The paps turned to catch the pictures of him getting out of the car with another guy.
“Rafael di Santo,” Julie breathed. “Wow.”
Theresa glanced at the man with Emile. He was playing to the cameras, with a wide, flashy smile, but her gaze was drawn back to Emile’s stern face. His eyes held hers, and she shivered under their grim intensity. He gave a slight nod.
Game on.
He pushed through the crowd of photographers and reporters, ignoring all the lenses and microphones shoved in his direction, mounted the steps three at a time, and grabbed her hand to pull her into the registry office. Theresa barely had a chance to check that Julie and Rafael were following.
Once they were safely inside, he paused. Theresa searched his face, checking for last minute nerves. Emile shook his head and laid his hand on her cheek.
“Are you okay?”
She frowned. There was no way she was admitting to the doubts she’d had. She’d made her decision. Now they just had to see it through. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“The crowd out there.” He gestured with his other hand. “They can be daunting if you’re not used to it.”
Oh. It was nice of him to care, but she didn’t need a guardian angel. “I’m fine. We just ignored them.”
“Good.” He smiled at her and she felt her lips curve in automatic response. Then he let his gaze drop, examining her in a way that reminded her all too vividly of their first night together.
“White, hm?” He tweaked her dress gently between his fingers.
She smiled. “My mother wouldn’t think I was properly married if I’d worn anything else.”
The ceremony was swift and emotionless. She’d chosen the blandest vows available, which hardly committed them to anything. No loving, cherishing, honoring, or obeying for either of them. Just a simple promise to be husband and wife. Not forever or until death. They both knew that would be a lie. The registrar announced their marriage and Emile kissed her cheek as briefly as it was possible for him to do so.
She took his hand and remembered to smile when she turned to face Julie and Rafael. They signed their names and waited while their witnesses did their bit. It hardly seemed possible that their marriage was as real as the ones with all the flashy ceremony and heartfelt vows. But the marriage license said otherwise, and in the eyes of the law, that was all that mattered.
Emile escorted her out onto the steps where they posed briefly for the photographers. Theresa panicked when one of the reporters called out for a picture of her ring. Emile simply picked up her hand and bent her over his arm into a deep kiss. Keeping his hand clasped in hers and ignoring every microphone thrust in their direction, he led her over to his car.
“Where to?”
“What about the others?” Theresa looked back at Julie and Rafael, marooned in a sea of journalists.
“Raf will get her out okay. Don’t worry about it.” He eased the car effortlessly out of the tight parking space and into the traffic.
“Who is he?”
His lips twitched. “A teammate.”
“Oh, right. That’s why Julie recognized him.”
“She likes football?”
“Her brother does. He supports Woolwich.”
“Good. Where are we going?”
He was already driving away from the crowds of journalists. “A ring shop, I suppose.”
“Have you eaten?”
There was the flash of tenderness again. She hadn’t expected him to be so thoughtful. “I had coffee.” She’d been too tense for anything more.
He muttered something in French, and Christ, that got sexier every time.
Tonight, she told herself firmly. There were things she had to do first and she might as well get the worst of them over with.
Theresa extracted her phone from her bag. “Excuse me.”
“Who are you calling?”
“No one. I’m texting my parents.”
Emile swerved and brought the car to a halt. He turned to face her, incredulity blazing from every pore. “You’re telling your parents by text?”
“I thought they should know before they see the pictures in the papers tomorrow.”
“Our engagement was in the papers.”
“Not in the kind of papers they read. But someone is bound to recognize me from those photos and pass it on.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “You’re crazy.”
“I know. That’s why you married me.”
“No, I married you because I am crazy.”
Her fingers typed the message with practiced ease: Off shelf. See you on Saturday.
“Have you told your parents?” she asked as she pressed send.
“My mother died last year.”
She could hear the grief still present in his voice. “I’m so sorry, Emile. I didn’t know.”
He shrugged, but his hands were still curled into tense fists. “Everyone else in the world knows. It’s all in the public domain. In the papers, on the Internet.”
Theresa put her hand on his cheek. “I’m sorry, Emile.” She’d already said it once, but she didn’t know what else to say.
“You know, it would make this much easier if you just Googled me.”
“Right.” She took her hand away. Warned off. Clearly, he wanted to keep the emotional barriers up just as much as she did. “I’ll do that. I’m afraid you won’t find much about me online, but if there’s anything you want to know, you can just ask.”
“I’ll do that.”
Her phone rang and she checked the screen. “It’s Mum. I’d better answer it.”
He nodded. “Tell me your address, and I’ll drive while you’re talking.”
“We aren’t going to my house, are we?”
“You need to change.”
“Excuse me?”
He gestured vaguely in her direction. “Your dress. It is…ah…noticeable.”
“That’s true.” She’d chosen a knee length dress with a fitted bodice and a full skirt emphasized by layers of tulle. It couldn’t be anything other than a wedding dress, especially when paired with white heels and a white rose tucked into her hair.
“I’ll take you home to change and then we’ll have lunch and buy you a ring.”
“Great. Thanks.” She gave him the postcode to put in his satnav, then pressed the button on her phone and took a deep breath. “Hi, Mum.”
Chapter Four
The satnav took him to a pretty street in north London, and Theresa pointed out the small terraced house that was hers.
“You live alone?” he asked.
“I don’t like to share.” She unlocked the door and let him in. “Sit down. I’ll only be a few minutes.” Theresa gestured towards the small sitting room. Emile nodded and watched her run up the narrow staircase. She had beautiful ankles. Incredible arse, too, from what he remembered. Sadly, the full skirt on her white dress hid most of it. It did pretty amazing things to her breasts, though.
The sitting room was comfortable enough, though tiny by comparison to his own apartment, but there was nothing homely about it. The shelves on either side of the mantelpiece mostly held large legal books and piles of papers. A few CD cases sat beside an elderly stereo system. The curtains were two inches shorter than the windows, as if they’d been made for another home, and no one had bothered to alter them here. A few photographs in frames and a couple of nice prints brightened up the beige walls, and a striped rug hid most of the worn carpet. Everything was clean and functional, if distinctly shabby and unfashionable. He wandered through to the kitchen and found the same again: scrupulously clean, very functional, deeply unfashionable with dark oak everywhere and flower patterns on the tiles.