From Paris With Love: The Consequences of That Night / Bound by a Baby / A Business Engagement

But the day they’d returned to Kensington, Emma had fired the housekeeper. Miss Maddie Allen was an attractive young blonde, and Emma had instantly felt she hadn’t wanted her within a million miles of Cesare. He’d said he was glad to see her go, that she was the worst housekeeper imaginable and had regularly left iron marks on his shirts. But Emma had given her a year’s salary as severance, out of guilt for the real reason she’d fired the beautiful Miss Allen—out of pure, raw fear.

She didn’t want to feel this way. With a sigh, Emma walked across her bedroom. A garment bag from a designer shop on Sloane Street was laid carefully upon her bed. Zipping open the bag, she looked down at the gown she would wear tonight at their official engagement party.

For a moment, she just stood there looking at it. Then she reached out and stroked the slinky silver fabric. Pulling off her clothes, she put on a black lace bra and panties and black garter she’d gotten from a French lingerie shop. She didn’t dare look at herself in the full-length mirror as she put them on, for fear she’d lose her nerve.

Tonight, she would be introduced to Cesare’s friends, and London society in general, not as his housekeeper, but as his future wife, and the mother of his child. She didn’t want to embarrass him.

And if, by some miracle, he thought she looked pretty, maybe their marriage could become real. Maybe he’d take her in his bed, and she’d never have to feel insecure again....

Even Angélique couldn’t keep his attention for long. Don’t think you will, either.

She pushed away the memory of Alain’s words. She had to stop this ugly insecurity! After all her jealousy, she’d found out Cesare hadn’t slept with Maddie Allen anyway. Emma knew this because—her blush deepened—she’d blurted out that question immediately after the housekeeper had departed. His reply had been curt.

“No. I did not sleep with her.” His jaw had been tight as he looked at the fire in the fireplace, leaving flickering red-and-gold light across the spines of the leatherbound books. He’d parted his lips, drawing in breath as if he meant to say something more, then stopped.

Nearly jumping out of her own skin, she’d said, “But did you ever...”

“No more questions. I won’t have you torture us both by asking for a list of my lovers. You of all people know the list is long.” Putting his hands on her shoulders, he’d looked down and said softly, “This home is yours now, Emma.” He’d cupped her face. “I will never disrespect you here.”

His words had thrilled her. Then. Later, she’d parsed his words. This home is yours. I will never disrespect you here. Meaning—he’d disrespect her elsewhere? At a hotel?

Now, reaching down for the silver dress, long and glamorous like the gown of a 1930s film star, she let the whisper of fabric caress her skin as she pulled it up her body. She didn’t want to be jealous. She didn’t want to worry.

She wanted him to want—her.

Emma’s throat tightened. Sitting in the chair at the vanity desk, she began brushing her dark hair with long, hard strokes. She looked at herself in the antique gilt mirror. She was nothing special. Just a regular girl, with round cheeks and big, vulnerable green eyes, who looked scared out of her mind.

How could she marry him, even for Sam’s sake, knowing that Cesare would never uphold the promise of their wedding vows? How could she allow Sam to grow up watching his father repeatedly cheat on his mother—and her explicitly allowing him to do it? What kind of sick ideas would that teach her precious boy about love, marriage, trust and family?

If only Cesare would want her. Her hand slowed with the brush. If only they could truly be lovers, in the same bed, maybe he’d stay true to their wedding vows, and they could be a real family....

“Not ready yet?”

She twisted in the chair to see Cesare in the doorway. He was wearing a tuxedo a little different than the one in Paris—less classic, more cutting edge. But with his dark hair and chiseled good looks, he melted her, whatever he might be wearing. Even wearing nothing.

Especially wearing nothing.

She gulped, turning away. She couldn’t stop thinking about the two hot nights he’d made love to her. So long ago now. Almost a year since he’d touched her...

“You look beautiful,” he said huskily, coming into her bedroom.

“Oh,” she said. “Thank you.” Their eyes met in the mirror. Her cheeks turned pink.

“You’re just missing one final touch.” Coming up behind her, he pulled a sparkling diamond necklace from his pocket and placed it around her neck. Emma’s lips parted as she saw it in the mirror, huge diamonds dripping past her collarbone. Involuntarily she put her hand against the necklace, hardly able to believe it was real.

“Almost worthy of the woman wearing it,” he murmured.

“You...you shouldn’t have.” Nervously she rose to her feet, facing him. Realizing her fingertips were still resting against the sparkling stones, she put her hand down.

“It’s nothing. A mere trinket.” His black eyes caressed her. Leaning forward, he brushed long tendrils of glossy black hair from her bare shoulders, back from the necklace, and whispered, “Nothing is too good for my future wife.”

Emma felt the warmth of his breath against her bare skin. She shuddered with a sudden pang of need. Of desire.

She couldn’t let herself want him like this. Couldn’t. It left her too vulnerable. And the one thing she knew about Cesare was that he detested needy women. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, be one.

And yet...

Turning away, she went back to the mirror and put on her bright red lipstick with a shaking hand. She tried to ignore his gaze as she ran the red tube carefully over her lips. Sitting back on the bed, she reached for her high-heeled shoes, gorgeous Charlotte Olympia pumps with bamboo on the platform sole and pink cherry blossoms crisscrossing the straps. Emma had seen them in a shop on Sloane Street and in spite of her best efforts—since they were quite expensive—had fallen instantly in love with the 1930s Shanghai glamour.

“Mr. Falconeri said you’re to have whatever you wish, madame,” the salesgirl had insisted, and Emma, with baby Sam in his stroller next to Cesare’s personal bodyguard, had quickly succumbed. It was so wrong to buy shoes that were so expensive. Wrong to want something so forbidden. So clearly out of reach. Emma looked at Cesare.

Or was it?

She rose to her feet, her long black hair tumbling over the low cowl neck of her gown, which melted like liquid silver against her body. She felt transformed—like a glamorous, mysterious starlet from a black-and-white film. She’d never felt so beautiful, or less like the plain, sensible person she’d always been. She took a deep breath, and looked at Cesare.

“I’m ready,” she said softly.

He stared at her. She saw his hands tighten at his sides as his gaze slowly went down the length of her dress. And when he spoke, was it her imagination or was his voice a little strained?

“You look...fine.” Clearing his throat, he held out his arm. “Ready to meet the firing squad?”

“That’s how you refer to your friends?”

He gave her a wicked grin, quirking his dark eyebrow. “You should hear how they refer to me.”

“I already know.” As she took his arm, Emma’s smile fell. “You’re the playboy who will never be caught by any woman.”

He winked at her, a gesture so silly and unexpected that it caused her heart to twist in her chest. “They’ll understand when they meet you.”

Their eyes locked, and the squeeze on her heart suddenly became unbearable.

I love you. The words pushed through her soul, through her heart. I love you, Cesare.

It was a realization so horrible, Emma sucked in her breath in a gasp so rough and abrupt that it made her double over, coughing.

He rubbed her back, his voice filled with concern. “Are you all right?”

She held up her hand as she regained her breath. Downstairs, she could hear the rising noise of guests arriving at the Kensington mansion for the engagement party. All of his snooty rich friends, and their beautiful girlfriends—half of whom Cesare had probably slept with over the years. Half? Probably more.

“Cara?”

She finally straightened, her eyes watery. “I’m fine,” she said, wiping her eyes. It was a lie.

She loved him.

Almost a year ago, she’d left him in despair, believing they had no chance for a future. But now, after just two weeks of wearing his engagement ring on her hand, an awful, desperate hope had pushed itself into her soul. Against her will.

She was in love with him. The truth was she’d never stopped loving him. She was utterly and completely in love with her former boss, the father of her baby.