The Consequences of That Night

“You can throw away your mop and broom. No more twenty-four-hour days with a jerk for a boss.” He tried to laugh, but she didn’t join him at the joke. He continued weakly, “You’ll travel with me—see the world...”
    Pulling away from him entirely, she looked at him in the gray dawn.
    “For how long?” she said quietly.
    “How should I know?” Sitting up straighter against the headboard, he folded his arms grumpily. “For as long as we’re enjoying ourselves.”
    “And you’ll kindly pay me for my time.”
    He ground his jaw. “You’re twisting this all around, making it sound like I’m trying to insult you. Why aren’t you happy? You should be happy—I’ve never offered any woman so much!”
    She rebelliously lifted her eyes. “We both know that’s not true.”
    A cold chill went down his spine. “You’re talking about my wife.”
    She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
    “Christo.” Cesare clawed back his hair. This couldn’t be happening. “We’ve been together only two nights, I’ve barely asked you to be my mistress, and you’re already pressuring me to marry you?”
    “I didn’t say that!”
    “You don’t have to.” He could see it in her face: that terrible repressed hope. The same expression he’d seen in so many women’s faces. The desire to pin him down, to hold him against his will, in a place he didn’t want to be. To make iron chains of duty and honor replace delight or even pleasure.
    “You did get married once. You must have had a reason.”
    Anger rushed through him. The memory of Alain Bouchard’s hateful voice. You married my sister for her money and then made her life a living hell. Is it any wonder she took the pills? You might as well have poured them down her throat.
    Cesare’s lips parted to lash out. Then he forced himself to focus on Emma’s lovely, wistful face. It wasn’t her fault. He choked back furious, hateful words.
    “I married for love once,” he said flatly. “I’ll never do it again.”
    “Because you still love her,” she whispered. “Your wife.”
    Cesare could see what Emma believed. That he’d loved Angélique so much that even a decade hadn’t been enough to get over the grief of losing her. He let it pass, as he always did. The beautiful, simple lie was so much better than the truth.
    He set his jaw, facing her across the bed, not touching. Just moments before, they’d been so close. Now an ocean divided them.
    “I thought I made myself clear. But it wasn’t enough. So hear this.” He looked at her. “I will never love you, Emma. I will never marry you. I will never want to have a child with you. Ever.”
    In the rising pink dawn, every ounce of color drained from Emma’s beautiful, plump-cheeked face, causing the powerful light of joy to disappear, as if it had never existed.
    It was hard to watch. Cesare took a steadying breath. He had to be cruel to be kind. If they were to be together, even for just a few weeks, she had to accept these things from the beginning.
    “My feelings in this matter will never change,” he said quietly. “I thought you understood. I thought you felt the same.” He reached for her hand, trembling where it rested on the bed. “Lust.”
    In a flash of anguish, her luminous eyes lifted to his. She shook her head. His eyes narrowed.
    “You must accept this,” he said, “for us to have any future.”
    A low, bitter laugh bubbled to her lips—the most bitter thing he’d ever heard from her. She ripped her hand away. “Future? No love, no marriage, no child. What kind of future is that?”
    His jaw tightened. “The kind that is real. No promises to be broken. No pretense. No fakery. We just take it day by day, enjoying each other’s company, taking pleasure for as long as it lasts.”
    “And then what?”
    “We part as friends.” He looked at her. “I don’t want to lose your friendship.”
    “My friendship?” Her lip curled. “Or my services?”
    “Emma!”
    “You want to stop paying me as your housekeeper, and hire me straight out as your whore. No, I get it.” Holding up her hand, she said coldly, “I’m sorry, this is awkward for you, isn’t it? Usually I’m the one who handles this, who puts out your trash the morning after.” She looked past the tangled mess of bedcovers at the foot of the bed, still surrounded by an explosion of money, to his platinum watch lying on the floor. “You even gave me a watch. Just like all the rest.”
    His own personal