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

It was the one thing that made him cold.

“Lust,” he growled back, and flung his body over hers, lying her beneath him on the bed. He ran his hands down her body, licking and sucking every inch of her skin. Sitting back against the pillows, he pulled her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her.

Tangling his hands in her hair, he tilted back her head and kissed her deeply. Lifting up her body, he lowered her hips heavily against him, thrusting slowly inside her. He rocked against her, controlling the rhythm and speed, slowing down when he came too close to exploding. Face-to-face, breath to breath, their eyes locked, their arms wrapped around each other, as close as two lovers could possibly be. He made love to her for what felt like hours until finally she gasped against him one more time, closing her eyes with a cry.

Cesare could hold back no longer. Kissing her shoulder, he sucked hard against her skin, and let himself go. He thrust inside her four times, so deep and hard that he exploded, so close to heaven that he saw only stars.

He saw only her.

Exhaling, he collapsed, still holding her tight.

It took long moments for Cesare to fall back to earth. He slowly became aware of the ticking of the old antique clock on the mantel. Blinking in the darkness, he saw he was in Emma’s bed, in her suite of rooms on the second floor of his Kensington house. Moonlight was creeping in through the edges of the window shades as he still cradled her in his arms. He felt her cheek against his chest. Against his heart.

He shifted, cuddling her in the crook of his arm, her naked body against his own. He saw a small mark on her shoulder, where he’d sucked a little too hard in a love bite. That would leave a bruise, he thought. He’d marked her as his own. And for some reason he didn’t want to examine, he was glad.

Emma blinked, smiling up at him sleepily before she glanced down at the bed. “What a mess we’ve made.”

He looked down. The duvet and sheets were twisted at their feet and there were banknotes everywhere.

Cesare prided himself on discipline. He’d tried to do the sensible thing with Emma, to make them both forget their intoxicating night and return to their employer-employee relationship.

He’d failed. Massively.

And he was glad.

Now they could both have what they actually wanted. Yes, his home might fall apart without her in charge. At the moment he didn’t give a damn. Who cared about milk in the fridge or having his bed made perfectly? Who cared about it being made at all, so long as he had her in it?

Emma yawned, her eyes closing as she settled deeper into his arms. Leaning forward, he kissed her softly on the temple. His own eyelids were heavy.

As she drowsed in his arms, he still shuddered with aftershocks of pleasure from their lovemaking. Making love without a condom, to a woman he liked and trusted, was a wholly new experience.

He’d certainly never had it with his wife.

Cesare looked down at Emma’s face, half-hidden in shadow as she slept in his arms. She looked like a slumbering angel, her black eyelashes stark against her pale skin, and masses of her long, glossy dark hair tumbling over the pillow.

He felt exhausted, utterly spent. But as he closed his eyes, he smiled. He’d proved his point, and he was suddenly glad Emma had quit her job with him. That meant she’d be available for full-time pleasure. Their relationship might last for weeks, even months, now she understood there was no love involved. There would be no arguments, no goals of marriage or children to fight over. They could just enjoy each other’s company for as long as the pleasure lasted.... He fell asleep, smiling and warm.

When he woke, the shadows of the room had changed to the soft gray light of dawn. Emma was stirring in his arms. He saw she was looking up at him with big, limpid eyes.

“Good morning,” she said shyly.

Cesare stroked her cheek with amusement. “Good morning.”

She bit her lip. “Um. If you want to go sleep in your own room, I’ll understand....”

He placed a finger to her lips, gently stopping her. “I don’t.”

Her expression suddenly glowed. “You don’t?”

He didn’t blame her for being surprised. He was somewhat surprised himself. Usually he couldn’t wait to get out of a woman’s bed the morning after. He usually left long before morning, in fact.

But he felt oddly comfortable with Emma. He didn’t need to pretend with her, or play games, or be polite. It was strange, but he felt like he could just be himself, without trying to hide his flaws. How could he hide them? She knew them all.

“I’m hungry,” Emma confessed, sitting up. “I can’t stop thinking about fried eggs and bacon and oranges...”

Cesare kissed her bare shoulder. He was not thinking about food. “We could go down to the kitchen.” He let his fingertips trail over her breast. “Or we could have a little breakfast in bed first....”

“Yes,” she whispered, lifting her lips toward his. He stroked back her wildly tousled black hair.

“I’m so glad you came to your senses,” he murmured as he kissed her.

She drew back with a frown. “My senses?”

He smiled, twisting a long black tendril of her hair around his finger. “You are going to be a very enjoyable bit of carry-on baggage.”

“Oh, so now I’m baggage, am I?”

“I’ve decided you were right.”

Her green eyes suddenly shone. “You did?”

“I’m glad you quit,” he said lazily, running the pad of his thumb over her nipple, for the masculine pleasure of watching it instantly pebble beneath his touch. “I need to be in Asia tomorrow, Berlin on Friday.”

Lifting a dark eyebrow, she said lightly, “And I need to take that job in Paris.”

“You’re thinking about your job?” He snorted. “I want you to come with me.”

“Give up my career to do what—just hang out in your bed?”

“Can you think of a better idea?”

“I like my career.” Her voice had a new edge to it. “I’m good at it.”

“Of course you are. The best,” he said soothingly. He hadn’t meant to insult her. “But I’ll cover your expenses while you’re with me. We can just both enjoy ourselves. For however long this lasts.”

“Are you joking?” She sounded almost angry.

Cesare was still waiting for her burst of excited joy and arms to be thrown around him at the brilliance of his plan. Her joy didn’t seem to be forthcoming. “Don’t you understand what I’m offering you, Emma?”

“I must not,” she said. “Because it sounds like you expect me to drop everything for you, when all you want is sex.”

“Sex with you,” he pointed out. He would have thought that would be obvious. “And friendship,” he added as an afterthought. “It’ll be...fun.”

“Fun?” she said in a strangled voice.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. Wow. It’s the answer to all my childhood dreams. Fun.”

He was starting to grow irritated “You can throw away your mop and broom. No more twenty-four-hour days with a jerk for a boss.” He tried to laugh, but she didn’t join him at the joke. He continued weakly, “You’ll travel with me—see the world...”

Pulling away from him entirely, she looked at him in the gray dawn.

“For how long?” she said quietly.

“How should I know?” Sitting up straighter against the headboard, he folded his arms grumpily. “For as long as we’re enjoying ourselves.”

“And you’ll kindly pay me for my time.”

He ground his jaw. “You’re twisting this all around, making it sound like I’m trying to insult you. Why aren’t you happy? You should be happy—I’ve never offered any woman so much!”

She rebelliously lifted her eyes. “We both know that’s not true.”

A cold chill went down his spine. “You’re talking about my wife.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

“Christo.” Cesare clawed back his hair. This couldn’t be happening. “We’ve been together only two nights, I’ve barely asked you to be my mistress, and you’re already pressuring me to marry you?”

“I didn’t say that!”

“You don’t have to.” He could see it in her face: that terrible repressed hope. The same expression he’d seen in so many women’s faces. The desire to pin him down, to hold him against his will, in a place he didn’t want to be. To make iron chains of duty and honor replace delight or even pleasure.

“You did get married once. You must have had a reason.”

Anger rushed through him. The memory of Alain Bouchard’s hateful voice. You married my sister for her money and then made her life a living hell. Is it any wonder she took the pills? You might as well have poured them down her throat.

Cesare’s lips parted to lash out. Then he forced himself to focus on Emma’s lovely, wistful face. It wasn’t her fault. He choked back furious, hateful words.

“I married for love once,” he said flatly. “I’ll never do it again.”

“Because you still love her,” she whispered. “Your wife.”

Cesare could see what Emma believed. That he’d loved Angélique so much that even a decade hadn’t been enough to get over the grief of losing her. He let it pass, as he always did. The beautiful, simple lie was so much better than the truth.

He set his jaw, facing her across the bed, not touching. Just moments before, they’d been so close. Now an ocean divided them.

“I thought I made myself clear. But it wasn’t enough. So hear this.” He looked at her. “I will never love you, Emma. I will never marry you. I will never want to have a child with you. Ever.”

In the rising pink dawn, every ounce of color drained from Emma’s beautiful, plump-cheeked face, causing the powerful light of joy to disappear, as if it had never existed.

It was hard to watch. Cesare took a steadying breath. He had to be cruel to be kind. If they were to be together, even for just a few weeks, she had to accept these things from the beginning.

“My feelings in this matter will never change,” he said quietly. “I thought you understood. I thought you felt the same.” He reached for her hand, trembling where it rested on the bed. “Lust.”

In a flash of anguish, her luminous eyes lifted to his. She shook her head. His eyes narrowed.

“You must accept this,” he said, “for us to have any future.”

A low, bitter laugh bubbled to her lips—the most bitter thing he’d ever heard from her. She ripped her hand away. “Future? No love, no marriage, no child. What kind of future is that?”

His jaw tightened. “The kind that is real. No promises to be broken. No pretense. No fakery. We just take it day by day, enjoying each other’s company, taking pleasure for as long as it lasts.”

“And then what?”

“We part as friends.” He looked at her. “I don’t want to lose your friendship.”

“My friendship?” Her lip curled. “Or my services?”

“Emma!”

“You want to stop paying me as your housekeeper, and hire me straight out as your whore. No, I get it.” Holding up her hand, she said coldly, “I’m sorry, this is awkward for you, isn’t it? Usually I’m the one who handles this, who puts out your trash the morning after.” She looked past the tangled mess of bedcovers at the foot of the bed, still surrounded by an explosion of money, to his platinum watch lying on the floor. “You even gave me a watch. Just like all the rest.”

His own personal watch was even more expensive than the Cartier ones, but he sensed telling her that wouldn’t impress her. “Emma, you’re being idiotic....”

“I really am just like the rest.” She threw the sheets aside and stood up from the bed. “I’ll just collect my things and buy myself some roses on the high street, shall I?”

But as she started to walk away from the bed, Cesare grabbed her wrist.

“Don’t do this,” he said in a low voice.

“Do what?”

“This.” He looked up at her, his eyes glittering. “I want you in my bed. For now. For as long as it’s fun for both of us. Can’t that be enough? Why do you need false promises of more? Why can’t you just accept what I freely offer you?”

Their eyes locked. He could see the pain in her gaze.

“I want more. I want it all,” she whispered. “Love. Marriage.” She swallowed, looking up at him. “I want a baby. Our baby.”

The air around him suddenly felt thin. He shrank back from her words. Literally. “Emma...”

“I don’t need a wedding proposal. Or for you to say you’re ready to be a father.” Her eyes met his. “I just need to know you might want those things someday.” She blinked fast. “That you might be open to the possibility...if something ever...”

“No,” Cesare choked out. Still naked, he scrambled back on the bed, putting his hand to his neck, feeling as if he had something tight around his throat. He took a deep breath, forcing his hands down, trying to calm down, to breathe. “Either this is a fun diversion, a friendship with benefits, or it’s nothing. You decide.”

She stared at him for a long moment, her face as pale as marble. Then, violently, she grabbed her white bra and panties off the floor and yanked them on her body. Walking to her closet, she pulled out big armfuls of clothes. “What was I thinking—” she kicked open her old suitcase “—to believe—” she tossed the clothes inside “—in miracles!”

Cesare rose to his feet. Still naked, he padded across the hardwood floor. Without her warmth next to him, the bedroom felt chilly in the autumn morning. He heard traffic noise from the street outside. Soon, the house’s day staff would arrive. He desperately wanted this settled before they were interrupted. He felt Emma was slipping away from him. He didn’t understand why. With a deep breath, he tried once more.

“Why are you throwing everything away for the sake of some distant future? Think about today.” Wrapping his arms around her waist from behind, he nuzzled the side of her neck and said in a low voice, “Let tomorrow take care of itself....”

Her skin was cold to the touch. She pulled away. Her beautiful face looked more than forlorn now—she looked frozen.

He sucked in his breath. He searched her face. “You’re still going to leave, aren’t you,” he breathed. “You’re still going to throw everything away for dreams of love, marriage and children. For a delusion. I can’t believe you’d be such a...”

Emma’s eyes were stony. She looked as if her soul had been shattered.

“...fool?” she finished.

He gave a single stiff nod.

She shook her head, wiping her eyes. “You’re right. I have been a fool. A stupid romantic fool who believed a man like you could ever change.”

Kneeling down, she gathered all the piles of money off the floor and dumped it into her suitcase. Picking up the platinum watch, she tossed it inside, then closed the suitcase with a bang. She looked down.

“Thank you for your offer,” she said in a low voice. “I’m sure some other woman will take you up on it.” She looked up, her eyes luminous with tears. “But I’m going to have a baby, and a home. And a man who loves us both.”

Her words, spoken with such finality, hit him like a blow. He’d just offered Emma more than he’d offered any woman in ten years. And this was his reward for letting himself be vulnerable. Though he stood in front of Emma right now in flesh and blood, she was still rejecting him for some ridiculous fantasy of love and a child.

Something Cesare hadn’t felt in a long, long time—something he’d thought he would never feel again—sliced through his heart.

Hurt.

His arms dropped. He stepped back.

“Bene,” he said stiffly. “Go.”

She pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. She picked up a few errant fifty-dollar banknotes off the floor and tucked them securely in her pocket, then lifted her chin. “Don’t worry. I won’t bother you again. I’ll leave you alone to live the life you want. I give you my word.” She held out her hand as if they were strangers. “Goodbye, Cesare.”

His lips tightened, but he shook her hand.

“Arrivederci, Signorina Hayes. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Her green eyes shimmered, and she turned away without a word. Gathering her suitcase, her coat and her bag, Emma left the tidy bedroom. Cesare listened to her suitcase thump, thump, thump down his stairs. He listened to the front door open—and then latch closed.

She’d really gone. He couldn’t believe it.

Going to the window, he looked down and watched her walk away, down the sidewalk toward Kensington High Street, in the drizzling rain of London’s gray morning. He watched her small, forlorn figure with an old suitcase and a beige mackintosh, and felt a strange twist in his chest.

It’s better this way, he told himself fiercely. Better for her to go, before the small hole in his heart had a chance to grow any larger. He watched her get smaller and smaller.

“Go,” Cesare said aloud in the empty room. “You mean nothing to me.”

But still, his hands tightened at his sides. She’ll be back, he thought suddenly. No woman he wanted had ever been able to resist for long. And the sex had been too good between them. Emma wouldn’t be able to stay away.

She’d soon be back, begging to negotiate the terms of her surrender. He exhaled, his shoulders relaxing. He allowed himself a smile. She’d be back. He knew it.

Within the week, if not the day.

CHAPTER FOUR

Ten months later

CESARE LOOKED OUT the window as his driver pulled the Rolls-Royce smoothly through the traffic of the Quai Branly, past the Pont de l’Alma. The September sun was sparkling like diamonds on the Seine.

Paris was not Cesare’s favorite city. Yes, the city was justly famous for its beauty, but it was also aloof and proud. Like a coquette. Like a cold, distant star. Like his late wife, Angélique, who was born here—and took her lover here, a scant year after their marriage.

Sì. He had reason to dislike Paris. Since his wife’s death over a decade before, he’d avoided the city. But now he was building a Falconeri Hotel here, upon the demand of his shareholders.

But Paris had changed since his last visit, he realized. The city felt...different.

Cesare looked up at the elegant classical architecture of cream-colored buildings. Through the vivid yellows and reds of the trees, the golden sun was bright in the blue sky. The city had a new warmth and charm he’d never felt before.

Because we finished the business deal, he told himself. After months of mind-numbing negotiations, his team had finally completed the purchase of an old, family-run hotel on the Avenue Montaigne, which—after it was exhaustively remodeled—would become the first Falconeri Hotel in France. I’m just pleased about the deal.

But he shifted in his leather seat. Even he didn’t buy that.

Closing his eyes, he felt the sun on his skin. Against his will, he thought of her, and his body flashed with heat that had nothing to do with sunlight.

Emma lived in Paris.

You don’t know that, he told himself fiercely. It had been almost a year since she’d left him in London that dreary November morning. For all he knew, she’d moved on to another job, another city. For all he knew, she’d changed her mind and never taken a job in Paris at all. For all he knew, she’d found another lover, a man who would love and marry her and be willing to have a child with her, just as she’d wanted.

For all he knew, she was already his wife. Pregnant with his child.

Cesare’s hands tightened involuntarily.

For ten months, he’d made a point of not knowing where Emma was or whom she was with. He’d told himself he didn’t care. At first, he’d been sure she’d soon return. It had taken him months to finally accept she wasn’t coming back. Cesare knew she’d wanted him, as he wanted her. He’d been surprised to discover she’d wanted her dreams even more.

He’d been furious, hurt; and yet he’d respected her the more for it. She was the one who’d gotten away. The one he couldn’t have. But she’d made the right choice. They wanted different things in life. Emma wanted a love, a home, a husband and a family of her own.

Cesare wanted—

What was it he wanted?

He tapped his fingers on the leather armrest as he stared out at the sparkling river. More, he supposed. More money. More hotels. More success for his company. More, more, more of the same, same, same.

His PR firm would soon announce how absolutely ecstatic the Falconeri Group was to finally have a hotel in this spectacular French city. His lips twisted. Well, Cesare would be ecstatic to leave it. This magical city seemed to have a strange power to steal any woman he actually tried to keep for longer than a night.

He wondered suddenly if Emma’s dreams had been haunted, as his had been. Or if all she felt for him now was indifference. If she’d forgotten him entirely. If he alone was cursed with the inability to forget.

His driver stopped at a red light. Resentfully Cesare watched smiling tourists cross the street, walking from the popular bateaux of the Seine to the nearby Eiffel Tower. He still saw Emma in his dreams at night. Still felt her breath against his skin. Still heard her voice. Even by the light of day—hell, even now—his feverish imagination...

Cesare’s eyes widened as he saw a woman crossing the street. She passed by quickly, before he could see her face. But he saw the black, glossy hair tumbling down her shoulders, saw the way her hips swayed and the luscious curve of her petite frame as she walked away from him. No. It couldn’t be her. This woman was pushing a baby stroller. No, he was imagining things. Paris was a city of over two million people. There was no way that...

Cesare gripped the headrest of the seat in front of him.

“Stop the car,” he said softly.

The chauffeur frowned, looking at Cesare in the rearview mirror. “Monsieur?” he said, sounding puzzled. When the light turned green, he drove the Rolls-Royce forward with traffic.

Cesare watched the woman continue walking away. It couldn’t be Emma for a million reasons, the most obvious being the stroller.

Unless she’d really meant what she said about finding a man who would give her a child, and she’d done it in a hurry.

I’m going to have a baby. And a home. And a man who loves us both.

Watching her disappear down the street, he remembered the cold, gray morning last November, when he’d watched Emma walk down Hornton Street. He’d been so sure she’d come back. She never had. Not a message. Not a word.

He watched this woman go, with one last sway of her hips, one last shimmering beam of sunlight on her long, glossy black hair, before she turned toward the Champ de Mars. Disappearing...again...

Cesare twisted his head savagely toward the driver. “Damn you!” he exploded. “I said stop!”

Looking a little frightened, the driver immediately plunged through traffic to the side of the road. The Rolls-Royce hadn’t even completely stopped before Cesare opened the door and flung himself on the sidewalk, causing several pedestrians to scatter. People stared at Cesare like he was crazy.

He felt crazy. He turned his head right and left as he started to run, getting honked at angrily by a tour bus as he crossed the street.

Where was the dark-haired woman? Had he lost her? Had it been Emma? He clawed his dark hair back, looking around frantically.

“Attention—monsieur!”

He moved just in time to avoid getting run over by a baby carriage pushed by a gray-haired woman dressed in Gucci. “Excusez-moi, madame,” he murmured. She shook her head in irritation, huffing. Even Parisian grandmothers, even the nannies, wore designer clothes in this arrondissement.

He ran down the Avenue de la Bourdonnais, where he’d last seen her, and followed the crowds into the nearby park, the Champ de Mars, looking right and left, turning himself in circles. He walked beneath the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, past long queues of people. He walked down the paths of the park, past cheery couples and families having picnic lunches on this beautiful autumn day. Wearing his suit and tie, Cesare felt unbearably hot, running all over Paris in pursuit of a phantom from his past.