Proof Of Their One Hot Night by Emmy Grayson

CHAPTER TEN

CALANDRAWATCHEDTHEboats drifting across the waters of the Vieux-Port de Marseille from her spot at a little café with red-and-white-striped umbrellas. The scent of fresh-baked bread had guided her feet to this little haven as she killed time before her appointment.

The city was a welcome distraction from the luxury of Alejandro’s seaside villa. The teal-blue furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows and her own private guest quarters at the end of a long hallway had screamed wealth. Only one thing had stood out as truly Alejandro among the carefully chosen name-brand items—artsy photographs of ships, from the historic floating palaces of the early twentieth century to romantic sailboats, tucked here and there among more recognizable pieces.

A far cry from the tiny house Aunt Norine had raised her and Johanna in. A reminder of everything Alejandro was, no matter how charming or seductive he could be.

Pride had made her take a cab to the villa yesterday afternoon once she realized that there really wasn’t a lot to be done in town. She’d managed to work successfully at a table on the patio, surrounded by lush blooms and the greenest grass she’d ever seen as she confirmed vendors and created schedules.

It had been heaven working again. Feeling useful. And this morning, when her first emergency had arisen, she’d thrilled at making last-minute arrangements to put out what had the potential to be a very large fire.

One more step, two more steps at most, and La Reina’s party would be back on track.

Would Alejandro be proud of her quick response and her unique solution?

She shoved away the unwelcome thought. She didn’t need his approval. She had done her job just fine without begging for compliments and praise before. No need to start now.

The garçon came out and set a plate with a fluffy croissant, wild berry jam and a tiny bowl of fruit on the table with a flourish.

“Pour vous, mademoiselle.”

“Merci.”

She reached for the knife when nausea hit so hard she could barely move.

“Oh, baby, what are you doing to me?” she whispered. Already she loved the little one growing inside her so much. But moments like these, she could do without.

The nausea slowly subsided, and she sat back in her chair, her breathing heavy, her forehead damp. A long drink of water further settled her stomach.

Maybe a combination of pregnancy and concern. Concern that she was headed down the same path as Mother. She’d tossed and turned a good portion of the night as she replayed the scene on La Reina over and over again, trying to figure out how she’d let go of her control and let him see that he still affected her.

The exhaustion that invaded her bones could be chalked up to the energy her body required to grow her child. But there was no excuse for the fragility she’d developed. Her child needed her to be the strong woman she’d been for the last seventeen years.

She grabbed the knife once more and slathered jam on the croissant. She bit into it, savoring the sweet burst of berries on her tongue, and sighed. At least one thing had gone right today. Nothing beat the simple pleasures of eating a freshly baked French croissant.

“Does the baby have a sweet tooth?”

She choked on the croissant and coughed. Someone pressed a glass of water into her hand. She brought it to her lips and gulped it down.

Alejandro dropped into the chair across from her. A frown marred his handsome features. The sleeves of his brick-red polo shirt clung to his biceps, the blue jeans conforming to his thighs. Irritation buzzed inside her head. Did the man always have to look so put together?

“Are you all right?”

Gulls cawed overhead. Languages from around the world flowing around them in a bewitching hymn of sounds and accents as shoppers and tourists bustled by. A breeze blew in from the harbor, light and cool to combat the growing heat of the morning. Details Calandra would have soaked up in her new quest to enjoy life a little more had her mutinous body not gone rigid the instant it registered Alejandro’s presence.

“Are you having me followed?” she replied. She kept her voice neutral, even though his banal question put her guard up. A normal person might think his interest sweet. But to her, it was the top of a very slippery slope. One where she let herself be lured in by his supposed kindness, gifts and, damn it, desire, only to have the rug yanked out from under her when he got bored.

It’s what men like him did.

A light breeze stirred his hair. The knot in her chest twisted painfully. Was this what it was like for her mother? Fingers aching to touch the man who stirred such powerful emotions in her? Knowing all along that the more she gave him, the harder she’d fall when he left?

Because men like her father—like Alejandro—didn’t stay. They never stayed.

Alejandro pointed toward the bay, where a yacht gently bobbed next to one of the docks. Even from this distance, she could see the name painted in bright red letters.

“La Pimpinela Escarlata?”

“Your Spanish is very good.”

“Not good enough. Escarlata is ‘scarlet,’ but pimpinela?”

“The scarlet pimpernel. A plant with scarlet flowers.” His lips quirked up at the corners. “Also the name of a movie I watched with Madre as a child.”

The name teased her memory. “Isn’t it a book, too?”

“One of the few times I have enjoyed the movie more than the book. Featuring a devastatingly handsome hero with a flair for fashion and seduction.”

“I didn’t know you liked to read.”

“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me.” He tapped his hand on the table. “Which is why, when my yacht docked and I spied a woman in black seated at a bayside café, I decided to take advantage so we could spend a little time together.”

An emphatic No! sounded from her more rational mind. Her heart, that useless muscle that had gone from iron-clad and frosty to weak and feeling, disagreed.

“Alejandro—”

“Calandra,” he broke in, “you set the terms of this arrangement.” He leaned across the table and, before she could stop him, grabbed her hand in his. “And you’re avoiding me.” His finger traced a circle on the back of her hand, his delicate touch as light as butterfly wings, yet no less potent than the sensual attack he’d unleashed on her body four months ago. “I just want to get to know you better.”

The pattern he’d traced on her skin burned as if he’d etched it into her. She snapped her gaze off his hand and refocused on her half-eaten croissant.

“Which leaves me with only one course of action. To show the mother of my child that I’m not the evil man she thinks I am.”

She sighed. “You’re not evil. I never accused you of that.”

He glanced toward the bay, his hand staying on top of hers as if he was afraid she might flee.

Which she had. Multiple times. But in this moment, running was the furthest thing from her mind. What was first and forefront was the hint of discomfort she’d heard in his voice.

“I don’t think you’re evil,” she repeated. She tugged her hand out, but before he could move settled her fingers on top of his. Warmth blossomed in her fingertips as she registered the slight dusting of black hair on the back of his hand, the heat of his skin, the erotic contrast of dark tan skin beneath her own pale white.

“Then why?”

When he turned to look at her, there was no arousal in his eyes. No artifice, no seduction. Just a simple question and, if she looked a little deeper, pain lurking in those dark blue depths.

She had no desire to air her family’s deepest secrets. But the longer she looked at Alejandro, really looked at him, the guiltier she felt. Yes, he was a playboy. Unlike her father, however, she’d never seen evidence of him being cruel, of using money to try and slap a Band-Aid over a heart he’d crushed to smithereens with his selfishness.

“My father...he liked to have fun. Too much fun.” Her mind raced as she tried to condense years of pain, rage and loss into as few words as possible. “His actions, especially his infidelity, hurt my mother. To the point that she became very depressed and eventually passed away.”

A simplified and very watered-down version of the truth. But it was the best she could manage for now.

“I’m sorry.”

She swallowed hard and nodded. “Thank you.” She sat back, pulling her hand away. The moment of reassurance had been nice, but the longer she allowed it, the more likely she was to share more. Sharing led to vulnerability. Vulnerability led to feelings. In her experience, feelings led to heartbreaking situations like a young girl being forced to grow up into a mother and caregiver before her tenth birthday.

Or two daughters watching their mother’s coffin being lowered into the ground, one still just a child, the other forced into adulthood far too fast.

But, she reminded herself as she put the brakes on her maudlin reminiscing, the genuine empathy in Alejandro’s eyes let her know she’d done the right thing. If he was truly interested in being a father to their child, he deserved to know why she was struggling so hard with letting him be a part of her life.

Johanna would be proud, she thought wryly. Her sister was always encouraging her to open up and share her feelings more.

“I better understand your reticence to let me into our child’s life.” He leaned back in his chair. “One thing I’d like to reassure you on, Calandra. I won’t be parading women in and out of their life. I want him, or her, to have some stability.”

She swallowed the insult that rose in her throat, harsh words powered by bias and an unwelcome bit of jealousy.

“Thank you.”

“What can I do to make you feel more comfortable with the idea of me being involved?”

A small smile tugged at her lips. “Just you asking makes me feel a little better. My father didn’t have an interest in my mother’s opinion.”

“Your opinion matters a great deal, Calandra.”

There was magic in those words. Powerful, seductive magic coupled with a devastatingly handsome man who wanted to be a father to her child.

“Then we’ll find opportunities to get to know each other better over the next few days.” She nodded toward the myriad of streets and shops that lay just beyond the port’s edge. “I have a one o’clock with a prospective caterer.”

Alejandro frowned. “I already had a caterer lined up.”

“A caterer whose owner was tossed in jail last night for driving drunk and is now facing a PR nightmare.” She set enough euros on the table to cover her bill and stood. “You’re welcome to walk with me if you’d like.”

Five minutes later, they strolled down one of the many charming alleys Marseille had to offer. A casual walk with at least three feet of distance between them. It didn’t stop every nerve ending in her body from sizzling.

“Who do you have in mind to replace my caterer?” Alejandro asked.

She started to respond, excitement humming at the prospect of finding the perfect vendor who fit seamlessly into the plan.

Until a flash of sunshine caught her eye.

She couldn’t help it; her head jerked around. There in the window of a small boutique was the most exquisite gown she’d ever seen. Buttery yellow and sleeveless, with a sweetheart bodice that followed the curves of the mannequin like a lover’s hand, layer upon layer of gauzy skirt that fell to the floor...

A dream. A dress that would make any girl feel like a princess.

She looked away. Not her. She’d never been a princess. Efficient, professional, all work and no play. That was Calandra Smythe.

“Calandra?”

She blinked and looked away, continuing forward.

“Sorry. For the catering...”

Her voice trailed off as Alejandro’s hand settled on her shoulder.

“What?”

His eyes searched, probed, delving so deep she barely resisted squirming under the intensity of his gaze.

“What?”

“The dress.”

“It’s just a dress.”

“It may be just a dress, but you do have a special event coming up. Something other than black, perhaps.”

“Black is a versatile color.”

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in anything other than black. Well,” he added, his voice lowering and making her stomach flip-flop, “once.”

She refused to blush. “I like black.”

“Yes, but why?”

She barely resisted squirming under his scrutiny. No one had ever asked why before. Everyone else had just labeled her as falling into the goth phase or joked that she must attend a lot of funerals. One young man she’d rejected in college had said she dressed in the same color as her soul. Dramatic and petulant, but the comment still crept under her skin. Johanna and Aunt Norine were the only ones who knew that to her black meant armor. Strength. Security. It had since the day of Mother’s funeral, when she’d walked into her father’s study in her black mourning dress and wielded power over him for the first time in her life.

“I just do.”

“You hide so much of yourself.”

With a deep breath, she turned and met his gaze head-on. “Spoken like someone who also hides behind a mask.”

He jerked back. Surprise flashed in his eyes. Then it disappeared as he gave her one of those insincere smiles.

“Touché. So are you going to try it on?”

“It’s not me.”

Pride, and a little bit of shame, refused to let her admit that she wanted to try on the dress very badly.

Her phone beeped. She glanced down and sucked in a relieved breath. “Five minutes until my appointment.”

She took off down the boulevard, her pace quick, not giving him enough time to reply. He caught up to her, his long legs eating up the distance she’d put between them. They walked in uneasy silence, passing more shops and cafés, until a violet-colored sign with white lettering caught her eye. She slowed her pace.

“Here we are.”

He glanced up at the sign and frowned.

“Le Giordano École Culinaire. A culinary school? I thought you were going to meet with a caterer.”

She held up her phone. “I am. Suzanne Giordano’s culinary school offers catering.”

His frown deepened. “Maybe I didn’t make my wishes clear. This event has to impress some of the richest men in the world to not only continue to invest in La Reina, but let me keep Cabrera Shipping. Burned bread and attempts at an appetizer some kid saw online won’t cut it.”

Her heart thumped hard again, but this time in anger.

“Spoken like a spoiled billionaire.”

He leaned in, eyes narrowing, that dangerous intensity she’d glimpsed back in Paris on full display.

“You don’t know a thing about me.”

“Judging by your elitist comment, I know all I need to know,” she snapped back. “Your brother trusted me implicitly, and every event I executed for Cabrera Wines was a success. You said you trusted me. Clearly you don’t.”

“I don’t trust a bunch of aspiring chefs who might give my guests food poisoning.”

She punched in a website on her phone and held the screen up to his face. “Suzie Giordano has trained multiple two-and three-star Michelin chefs. She’s won awards all around the world. The chef who cooked your fancy meal in London a few months ago is a graduate of her school.”

His handsome features hardened until it looked like his face had been chiseled out of granite.

“London?” Silky menace laced the word. “How did you know about London?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” She swallowed her bitterness. “I didn’t stalk you. I didn’t have to. There were photos everywhere.” Somehow, she managed to keep her voice from cracking underneath the weight of her pain. Which was worse? The sharp sting of remembering how quickly her one and only lover had replaced her? Or the icy fingers of memory clutching her heart and squeezing as the echoes of her mother’s sobs at discovering yet another mistress played over and over in her head?

“London wasn’t what you think.”

“Of course it wasn’t.” She waved a hand. “But it’s not important anyway. What is important is that you’re questioning my ability to do a job you hired me for.”

He blew out a breath and ran a frustrated hand through his curls. “Calandra, this is not—”

“Perhaps,” she interrupted, “if you don’t trust me, I should go home.”

Nothing. Absolute silence as he stared at her, eyes blank, face smooth, without the slightest hint of expression.

Like looking in a mirror.

Was this what people saw when they talked to her? The thought made her sick to her stomach. It would have been better to see something, anything.

Anything but complete and utter disinterest. Because this was what she feared seeing. A month, six months, a year. Whenever the allure of this novelty wore off, this would be the look she’d see.

Although perhaps it was better to see it now. Remind herself that he might be able to shove his way into their child’s life legally. But that didn’t mean she had to let him into hers. And she would move heaven and earth to keep her son or daughter from having to see that same look on his face, from ever falling into the trap their grandmother had of wondering if they just weren’t enough.

She turned and continued down the road. She didn’t look back. If he didn’t trust her, better to cut the cord now before she got any deeper.