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“This time is different.”
“How do you know?”
He shrugged. “I feel it.”
“There are other developers offering proposals, good ones—”
“They’ll lose. We’ll win.” He lowered his head. She felt his lips brush against her ear as he said, huskily, “Let’s celebrate.”
When he pulled back, his dark eyes caught hers, and she shivered.
“All right,” she whispered.
Looking around the office, Theo called, “See you tomorrow at Harcourt’s office.”
His employees’ answering cheer swelled around them, and he responded with a salute. Handing Emmie her sleek new Hermès Birkin bag, he led her to the building’s antique birdcage elevator. As they descended, he gave her a sideways glance.
“What is it?” she said, gripping the handle of her bag, beige like her Prada shoes.
“I was just thinking how amazing the last month has been.”
“It has.”
“And I was thinking, maybe—” He gave a rueful chuckle as they reached the ground floor. “We can talk about it later.”
But as they walked through the lobby, Emmie had a feeling he was glad to put off whatever he’d been about to say. Strange. It wasn’t like Theo to procrastinate over anything. He was usually like a bull in a china shop, plowing forward with whatever he wanted.
“Bonsoir,MadameKatrakis...monsieur,” the doorman said.
“Bonsoir, Jérémie,” Emmie replied, holding Theo’s arm in his tailored jacket.
She dimly heard the click-click-click of her heels beside his heavier footstep on the marble floor. As he led her out the door to the tree-lined Paris avenue, she looked up at him dreamily. He was darkly handsome, powerful and ruthless in his tailored Italian suit. And she was dressed to match.
Madame Katrakis.
In her cream silk shirt and camel cashmere skirt over her baby bump, wedding pearls in her ears and huge emerald-cut diamond on her left hand, Emmie now looked the part of a billionaire’s wife.
When they’d arrived in Paris, Theo had insisted she must have a new, chic wardrobe. “You need the proper armor, Emmie,” he’d told her, “to fight at my side in the most glamorous city in the world.”
Thinking of Celine Harcourt, Emmie had reluctantly agreed, and a stylist had arrived at their four-story town house that very hour. Her closet was now filled with clothes of quiet, understated luxury: fine fabrics, perfect fit, a total lack of designer logos, and colors that varied between black, white and beige. Every morning at six for the last month, a hairstylist had duly arrived, to blow out Emmie’s honey-blond hair and make it sleek and glossy, as makeup was discreetly applied.
Et voilà.Armor.
Theo hadn’t been wrong. Emmie saw the respect her costume created in other people. So it was almost worth it, feeling trapped in tight, unforgiving seams, washed out in bland and boring colors, and so hot in the blast of July in Paris.
Once she was back in New York, Emmie promised herself, it would all go straight into the penthouse closet. After this, she intended to finish her pregnancy in loose sundresses, stretchy T-shirts and maternity shorts. She would sleep twelve hours a night or maybe more.
“I’m thinking about tomorrow,” Theo said abruptly as they walked a short distance along the avenue.
“About the presentation?” Emmie stopped on the sidewalk. “Should we go back?”
“No. Not that.” He licked his lips. “It’s about our return to New York.”
“What about it?” They’d arranged for a concierge doctor to chaperone their flight, with Emmie so close to her due date. She gave him a reassuring smile. “It’ll be all right if the negotiations delay us a few days. One of the good things about owning a private jet. No extra fees for changing one’s schedule.”
Theo stared at her for a moment, then looked past her. “Ah. There he is.”
Their gleaming Bentley was waiting for them at the curb a little way down, a chauffeur standing beside the open back door. As they walked, Emmie took a deep breath of fresh air. How lovely to be out of the office.
