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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.
