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down her defences, discarding her arguments. And the trouble was she was so weak, so tempted, that it might actually work.
She turned away from him to take a few steadying breaths without him seeing how unsettled she was. In the darkness of the window she could see her reflection: a too pale face, wide eyes, and a tumble of long dark brown hair that fell nearly to her waist.
When Leo had shown up twenty minutes ago she’d been in yoga pants and a faded tee shirt, her face without a lick of make-up, her hair down. She’d been silently appalled. She’d always been careful that he saw only the woman she wanted him to—the woman the world saw: sexy, chic, professional, a little bit distant, a little bit cool. All their meetings had been stage-managed affairs; she’d swept into a restaurant or hotel room in full make-up, a sexy little negligee in her bag, insouciant and secure.
He’d never seen her like this: vulnerable, without the mask of make-up, the armour of designer clothes. He’d never seen her agitated and uncertain, her savoir-faire slipping from her fingers.
‘Margo,’ Leo said quietly. ‘Tell me the real reason.’
Another quick breath, buoying inside her lungs. ‘I told you, Leo. I don’t want marriage or what it entails. The whole housewife routine bores me to death.’ She made her voice cold—careless, even.
Steeling herself, she turned around to face him and nearly flinched at the careful consideration in his eyes. She had a horrible feeling she wasn’t fooling him at all.
‘I just said you don’t need to be a housewife. Do you think I want to change you completely?’
‘You don’t even know me, Leo, not really.’
He took a step towards her, and again she saw that intent in his eyes, felt an answering flare inside her. She had, she realised, just given him a challenge.
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘I’m not talking about sex.’
‘What don’t I know, then?’ He spread his hands wide, his eyebrows raised. ‘Tell me.’
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘Because you don’t want it to be. I know you, Margo. I know your feet get cold in the middle of the night and you tuck them between my legs to keep them warm. I know you like marshmallows even though you pretend you don’t eat any sweets.’
She almost laughed at that. ‘How do you know about the marshmallows?’ Her dirty little secret, when it seemed as if every other woman in Paris was stick-thin and ate only lettuce leaves and drank black coffee.
‘I found a little bag of them in your handbag once.’
‘You shouldn’t have been looking through my things.’
‘I was fetching your reading glasses for you, if you remember.’
She shook her head—an instinctive response, because all those little details that he’d lobbed at her like well-aimed missiles were making her realise how intimate her relationship with Leo really had been. She’d thought she’d kept her distance, armoured herself—the elegant Marguerite Ferrars, keeping their assignations in anonymous places. But in truth reality had seeped through. Emotion had too, as well as affection, with the glasses and the marshmallows and the cold feet. Little signs of how close they’d become, how much he’d begun to mean to her.
And she saw all too clearly how he would chip away at her defences now—how he would seduce her with knowing words and touches until she’d say yes. Of course she’d say yes. Because she was already more than halfway to loving him.
For a second—no more—Margo thought about actually accepting his proposal. Living a life she’d never thought to have, had made herself never want. A life of happiness but also of terrible risk. Risk of loss, of hurt, of heartbreak. Of coming apart so she’d never put the pieces of her soul back together again.
Reality returned in a cold rush and she shook her head. ‘No, Leo.’
That faint smile had returned, although his eyes looked hard. ‘Just like that?’
‘Just like that.’
‘You don’t think I—we—deserve more explanation?’
‘Not particularly.’ She’d made her voice indifferent, maybe too much, because anger flashed in his eyes, turning the silver to grey.
He cocked his head, his gaze sweeping slowly over her. ‘I think you’re hiding something from me.’
She gave a scoffing laugh. ‘You would.’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘You can’t believe I’m actually turning you down, can you?’ The words tumbled out of her, fuelled by both anger and fear. ‘You—the Lothario who has had half the single women in Europe.’
‘I wouldn’t go quite that far. Forty per cent, maybe.’
There was the charm, almost causing her to lose that needed edge of fury, to smile. ‘No woman has ever resisted you.’
‘You didn’t,’ he pointed out, with what Margo knew was deceptive mildness.
‘Because I wanted a fling,’ she declared defiantly. ‘Sex without strings.’
‘We never actually said—’
‘Oh, but we did, Leo. Don’t you remember that first conversation? We set out the rules right then.’
She saw a glimmer of acknowledgement in his eyes, and his mouth hardened into a thin line.
It had been an elaborate dance of words, their talk of business concerns and obligations, veiled references to other places, other people—every careful remark setting out just what their affair would and wouldn’t be. Both of them, Margo had thought, had been clear about their desire for a commitment-free relationship.
‘I didn’t think you wanted to get married,’ she said.
Leo shrugged. ‘I decided I did.’
‘But you didn’t at the beginning, when we met. You weren’t interested then.’ She’d felt his innate sense of distance and caution, the same as her own. They had, she’d thought, been speaking the same language, giving the code words for no commitment, no love, no fairytales.
‘People change, Margo. I’m thirty-two. You’re twenty-nine. Of course I’d think of settling down...starting a family.’
Something clanged hard inside her; she felt as if someone had pulled the chair out from under her and she’d fallen right onto the floor.
‘Well, then, that’s where we differ, Leo,’ she stated, her voice thankfully cool. ‘I don’t want children.’
His eyebrows drew together at that. ‘Ever?’
‘Ever.’
He stared at her for a long, considering moment. ‘You’re scared.’
‘Stop telling me what I feel,’ she snapped, raising her voice to hide its tremble. ‘And get over yourself. I’m not scared. I just don’t want what you want. I don’t want to marry you.’ She took a breath, and then plunged on recklessly. ‘I don’t love you.’
He tensed slightly, almost as if her words had hurt him, and then he shrugged. ‘I don’t love you. But there are better bases for a marriage than that ephemeral emotion.’
‘Such as?’
‘Common goals—’
‘How romantic you are,’ she mocked.
‘Did you want more romance? Would that have made a difference?’
‘No!’
‘Then I’m glad I didn’t wine and dine you at Gavroche, as I was considering, and propose