The Consequences of That Night

past year? She was astonished. “You think I was madly dating while I was pregnant as a whale? Or maybe—” she gave a low laugh “—right after Sam was born, I rushed to invite men to my bed, hoping they’d ignore the dark hollows under my eyes and baby spit-up on my shoulder.” She snorted. “I’m touched, really, that you think I’m so irresistible. But if I have a spare evening I collapse into bed. For sleeping, not orgies, in case that was your next question.”
    For a moment, there was silence. When next he spoke, his tone was definitely warmer. “Leave Sam at home with a babysitter. Come out with me tonight.”
    “Why?” She scowled. “What do you have planned—the guillotine? Pistols at dawn? Or let me guess. Some lawyer is going to serve me a subpoena?”
    “I just want to talk.”
    “Talk,” she said doubtfully.
    “Perhaps I was a little rough with you in the park....”
    “You think?”
    He gave a low laugh. “I don’t blame you for believing the worst of me. But I’m sure you’ll forgive my bad manners, when you think of what a shock it was for me to learn I have a son, and that you’d hidden that fact from me for quite some time.”
    He sounded reasonable. Damn him.
    “What’s your angle?” she asked suspiciously.
    “I just want us to share dinner,” he said, “and discuss our child’s future. Surely there is nothing so strange in that.”
    Uh-oh. When Cesare sounded innocent, she knew he was up to something. “I’m not giving up custody. So if that’s what you want to discuss, we should let our lawyers handle it.” She tried to sound confident, like she even had a lawyer.
    “Oh, lawyers. ” He gave a mournful sigh. “They make things so messy. Let’s just meet, you and me. Like civilized people.”
    She gripped the phone tighter, pacing across the gleaming hardwood floors. “If you’re thinking of luring me out of the house so your bodyguards can try to kidnap Sam, Alain’s house is like a fortress....”
    “If you’re going to jump to the worst possible conclusion of everything I say, this conversation is going to take a long time. And I wouldn’t mind a glass of wine,” he said pointedly.
    She watched her baby gurgle with triumph when he caught the end of his sock. Falconeri men were such determined creatures. “You’re not going to try to pull anything?”
    “Like what?” When she didn’t answer, he gave an exaggerated sigh. “I’ll even take you someplace crowded, with plenty of strangers to chaperone us. How about the restaurant at the top of the Eiffel Tower?”
    She pictured the long circling queues of tourists. Surely even Cesare couldn’t be up to much, amid such a crowd. “Well...”
    “You left London without a word. You kept your pregnancy secret and went to work for Bouchard behind my back. I don’t think a single dinner to work out Sam’s custody is too much to ask.”
    Emma was about to agree when her whole body went on alert at the word custody. “What do you mean, custody?”
    “I’m willing to accept your pregnancy was an accident. You didn’t intentionally lie. You’re not a gold digger.”
    “Gee, thanks.”
    “But now I know I have a son, I can’t just walk away. We’re going to have to come to an arrangement.”
    “What arrangement?”
    “If you want to know, you’ll have to join me tonight.”
    “Or else—what?”
    “Or else,” Cesare said quietly. “Let’s just leave it at that.”
    “You don’t want to be a father,” she said desperately. “You couldn’t be a decent one, even if you tried—not that you would try for long!”
    For a moment, the phone fell silent.
    “You think you know me,” he said in a low voice.
    “Am I wrong?”
    “I’ll pick you up at nine.” There was a dangerous sensuality in his voice that caused a shiver down Emma’s body. She suddenly remembered that Cesare had ways of making her agree to almost anything.
    “Make it seven,” she said nervously. “I don’t want to be out too late.”
    “Have a curfew, do you?” he drawled. “He keeps tight hold on you.”
    “Alain doesn’t have anything to do with—”
    “And Emma? Wear something nice.”
    The line went dead.
    * * *
    The sun was setting over Paris, washing soft pink and orange light over the white classical facades of the buildings as Emma stood alone on the sidewalk of the Avenue Rapp. It was three minutes before seven. She’d dressed carefully, as requested, in a pink knit dress and a black