Kate Hardy - From Paris With Love

“What if I promised you’d never have to do either, seeing the sights of London?”

She tried to laugh it off. “What, there’s no line to see the Crown Jewels anymore?” she said lightly. “It’s a free ride for all on the London Eye?”

He took another sip of his wine, then put it back down on the table. His dark eyes met hers. “I want you both to come back to London with me.”

She set her jaw. She’d been afraid he’d say that. “There’s no way I’m leaving my job to move back to London with you. Your interest in Sam will never last.”

“You have to know I can’t abandon him, now I know. Especially not in Bouchard’s house.”

“I thought you said you didn’t bear Alain any grudge.”

“I don’t. But that doesn’t mean I’ll let him raise my son.” The votive candle on the table left flickering shadows on the hard lines of his handsome face. He said quietly, “Bouchard wants you for himself, Emma.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said uncomfortably, then recalled her own recent concerns on that front. “And anyway, I don’t see him that way.”

“He wants you. And he already knows that taking care of Sam is the way to your heart.” His voice was low. Behind him, she could see the sparkling lights of Paris in the night. “As you yourself said—Sam deserves a father.”

“Yes, he does,” she said over the lump in her throat. “An actual father who’ll love him and kiss his bruises and tuck him in at night. A father he can count on.” Looking up at him, she whispered, “We both know you’re not that man.”

“How do you know?”

The raw emotion in Cesare’s voice made her eyes widen. She shook her head.

“You said yourself you don’t want a child. You have no idea what it means to be a parent....”

“You’re wrong. I do know. Even though I’m new at being a father, I was once a son.” He looked away. “We had no money, just an old house falling down around us. But we were happy. My parents loved each other. And they loved me.”

She swallowed. “I’ve never heard you talk about them before.”

“There’s not much to tell.” His lips twisted down at the edge. “When I was twelve, my mother got sick. My father had to watch her slowly die. He couldn’t face life without her, so after her funeral, he went drinking alone on the lake at night. The empty boat floated to shore. His body was found the next day.”

“I’m sorry,” she choked out, her heart in her throat. “How could he do that—leave you?”

“I got over it.” He shrugged, his only sign of emotion the slight tightening of his jaw. “I was sent to a great-uncle in New York. He was strict, but tried his best to raise me. I learned English. Learned about the hotel business. Learned I liked hard numbers, profit and loss. Numbers made sense. They could be added, subtracted, controlled. Unlike love, which disappears like mist as soon as you think it’s in your arms.”

His wife. He was still brokenhearted over his loss of her. Emma fought back tears as she said, “Love makes life worth living.”

His lips twisted sardonically. “You say that, even after you wasted so many years trying to get love from your stepmother, like blood from a stone? All those years trying and failing, with nothing but grief to show for it.”

Pain caught at her heart.

“I’m sorry,” Cesare said, looking at her. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No. You’re right.” Blinking back tears, she shook her head. “But others have loved me. My parents. My mother died when I was four, even younger than you were. Ovarian cancer. Just like...” She stopped herself. Just like I almost did, she’d almost said.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s all right. It was a long time ago. And my father was an amazing man. After my mom died, it was just the two of us. He gave me my work ethic, my sense of honor, everything.” She pressed her lips together. “Then he fell in love with a coworker at his factory....”

“Cruel stepmother, huh?”

“She was never cruel.” She sobered. “At least not at first. I was glad to see my father happy, but I started to feel like I was in their way. An outsider interrupting their honeymoon.” She glanced up at the waiter, who’d just brought their meals. He set the cheeseburger and fries before her with the same flourish he used on Cesare’s venison and risotto with black truffle sauce. It must have been hard for him, she thought, so she gave him a grateful smile. “Merci.”

“So you left home?” Cesare prompted after the waiter left.

“Well.” She dipped a fry into a ramekin of ketchup, then chewed it thoughtfully. It was hot and salty and delicious. She licked her lips, then her fingers. “At sixteen, I fell head over heels for a boy.”

Cesare seemed uninterested in his own food as he listened with his complete attention. “A boy.”

“The captain of the high school football team.” She gave a smile. “Which in Texas can be a big deal. I was flattered by his attention. I fell hard. A few kisses, and I was convinced it was love. He talked me into going all the way.”

“But you didn’t.” Taking a bite of his food, he grinned at her. “I know you didn’t.”

“No.” She swirled another fry through the ketchup. “But I went to the doctor to get birth control pills.” With a deep breath, she looked him in the eye. “That’s how I found out I had cancer.”

His jaw dropped. “Cancer?”

“Ovarian, the same as my mom had had.” She kept stirring the fry in the ketchup, waiting for him to freak out, for him to look at her as if she still had one foot in the grave. “I was on chemotherapy for a long time. By the time I was in remission, Mark had long since dumped me for a cheerleader.”

Cesare muttered something in Italian that sounded very unkind. She gave a grateful smile.

“He did me a huge favor. I’d had no symptoms. If I hadn’t gone to the doctor then, I never would have known I was sick until it was too late. So in a funny way—that broken heart was the price that saved my life.” She ate a bite of French fry, then made a face when she realized the bite was almost entirely ketchup. She set it down on her plate. “Though for a long time I wished I had died.”

“Why?”

“My illness took everything. My childhood. My dreams of having a family someday. The medical bills even took our house.” Her throat ached, but she forced herself to tell the worst. “And it killed my father.”

Reaching across the table, he grabbed her hand. “Emma...”

She took a deep breath. “It was my fault. My father wasn’t the kind of man who could declare bankruptcy and walk away from debt. So to pay all the bills, he took a night job. Between his jobs and taking care of me, he started to neglect my stepmother. They started fighting all the time. But the day my doctor announced I was in remission, I convinced my father to take me home early. It was Valentine’s Day. I talked him into stopping at the florist to buy flowers. As a surprise.” She paused. “Marion was surprised, all right. We found her at home, in bed, with the foreman from their factory.”

Cesare sucked in his breath. “And?”

“My father had a heart attack,” she whispered. She ran her hand over her eyes. “He was already so run-down from taking care of me. From working two jobs. Marion blamed me for everything.” Her voice caught as she covered her face with her hands. “She was right.”

His voice was gentle as he pulled back her hands. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“You’re wrong.” Emma looked at him across the table, and tears ran unchecked down her face. “If I hadn’t fought so hard to live, I’d never have been such a burden. My father wouldn’t have had to work two jobs, my stepmother wouldn’t have felt lonely and neglected, and they’d still be together. It’s my fault. I ruined their lives.”