CHAPTER NINE
EMMIECLUNGTO her husband’s arm as they walked past the torches that led along the path from the dock to the sprawling Baroque mansion, a wedding-cake confection of pink and white, clinging to the hillside above the shore. She felt cold in the warm summer night.
A soft sea breeze blew against her overheated skin, brushing over the red sequins of her sleeveless cocktail dress. The rectangular paillettes shimmered beneath the mansion’s lights flooding from the windows, the sequins similar in size and sparkle to the ten-karat emerald-cut diamond on her left hand.
She glanced nervously to the right and left. She saw others arriving who looked elegant and yet casual, in body-conscious beige or black, as if a soiree in a twenty-million-euro mansion in Santorini was just another Thursday night. All Emmie wanted was to fit in. To not embarrass her husband.
To not make him wonder why he’d married her and wish he hadn’t.
But it was hard for Emmie, as they walked through grand double doors, and uniformed servers offered champagne from silver trays, not to feel like she was out of step and out of her league.
The other guests had been born into fortune or earned it themselves. Some were special for their athletic prowess, others for their cleverness, others for their beauty.
But Emmie? All she’d done was get herself knocked up.
As they entered the ballroom—a ballroom, in someone’s private house!—she glanced nervously at Theo. Now he fit in all right. He looked gorgeous, his powerfully muscled body civilized by his well-tailored tuxedo. He looked handsome and cold.
Only she knew the depths of emotion and darkness in his soul.
But you don’t know, a voice whispered inside her. You’re afraid to know.
“It’s something, isn’t it?” Theo flashed her a crooked smile as he looked up at the frescoes on the ceilings above.
“Something,” she echoed. Sipping a glass of juice, she glanced around uncertainly. She felt people looking at them, whispering.
“Celine’s great-grandfather built this place before the First World War.” He added wryly, “Sometimes I feel like that’s how long I’ve been pitching her father about his Paris property.”
“How many times have you tried?”
“At least five times. The first was years ago, before I met you. Before I knew Nico, even.” His eyes sharpened. “Ah. There she is.”
He pulled her forward to a petite, very slender blonde, wearing a simple beige dress with straps and no embellishment.
“Theo.” Coming forward, the Frenchwoman lifted on the toes of her stilettos to kiss one of his cheeks, then the other.
“Thank you for throwing us a party,” he said, smiling as he looked around the crowded ballroom.
Celine dropped back with a pout, teasingly hitting the lapel of his tuxedo jacket with her hand. “Though, why I should be so good to you, when you never even bothered to invite me to your wedding, I cannot imagine. Hello.” She turned the force of her attention to Emmie. “So you are the lucky Mrs. Katrakis.”
A moment before, thanks to Theo’s compliments, Emmie had been feeling almost pretty. But now, compared to the small, slender French heiress, Emmie suddenly felt as grotesque as a red disco ball—shiny, round and vulgar.
“I am happy to make your acquaintance,” she stammered in schoolgirl French. Sadly, it sounded nothing like when she’d practiced in the yacht earlier that afternoon. Her words sounded garbled, like she had marbles in her mouth.
Celine looked startled, then her smile sharpened. She gave Emmie two cheek kisses in response, then said airily, “Enjoy your party.”
Cheeks hot, Emmie glanced quickly at Theo, feeling like she’d made a fool of herself. He was watching Celine go.
“Theo.”
He turned to her. “Shall I introduce you to everyone?”
But she’d seen the way his eyes had lingered on his ex-girlfriend. She wondered what he was thinking, but then thought that maybe this, too, was something she was afraid to know.
For the next hour Theo introduced her to the wealthy, famous, fabulous people who were his peers and Celine’s. Emmie duly shook hands with or was air-kissed by tycoons, government leaders, movie stars and nepo babies.
“Congratulations,” they all said to her, as they looked from gorgeous Theo in his well-cut tuxedo to Emmie’s flushed face and pregnant belly. And as their lips curved, she knew what they were thinking because she was thinking the same: she didn’t deserve to be here.
She met a few more celebrities, followed by harried assistants. Looking at the assistants, Emmie felt sympathy. She almost wished she could be here as Theo’s secretary instead of his wife. At least then she’d know how to behave and could go unnoticed. How she missed it now, the simple sweetness of being invisible!
After a few minutes of standing idly by, as Theo spoke to two other men, their conversation switching rapidly between English, Italian and Spanish, Emmie finally murmured “Excuse me” and wandered to the buffet table.
Quietly, she made herself a plate of hors d’oeuvres and drank sparkling water. Going to stand in a corner, she munched her food and watched as the behavior of the guests steadily deteriorated across the ballroom. As the evening grew late, they drank to excess and screamed laughter and kissed one person then another, making Emmie wonder if they’d taken drugs in the palatial bathrooms or if she’d fallen headlong into a Roman orgy.
She suddenly wished she was back home, in Queens, attending a potluck with her neighbors and friends who actually cared about each other, more than shocking or impressing or competing with rivals and frenemies.
“Madame Katrakis.”
Turning, she saw Celine Harcourt. Her throat went tight, but she gave her best attempt at a smile. “Call me Emmie. Please.”
The slim blonde gave a cool smile. “Thank you.” She made no suggestion that Emmie should similarly call her Celine. “My dear, you look terribly bored. You must let me entertain you.”
“No, I—”
“This way,” the Frenchwoman said, and with no good excuse to slight the hostess Emmie set down her plate and followed her, through a secret door that required a code, and up a slender flight of stairs to a quiet alcove above the ballroom.
Emmie looked down and saw the entire party below: the band, people dancing, gossiping, couples making out in corners, all the whirl of beautiful people and beautiful clothes.
“Disgusting, isn’t it?” Celine sighed, standing beside her. “My father built this balcony so if he fancied some girl, he could bring her up here and make love to her, without having to miss his party. And, of course, so that he could immediately kick her out afterward, with none the wiser.”
As Emmie turned to her with shocked eyes, the Frenchwoman lit a cigarette from a pack resting on the small sofa nearby.
“You are far from home, are you not, little secretary?” As she shook out the match, her gaze fell on Emmie’s belly beneath the red sequin dress. “You got the golden ticket, and now you are his wife. How did you do it? A hole in the condom? Pretending to be on the pill?”
“Uh...”
“He should have been mine.” Celine’s eyes looked out toward the spot in the ballroom where Theo was still talking intensely to the two other tycoons. “But I thought it the decent thing to wait six months, at least, before I forced his hand.” Her gaze fell back to Emmie’s belly. “More fool me.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Emmie protested. “I never tricked him.”
She inhaled her cigarette, holding it elegantly, exhaling smoke before she gave a cold smile. “Didn’t you?”
The horrible woman tried to make it sound as if Emmie had gotten pregnant on purpose—which she hadn’t!
Had she?
After Theo had kissed her on Mount Corcovado at the base of the lit-up statue, she had little memory of the passionate, steamy ride back to Ipanema Beach. She just remembered how she’d trembled as he led her back to his hotel suite.
She’d returned his kiss desperately, with clumsy inexperience, as he’d lowered her to the enormous bed. They ripped off each other’s clothes, kissing and tasting and teasing each other until she was gasping with need, until he finally, with agonizing slowness, pushed himself inside her.
She’d felt a sharp pain then, but he’d kissed her, slowly wooing and luring her, until she again felt only pleasure. It was only when she’d finally cried out her fulfillment that he’d finally let himself go.
“There was never any question of...of...” Her cheeks were burning. “We—neither of us—um, we just didn’t think about it.”
Celine blinked, staring at her blankly, letting her cigarette burn to ash. Then her thin eyebrows lowered. “Do you mean to tell me that Theo just...forgot about birth control? Theo?”
This was getting weird. “It’s really none of your business,” Emmie said, backing away. “Thank you for hosting this party for us, it’s so very kind, but I should really get back to my husband now.”
Drawing herself up with as much dignity as she could muster, Emmie turned to go.
“You’re not good enough for him. Nowhere near good enough.” Celine’s lovely face was contorted with bewildered rage. She took a puff of her cigarette with a shaking hand. “You? The fat little secretary? You should never be anything but a servant, raising his child, serving his needs, counting out the days till you’re paid-off.”
Emmie gasped at her rudeness. “That is—”
“You might have convinced him to marry you,” Celine interrupted. “But he’ll never love you. You know that, don’t you?” When she saw Emmie’s agonized face, she relaxed and smiled. She took another long drag on her cigarette, then exhaled. “Enjoy the party while it lasts, little secretary.”
“So it’s true,” the Italian said.
“What?” Theo said.
The Spaniard lifted an amused eyebrow, his gaze focused just past Theo’s ear. “You have a wife.”
“So?” Turning, Theo saw Emmie, following their hostess through the crowded ballroom uncertainly.
Hmm, he thought. Never a good thing to have one’s wife comparing notes with one’s ex-mistress, even though his relationship with Celine had ended years before. He consoled himself with the thought that there wasn’t anything the Frenchwoman could say—that Theo was arrogant, that he was selfish—that Emmie didn’t already know. In spades.
His gaze lingered on his wife’s sexy shape in the red sparkling dress, at her lovely face as she bit her lower lip in consternation, wobbling a bit in her high heels. A smile traced his lips. Adorable.
“I could hardly believe it,” the Italian, Giovanni Orsini, drawled. He took a sip of scotch. “Such a choice.”
“I mean, honor is all very well, in theory,” Carlos Mondragón agreed, “but a little goes a long way.”
The three tycoons, acquaintances who saw each other a few times a year, had been discussing sports, mostly cricket and tennis, in spite of Theo’s best efforts to work the conversation around to real-estate development in general and Harcourt’s property in particular. Now, he blinked at them in bewilderment. “What are you talking about?”
The other men glanced at each other.
“Your marriage,” said Giovanni.
“To your secretary,” said Carlos.
Theo stiffened. “What about it?”
“You were correct to support the child, and the mother, of course,” the Italian said. “But marriage? To a secretary?”
“I didn’t take you for a snob, Orsini.”
He shrugged with an easy smile. “Love affairs are all very well, and accidents will happen, if one isn’t careful. But marriage is a serious business for men of our station. And taking a mere secretary as your wife... It’s hardly the way to start a dynasty, is it?”
Theo was still stinging from Orsini’s casual criticism of if one isn’t careful when he was distracted by that insulting dismissal of Emmie. Hearing his wife, with all her beauty and gorgeously kind heart, described as a mere secretary filled Theo with sudden, breathless rage. His hands clenched, and he nearly punched his friend.
But why? Why would Orsini’s words make him so angry, when they were obviously true?
What the hell was wrong with him?
Cold, Theo ordered himself. Ice-cold.
He forced himself to turn to the Spaniard, who’d gone quiet. “And you, Mondragón? You agree with this?”
The man shrugged. “As someone who nearly was caught myself recently, all I can say is I was lucky to escape.” Gulping down the rest of his scotch, he gave a smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “Only a fool marries for love.”
Love?Even the word seemed like a judgment to Theo. Love was the worst kind of weakness. “It’s not a question of love,” he defended. “Emmie’s pregnant with my son. He must have the protection of my name, and so will she.”
“Very noble.”
“Very,” said Carlos Mondragón, signaling for another drink.
Theo set his jaw, growing more annoyed by the moment. “If it ever happens to you, you’ll understand.”
“No accidental children for me. I make sure.”
“I make very sure,” Giovanni Orsini added smugly.
“Talk to me if you become a father. Until then, remain silent about what you don’t understand,” Theo bit out. “If a man does not take care of his own child, he is not a man.”
The other two looked at each other.
“True enough,” the Italian was forced to concede.
Carlos Mondragón shook his head impatiently. “The subject grows tedious. Let’s talk business.” Looking both ways in the crowded ballroom, he leaned forward and whispered, “It’s true. Pierre Harcourt’s looking for a new developer.”
Theo sucked in his breath. “For Paris?”
Taking a new scotch off a waiter’s tray, Carlos nodded.
He tried to hide the sudden pounding of his heart. The famous Harcourt property in Paris, one of the last undeveloped big parcels in the heart of the city, had been his dream for years. It was how he’d first met Celine Harcourt, years ago, while pitching development plans to her father. Even tonight, he’d stared at her, wondering how to ask if the rumor he’d heard could be true.
Pierre Harcourt was a difficult man to please. For years, the man had dragged his feet on pulling the trigger and developing a property that had belonged to his aristocratic ancestors before they were hauled off on tumbrels.
But Theo had never given up. He’d been dazzled by the potential, from the moment he’d seen the vast car park on the edge of the Seine. Emmie had helped him with that last proposal, when he’d spent millions of euros on architectural and landscape design, investigating government regulations and wooing potential investors. It had all seemed wasted when Harcourt chose a different firm last year.
Until now.
“What about Allmond?”
“Financing fell through. I heard from my mistress whose cousin works there. Harcourt is now looking for stability and deep pockets.” Snorting, the Italian saluted him with his lowball glass. “Clearly describes you now, old man.”
Theo ignored the teasing. “Is it public knowledge?”
“It will be, tomorrow.”
“Is Harcourt here?” Theo demanded, looking sharply around the ballroom.
“You think he’d attend one of his daughter’s bacchanals? He’s past that these days. He’s in Paris—hey, where are you going?”
Theo had departed without farewell, looking for his wife.
Pushing through the drunken crowds in the ballroom, he finally saw Emmie, bountiful and sexy, a gorgeous red flame amid tiny wispy women in beige slip dresses. Even without red sequins, Emmie would have shone for him like a star.
But her shoulders seemed slumped, and she seemed to stumble in her strappy stilettos. Should he have tried harder to include her in his discussion with the two men? But Theo knew she wasn’t a fan of sports, and he’d thought her unlikely to be mesmerized by discussion of the summer cricket season, conducted half in Spanish and Italian. So he hadn’t been surprised when she’d wandered away to the buffet table.
But now, he set his jaw grimly. Had Celine said something rude?
There was a loud cheer around them, as the clock struck midnight, and as always at Celine’s summer parties, the music changed from classical quintet to pulsing, soaring club music arranged by a famous DJ who charged hundreds of thousands a night. All around them, wealthy, beautiful people poured onto the ballroom floor, as multicolor lights flashed around them.
Their eyes locked across the crowded ballroom. His wife shimmered like a dream, as the beat and haunting melody lifted him to a strange euphoria.
Emmie.
His mouth went dry as something tightened in his chest.
Shaking himself out of his trance, he set his jaw and went grimly through the crowd. When he reached her, he thought she looked pale. He wanted to ask what Celine had said to her, but instead he said merely, “We should go.”
“Okay,” she said quietly. Maybe she was just tired? He wanted to believe that. He took her arm, in case she needed support, with those damned high heels causing her such trouble. With his other hand, he reached into his tuxedo jacket pocket for his phone.
They left the hillside mansion, overlooking the moon-swept sea. He helped her walk down the path, beneath flickering red lights. The vintage 1950s speedboat pulled up before the two of them even reached the end of the dock. His drivers prided themselves on being quick.
As the boat hurried back toward his anchored yacht, Theo sat in the long back seat beside Emmie, his arm stretched behind her.
“I have some bad news,” he told her in a low voice, over the roar of the engine and splash of the wake.
Her big eyes shimmered at him in the moonlight. “What?”
He took her smaller hand in his own. “I’m afraid we’ll have to miss Mykonos and cut our honeymoon short.”
“Why?” She swallowed, then whispered, “What changed your mind?”
Lifting her hand to his mouth, he kissed it gently. He felt her shiver, just from that, and it made him want... But there was no time for that, he thought with real regret. “I need to go to Paris. Pierre Harcourt’s deal with Allmond fell through.”
“Paris!” She sucked in her breath, her lovely face filled with shock, then delight. He smiled, touched that she knew what it meant to him. He did not have to explain. She wanted him to have it.
“The yacht will go full speed to Paros, where my jet will be gassed up and waiting to take me to Paris.”
“Paros to Paris,” she laughed. Then the light in her eyes faded. “Taking you? Just you?”
Still holding her hand, Theo looked up at his approaching yacht, its lit-up windows illuminating Santorini’s dark sea. He looked down at their entwined hands barely visible in the moonlight.
“It’s going to take all my energy to work up a new pitch,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll be working sixteen-hour days for the next month.”
“Eighteen-hour days,” she corrected.
She knew him too well. He gave her a crooked smile. “Eighteen.”
“Why not bring me with you?” she said slowly. “You know I could help.”
He knew. He’d never had a better secretary—ever. She’d been his protector, his partner, his friend. “I can’t.”
“Why?” she demanded.
Swallowing the temptation, he shook his head. “As you said. You’re not my secretary. I promised you’d live in New York, close to family and friends. Plus, you’re pregnant.”
“So?”
“So?” He stared at her incredulously. “You can’t work eighteen-hour days.”
“Don’t tell me what I can do.” Emmie stroked her cheek thoughtfully. “You think developing the pitch will take a month?”
“Or longer,” he was forced to admit. “And you’ll want to be home, comfortable and safe, with people you love, not bored and alone at the George V, or working at the office till you drop. No.” He gave a regretful smile. “I’ll leave tonight while you’re sleeping on the yacht. As soon as I reach Paris, I’ll send the jet back to Paros. When you wake tomorrow, it will take you home.”
She stubbornly focused on the point. “Maybe it will be easier than you think. We still have the pitch from last year.”
“Harcourt already heard that and rejected it. We have to rethink the pitch entirely. It needs to be visionary. I’ll send for additional staff from London and New York.” He thought of sending for Edna and shuddered. “I’ll get a secretary from the agency. But just being first to pitch isn’t enough. This time we’ll focus on dazzling not just Old Man Harcourt but also his daughter.”
“Daughter.” Her gaze darkened. “Celine will be there?”
He shrugged. “She’s his only child. He values her opinion.” In fact, he valued it too much, in Theo’s opinion. Celine didn’t give a damn about the property, just the money it would provide her.
Emmie looked out at the moonlit sea and seemed to shiver. No wonder she was cold, with her arms, legs and neckline so bare. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, forcing his gaze not to linger on the swell of her breasts. No. He wouldn’t even look.
“I’ll miss your expertise.” He quirked a wicked smile. “And a few other things.” She wouldn’t even meet his glance. He sighed. “Once you’re in New York, maybe you could look over the list of secretaries we get from the agency. At least if you approve—”
Emmie turned her head sharply. “I’m coming with you to Paris.”
Theo blinked. “What?”
“I’ll be your secretary. Just like before.”
But you’re not my secretary anymore, Theo knew he should say. You’re my wife.
Something held him back. Having Emmie as his secretary would make it more likely he’d achieve his objective.
Having her as his wife would burn his nights like fire.
“Are you...sure?” he said slowly. “It’s really what you want?”
Emmie tilted her head, looking at him beneath the sweep of her dark eyelashes as a little smile played over her red lips. “You’re too much to handle for any secretary but me.”
“True,” he said, amused. He felt a rush of gratitude. “Thank you, Emmie,” he said quietly. “You don’t know what this means to me.”
“I know.” Their eyes locked, and his heart skipped a beat.
He pulled her close, wrapping her in both arms, against his chest. Pressed against his white tuxedo shirt, her full breasts seemed barely contained by the sequined neckline, the spaghetti straps about to snap. It was all he could do not to snap them off himself.
All he wanted to do was kiss her, but Yiannis was just now pulling the speedboat close to the yacht. There was no time—
With an intake of breath, he looked at her. “We have two hours before we’ll reach my plane in Paros.”
“Right.” She started to pull away, suddenly all business. “I’ll start pulling up research, then call the Paris office—”
“Later,” Theo whispered and lowered his head to kiss her.