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Alex could not seduce her. It would cause a world of hurt—not just for him, not even just for her, but for their child. Warm and sweet as she was, Rosalie would inevitably end up offering him her heart, and he would just as inevitably break it, because he had no heart of his own to offer in return. And their child would be the one to suffer most from his parents’ unavoidable warring.
Alex’s own parents had hated each other. For the entirety of their marriage, they’d screamed at each other, threatening divorce. His mother had cried, throwing dishes and jewels—whatever was close to hand—whenever she caught his father in another affair with a trashy stripper. His father, for his part, yelled that his affairs were her fault, because she was a drunkard, a cold harpy without a soul. They’d both started divorce proceedings multiple times, holding splashy, emotional press conferences accusing each other of cruelty and adultery, before ultimately deciding to remain together, for the children. The newspapers had loved the Conte and Contessa di Rialto. Already renowned for their wealth and beauty, they’d become the Italian Liz Taylor and Richard Burton, infamous for their marital battles.
But the experience had been not so enjoyable for their children.
All that drama. All that emotion. Alex had heard his parents had loved each other passionately when they wed, before all their love turned to hatred, and their vows to broken promises.
He wanted no part of that life. He’d vowed to be different. And he was. He had rules. He was honorable. For the last three years, he’d made absolutely sure to keep every single promise he made. At any cost. It was better to have no emotion at all, than risk that kind of destructive chaos.
He never should have kissed her.
And now he was paying the price. As much as he’d wanted Rosalie before, after last night’s kiss on the railway platform, he could now think of nothing else but the sweet, hot fire of her lips. The desperate ache set his entire body aflame. He hungered for her like a starving man.
It had taken all Alex’s strength to leave Rosalie after their dinner last evening, bidding her good-night at the door of her compartment, with its large window and folded-down twin bed. She’d seemed shocked, even hurt, as he’d simply left her with nothing more than a courteous bow.
His sleep last night, in his lonely berth beneath the steady hum and shake of the train, had been troubled with sensual dreams. The next day, after brooding over a continental breakfast of hot coffee and orange juice and freshly baked croissants served in his compartment, Alex went to the restaurant car to meet Rosalie for lunch at noon, as they’d previously agreed.
Arriving first at the small table, Alex looked out at the magnificent view flying past the train windows as he waited for Rosalie. They’d left all the gray drizzle of Paris behind, and now he could see the green Alps and sparkling mountain lakes beneath a blue sky.
He could hear the excited, happy chatter of other Orient Express passengers, many of whom had booked this expensive trip to mark an important occasion. Half the couples around him seemed to be celebrating their wedding anniversary.
Feeling suddenly surly, Alex drank black coffee, bitter as the brew.
Looking up, he saw Rosalie in the doorway. She looked fresh and pretty, wearing a yellow sundress. Her dark hair flowed over her shoulders, and her long, tanned legs ended in open-toed sandals. People’s eyes turned to her, and he rose to his feet.
Smiling shyly, she came forward and let Alex help her into her chair. The waiter came to take her drink order. “Madame?”
“Orange juice,” she responded with a warm smile. “With ice, please.”
Not just the restaurant car, but the whole world seemed suddenly brighter to Alex as he looked at Rosalie’s beautiful face, listening as she exclaimed how much she loved the train, how well she’d slept last night, how breathtaking the view was outside.
Alex’s coffee no longer tasted bitter as he drank in his own view of her. His gaze traced down the curve of her cheek, to the edge of her chin, to her long, graceful neck.
“It’s a good thing I packed sundresses and not jeans.” Rosalie turned to him with smiling eyes. “Everyone is so dressed up—”
“You could wear anything or nothing,” he murmured, “and you’d still be the most beautiful woman here.”
Her smile faltered as electricity crackled between them. Their table for two was an island of sparks and fire, surrounded by the happy conversations, and beneath it all, the steady hum of the train.
“I’m glad you slept well.” Against his will, Alex leaned forward. “Did you dream?”
Rosalie’s cheeks turned pink, and she looked up with visible relief as the waiter appeared with her glass of orange juice. She seemed afraid to meet Alex’s eyes. Sipping her drink, she looked out at the sharp green mountains and vivid blue sky. Her hand seemed to tremble.
He was torturing her, Alex realized. Torturing them both. It was unfair, even cruel of him to ask about her dreams. Why had he told her she was beautiful? In this one case, honesty did not seem like the best policy. Especially since she seemed so innocent. He knew from her dossier that she was twenty-five. He wondered how many lovers she’d had. Perhaps only three? Four?
“Where are we now?” she asked him, lifting her glass to her lips. For a moment, he was distracted. Then he realized she was asking a literal question, not a metaphorical one.
“Austria, almost to the Italian border.” He tried to change the subject. “I have a second cousin who lives not too far from here, in the Italian Lake District.”
“A cousin!” Looking astonished, she set down her glass as the waiter served the first course of their lunch, braised artichokes à la barigoule served with hot, flaky rolls. “I didn’t know you had any family.”
“Family is relative,” he said grimly. He looked at her in surprise when he heard her snort.
“You made a joke,” she pointed out.
He rolled his eyes. “Hardly much of a joke.”
“True, but who am I to judge?” Taking a bite, she sighed in pleasure, then tilted her head. “What’s your cousin like?”
