Page 44 of The Billionaire's Seduction Revenge

“I’m not saying I want to,” she murmured. “Just that it feels weird to leave him in hospital while we gallivant around the city and he has no idea about any of it.”

“Then would you prefer we sit in the waiting room?”

“I didn’t say that either,” she groaned, frustration evident in her voice.

Vasilios laughed.

“You’re teasing me?”

“You’re fun to tease.”

Emma’s first response was one of annoyance but then she smiled, relaxing a little, finally. “Costa’s fine. We’re fine. This is not a big deal, Emma. We’re just two people spending a day together in Paris.Si?”

“Si,” she agreed, and lifted up onto the tips of her toes so she could kiss him, and at the moment their lips met, it was as though a blade of lightning speared through her, making her aware of every single molecule in the universe, every fragrance, every bead of light, every smile and sorrow. She pulled apart quickly and looked down the street. “So? Where are we going first?”

Taking his cue from her—which Emma appreciated as further evidence that he was not at all controlling in the ways Jack had been—he gestured to their left. “This way.”

Paris was beautiful. Wide streets with cobbled footpaths, art nouveau lamp posts, and filled with elegant Parisians, the city was no less charming for having a lingering scent of stale cigarette smoke and rubbish. It was a warm day, and as they came closer to the Eiffel tower, tourists were everywhere, but Emma didn’t mind. If anything, it made it so much easier to be anonymous with Vasilios, to lose themselves in a sea of humanity.

Though she was sure it wasn’t of any interest to Vasilios, either because he’d done it before or because he was too European to get suckered in by tourist traps, he nonetheless had arranged for them to travel to the top of the tower and Emma was so gratified. It wasn’t something she’d ever really thought of doing, but once they were at the very highest level, she could have wept for the beauty and perfection of the moment. People were everywhere but she was only aware of Vasilios.

He bought them each a cold drink which they enjoyed as Emma marvelled at the view and asked lots of questions about the various landmarks and streets.

Vasilios had an answer for all of them.

“How do you know all this?” She asked with a shake of her head.

“My mother was French.”

Emma startled. It was somehow such an important biographical detail and yet he’d never mentioned it. That there was something so relevant that she didn’t know about Vasilios made her feel strangely hurt, and she had to give herself a stern talking to. After all, why should she know something like that?

Why should she care?

“Did you come here often?”

“From time to time. My maternal grandmother lived here, in a little apartment nearsacre coeur.”

“You speak French,” she said, not a question, because she remembered him saying as much when they’d first met.

“Oui.”

“It’s funny, I think of you as so very Italian, but you’re not, really.”

His hand was around her shoulders and now he let his fingers glide down her arm, sending goosebumps in the wake of his touch. It was so light, nothing at all really, but there was a promise in it that set her soul on fire. Suddenly, she couldn’t wait to be back in Puglia, with the freedom to strip their clothes away and be together.

Heat flushed her cheeks and when she glanced as Vasilios, she suspected he knew the direction of her thoughts, or perhaps that they perfectly answered his, because there was fire in his eyes and it leaped all the way into her veins.

“Want to get out of here?”

She did.

At the bottom of the Eiffel Tower, Emma was breathless. “And now?”

He looked around, pulling her with him, to a long stretch of bright green grass that almost seemed to glow in the sunshine. They stopped for an ice cream then found a spot of lawn in a secluded area, with a row of trees almost boxing them in. Vasilios sat with his legs in front of him, one arm resting on the grass, so it was easy for Emma to sit beside him, to rest her head on his shoulder as she ate, close enough to his chest to feel the echo of his beating heart, and it seemed to drum completely in time with her own.

“Your mother,” Emma said quietly. “How did she die?”

She felt Vasilios stiffen. Clearly, it was a painful subject for him and Emma knew she should say something, to offer him a chance not to answer, but a hint of selfishness triumphed and she stayed quiet, waiting. Wondering if he would answer, or find a way to skate around the subject.

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