CHAPTER NINE

      THEY FLEW TO France the very next morning, to Alej’s apartment in the eighth arrondissement—a sprawling affair at the top of an historic building, situated on a famous street, opposite an equally famous hotel. In the distance the River Seine glinted in the sunshine, and nearby the trees in the Tuileries Garden provided a leafy canopy for wandering young lovers.

      But not for her and Alej, Emily reflected a couple of days later, as she looked around at the lavish but unlived-in surroundings of her husband’s Parisian home. They might have been photographed together walking around the city’s famously romantic spots, but it had all been for show. A sham. Just like their marriage.

      It made her shudder to think she’d been naively wondering if maybe they could make a go of their marriage, but never again would she be guilty of allowing herself to believe in such an illusion. Why would she when, in Alej’s eyes, she had committed the cardinal sin of lying and he could not—or would not—forgive her for the transgression she had owned up to on the first night of their honeymoon. The memory of it still jarred. It sat like a black cloud on her horizon. He’d accused her of being a liar and she had no defence against his words because they had been true. She had pretended not to care for him and to want other men. But when she’d tried to explain her reasons—maybe even to express all the love and fear which had motivated her actions—his clipped command had cut her short.

      ‘A lie is just that, Emily,’ he had drawled. ‘There can be no justification. And women lie as easily as breathing. Fact.’

      She tried not to care and to throw herself into the role she was being paid for, because surely that should now be her priority. She liaised with his assistant about their travel plans and arranged an in-depth interview with one of France’s most respected journals, in which Alejandro talked with passion about polo. About how the sport had rescued him from poverty and that he wanted more children to benefit from similar opportunities.

      Sitting in on the interview, Emily had been confused about why he wasn’t promoting his burgeoning political career, but didn’t dare butt in and prompt him, though she might have done if it had been anyone else. And when the interviewer suddenly asked whether he planned on having children himself now that he was married, Alej had glanced up at Emily, his gaze hard and impenetrable.

      ‘No plans at present,’ he had replied smoothly.

      And Emily had despaired at the stab of pain which shafted through her as she’d heard those words, as once again she’d found herself longing to hold a baby against her breast and to suckle the child of Alej Sabato. Dragging her thoughts back to the present, she turned away from the window, away from the glitter of the upmarket shops and the silver gleam of the river. What a hopeless fool she was.

      Only at night did her new husband let his guard down, when an unspoken truce left no room for anything other than mutual delight under cover of darkness. But even then Emily wasn’t safe from her own stupid, see-sawing emotions. Because when they were naked and he was kissing her and moaning out his pleasure, it was all too easy to get carried away. To imagine he felt something other than carnal desire for her. But he didn’t. He couldn’t have made that plainer. She was his temporary wife who served a dual purpose in life. Who provided him with respectability and sex. And wouldn’t she have been a hypocrite if she had refused the latter through some kind of warped principle, when she enjoyed it just as much as he did?

      They spent several days in the city, trawling through his personal effects while Alej selected items he wished to keep, but there were surprisingly few. A scale model of one of his racing cars. A bronze sculpture of his first polo pony and a framed paparazzi photo of the US president sipping from a can of MiMaté. Everything else—the contemporary furniture, the stunning artwork and a small library of rare edition books—he had dismissed with a careless flick of his fingers.

      ‘Get rid of them. I don’t want them.’

      ‘Is there anything of Colette’s here, which she might have forgotten to take?’ She cleared her throat and forged on. ‘Perhaps she...she might want to come and pick something up?’

      His smile was knowing, as if he was perfectly aware that her question was a thinly disguised method of gathering information. For a moment she wondered if he was about to withhold it, but, with a look of mockery, he supplied it.

      ‘Colette never actually lived here, even though she liked to make out she did. There’s nothing of hers here and little else that interests me. So auction it all off. The money raised can go to my charitable foundation.’

      Emily supposed it was an admirable way to dispose of his past, if a little cold-blooded.

      ‘And in case you’re wondering,’ he continued silkily, ‘Colette now lives in New York, so it’s unlikely you’re going to run into her along the Avenue Montaigne.’

      Emily found herself expelling a huge sigh of relief because she’d actually been dreading bumping into the glamorous supermodel. Was it that or the fact that their time in Paris was drawing to a close which made her suddenly dare to try to open up some further lines of communication between them? Or because they’d gone to bed soon after lunch and his defences were down? He had seemed very much like the Alej of old as he had explored her body and lazily kissed every inch of her skin and she had found herself revelling in their old familiarity and wishing she could deepen it.

      She could hear the sound of the shower being turned off and minutes later he walked into the bedroom, a white towel wrapped around his narrow hips and tiny droplets of water highlighting the honed perfection of his olive skin. She watched his reflection in the mirror. The liquorice-black tendrils of his hair were damp, his buttocks were paler than the dark skin above and below—and wasn’t it predictable that she could feel her body instantly respond, despite the fact that they’d been having non-stop sex all afternoon?

      He opened the wardrobe door, giving her a perfect view of that livid scar on his back—a scar he now seemed comfortable about letting her see, though there had still been no explanation about how he’d acquired it. But everyone had scars, Emily realised suddenly. Just not all of them were visible.

      In a couple of hours’ time they were meeting a friend of his from way back, an Italian businessman named Salvatore di Luca who was bringing along his latest girlfriend—a neuroscientist who happened to look like an underwear model—which was probably why Emily had allowed Alej to buy her a dress from the Chanel shop, which was situated just along the street from his apartment. She was wearing it now and the deceptively simple cut of the fine black silk was ridiculously flattering, as were the killer heels which were sitting beside the door to be put on at the last possible moment. But her appearance was the last thing on her mind. Suddenly she knew that she wasn’t prepared to be fobbed off with throwaway answers any more. She didn’t care if this relationship of theirs wasn’t destined to last—why shouldn’t she learn as much as she could about the man with whom she was temporarily spending her life?

      She waited until he was almost dressed, because his nakedness was distracting, and then she turned from where she’d been seated at the dressing table, applying a light slick of lipstick.

      ‘Are you ever going to tell me how you got that scar?’ she questioned.

      He shrugged as he tugged up the zip on his suit trousers. ‘I told you