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He stared at her as if she were dirt—and didn’t even look at the baby who’d traveled five thousand miles to meet him. With a trembling breath, she looked up at him.
“Let me make myself clear in a way that even your huge ego won’t misunderstand.” Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t want to marry you. I hate you.”
Théo stared at her.
“Hate,” she emphasized.
Setting his jaw, he shook his head in disbelief. “Then why would you come here?”
She lifted her chin. “Because I thought even a bastard like you deserved to meet his child. When you sent your bodyguard to collect me like that I assumed you’d heard about our baby. What else would you want from me?”
He looked down at her, his black eyes like fire. Then, with a low growl, he grabbed her free arm. Pulling her down the hallway, he led her out through the back door.
Outside in the moonlight she saw the shadows of trees stretching up into the violet sky. In the garden, a table for two was lit by white candles. Dozens of roses surrounded the table.
“For this,” he said harshly.
Shocked, Carrie took in the romantic scene, her eyes wide. She looked back at him. “You intended to seduce me?” she breathed.
Théo’s eyes were pools of molten heat. “Yes.”
A cold chill of fury went down her spine. She swept her arm toward the table. “You thought this was all it would take? That I would fall instantly into your bed?”
He came closer to her, his black eyes searing hers. “Yes.”
Her skin felt warm all over, being this near to him. She shivered as memories raced through her.
He’d swept her off her feet in a whirlwind affair. On their third date, a week after they’d met, he’d whisked her to his château via private jet and seduced her. But after the weekend was over he’d sent her back to Seattle, alone. Two weeks later he’d come back to the Emerald City for business and invited her to his downtown hotel.
She’d gone so eagerly. She almost wept to remember it now. She’d rushed to his penthouse suite like a girl whose sailor had just come into port.
He hadn’t sent for her now in order to finally meet Henry. All Théo wanted was a booty call—and he’d had her delivered to his house like a pizza. Racked with pain, she closed her eyes.
She felt his hand on her shoulder. Spreading his fingers wide, he stroked the bare skin of her collarbone and neck.
Carrie’s eyes flew open. She jerked away so fast that Henry gave a startled cry.
“I brought my baby across the world for you, and all you’ve done is insult me—and reject him.” She blinked back tears. She would not cry in front of him, she would not. “Thank you, Théo, for setting me free. As of this moment, I no longer consider you Henry’s father.”
His eyebrows lowered into a furious scowl. “Carrie—”
“Once I would have given you everything,” she whispered. She lifted her chin and her eyes glittered in the moonlight. “Now…you will have nothing.”
CHAPTER TWO
THÉO St. Raphaël had learned long ago how destructive the idea of love could be.
Love was a pretty fantasy, in his opinion. And yet it ruined real lives—especially when children were involved. A man and woman would imagine themselves in love, and in the throes of passion decide to have a child; but then just as quickly, after the baby was born, they’d realize they weren’t in love after all, and go elsewhere looking for that passionate, all-consuming fantasy. Leaving a young child without a real home, living with stepparents and half-siblings like a third wheel or a poor relation, tolerated at best.
When the love that created a child died, that child would never feel really home—anywhere in the world.
Not that Théo knew the feeling, of course. It was true his aristocratic French father and young American mother had divorced when he was eight, but he remembered that as a blessing. They’d fought constantly—his father cruel and sarcastic, his mother weeping helplessly—when they’d once been desperately in love.
As a child, he’d felt relieved when they’d finally split—his father to Paris, his mother to Chicago—and started shuttling their only son between them. His mother had quickly married again and soon had new children, another family. She was now on her fourth husband, while Théo’s father had simply given up the idea of marriage and instead kept mistresses half his age.
Love was a narcotic, Théo thought, that barely lasted longer than a cigarette. Who would be foolish enough to base marriage on such a feeling? A marriage, a home, should be run like a business. It deserved to be treated with the same care.
He’d always assumed that sometime around the age of forty—four years from now—he would select a woman to be his wife based upon her intelligence, beauty and her capacity for child-rearing, and initiate a merger. They both would enjoy the strengths of a solid home, assets such as companionship, partnership and sex. There would be no talk of love, an emotion no one could quantify and which would inevitably evaporate like smoke.
