The Consequences of That Night Read online

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “I never meant...to make you cry.”

  Emma looked away, blinking fast. “That’s not why I was crying.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “It’s stupid.”

  “Tell me.”

  She swallowed.

  “They all think I’m a sly gold digger. All your friends.” She wiped her eyes. “A few women actually congratulated me on tricking you into marriage. Some of them could hardly believe a woman as—well, fat—as me could do it. Others just wanted tips for how to trick billionaire husbands of their own. They wanted to know if I poked holes in the condom wrapper with a needle or what.”

  Cesare’s hands tightened on her back. He stared down at her, vibrating with rage as they swayed to the music. “I will take a horsewhip to all of them.”

  She gave a small laugh, even as tears spilled down her cheeks. “It doesn’t matter,” she said softly, but he could feel how much that wasn’t true. To her, the simple question of honor and a good name did matter. Her pride had been hurt.

  He fiercely wiped a tear off her cheek with her thumb. “You and I, we know the truth.”

  “Yes. We do. But I still wish,” she whispered, “we were a million miles from here.”

  “From London?”

  “As long as we’re in London, I’ll always be your gold-digging housekeeper. And you’ll be the playboy who’s slept with every woman in the city.” She looked up at him with tearful eyes. “I wish we could just go. Move away. Somewhere I’ll never have to wonder, every time I see another woman, if she’s ever been in your bed.” She shuddered. “I hate what my imagination is doing to me—”

  “Since the first night we slept together, I haven’t touched another woman.”

  Her lips parted. “What?”

  Cesare was almost as surprised as she was that he’d said it. But damn it—how could he not tell her? He couldn’t see her pain and do nothing. “It’s true.”

  “But—why?”

  He stopped on the dance floor.

  “I haven’t wanted to,” he said quietly.

  “I don’t understand.” Emma shook her head. “If that’s the case, why would you say you wanted a marriage in name only?”

  Reaching out, he brushed back some dark hair from the soft skin of her bare shoulder above her gown. “Because all my love affairs have ended badly.”

  She swallowed. “Mine, too.”

  “Our marriage is too important. I cannot let it end in fights and tears and recriminations. The only way to make sure our relationship never ends...is never to start it in the first place.”

  “It won’t work. Listen to us! We’re still fighting anyway.”

  “Not like we would if—” He cut himself off, then shook his head. “You know lovers are a dime a dozen to me. But you... You are special.” Reaching up, he stroked her cheek. “I need you as a partner. As my friend.” He set his jaw. “Sex would ruin everything. It always does.”

  Swallowing, she exhaled, looking away.

  “All right,” she said finally. “Friends.” There was a shadow of worry behind her eyes as they lifted to his. “You really haven’t slept with any other women?” she said in wonder. “Since the night we conceived Sam?”

  He gave her an unsteady grin. “Don’t tell anyone. It would ruin my reputation.”

  “Your secret is safe with me.” She smiled up at him, even as her eyes still shone with tears. “And you might as well know—your friend Leonidas is a very clumsy dancer. That’s why I was laughing at his dumb jokes. To try to disguise yelps of pain every time he stomped on my foot.”

  A hard pressure in Cesare’s chest suddenly released. For a moment, they just looked at each other, and though they were in the middle of a dance floor surrounded by a hundred guests, it was as if it were just the two of them in the world.

  He never should have brought her back to London, Cesare thought suddenly. Of course not. How could he have expected Emma to return as a wife to the house where she’d once been his employee, and sleep in the same lonely bedroom down the hall from the bed where he’d seduced other women, again and again? The house where he’d once expected her, as a matter of course, to make breakfast for his one-night-stands and escort them out with gifts and a shoulder to cry on?

  “We don’t have to stay here,” he said slowly. “There’s someplace else we can go. A place where we can be married and start fresh, just the three of us. As a family.”

  “Where?”

  His heart twisted to remember it. But he forced himself to meet her gaze. To smile.

  “Home,” he said simply.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE TWO-HUNDRED-year-old villa on the shores of Lake Como stood like an ancient castle, caught in the shadows between the gray water and lowering clouds of dusk.

  Emma took a deep breath, savoring the cool air against her cheeks and crunch of gravel beneath her feet as she walked along the forest path around the lake toward home. From the cushioned front pack on her chest, Sam let out another low cry, waving his plump arms. She sighed, looking down at her baby, then rubbed his soft downy hair.

  “I thought for sure that a walk would do it,” she said mournfully. He was irritable because he hadn’t gone down for a nap all day, not for lack of her trying. “Ah, well. Let’s see what we can rustle up for dinner, shall we?”

  Her own stomach was growling after their long walk. She had spent hours trying to coax him to sleep, but as tired as Sam was, as soon as he started to nod off, he kept jerking himself awake. Now, she was finally forced to admit failure. The darkening October sky was drawing her back home.

  That, and knowing Cesare was waiting for them...

  Emma smiled to herself as she walked the lake path back toward the villa, which had been in the Falconeri family for hundreds of years. They’d been living here a month now, and it was starting to feel like home, though their first day, when he’d shown her around, she’d been shocked. “You grew up in this palace?” she’d blurted out, thinking of her two-bedroom bungalow on the Texas prairie.

  He’d snorted. “It didn’t always look like this. When I was a child, we barely had indoor plumbing. Our family ran out of money long before I was born. And that was even before my parents decided to devote their lives to art.” His lips quirked. “Five years ago, I decided I wouldn’t let it fall apart.” His voice turned grim. “Although I was tempted.”

  “I remember you talking about the remodel.” Emma had walked through room after room, all of them with ceilings fifteen feet high, with gilded details on the walls and even a fresco in the foyer. “I never imagined I might someday live here as your wife.”

  She could see why the remodel of this house, which she remembered him grumbling about, had required so much money and time. Every detail of the past had been preserved, while made modern with brand-new fixtures, windows, heated floors and two separate kitchens.

  She’d been amazed when she saw a beautiful oil painting of Cesare as a young boy of maybe three or four, with chubby cheeks and bright innocence in his eyes—along with a determined set to his jaw. His clothes were ragged and covered with mud. She’d pointed at it with a laugh. “That was you?”

  “My mother painted me perfectly. I was always outside in the garden, growing something or other.”

  “You liked to garden?” It astonished Emma. She couldn’t reconcile the image of the happy, grimy boy in the painting with the sophisticated tycoon who now stood before her.

  He rolled his eyes. “We were that kind of family. If I wanted fruit, I had to grow it myself. My parents’ idea of childcare was to give me a stick and send me outside to play in the dirt.” He fell silent. “But for all that, we were happy. We loved each other.”

  “I’m sorry,” she’d whispered, seeing the pain in his eyes. She’d put her arms around him. “But we’re here now.”

  For a moment, Cesare had allowed her to hold him, to offer comfort. Then he’d pulled away. “It all worked out,” he said gruffly. “I
f I hadn’t had my little tragedy and been sent to New York, I might never have started Falconeri International.” His lips curved. “Who knows. I might still have been living here in a ruin, growing oranges and flowers, digging in the garden.”

  Now, as Emma walked along the lake’s edge with her baby in her front pack, she stared at that overgrown garden. Alone of everything on the estate, the villa’s garden had not been touched. It had been left untended and wild, choked with weeds. It was as if, she thought, Cesare could neither bear to have it destroyed, nor have it returned to its former glory.

  A white mist was settling across the lake, thick and wet. Emma shivered as she pushed open the tall, heavy oak door that led into the Villa Falconeri. The scrape of the door echoed against the checkered marble floor and high ceiling with its two-hundred-year-old fresco above, showing pastoral scenes of the countryside.

  “Cesare?” she called.

  There was no answer. Emma heard a soft snore from her front pack and looked down. After hours of trying, Sam had finally dropped to sleep. His dark eyelashes fluttered downward over his plump cheeks. Smiling to herself, she went upstairs to tuck him into his crib.

  She was sharing her beautiful bedroom with her baby. There was plenty of room for his crib and changing table. The room was enormous, in powder-blue, with a canopy bed and a huge window with a balcony overlooking the lake. Gently lifting her sleeping baby out of the carrier, she tucked him into his bed.

  Alone in the room, without her baby’s warmth against her, she felt a shiver of cold air in the deepening twilight. Even here, in this beautiful place, she slept alone.

  You are special. I need you as a partner. As my friend. Sex would ruin everything.

  Emma took a deep breath.

  Tomorrow, their three-day wedding celebration would begin, first with a church ceremony, followed by a civil service the next day. Private celebrations with just a few friends: a white dress. A cake. Vows that could not be unspoken.

  How she wished it all could be real. She longed to be his real wife. She looked at her empty bed. She wanted to sleep in his arms, to feel his lips on hers, to feel his hard, naked body cover hers at night. A flash of heat went through her and she touched her lips with her fingers. She could remember him there...

  She shivered, closing her eyes.

  As much as her brain told her that marriage was the rational solution, as much as her heart longed to be permanently bound to the man she loved, her body was tense and fighting the wedding every step of the way.

  Marry a man who would never touch her?

  A man who was still in love with his long-dead wife?

  A man who would satisfy his sexual needs elsewhere, discreetly, leaving Emma to grow old and gray and die in a lonely, solitary bed?

  Emma had been shocked when Cesare had told her in London that he hadn’t slept with another woman since their first night together. But as amazing as that was, she knew it wouldn’t last. It couldn’t. Cesare wasn’t the kind of man to tolerate an empty bed for the rest of his life. There were too many women in the world who would eagerly join him, married or no.

  Cesare didn’t equate sex with love the way she did, either. To Cesare, satisfying a sexual need was no different than satiating a hunger for food or sleep. It was just physical. Not emotional.

  Lovers are a dime a dozen to me.

  Emma swallowed, crossing her arms over her body.

  She could ask him outright if he planned to be unfaithful to her. But she was afraid, because if she asked, he would tell her the truth. And she didn’t think her heart could take it.

  No, it was easier to live in denial, in the pretty lie of marriage vows, and to try not to think about the ugly truth beneath....

  “There you are, cara.”

  Whirling around to see Cesare in the doorway, she put a finger to her lips. “Shh. Sam is finally asleep,” she whispered, barely loud enough to hear. “I just got him down.”

  His handsome face looked relieved. “Grazie a dio.” He silently backed away, and she followed him out of the room. She closed the door behind them, and they both exhaled.

  “What made him sleep? Was it your walk?”

  “No,” she said softly. “I think it was coming home.”

  For a long moment, they looked at each other.

  “I’m glad you are thinking of it as home, cara.” He smiled. “And starting tomorrow, we will be husband and wife.”

  A lump rose in her throat. She tried to stay silent, but her fear came out in blurted words. “Are you still sure it’s what you want?”

  The smile slid from his face. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “A lifetime without love—without...” She gulped, then forced herself to meet his gaze. “Without sex...”

  “The decision has already been made.” His voice had turned cold. “I’ve made you dinner. Come.”

  She was very hungry after her walk, but she hesitated, glancing behind her. “I can’t just leave Sam up here. Not until the baby monitor arrives. This house is so big and the old walls are thick. Downstairs in the dining room, we’d never hear him if he cried....”

  “I thought you might feel that way.” Cesare tilted his head, looking suddenly pleased with himself. “We’re not going far.”

  Placing his hand in the small of her back, he pushed her gently down the hall. A sizzle of electricity went up her body at even that courteous, commanding touch. Biting her lip, she allowed him to lead her...

  ...a mere ten steps, to his own bedroom next door.

  “We’re having dinner in your room?” she said, a little sheepish that he’d guessed her feelings about the baby so well.

  He nodded. “A private dinner for two on my balcony.”

  “Lovely,” she said. “Um...any particular reason?”

  “I just thought before our guests arrive in the morning, it would be nice to have a quiet dinner. To talk.”

  “Oh.” That sounded ominous. The last time they’d had a private dinner and a talk she’d walked out engaged, with her whole life changed forever. She was afraid what might come out of it this time. The questions she might ask. The answers he might give. All words that could never be unheard or forgotten.

  She licked her lips and tried to smile as she repeated, “Lovely.”

  Cesare led her into his enormous en suite bedroom, with a fireplace and a huge bed that she tried not to look at as they walked past it. He led her out to the balcony, where she found a charming table for two, lit by candlelight, and two silver plates covered by lids. Beyond the table, the dark sweep of Lake Como trailed moonlight in a pattern of gold.

  Emma looked at Cesare, noticing for the first time how he had carefully dressed in a crisp black shirt and pants. With his dark hair, black eyes and chiseled jawline, he looked devastatingly handsome. He was the man every woman wanted. While she... Well.

  Emma touched her hair, which was tumbling over her shoulders, messy from Sam tugging on it, and from the wind of their walk. She looked down at her simple pink blouse and slim-fit jeans. “I’m not dressed for this.” For all she knew, she might have baby spit-up on her shoulder. She tried to look, but she couldn’t see. “Um. I should go change...”

  “Go back to your bedroom and risk waking up our son? Don’t you dare. Besides.” He looked over her body with a heavily lidded gaze. “You are perfect just as you are.” He held out her chair with a sensual smile. “Signorina, per favore.”

  Nervously Emma sat down. He sat down across from her, poured them each a glass of wine, then lifted off the silver lids of the plates. She took a deep breath of fettuccine primavera, with breaded chicken, salad and fresh bread. Placing the linen napkin in her lap, she picked up her heavy fork, also made of solid silver. “This looks delicious.”

  “It is an old family recipe.”

  “You cooked it yourself?”

  “Not the bread, but the pasta, yes. I had to do something to be useful while you were fighting the war to put Sam to sleep.” He paused. “I had Maria pi
ck up the vegetables from town, but I made the sauce as well.”

  “I had no idea you knew how to cook.”

  He gave a low laugh. “When I was a boy, I helped with everything. Milked our cow. Made cheese and grew vegetables in the garden.”

  “Your life is very different now.” She sipped red wine. She wasn’t going to ask him if he planned to be faithful after their marriage. She wasn’t. Placing a trembling hand over her throat to keep the question from popping out, she asked in a strained tone, “So why have you let the garden grow so wild and unloved? I could cut back the weeds, and bring it back to its former glory....”

  His hand tightened on his wineglass, even as he said politely, “It’s not necessary.”

  “I wouldn’t mind. After all, it’s my home, too, now....”

  The candlelight flickered in the soft, invisible breeze. “No.”

  His short, cold word echoed across the table. As their eyes locked, Emma’s heart cried out. For all the things they both weren’t saying.

  Was this to be their marriage? Courtesy, without connection? Proximity without words?

  Would this beautiful villa become, like the Kensington mansion had been, her empty, lonely tomb?

  Taking another gulp of wine, she blinked fast, looking out at the dark, quiet night. Lights of distant villas sparkled like stars across the lake. She heard the cry of unseen night birds, and the soft sigh of wind rattling the trees.

  “How did you first meet her?” she asked softly. “Your wife?”

  “Why do you want to know?” He sounded guarded.

  “I’m going to be your wife tomorrow. Is it so strange that I’d want to hear the story of the first Mrs. Falconeri? Unless—” she bit her lip and faltered “—you still can’t bear to speak of her...”

  For a moment, she thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then he exhaled. “I was twenty-three.” He paused. “I’d inherited my uncle’s hotel. Not the hotel you worked at on Park Avenue, but an old, rickety fleabag on Mulberry Street. I struggled to keep it afloat, working each day until I dropped, doing everything from carrying luggage to bookkeeping to making breakfast.” He paused. “Angélique stumbled into the lobby one evening, taking cover from a rainstorm.”