“No, not bad.” She’d followed him into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, watching him. “I was surprised how much I enjoyed it, to be honest. I didn’t expect to get caught up in it at all.”
“But you did?”
She paused, forehead wrinkled in thought. “Yes. I don’t know why.”
“The crowds.” It was overwhelming if you weren’t used to it. Impossible to stay disinterested amongst all that partisan enthusiasm and despair.
“I was pleased you won.”
“Good.” He handed her a glass of wine and sipped his own.
“I mean, I don’t care whether Woolwich win. But I wanted you to win.”
“Thank you.” He leaned over to brush a kiss on her lips.
“Your goals were good.”
He smiled. “Goals are always good.”
“I suppose so. But some are more impressive than others.”
“You were impressed, chérie?”
“Yes, all right. I was impressed. You were very good.”
He put down his glass and removed hers from her hands. Then he pulled her towards him, securing her with his arms around her waist.
“Say that again.”
She sighed. “I didn’t have you down as the insecure type who needs an ego-stroking.”
He laughed. “I didn’t, either, but I find I like it when you compliment me.”
“On your ball skills?”
He caught her eye, and they both collapsed with laughter. Emile pulled her against him, leaning his arm around her shoulders and dropping a kiss on her cheek.
Funny, clever, and sexy.
He wasn’t at all sure he could spend the next year with her and not lose at least a little bit of his heart to her.
Chapter Six
She’d expected to enjoy this moment, but she hadn’t realized just how glorious it would be. Emile had gone all out, with tight, ripped jeans, a white t-shirt that clung softly to his chest, and a battered, black leather jacket. His hair was rumpled around his collar and his unshaven jaw gave his uncivilized appearance a decidedly dangerous edge. Theresa was having trouble keeping her hands off him.
Her mother didn’t know where to look.
Melanie had offered to take his coat. Theresa watched him shrug it off his shoulders and let it slowly slide down. He’d winked at her mother as he hung the jacket from one finger and held it out for her to take. Which she did, flushing bright red. And then Emile leaned forward, bent his head, and deliberately pressed a kiss on each cheek.
“Pleased to meet you,” he murmured in that husky voice of his. “Maman.”
Theresa smothered her laugh.
“Yes. Well, you’d better come through.”
Melanie led the way through to the sitting room. Emile hooked an arm around Theresa’s waist to hold her back in the hall. She looked up at him, wondering what he wanted to say. He grinned, took her face in his hands, and kissed her until she’d forgotten that she was in her parents’ house, with her parents in the next room. Her hands slid into his waistband and she pulled him closer, loving the feel of his stubbled jaw against her skin.
He let her go abruptly, so that her cheeks were still warm and her mind whirling when she followed him into the sitting room. Her mother’s disapproving glance indicated that she knew exactly what they’d been doing. Her father put down his newspaper, got to his feet, and smiled at her.
“Well, love. Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
Emile chose that moment to rest his hand against the small of her back. She bit back her gasp. “Yes. Sorry, Dad. This is Emile Renaud. My husband.”
Her father shook hands with Emile. “In the old days, men used to ask permission from a girl’s father before they married her.”
“Dad!”
He shrugged. “Theresa’s never needed my permission to do what she wants, and if she wanted to marry you, I daresay she had her reasons.”
“Ian, see to the drinks.” Melanie’s arms were folded defensively across her chest. “Theresa, sit down.” She didn’t look at Emile, but gestured vaguely in his direction. Theresa went to sit in the old brown leather armchair nearest the fireplace but Emile was there before her. He pulled her into his lap and arranged her so that she was leaning against his shoulder. One of his hands rested between her thighs, anchoring her in place. Theresa began to fiddle with the sleeve of his T-shirt, making sure to give her mother a glimpse of the tattoo underneath.
“Sherry?” Ian asked. “Or perhaps a gin and tonic?”
“The champagne, Ian. It’s in the fridge.”
Of course. As much as she hated every moment, Melanie would still make sure there was champagne to celebrate. She knew what was appropriate, and she’d want to be able to tell her friends from the golf club how delighted they were and how wonderful it had been to meet their new son-in-law.
“No, honestly,” Theresa imagined her protesting. “He’s very... French. And it’s just nice to see Theresa settled at last. She always was her own person. Very independent. No, of course we knew. Yes, well, Ian really prefers rugby, but Emile’s very bright for a footballer. French, of course, but then we’re all Europeans these days, aren’t we? I expect we’ll holiday in France with them, and it will be so nice for the grandchildren to be bilingual.” That would score her some points, even if there were a few raised eyebrows at Emile for other reasons.
Emile took two flutes from the tray that Ian offered and handed one to Theresa. He murmured, “Mon ange,” then kissed her before draining his glass.
In for a penny, in for a pound. Theresa followed his example, taking a kiss and then drinking her champagne in one gulp. Gratifyingly, when she looked around, her mother’s mouth was open and her hand held a glass paused midway to her mouth and tipped at a precarious angle. People did not normally kiss in Melanie Chartley’s sitting room, or drink champagne as if it were cheap lemonade, or sit on each other’s laps, with hands in intimate places.
“Theresa Chartley!”
“Here we go,” she muttered to Emile.
But he wasn’t listening. “I think you mean Thérèse Renaud,” he said gently. “She is my wife now, is she not?”
Theresa drew in a sharp breath at Emile’s assumption of her changed name. That was an argument that could wait for later.
“Is she?” Melanie shot a piercing look at her daughter. “I don’t suppose I’m lucky enough that this is all an elaborate hoax?”
Theresa held up her left hand. “Rings to prove it. I’m sorry I didn’t think to put a copy of the marriage certificate in my bag. I’ll email it later.”
“I just don’t understand you. Why would you get married in such a hurry? You’re not pregnant, are you?”
She bit back a laugh. “What makes you think I’d get married just because I was pregnant?”
“Theresa!”
“Fine. No, I’m not. As far as I know.”
Emile helpfully put his hand on her stomach and caressed it. “Not yet, chérie.”
“Well, that’s something, I suppose. But in that case, why couldn’t you have waited and had a proper wedding?”
Theresa shrugged. “We wanted it to be as small and low key as possible. We didn’t invite any of Emile’s family, either.” Never mind that Emile didn’t actually have any family. “We just wanted it to be about the two of us.”