The Consequences of That Night

in front of him. Who wouldn’t want the miracle, even if he did see.
    How could she have loved him? How could she have ever thought—just as he’d accused her—that she could change his playboy nature?
    He exhaled, and moderated his tone in a visible effort. “What if I offered to double your salary?”
    Her lips parted in shock. “You want to pay me for our night together?”
    “No,” he said coldly. “I want to pay you to forget.”
    Her eyes stung. Of course he would offer money. It was just paper to him, like confetti. One of his weapons, along with his power and masculine beauty, that he used to get his way. And Cesare Falconeri always got his way.
    Emma shook her head.
    “So how can we get past this? What the hell do you want from me?”
    She looked up at him, her heart full of grief. What did she want? A man who loved her, who would love their child, who would be protective and loyal and show up for breakfast every morning. She whispered, “I want more than you will ever be able to give.”
    He knew immediately she wasn’t speaking of money. That was clear by the way his handsome face turned grim, almost haunted in the dim light of the hallway. He took a step toward her. “Emma...”
    “Forget it.” She stepped back. Her whole body was shaking. If he touched her now, if he said anything more to remind her what a fool she’d been, she was afraid she’d collapse into sobs on the carpet and never get up again.
    Her baby needed her to be strong. Starting now.
    Down the hall, she heard the elevator ding. Glancing back, she saw the elderly couple hesitate in front of the elevator, obviously still watching them. She realized they’d been listening to every word. Turning back to Cesare, she choked out, “I’m done being your slave.”
    “You tell him, honey,” the white-haired woman called approvingly.
    Cesare’s expression turned to cold fury, but Emma didn’t wait. She just ran for the elevator. She got her arm between the doors in time to step inside, next to the elderly couple. Trembling, she turned back to face the man she’d loved for seven years. The boss whose baby she now carried, though he did not know it.
    Cesare was stalking toward her, his almost-naked body muscular and magnificent in the hallway of his own billion-dollar hotel.
    “Come back,” he ground out, his dark eyes flashing. “I’m not done talking to you.”
    Now, that was funny. In a tragic, heart-wrenching, want-to-burst-into-sobs kind of way. “I tried to talk to you. You wouldn’t let me. You were too terrified I’d say those three fatal words.” She gave a bitter laugh. “So here are two words for you instead.” Emma lifted glittering eyes to his. “I quit.”
    And the elevator doors closed between them.

CHAPTER TWO
    I ’M DONE BEING your slave.
    Cesare’s body was taut with fury as the elevator doors closed in front of Emma’s defiant, beautiful face. He could still hear the echo of her scornful words.
    I want more than you will ever be able to give.
    And then she’d quit.
    Cesare couldn’t believe it.
    It was true that in the past few months, he’d thought once or twice about firing Emma rather than face her again. But he’d promised himself he wouldn’t fire her. As long as she didn’t get silly or ask for a relationship. After all they’d been through together, he didn’t want to lose her.
    He’d never expected this. He was the one who left women. They didn’t leave him. Not since...
    He cut off the thought.
    Turning, he stalked back down the hall, passing a wealthy hotel guest, a heavily bejeweled white-haired lady dressed in vintage Chanel, holding a small Pomeranian in her arms. An entourage of three servants trailed behind her. She glared at him.
    Ah. Cesare’s lip curled in a mixture of admiration and scorn. The wealthy. He hated them all sometimes. Even though he himself had somehow become one of them.
    Returning to his suite, he realized he had no key. And he was still wearing only a towel. At any moment someone would snap an embarrassing photograph, to add to the rest of his indiscretions already permanently emblazoned all over the internet. Irritated, he pounded on his own door with the flat of his hand.
    Olga opened the door, still in her lingerie, holding a lit cigarette.
    “There’s no smoking in this hotel,” he snapped, walking past her. “Put that out.”
    She took a long puff, then snuffed it out in the bottom of a water glass. “Problems with your housekeeping