“Again? Oh, no. It was just a friendly catch-up dinner. He’s touring. I probably won’t see him again for years.”
She heard the sound of a text coming in. And ignored it.
“It’s about time you started dating.”
“Callista!”
“It’s been a year. No one will hold it against you. I, for one, think you should get out and about more.”
“That’s why I came to Paris, remember?”
“Then I guess it’s working.” They wished each other good night. Goodness, it was late! Well after midnight. She undressed and removed her makeup. Then she remembered the newest text.
It could wait until morning. Already she was frazzled and overstimulated by the day’s events. She really was happiest when she was pottering about in her rose garden, annoying the gardener with her suggestions.
But as she lay down in bed she realized it could be a text from one of the children. Or news in the case of her husband’s murder. She picked up her phone and glanced at it.
I’m thinking about you.
Of course it was him. Who else would send a bold message like that to her phone?
She grabbed her phone and texted back quickly. I’m a widow and still in mourning. I am thinking about my dead husband. She sent it before she could second-guess herself.
In the silence that followed she had opportunity for regret. Did she have to be so brusque about it? Still, it annoyed her that he would flirt with her on such a short reacquaintance. He didn’t know anything about her life between now and then.
Her phone pinged again, and she fought the urge to read it. And failed.
You are still alive. And more lovely than ever.
Flatterer! She cursed the smile that flew to her lips. He could have probably taken half of the women in the audience out to dinner if he’d wanted to, but he’d wanted to be with her.
I want to see you tomorrow.
I already have plans. She texted back before she could think about the possibilities. She wasn’t ready to start dating.
Forget dating—her being seen to be involved with Amadou would mean a media circus. She could just imagine the headlines. She wasn’t ready for that either. The gaudy press coverage of the murders had only just died down, and she was relieved that they’d never uncovered the whole story of the compromising positions the bodies had been found in.
And she hoped they never would.
Cancel them. I’ll pick you up first thing in the morning.
What? The nerve!
No. I need to sleep now. Goodbye.
Hopefully that was terse enough to discourage him.
Dead yesterdays and unborn tomorrows. Why fret about them, if today be sweet?
Another quote, no doubt. Probably Omar Khayyam again. She put her phone on her bedside table, determined not to respond.
The dead yesterdays were alarming enough, but the unborn tomorrows scared the heck out of her. Especially if any of them had the dangerously seductive Amadou Khadem in them…which she strongly suspected they would.
CHAPTER SIX
Will you meet me for lunch? He sent the message barely after seven-thirty A.M. Just couldn’t wait any longer.
Sorry, I can’t. I have plans.
Damn.
He wanted to push for more details, to ramp up and ask for dinner. Maybe even just to show up at her hotel and offer to escort her wherever she was going.
But he knew that if he came on too strong—which arguably he’d already done—he’d drive her away. If he played too safe, she’d slip out of his grasp. Amadou was no stranger to seducing women, but Carolina was a special challenge.
He stopped halfway through his morning series of sun salutations. Normally he used the yoga poses to focus on his breathing and clear his mind. Today his mind was cluttered—burdened—with thoughts of Carolina and how badly he wanted to see her again.
He resolved to go for a run instead and laced up his running shoes, then headed outside. A light drizzle blurred the air, and its cold drops on his face pulled him out of his overactive imagination and into a reality with slippery streets and irritable commuters.
But it didn’t slow his pace as he covered the distance between his hotel near the Champs-Elysées and hers near Boulevard Haussmann. He ran right past her hotel. Why did he want her so much, anyway?
It had been more than thirty years. He was over her. Or at least he’d thought he was. He was here in Paris on important business—the business of saving young lives from a grim fate. He didn’t have time to lose his head over a woman. Especially this woman.
But a pit of longing still yawned somewhere deep inside him, cavernous enough to fuel his creativity and give his music depth and soul. If he actually did hook up with her and forge an impossible-to-imagine happy ending of sorts, perhaps it would kill all his creative urges and leave him a happy and empty shell with no music in him.
He shuddered. Better to be alone with his music.
Right?
Maybe that wasn’t it anyway. He stopped and glanced back down the street behind him, past the spot where he’d kissed her last night. He’d known the kiss would be unexpected, unwelcome, even. Maybe that was why he’d done it. Perhaps he wanted revenge for the way she’d coldly walked away from him when he’d thought they were so close.
Clearly their relationship had meant a lot less to her than it had to him. They’d never discussed the future but who did at twenty? They didn’t even think beyond the next week at that age. He hadn’t questioned where their union was going, hadn’t even thought about it until he got that crisp, apologetic letter.
He did deserve a little revenge for that. He’d burned the letter that night, but its words were seared into his brain. I enjoyed our time together. Like they’d just shared a pleasant evening! I wish you much success. As if he needed her good wishes or anyone else’s. He’d always known he was going to make it and sooner rather than later.
He turned away and started running again, determination rippling in his veins.
He was going to bed Carolina Leone.
“Uh, no, don’t come up. I’ll come down.” Lina didn’t want her daughter entering her room and seeing the three big vases of flowers Amadou had sent her. Since their kiss two days ago he’d texted her several times with invitations and she’d turned them all down.
And now the flowers? Why? He must know by now that she didn’t want to see him again.
Well, she did, but she knew it was a terrible idea and that she absolutely MUST NOT DO IT.
Surely he’d received the hint by now? Would she have to come out and tell him that she wouldn’t see him again no matter what?
He’d done something to her. She wasn’t sure if it happened with the kiss or sometime before. Maybe even while she was watching him during his concert. Something was different inside her—in her brain and her body. She hadn’t felt true arousal for years. It pained her to admit that she’d lost those feelings for her husband at least a decade ago. She felt deep affection for him but none of the zing that had accompanied their caresses in the early years of their marriage.
Yes, she’d done her duty in the bedroom, but she hadn’t fully enjoyed it for a long time. She’d assumed her lack of interest was due to normal changes in the body and brain due to growing older. Really, it would be distasteful if older people wandered around pawing at each other the way young ones did.
Wouldn’t it?
And now suddenly she had all those awkward, uncomfortable, hot, sticky feelings pulsing and churning inside her like she was twenty again. It was undignified and downright disturbing!
The last thing she needed was to find herself in close proximity to the man who’d jump-started her rusting motor.
Where was her lipstick? She searched the bathroom, then looked on the dressing room table. Perhaps it was in her handbag? She hadn’t been outside without lipstick on in decades, and there was press everywhere in Paris. It was her royal duty to look the part at all times.
She knelt down and peered under the bed. Yes! The gold tube gleamed in the shadows. It must have fallen and been kicked under there. She reached an arm in and—
A knock on the door made her jump.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, Mom, let me in.”
“I told you to wait downstairs.”
“I know. Do I always listen to you?”
“I’ll be out in a minute.” She grabbed the lipstick and climbed to her feet, heart pounding. She had to get out of there without Callista seeing the flowers. She hadn’t been able to think of a way to get rid of them without drawing attention. It was awkward to ask housekeeping to remove them.
She patted her hair back into place and headed for the door. If she could just slip out and— She pulled on the handle and tried to ease her way through the open crack.
“Not so fast. I came up because I need to use the bathroom.”
“There’s one in the lobby.”
“There’s a closer one up here. Do you have a man hiding in there or something?” Callista lifted a brow. “You’re up to something! What’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on,” insisted Lina, upset that she already looked and sounded guilty when she hadn’t actually done anything at all.
“Then let me in.”
Reluctantly she stepped aside and let her daughter in. “It’s a mess. The maid didn’t come yet.”
“What beautiful flowers!” Callista made a beeline for them. She grabbed the tag. Lina closed her eyes and cursed herself for not removing it.
“Whoa, these are from Amadou Khadem? Mom! What’s going on here? Are you having an affair with him?” Her daughter’s eyes were wide as saucers.
“I most certainly am not.”
“Then why is he sending you flowers?” She picked up the card on the next vase. At least he’d had the common sense not to write anything compromising in his notes. Each one simply said “To Carolina, from Amadou.”
“Three bouquets?” She picked up the third tag. “Have you seen him again?”
“No.” She sighed. “He’s asked me out several times. I wish he’d stop.”
“Why? He’s dreamy. Do you think he’d notice if I went instead?”
“Let’s see, age difference aside, I’m blonde sprinkled with silver and have blue eyes and you have curly chestnut hair and green eyes.”
“Men aren’t all that observant.” Callista winked. “Seriously, though. He must be kind of crazy about you.”
Lina shrugged. “I’m not really sure what’s going on in his mind. But I know my own mind. I’ll always be your father’s wife and that’s that.”
“Mom! You can’t just wall yourself up in Dad’s tomb. You have a lot of life to live. You should at least be open to dating.”
“Why? So I can get my heart broken in public by a famous musician? The paparazzi are merciless. You know what they did to Princess Diana right here in Paris.”
“That was years ago.”
“And you really think things are different? If I went on a date—especially with someone famous like him—I’d be opening myself up to be preyed on by vultures. I’d rather stay home with a good book.”
Callista sighed. “You do have a point. But maybe some quiet country gentleman could work? Someone respectable, who the paparazzi wouldn’t care about.”
“Someone nice and dull who collects claret and lives to shoot ducks and hunt rare mushrooms.” Lina had to laugh.
“Exactly.”
“Like I said, I’d prefer a good book. Are you going to use the bathroom, or are we just going to stand here all morning? I want to see the Renoir exhibit before it gets too crowded.”
“Won’t be a minute.” Callista vanished into the bathroom, and Lina ripped the cards off the flowers and threw them in the bin. If anyone else waltzed in here, at least they wouldn’t know she was under siege by Amadou. And what did he want with her, anyway?
He probably just wanted to break her heart as revenge for her carelessly breaking his all those years ago.
Her phone pinged. If you’ll have dinner with me I’ll stop sending flowers.
She had to laugh. Maybe it would be worth it. She could have dinner with him and tell him—to his face—exactly how she felt and that their kiss had been a one-off mistake and that they were both grown-ups with completely incompatible lives and—
On that condition, I will have dinner with you.
Her thumb pressed send before she could retract it.
I’ll pick you up in your lobby at eight.
Adrenaline surged through her at the thought of people seeing them together. Can we meet somewhere more private?
Of course. I’ll arrange for dinner in my suite and send a car for you.
She gulped. That certainly would be private. Private enough to get her into a whole world of trouble…
CHAPTER SEVEN
The driver called to say he was outside and Lina hurried down, hoping she didn’t look too overdressed. How did you dress for a private assignation in an ex-lover’s hotel room? Especially if he was an international celebrity? She decided on a sleek black dress with a simple necklace of uncut gems, as if she were going out to dinner at a fine restaurant. High heels, too, so he wouldn’t tower over her.
The driver made no effort at conversation, and in a few minutes they pulled up in front of one of Paris’s most extravagant hotels. She’d stayed there herself a few times when in town with her husband. Now she preferred something more low-key. Amadou had given her his room number, so she passed through the opulent lobby without going near the front desk or giving her name to anyone.
Thank goodness for modern technology.
Her pulse ratcheted up as she took the elevator to the top floor. You’re here to tell him there’s nothing between you. To be polite and kind and wish him well, then get on with the rest of your life. She couldn’t have him sending her extravagant bouquets, thinking that something more would happen between them.
He opened the door to his suite as she got off the elevator, so she had to walk toward him, eyes on him and his on her, for the entire length of the hallway. She instantly regretted overdressing. He wore a white T-shirt and dark jeans and his feet were bare, as if she were coming over to watch TV with him back in his one-room garret in Zurich. Not that he’d had a TV. Too prosaic for him.
He didn’t say anything at all until he’d stepped aside to usher her in, then closed the door behind her. “I’m so glad you came.” He didn’t kiss her or try to take her in his arms or any of the things she’d been ready to resist. “It was a good idea to meet privately, away from the prying eyes of the press.”
“This hotel is not where I would have pictured you.” She looked around at the vast suite with its expansive views toward the Arc de Triomphe and its elaborate furnishings. “You must have changed a lot.”
It sounded like censure, and maybe it was. It was somehow disappointing that someone so unmaterialistic as Amadou now chose to live in quasi-imperial splendor.
He shrugged. “When in Rome, tu sais? This is what people expect of me. My surroundings mean little to me, so why disappoint them?”
“I suppose I take the same view of mine. You do get used to palatial splendor after a while, don’t you?” She giggled, surprising herself. Uh-oh. That schoolgirl giddiness had come back. Maybe it would have been better if they had shared a quick peck on the cheek. Not touching him at all worsened the sexual tension between them.
“Champagne?” He indicated a bottle chilling in a silver ice bucket. A comically retro touch considering she could see a full bar with a series of refrigerators. “It’s from Altaleone.”
“That was sweet of you. I know we brag about our champagne being the finest on earth, but I don’t suppose it’s really true.”
“Any champagne drunk in your presence would be the finest to me.” He said it simply without a hint of garish flirtation as he poured them both glasses. Their fingertips brushed as he handed her glass to her, and she could sw
ear she felt a jolt of electricity shoot to her toes.
“Thanks.”
“To the future.” He raised his glass to her.
“Which is a little scary right now, but I’ll embrace it.”
“Why scary?” He sipped his champagne.
Damn, why did he have to look so good? His tall, broad frame and even his slim bare feet were doing something strange to her insides.
She sighed. “I’m alone now, for the first time in…forever.”
The compassion in his eyes made her wish she could eat her words. The last thing she’d intended was to come here with what sounded like a plea for companionship.
“I envy you your big family. I don’t imagine they’ll be as distant as you expect.”
“I know. I suppose that adapting to change isn’t my strong point. But you surprised me when you said you envied me. I thought you said you didn’t want children.”
“I didn’t.” He surveyed her over his glass.
“You didn’t say or you didn’t want them?”
“Both, I guess.” His mouth hitched in a smile. “But there are times when I wonder what my life would have been like if I had been crazy enough to start a family.”
“It’s not too late. You could do like most male celebrities and marry a woman half your age.” She congratulated herself on sounding like she cared little about whom he slept with.
He laughed. “No, thanks.”
“Why not?”
“Why would I? I prefer a mature woman with years of wisdom to share with me.” His dark gaze drifted over her face, and she could swear she felt heat from it travel across the room.
Flatterer. Shame it was working so well. She teetered in her high heels on the thick carpet.
“Come, sit down.” He gestured to the elegant sofa. “The kitchen will send dinner as soon as we’re ready.”
She walked to the sofa as steadily as she could manage, then sat down, arranging her dress primly about her knees. She’d have to go slow with the champagne. She already felt tipsy in Amadou’s heady presence.
He came and sat next to her, and the weight of his big body tilted her slightly toward him. She braced herself, trying to think of something light and pointless to say.
The Princess and the Player (Royal House of Leone Book 5) Page 4