From Paris With Love. Kate Hardy
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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