The Consequences of That Night Read online

  “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 liv
es. 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?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CESARE STOOD BEFORE her, waiting for her answer. He hadn’t even thought of bending down on one knee. His legs were shaking too badly. He was relieved his voice hadn’t trembled at the question. The words felt like marbles in his mouth.

  Hearing a soft gasp, he glanced behind him. Five members of the restaurant’s staff were peeking from the kitchen door, smiling at this moment, waiting for Emma’s answer, in that universal interest in the drama of a wedding proposal.

  Will you marry me?

  Four simple words. A promise that was easy to say, though not so easy to fulfill.

  Cesare had the sudden memory of his father’s bleak face after his beloved wife had died in his arms. The same look of stark despair on Angélique’s face when Cesare had come home and found her dead, an empty bottle of sleeping pills on the floor beside her.

  No. He wouldn’t let himself remember. This was different. Different.

  Cesare held the black jewelry box up a little higher, to disguise how his hand was shaking.

  “Marry you?” Emma’s eyes were shocked. Even horrified. She gave an awkward laugh. “Is this a joke?”

  “You think I would joke about this?”

  Biting her lip, she looked at the ring. “But you don’t want to get married. Everyone on earth knows that, and from the day I’ve known you, every woman has tried to marry you anyway. We used to laugh about it.”

  “I’m not laughing now,” he said quietly. “I’m standing in front of you with a twenty-carat ring. I don’t know how much more serious I can be.”

  Her beautiful face looked stricken. “But you don’t love me.”

  “It’s not a question of love—at least not between us. It’s a question of providing the best life for our son.”

  Her gaze shuttered, her green eyes filling with shadows in the flickering candlelight of the restaurant. She backed up one step—physically backed away—wrapping her arms across her body, as if for protection.

  Nothing prepared him for what came next.

  “I’m sorry, Cesare,” she said quietly. “My answer is no.”

  He was so shocked, his hand tightened on the jewelry box, closing it with a snap. He’d assumed she would say yes. Instantly and gratefully.

  He heard gasps behind him and whirled to face the restaurant staff hanging about the kitchen doorway.

  “Leave us,” he growled, and they ran back into the kitchen. He turned to face Emma, his jaw taut. “Might I ask—why?”

  She swallowed. He saw her face was pale. This was hard on her, too, he realized. “I told you. I won’t be a burden.”

  “Burden. You keep using that word. What does it mean?”

  His dangerous tone would have frightened most. But standing her ground, she lifted her chin.

  “You know what it means.”

  “No, I don’t. I know you’ve lied to me for months, that you stole my son away without a word. But instead of trying to take him away from you, instead of seeking revenge, I’m trying to do the right thing—a new experience for me, I might add—while you keep whining words like love and burden.”

  Her shoulders drooped as, biting her lip, she looked down. For a long moment, she didn’t answer, and he looked at her in the darkness of the restaurant. She looked so beautiful in the flickering candlelight, with all of the lights of Paris at her feet.

  Cesare’s throat tightened.

  He thought of the night he’d found her in the dark kitchen, after her stepmother’s funeral. He’d taken one look at her tearstained face, at the anguish in eyes which had never shown emotion before, and his own long-buried grief had risen in his own soul, exploding through his defenses. He’d thought he was offering her solace, but the truth was that he’d been seeking it himself. Against his will, in that moment, Emma had made him feel again....

  Now he heard her take a deep breath.

  “Whatever you think now, this desire to commit won’t last. You don’t want the burden of a wife and child. We both know it. You don’t know what marriage means.”

  “We both know I do,” he said quietly.

  Her eyes were anguished as tears sparkled—unheeded, unfought—down her cheeks like diamonds. “But you don’t love me,” she whispered again.

  “And you don’t love me,” he said evenly. “Do you?”

  Wordlessly she shook her head. He exhaled. “This marriage has nothing to do with romance.”

  She gave a half-hysterical laugh, swooping her arm to indicate the roses, the view of Paris, the twenty-carat diamond ring. “What do you call that?”

  He gave her a crooked half grin. “I call it...strategic negotiation.”

  Emma gave another laugh, then her smile fell. “A marriage without love?”

  “Without complications,” he pointed out. “We will both love our son. But between us—the marriage will be in name only.”

  “In name only?” He’d shocked her with this. He saw it in her face. “So you wouldn’t expect us to...”

  He shook his head. “Sex complicates things.” Not to mention made it hard to keep the walls around his heart intact. At least where she was concerned. He hesitated. “Better that we keep this relationship...”

  “Professional?”

  “Cordial, I was going to say.”

  She took a deep breath.

  “Why would I agree to give up any chance at love?”

  “For something you want more than love,” he said quietly. “For a family. For Sam.”

  “Sam...”

  “I will love him. I’ll be there with him every step of the way. Every single day. Isn’t that better than trying to shuttle him between two separate lives, where he never knows where he belongs?”

  Raw yearning filled her soft green eyes. Blinking fast, she turned away, to the dark, sparkling view of Paris. “I’ve worried about what would happen to Sam, if anything ever happened to me...” Looking up at him, she swallowed. “I’ve been in remission a long time, but there are no guarantees. If the cancer ever came back...” She looked up at him. “I’ve been selfish,” she whispered. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe even a flawed father is better than none.”

  “I will be the best father I can be.”

  “Would you?” she said in a small voice. Her beautiful face was tortured, her pink lips trembling, long dark lashes sweeping against pale cheeks. “Or, if I were crazy enough to accept, would you panic within a month and run off with some lingerie model?”

  Coming toward her, he took both her hands in his own. “I swear to you, on my life,” he said softly. “Everything your father was for you—I will be for him.”

  He felt her hands tremble in his.

  “I won’t let you break his heart,” she whispered.

  “I don’t lie, and I don’t make promises. You know that.”

  Her voice was barely audible. “Yes.”

  “I don’t make promises because I consider myself bound by them.” Gently he placed the black jewelry box with the silver Harry Winston logo into her palm. “I’m making you a promise now.”

  Her anguished eyes lifted to his. “Please...”

  “You are the mother of my child. Be my wife.” Brushing back long tendrils of black hair from her shoulder, he lowered his head to her ear. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her. She smelled like vanilla and sunlight, like wildflowers and clean linen and everything good he’d once had but had lost so long ago. He felt a shudder of desire, but pushed it aside. He wouldn’t let sex complicate this relationship. He couldn’t. Pulling back, he said softly, “Be my wife, Emma.”

  Were her hands still trembling? Or were his?

  “Cesare....” He saw how close she was to falling off the precipice. She tried, “We don’t have to marry. We can live apart, but still
raise Sam together....”

  “In separate houses? In separate cities? Sending a small child with a little suitcase back and forth between two lives? You already said that wouldn’t work. And I agree.” Slowly, so slowly it almost killed him, he pulled her into the circle of his embrace, encircling her like a skittish thoroughbred into an enclosure. His gaze searched hers. “Marry me now. Take my name, and let my son be a Falconeri. I swear to you. On my life. That I will be the father you dreamed he could have.”

  She swallowed. “You swore you’d never get married again,” she breathed. “We both know—” their eyes met “—you’re still in love with your lost wife, and always will be.”

  He didn’t deny this. It was easier not to.

  “But we won’t be lovers,” he said. “We’ll be equal partners.” His fingers stroked her black hair, tumbling in glossy waves down her back. “And together—we’ll raise our son.”

  She exhaled, visibly trying to steady herself. “For how long?”

  “For always,” he said in a low voice. “I will be married to you...until death do us part.”

  Her skin felt almost cold to the touch. He could almost feel her heart pounding through her ribs. “It would be a disaster.”

  “The only disaster would be to let any selfish dreams—yours or mine—destroy our son’s chance for a home.” Stroking down her cheek, he cupped her face. “Say you’ll be my wife, Emma,” he said huskily. “Say it.”

  Tears suddenly fell off her black lashes, trailing haphazardly down her pale cheeks.

  “I can’t fight you,” she choked out. “Not when you’re using my own heart against me. My baby deserves a father. It’s all I’ve wanted since the day I found out I was pregnant.” Her beautiful eyes were luminous with emotion, her body tense, as she stood in his arms in the rose-strewn restaurant of the Eiffel Tower, all the lights of Paris beneath them. “You win,” she said. “I’ll marry you, Cesare.”

  * * *

  “Do you want me to come up with you?”

  For answer, Emma shook her head, though she didn’t let go of Cesare’s hand. She hadn’t let it go for the whole walk home from the Eiffel Tower. Her knees still felt weak. Now, as they stood outside Alain’s gated courtyard, she was trembling. Possibly from the weight of the enormous diamond on her left hand.