad to have me, because I looked smart, and the previous housekeeper on the penthouse floor had just been fired for being idiot enough to fall for you.”
He looked bewildered. “That made you love me?”
She gave a low laugh. “I guess you were wrong when you said I looked smart.”
“I thought you had no feelings. I never knew...”
“I hid it even better than I thought.” Her lips quirked. “I knew you would fire me if you ever guessed.”
“But why? Why would you love me in silence for years? I ran roughshod over you. Bossed you around. Expected you to be at my beck and call.”
“But I saw the rest, too,” she said over the lump in her throat. “The vulnerability that drove you to succeed, as if the devil himself were chasing you. The way you were kind to children when you thought no one was looking. Giving money to charity, helping struggling families stay in their homes—anonymously. So no one would know.”
He abruptly released her, pacing back a step in his tuxedo. His handsome face looked pale.
“But now.” He took a deep breath, then licked his cruel, sensual lips. “But now, surely you don’t...love me.”
She saw the fear in his eyes.
“Don’t worry,” she said softly. “I got over loving you the day I left London. I knew we’d never have a future. I had to leave my broken heart behind me, to start a new life with my child.”
For a moment he didn’t reply. Then he pressed his lips together. “Our child.”
“Yes.” She sighed. She looked straight into his eyes, her heart aching as she said, “But not for long.”
“What do you mean?”
“You won’t last.”
He stepped toward her. “You really think I would abandon him? After everything I’ve said?”
She matched him toe to toe. “I won’t be a burden, or let Sam feel like one, either, wondering what’s wrong with him that his own father can’t be bothered to spend time with him.” She lifted her chin, but as their eyes locked, she faltered. “You’re not a bad person, Cesare. But trying to raise him separately, together, it’s just not going to work.”
“So you can find some other man to raise my son.”
Her eyes shone with tears as she whispered, “You can’t promise forever. You know you can’t. So if you have any mercy in your heart—if you truly do care for Sam—please, let us go.”
His expression changed. He took a long, dragging breath.
“Everything you’re saying,” he said slowly, “is bull.”
Her lips parted in a gasp.
Cesare glared at her. “You didn’t keep the baby a secret because you were trying to protect me from this choice. You didn’t do it to protect Sam, either. You did it for one person and one person only. Yourself.”
“How can you say that?” she demanded.
“Are you honestly telling me that it’s better for Sam to believe his own father abandoned him? Yes, I’m selfish. Yes, I work too much. Yes, it’s possible I might buy him a pony. Maybe I wouldn’t be a perfect father. But you wouldn’t—won’t—even give me a chance. It isn’t Sam that you fear will be a burden.” He looked at her. “It’s you. You’re afraid I will take charge of him, and you’ll be left behind. You’re afraid for yourself. Only yourself.”
Emma stared at him, her lips parted in shock. The accusation was like a knife in her heart.
Was he right? Could he be?
She shook her head fiercely.
“No. You’re wrong!”
“You don’t want to lose him,” he growled. “Neither do I. From this moment, his needs must come first.” He paused. “I did think of suing you for full custody...”
Those words were an ice pick in Emma’s heart. She made a little whimpering sound. “No...”
“But a custody battle would only hurt my son. I’m not going to leave him in Bouchard’s care, either. Or abandon him, whatever you say. I’m not going to shuttle a small child between continents, between two different lives. That leaves only one clear path. At least it’s clear to me.” Pulling a small jewelry box from his tuxedo pocket, he opened the box, revealing an enormous diamond ring.
“Emma Hayes,” he said grimly, “will you marry me?”
