The Consequences of That Night

deeply. She looked down at the glass and muttered, “Should I wonder if this is poisoned?”
    He gave a low laugh. “No poison, I promise.”
    “Then, what?” she whispered.
    Cesare’s dark eyebrow quirked. “How many times must I say it? I want to have dinner. And talk. ” He picked up the menu. “What looks good?”
    “I’m not hungry.”
    “Not hungry? With a menu like this? There’s steak—lobster...”
    “Will you just stop torturing me with all this romantic nonsense and tell me why you’ve brought me here?”
    He tilted his head, looking at her across the table, before he gave a low laugh. “It’s the roses, isn’t it? Too much?”
    “I’m not one of your foolish little starlets getting tossed out after breakfast, sobbing to stay.” She narrowed her eyes. “You never try this hard. You never have to. So it must be leading up to something. Tell me what it is.”
    Cesare leaned forward across the candlelit table, his dark eyes intense. Her whole body was taut as she leaned toward him, straining to hear. He parted his sensual lips.
    “Later,” he whispered, then relaxed back in his chair as if he had not a care in the world. He took another sip of wine and looked out the huge wall of windows overlooking the lights of Paris, twinkling in the twilight.
    Emma glared in helpless fury. He clearly was determined to take his own sweet time, to make her squirm. Fine. Grabbing her glass, she took a big gulp of the wine. Since she’d moved to Paris, she’d grown to appreciate wine more. This was a red, full-bodied Merlot that was equal parts delicious and expensive. Setting down her glass, she looked around them.
    “This restaurant is kind of famous. It’s hard to even get reservations here. How on earth did you manage to get the whole place?”
    He gave a low laugh. “I pulled some strings.”
    “Strings?”
    “It wasn’t easy.”
    “For you,” she said darkly, “everything is easy.”
    “Not everything.” He looked at her across the table. His eyes seemed black as a midnight sea. Then he looked past her. Turning around, she saw the waiter approaching their table.
    “Monsieur?” the man asked respectfully. “May I take your order?”
    “Yes. To start, I’d like...” Cesare rattled off a list that included endives, foie gras, black truffle sauce, venison and some kind of strange rose-flavored gelatin. It all sounded very fancy to Emma, and not terribly appetizing.
    “And for madame?”
    Both men looked at her expectantly.
    Emma sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t much care for French food.”
    The waiter did a double take. So did Cesare. The scandalized looks on both male faces was almost funny. Emma stifled a laugh.
    “Of course you like French food,” Cesare said. “Everyone does. Even people who hate Paris love the food.”
    “I love Paris,” she said. “Just not the food.”
    “I can give madame some suggestions from the menu...” the waiter tried.
    She shook her head. “Sorry. I’ve lived here for almost a year. Trust me, I’ve tried everything.” She looked at him. “What I would really like is a cheeseburger. With French fries. Frites, ” she amended quickly, as if that would make her order sound more gourmet, which of course it didn’t.
    The waiter continued to stare at her with a mix of consternation and bewilderment. In for a penny, in for a pound....
    “And ketchup.” She handed him the menu with a sweet smile. “Lots and lots of ketchup. Merci. ”
    The waiter left, shaking his head and muttering to himself.
    But Cesare gave a low laugh. “Nice.”
    “Shouldn’t I order what I want?” she said defensively.
    “Of course you should. Of course a nice American girl, on a romantic night out at the Eiffel Tower, would order a cheeseburger with ketchup.”
    “Romantic night?” she said with a surge of panic. He gave her an inscrutable smile. To hide her confusion, she looked out the window. “I can still enjoy the view.”
    “Me, too,” he said quietly, and he wasn’t looking at the window. A tingle of awareness went up and down Emma’s body.
    “This is my first time inside the Eiffel Tower,” she said, trying to fill the space between them. She gave an awkward laugh. “I could never be bothered to wait in the lines.”
    “Doesn’t Bouchard ever give you time off?”
    She glanced at him with a snicker. “You’re one to talk.”
    He had the grace to look discomfited. “I was a difficult boss.”
    “That,” she said succinctly, “is an