Tomorrow, whatever happened, he’d take her back to their spot on the beach and open his heart to her. He hadn’t been brave enough last time, just before the first match. He didn’t think he could have borne it if she’d walked away. Or worse if she’d stayed out of pity. But tomorrow, he’d tell her everything. He’d take that awful cheap ring off her finger and give her the one he’d brought from London.
He’d give it to her on the beach and tell her it was forever. For him, it was forever. He thought she felt the same. Sometimes he was almost sure of it. When she gave him that look, the one that said she thought he was crazy but she was prepared to live with it, then his heart told him he was right. She loved him like he loved her. He didn’t have to understand her world to know that he loved the woman that she was. He loved her confidence and the way it extended to him. She believed in him and she made him want to live up to her expectations. He had plans to talk to her more about the pile of money building up. She’d challenged him to do something worthwhile with it, and he’d taken that challenge to heart over the last few months. He had various schemes in mind, but he wanted to do it right, and for that, he needed Theresa’s guidance. She’d know how to set things up legally and how to make sure his plans helped the people who really needed it.
He felt calmer when he left the bathroom, a towel tucked around his hips. Theresa was still in bed, but she had coffee and she looked adorable with the white sheet tucked under her elbows.
“Is there some for me?”
She nodded towards the table in the corner. “Room service brought breakfast. Are you hungry?”
“No.” He could never eat when he was nervous.
“Have something anyway.”
He picked up a pastry and brought it over to the bed without a plate.
“You’ll get crumbs everywhere.”
He shrugged. “That’s what housekeeping is for.”
She rolled her eyes.
“You will be there tonight?”
“Actually, I was thinking I needed a night in. Maybe I’ll watch a chick flick and eat ice cream, since you’re going to be out.”
“Ha ha.” He crumbled more of the pastry and hoped she hadn’t noticed that he wasn’t eating it.
“Of course I’ll be there. Are you going to eat any of that?”
He sighed and tossed the remnants of the pastry onto the bedside table. “No.”
“What time do you have to be at training?”
“Not till ten.”
“We could go for a walk, if you like.”
“Don’t you have to work?” he teased.
“It can wait until later.”
…
They walked along the beach, in the opposite direction from ‘their’ spot. Emile held her hand lightly, swinging their arms together, as if they were children without a care in the world. Maybe it helped him feel relaxed. Every so often, he squeezed her hand or paused to look out at the sea. They barely spoke.
At one point, they stopped to watch a group of young boys kicking a ball about on the beach.
“Are they any good?” Theresa asked.
Emile observed them for a few minutes. They’d put down shirts to make goal posts and started a proper match. “They have the heart for the game. That is the most important thing.”
She slid her arm around his waist. “You know, whatever happens, I’m proud of you.”
He looked down at her in surprise. “Proud, chérie?”
“You went after your dream, and you made it. Not many people can say that.”
“I have been lucky.”
She shook her head. “I’ve seen how hard you’ve worked. It’s not luck that you’re fit enough to play.”
He drew her into his arms and pressed a kiss against her forehead. “Thank you. It means a lot to me.”
Eventually, they returned to the hotel, surprised to find its entrance blocked by a sea of journalists.
“Who do you think they’re after?” she asked Emile.
“No idea. Let’s just push through them and get upstairs. Don’t let go of my hand.” He pulled her toward the edge of the crowd and dodged the first rank of photographers. Then Theresa heard some shouting, and suddenly, the massed crowds turned on her and Emile, surrounding them with flashing lights. So many of them were yelling questions at the same time that she couldn’t work out what they were saying.
Crowded against her was Emile, grim and silent.
“Do you know what this is about?”
He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Someone’s leaked the story about our marriage.”
She stared at him. After all this time, it had never occurred to her that their false relationship would be exposed. Who could have told? Julie was the only person who knew, and Theresa trusted her completely.
“What do we do?”
Emile whipped out his phone and made a call. “The manager is sending a car for me. I’ll go straight to the training ground. They can’t get to me there.”
She nodded. “What about me?”
He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Come on. I’ll get you inside.”
There wasn’t time to think. He simply scooped her up and hefted her over his shoulder. Clinging on for dear life, Theresa had no idea how he managed to force his way through the crowd. As soon as they had clear ground inside the foyer, he set her on her feet.
“Go up to our room and stay there,” he ordered, then strode off to the concierge, who immediately signaled to a security guy and had him led away, presumably to a back exit.
“Mrs. Renaud? Can you tell us how you met your husband?”
“Was it Internet dating?”
“Did the club offer you a bribe?”
“No!” She’d replied to their increasingly outrageous questions without thinking, then watched in horror as hundreds more reporters surged towards her. She turned on her heel and ran for the elevators, flinging herself into one whose doors were just shutting.
What the hell had just happened?
She grabbed her laptop and opened up the Internet browser. Two clicks and she’d found the story. One of the British papers had run the headline that morning. She’d bet they’d been saving it up for today, anything to put their French opponents off their game.
Renaud Ordered To Marry, Says Ex
French Striker in False Wedding Scandal
He Bought Himself A Bride
Prada was having her day in the spotlight. All the papers showed old pictures of her with Emile, hanging on his arm and gazing up at him adoringly, if a little bit vacantly. Theresa, meanwhile, was shown entering her office building wearing a dark grey suit and glaring at someone just beyond the camera, in a picture she had no memory of being taken. Like the headlines, the story was a vicious mixture of half-truths, unfabricated rumors, and malicious lies. But at the heart of it, there was the indisputable fact that she and Emile had barely known each other when their engagement was announced.
“I knew as soon as I heard it that Emile had been bullied into it by his club,” Prada had said. “We’d been talking about marriage, but I wasn’t respectable enough for Thomas Gatz. He never approved of me. That’s why we broke up in the first place, but Emile wanted me back.”
Theresa could feel her bile rising. She pushed it back and carried on reading.
“I don’t know where he got her from. She just turned up out of the blue after he had the brawl with Ernestinho. I don’t know if he found her online.”