The Consequences of That Night Read online

  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.

  Cesare stopped.

  He heard the soft whir of the wind through the trees, and looked up at the blue sky, through leaves that were a million different shades of green, yellow, orange. He heard the crunch of gravel beneath his feet. He heard children’s laughter and music. In the distance, he saw a small outdoor snack stand, and beyond that, a playground with a merry-go-round.

  What the hell was he doing?

  Cesare clawed back his hair. Basta. Enough. Scowling, he walked to the snack stand and bought himself a coffee, then did something no true Parisian would ever do in a million years—he drank it as he walked. The black, scalding-hot coffee burned his tongue. He drank it all down, then tossed the empty cup in the trash. Grimly he reached into his pocket for his cell phone, to call his driver and get back on schedule, back to sanity, and return to the private airport on the east of the city where his jet waited. Walking, he lifted the cell phone to his ear. “Olivier, you can come get me at...”

  He heard a woman gasp.

  “Cesare?”

  He froze.

  Emma’s voice. Her sweet voice.

  “Sir?” his driver said at the other end of the line.

  But Cesare’s arm had already gone limp, the phone dropping to
his side. Even now, he was telling himself that it wasn’t her, it couldn’t possibly be.

  He turned.

  “Emma,” he whispered.

  She was standing in front of a park bench, the stroller beside her. Her green eyes were wide and it seemed to Cesare in this moment like every bit of sunlight had fled the sky to caress her pink blouse, her brown slacks, her long black hair with a halo of brilliant golden light. The rest of the park faded from sight. There was only her, shining like a star, ripping through his cold soul like fire.

  “It is you,” she breathed. She blinked, looking back uneasily at the stroller before she turned back, biting her lip. “What are you...doing here?”

  “I’m here...” His voice was rough. He cleared his throat. “On business.”

  “But you hate this city. I’ve heard you say so.”

  “I bought an old hotel on the Avenue Montaigne. Just this morning.”

  He’d somehow walked all the way to her without realizing it. His eyes drank her in hungrily. Her cheeks were fuller, her pale skin pink as roses. Her dark hair fell in tumbling soft waves over her shoulders. She’d put on a little weight, he saw, and it suited her well. The womanly softness made her even more beautiful, something he wouldn’t have thought possible.

  “It’s—a surprise to see you,” she faltered.

  “Yes.” His eyes fell on a dark-haired, fat-cheeked baby sleeping in the stroller. Who was this baby? Perhaps the child of her employer? Or could it possibly be...hers? His gaze quickly fell to her left hand. No wedding ring.

  So the baby couldn’t be hers, then. She’d been very specific about what she’d said she wanted. A husband, a home, a baby. She surely wouldn’t have settled for less—not after she’d left him for the sake of those dreams.

  The pink in Emma’s cheeks deepened. “You didn’t come searching for me?”

  His pride wanted him to say it was pure coincidence he’d stumbled upon her in the park. But he couldn’t.

  “I came to Paris for the deal,” he said quietly. “But on my way out of town, I thought I saw you cross the street. And I couldn’t leave without knowing if it was you.”

  They stood facing each other in the sunlit park, just inches away, not touching. He dimly heard birds sing in the trees above, the distant traffic of tour buses at the Eiffel Tower, the laughter of children at the merry-go-round.

  “I was so sure you would return to me,” he heard himself say in a low voice. “But you never did.”

  Her green eyes scorched through his heart. Then, in a voice almost too quiet to hear, she said, “I...couldn’t.”

  “I know.” Before he even realized what he was doing, he’d reached out a hand to her cheek.

  Her skin was even softer than he remembered. He felt her shiver beneath his touch, and his body ignited. He wanted to take her in his arms, against his body, to kiss her hard and never let go.

  Just moments before, he’d felt admiration about how she’d sacrificed the pleasure they might have had together, in order to pursue her true dreams. But in this instant, all those rational considerations were swept aside. He searched her gaze. “Did you ever wonder what we could have had?”

  A shadow crossed her face.

  “Of course I did.”

  He barely heard the noises around them, the soft coo of the baby, the chatter around them in a multitude of languages as tourists strolled by.

  He’d missed her.

  Not just her housekeeping skills. Nor even her sensual body.

  Emma Hayes was the only woman he’d ever trusted. The only one he’d ever let himself care about, since the nightmare of his marriage so long ago.

  Standing with Emma in this park in the center of Paris, Cesare would have given a million euros to see her smile at him the way she used to. To hear her voice gently mocking him, teasing him, putting him politely but firmly in his place. They’d had their own private language, he saw that now, and he suddenly realized how unusual that was. How special and rare.

  No one called him on his arrogance anymore. No one else could challenge him with a single dimpled smile. No one kept him on his toes. Kept him breathless with longing.

  He’d found a different housekeeper to keep his kitchen stocked and do his laundry. Perhaps, someday, he’d find a woman equally alluring to fill his bed. But who could fill the void that Emma had left in his life?

  She’d been more than his housekeeper. More than his lover. She’d been his friend.

  His hand moved down her neck to her shoulder. He felt her warmth through the soft pink fabric of her blouse.

  “Come back to London with me,” he said suddenly.

  She blinked, then, glancing at her baby, she licked her lips. Her voice seemed hoarse as she asked, “Why?”

  Cesare hesitated. If there was one thing he’d learned in life, it was that a man should never show weakness. Not even with a woman. Especially not with a woman. “The housekeeper I hired to replace you has been unsatisfactory.”

  “Oh.” With a sigh, she looked down. “Sorry. I am working for someone else now. He’s been good to me. I have no desire to leave him.”

  I have no desire to leave him. Cesare didn’t like the sound of those words. He had a sudden surge of irrational jealousy for this unknown employer. He glanced back at the stroller. And who was this baby?

  He said only, “I’ll pay double what you’re paid now.”

  Emma’s eyes hardened. “We’ve already had this conversation, haven’t we? I won’t work for you at any price. It’s not a question of money. We want different things. And we always will. You made that painfully clear to me in London.”

  The dark-haired baby gave an unhappy whimper from the stroller. Going down on one knee, she grabbed a pacifier from a big canvas bag and gave it to the baby, who instantly cheered up. She looked at the plump-cheeked, dark-eyed baby, then slowly rose to her feet, facing Cesare.

  “Don’t come looking for me again. Because nothing is going to change. And all you will bring us—all of us—is unhappiness.”

  Who was this baby? The question pounded in his heart. Her employer’s? Emma’s? But he couldn’t ask. To ask the question would imply that he cared.

  She stared at him for a moment, then turned away.

  “I don’t want you as my housekeeper,” he said in a low voice. “The truth is...I miss you.”

  She looked back at him with an intake of breath, her lovely face stricken. She glanced at the baby in the stroller, who was simultaneously sucking like crazy on the pacifier, and trying to reach for his own feet. “I have other responsibilities now.”

  Cesare followed her gaze. The baby looked familiar somehow....

  “I need a man I can trust. One I can count on to be permanent in my life. An equal partner. A father...for my baby.”

  For a moment, Cesare stared at her. Then as the meaning of her words sunk in, he literally staggered back. “Your baby?”

  Emma nodded. Her eyes looked troubled, her expression filled with worry.

  He could understand why.

  “So much for all your big dreams,” he ground out. “You left me for the wedding ring and the white picket fence.” He couldn’t control the bitterness in his voice as he flung his arm toward her bare left hand. “Where is your ring?”

  “My baby’s father didn’t want to marry me,” she said quietly.

  “So you gave yourself away to some playboy? Someone who couldn’t even give what I offered?” Jealousy raced through him. Once again, the woman he’d wanted, the one he’d chosen—had thrown herself away on another man. His hands curled into fists and he took a deep breath, regaining control. “I thought better of you.” He lifted his chin. “So who is the father? Let me guess. Your new boss?”

  “No,” she said in a low voice. Slowly she lifted her eyes to his. “My old one.”

  He snorted. “Your old—”

  Cesare gave an intake of breath as he looked down at the chubby black-haired baby.

  I don’t need a wedding propos
al. He heard the echo of her trembling voice from long ago. Or for you to say you’re ready to be a father. I just need to know you might want those things someday. That you might be open to the possibility...if something ever...

  And he’d told her no. Flat-out. Either this is a fun diversion, a friendship with benefits, or it’s nothing.

  I’m going to have a baby, she’d said then. He’d thought she was trying to pin down his future. He hadn’t realized she’d been talking about the present.

  Cesare stared down at the baby’s familiar black eyes—the same eyes he looked at every day in the mirror—and his knees nearly gave way beneath him.

  “It’s me,” he breathed. “I’m the father.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  EMMA’S HEART POUNDED as she waited for Cesare’s reaction.

  She couldn’t believe this was happening. For the past ten months, she’d dreamed of this. She’d thought of him constantly as their baby grew inside her. The day Sam was born. And every day since.

  But now, she was afraid.

  Alain Bouchard had been a wonderful boss to Emma, looking out for her almost like a brother through the months of her pregnancy and the sleepless nights beyond. But Alain hated Cesare, his former brother-in-law, blaming him for his sister Angélique’s death. For ten months, Emma had waited for this day to come, for Cesare to find out about the baby—and the identity of her employer.

  Over the past year, as she walked through the streets of Paris doing Alain’s errands, shopping for fresh fruit and meats in the outdoor market on the Rue Cler, whenever she’d seen a tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired man, she held her breath. But it was never Cesare. He hated Paris. It was partly why she’d chosen this job.

  So today, when she’d seen a tall, dark-haired man pacing across the park, looking around with a strange desperation, she’d forced herself to ignore her instincts, because they were always wrong. She’d simply sat on the bench as her baby dozed in his stroller, and felt the warmth of the September sun on her skin. It had been almost a year since she’d last seen Cesare’s face, since she’d last felt his touch. So much had happened. Their baby was no longer a tiny newborn. Sam had grown into a roly-poly four-month-old who could sleep seven hours at a stretch and loved to smile and laugh. Already, she could see his Italian heritage in his black eyes, the Falconeri blood.