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before God....

      Then He will forgive, for He knows how I hate you.

      We can go to marriage counseling. He’d reached for her, desperate. We can get past this.

      Her lip had curled. What will it take for you to let me go? She narrowed her eyes maliciously. Would you like to hear how long and hard Raoul loves me every time we meet, here and in Paris, all this past year, while you’ve been busy at your pathetic little hotel, trying to make something of yourself? Raoul loves me as you never will.

      Cesare had tried to cover his ears, but she’d told him, until he could bear it no longer and went back on everything he’d ever believed in. Fine, he told her grimly. I’ll give you your divorce.

      Twenty-four hours later, Angélique had returned from Buenos Aires and swallowed an entire bottle of pills. Cesare had been the one to find her. He’d found out later that Raoul Menendez was already long married. That he’d laughed in Angélique’s face when she’d shown up on his doorstep.

      So much for love.

      So much for marriage.

      Oh, my God. A cold sweat broke out on Cesare’s forehead as he remembered that panicked sense of failure and helplessness. The sheikh was right. A cage was exactly what marriage was.

      “Your bride is beautiful, of course,” the man murmured. “She would tempt any man.”

      Cesare looked up to see Emma floating by on the dance floor in the arms of Leonidas, his old friend and former wingman at London’s best nightclubs. The famous Greek playboy had a reputation even worse than Cesare’s. Emma’s beautiful face was laughing, lifted to the Greek’s admiring eyes. Cesare felt a surge of jealousy.

      Emma was his woman. His.

      “Ah. So lovely. Her long dark hair. Her creamy skin. And that figure...” The sheikh’s voice trailed off.

      “Don’t even think about it,” Cesare said dangerously.

      He held up his hands with a low laugh. “Of course. I sought merely to praise your taste in a wife. I would not think of attempting to sample her charms myself.”

      “Good,” he growled. “Then I won’t have to think of attempting to knock your head off your body.”

      The man eyed him, then shook his head with a rueful snort. “You have it badly, my friend.”

      “It?”

      “You’re in love with her.”

      “She’s the mother of my son,” Cesare replied sharply, as if that explained everything.

      “Naturally,” the other man said soothingly. But his black eyes danced, as if to say: you poor fool, you don’t even see how deeply your neck is in the noose.

      Reaching up his hand in an involuntary movement, Cesare loosened the tuxedo tie around his neck. Then he grabbed a glass from a passing waiter and gulped down an entire glass of Dom Perignon in one swallow before he said, “Excuse me.”

      “Of course.”

      Going to the other side of the dance floor, Cesare watched Emma dance. He saw the way her face glowed. Sì. Think of her. Beautiful. So strong and tender. It wouldn’t be so awful, would it, having her in his house?

      As long as they didn’t get too close.

      As long as he didn’t try to seduce her.

      That was the only way this convenient marriage would ever work. If they kept their distance, so she didn’t get any crazy ideas back about loving him. And he didn’t start thinking he needed her, or let his walls down.

      Vulnerability was weakness.

      Love was pain.

      Cesare’s face went hot as he remembered how he’d felt last year when she’d left him staring after her in the window like a fool. He’d been so sure she’d be back. That she wouldn’t be able to resist him.

      But she had. Very well.

      While he hadn’t even slept with another woman since their last night together, almost a year ago.

      How the world would laugh if they knew that little truth about Cesare Falconeri, the famous playboy. They would laugh—sì—they would, because it was pathetic. Fortunately he had no intention of sharing it with anyone. Not even Emma.

      He almost had, the first day they’d arrived here, when she’d been so strangely jealous of the silly blonde housekeeper. He’d almost told Emma the truth, but it had caught in his throat. He couldn’t let her know that secret. He would never allow himself to be that vulnerable to anyone ever again.

      You love her, the sheikh had accused. Cesare snorted. Love? Ridiculous. Love was a concept for idealistic young souls, the ones who thought lust was not a big enough word to describe their desire. He’d been that way once. He’d married his wife when he was young and stupid. He’d thought sex meant love. He’d learned his lesson well.

      Now his eyes narrowed as he watched Emma smile up encouragingly at Leonidas.

      Before he realized what he was doing, he was on the dance floor, breaking up their little duo. “I’d like to dance with my fiancée, if you don’t mind.”

      Emma had been in the middle of laughing but she looked at Cesare in surprise, as if, he thought grimly, she’d already forgotten his existence. As if she already suspected her power over him, and knew his weakness.

      Leonidas looked tempted to make some sarcastic remark, but at Cesare’s scowl, thought better of it. “Alas, my dear,” he sighed to Emma. “I must hand you over to this brute. You belong to him now.”

      She gave another low laugh, and it was all Cesare could do not to give the Greek shipping tycoon a good kick on the backside to help speed him off the dance floor. With narrowed eyes, he took Emma in his arms.

      “Having fun?” he growled as he felt her soft body against his, in her slinky gown of silver.

      “It’s been dreadful.” She peeked up at him. “I’m glad to see you. I know he’s your friend, but I didn’t think I could take much more. Thank you for saving me!”

      “Are you sure?” he said through gritted teeth. “The two of you seemed so cozy.”

      She blinked. “I was being nice to your friend.”

      “Not much nicer, I hope,” he ground out, “or I might have found the two of you making use of a guest bedroom!”

      “What’s gotten into you? You’re acting almost—”

      “Don’t say it,” he warned.

      She tossed her head. “Jealous!”

      Cesare set his jaw. “Tell me, what exactly was Leonidas saying that you found so charming?”

      Sparks were starting to illuminate her green eyes. “I’m not going to tell you.”

      He glared at her. “So you admit that you were flirting.”

      “I admit nothing. You are the one who said we shouldn’t ask each other questions!”

      “About the past, not the present!”

      “That’s fine for you, because as you well know, you are my only past, while your past could fill every bedroom in this mansion. And probably has!”

      Her voice caught, and for the first time he heard the ragged edge of repressed tears. He frowned down at her. When he spoke again, his voice was low, barely audible over the music. “What’s wrong?”

      “Other than you accusing me of flirting, while I torture myself with questions every time I meet one of your beautiful guests—wondering which ones you’ve slept with in the past? And suspecting—all of them!”

      Her voice broke. Her green eyes were luminous with unshed tears. He glanced around

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