Baptiste’s expression was, thankfully, several degrees warmer than it had been a few minutes ago, and it downright smoldered as he gripped Samira’s shoulders and leaned in to give her the same double-cheeked kiss with which he greeted all women.

“You’re exquisite, ma reine,” he said for her alone as his lips brushed past her ear.

Like that, the sickening weight of anxiety on her chest eased back, allowing her lungs to expand and contract again.

“And you look good enough to eat,” she murmured.

Color raced up his neck and flooded his cheeks as he pulled back, taking his time about letting her bare arms slide out of his grasp. His lingering sidelong look promised another night of ecstasy, but he behaved himself and turned to Melody.

“You look very pretty.” He kissed both her cheeks. “And let us hope you don’t get any, ah, emergency calls tonight to take you away from us.”

“You just never know,” Melody said, laughing.

“Don’t hog all the beautiful women for yourself.” Sexy Latin Guy edged forward, elbowed Baptiste and smoothed his jacket. “You shouldn’t be so greedy.”

Whoa. Samira was all about Baptiste these days, but she was still female, and males like this didn’t come across her path every day. Or even every year.

He was tall, like Baptiste. Broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, with another stunning custom tux. But his light-colored eyes provided a startling contrast to his olive skin and curly brown hair and sideburns, and his bone structure had clearly been engineered by Michelangelo in between carving other works of art. Dark brows, heavy and slashing. A long blade of a nose. Harsh cheekbones and a square chin with a notch in it. Full lips that seemed quick to curl into an easy smile.

“Samira Palmer, this is Domenico Grassi, but we call him Nick.” Baptiste heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I have had the great misfortune to know him since his fed-up parents shipped him to boarding school and I was forced to room with him. He is entirely without redeeming value. Interact with him at your own risk.”

Nick’s wide grin rivaled Sophia Loren’s in terms of wattage and star power.

Samira felt a bit dazzled as he kissed her. “Nick, you can do better than this guy in the friend department,” she said, jerking a thumb at Baptiste.

“Sadly, I cannot.” Nick’s lyrical accent, in that deep voice, damn near made both women swoon. Cannot became cannot-a. Samira and Melody shot quick grins at each other, trying not to simper as Nick kissed Melody. “But he insults me with deep love and affection, no? Samira, now that I see you, I understand why Baptiste refuses to come home—”

“Nick…” Baptiste said, his ears turning bright red.

“—and tries to keep you away from me.” Nick reached for Samira’s hand and kept it firmly between his own. “He knows no woman alive wants a Frenchman when she could have an Italian.”

“And this is how he behaves with a woman I’ve said is off-limits,” Baptiste said darkly, edging between Samira and Nick and causing Nick to let her go. “Melody Harrison, say the word and I’ll tell him that you are also off-limits.”

“I’m sure I’m perfectly safe with Nick,” Melody said, laughing.

Nick’s grin turned wolfish and triumphant. He smirked at Baptiste, who had to chuckle and shake his head, then focused on Melody. “So you’ll dance with me later?”

“Absolutely,” Melody said.

“Bene,” said Nick.

“And this is…” Baptiste held out an arm, trailing off when he realized that Sexy Blond Guy was hunched against a pillar several feet away, with his ankles crossed and his hands jammed deep into his pockets. Baptiste loudly cleared his throat; Sexy Blond Guy started, looked up, realized all eyes were on him and stood up straight. “Do you want to join us, or do you want to continue being rude?”

Sexy Blond Guy started over, which gave Samira the chance to check him out. It was hard to see past the scowl, which seemed to take up most of his face, but it turned out he was handsome enough to hold his own with the other two.

His hair was short and severe, with strawberry highlights that almost turned the gold to red. His pale skin had the ruddy weathering and interesting lines bracketing his mouth and fanning out from the corners of his eyes that were dead giveaways that he spent more than his fair share of time in the sun. Taller and lankier than the others, he kept his head ducked and didn’t seem eager to look any of them in the eye, although his eyes, Samira realized, were a bright and startling shade. Probably blue.

“Could you try to be more pleasant?” Baptiste asked him.

“I’ll try.” Sexy Blond Guy had a surprisingly deep and resonant voice, but it was clipped. Bored. His sound was something like Benedict Cumberbatch as Sherlock Holmes, and it wasn’t hard to imagine him performing on audiobooks for, say, British espionage stories. “I’m not very good at these events, I’m afraid.”

“He’s a Brit,” Nick said apologetically. “They show no emotions, ever. What can you do?”

“Don’t start, you two,” Baptiste said, dividing his glare between his friends. “I’d prefer for Samira to think I have nice friends. Anthony Scott, meet Samira Palmer and Melody Harrison.”

“How do you do?” Quick nod and handshake for Samira. “Pleasure.”

“Great to meet you,” Samira said.

He turned to Melody. Hesitated. Nodded.

Shook her hand.

“Nice to meet you,” Melody said.

No response from Anthony for several long beats. Then he blinked.

“Pleasure,” he said curtly.

After that, all the air seemed to go out of the room.

“So,” Melody said after an uncomfortable pause, encompassing all the men in her smiling gaze. “I have one dance partner for later, thanks to Nick. Who else is with me?”

“I am, as long as Samira can spare me,” Baptiste said. “She’s so easily eaten alive by jealousy. You understand.”

“You wish,” Samira said, trying to stifle her grin and grateful that the lighting hid her burning cheeks.

Melody looked to Anthony. “What about you?”

“You’ll have to make do without me,” Anthony said flatly. “I don’t dance.”

“You don’t dance?” Melody made a face and rolled her eyes. “Well, there’s a surprise.”

“Mel…” Samira said, shooting her a warning look.

But Mel’s chin was already up—the worst possible sign of impending bad behavior— and Anthony was frowning down at her.

“Pardon me?” he asked.

“The life of the party, such as yourself?” Melody asked sweetly. “Hard to believe you don’t enjoy dancing.”

He stared down at Melody, possibly deciding which of her limbs he wanted to dismember first.

“You might want to try dancing, Anthony,” Baptiste said. “Samira and I danced together the night we met, didn’t we, Samira? You never know when chemistry will strike.”

“Well, it’s not striking here.” Melody’s up-and-down look of deepest disdain had leveled bigger men than Anthony but, to his credit, he didn’t flinch. He went very still, his attention locked squarely on her face. At least until she turned her back on him. “So don’t waste your time. I think I need more champagne. Great to meet you, Nick.”

With that, she swept off.

Anthony tracked her progress through the crowd, choking back a startled laugh.

“I believe I mentioned that Melody is the surgeon who wants to donate her time and talents to your foundation? The one that operates on sick children?” Baptiste asked him blandly.

Anthony frowned and tried to keep Melody in sight, blinking and looking away only when Nick thumped him in the stomach with the back of his hand.

“Well done,” Nick said. “Now you’ve alienated people on six of the seven continents. We must book a trip to Antarctica so you can finish the job. Come on. We need drinks.”

“We’ll see you in a bit,” Baptiste said.

“Great to meet you,” Samira added.

Nick raised his brows and winked at Samira as he walked away. Anthony gave her another nod and followed, leaving her alone with Baptiste.

“You have very interesting friends,” she said, laughing.

“Don’t hold that against me. The gala is an amazing success. All your hard work has paid off.”

Her heart skittered with pleasure. “My team makes me look good.”

“I suspect it’s the reverse.” He put his hands in his pockets and stepped closer, his heavy-lidded gaze a neon sign announcing his intentions for her. “I think I deserve an award.”

“For what?” she asked, holding back most of her grin.

“Not touching your ass in public. Not kissing you in public.”

“I’m not feeling that grateful at the moment, to be honest,” she said.

A flare of heat, and then he nodded, his expression sliding into impenetrability.

“We should have come together,” he said lightly. “We should be leaving together.”

“Baptiste—”

“If I’d been thinking, I would have brought my grandmother’s jewels from Paris—I sold all my mother’s because they reminded me of her—so you could have chosen something to wear tonight. Women always need something special to wear for a black-tie event.”

All the air left Samira’s lungs in a single astonished whoosh.

“Your grandmother’s jewels?” She hated to sound like a parrot, but what did that mean? How could he talk about family jewels for her and yet never have mentioned his thoughts for their relationship past tomorrow? “I couldn’t—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” he said, his lips tightening. “It’s too much, too soon. I must be held at arm’s length, at all costs—”

“Well, hello, you two,” said a cheery new voice.

Startled, Samira glanced around to discover that the rest of the world still existed and Journey’s End’s favorite real estate agent, Raymond Martin, was studying them with a speculative gaze that didn’t bode well for people who wanted to keep their personal business off the grapevine. But he’d been the listing agent for the recent sale of her parents’ house, so she knew and liked him.

“Hey, Raymond.” She forced a smile and gave him a quick hug despite her frazzled nerves and the deepening ache across her lower back. “Did you bring Bobsy in a tux tonight, or is he holding down the fort at home?”

“He’s at home in his crate, which is the only place where you can turn your back on a Jack Russell,” he said darkly, now shaking Baptiste’s hand. “Trust me.”

“Well, you look very striking in your oxblood tonight.”

“Thank you.” Raymond made a production out of straightening his bow tie and smoothing the lapels on his handsome velvet jacket. “These fancy Europeans have nothing on us, do they?”

“No, they do not,” she said.

Raymond hesitated and struck a thoughtful pose, folding his arms and pressing his index finger to his lips. “Forgive me if I’m being too personal, but…Are you two here together? I thought I detected some chemistry when I walked up.”

Baptiste zeroed in on her face, brows raised, and kept quiet, leaving her to dangle alone in the wind.

“We came separately, if that’s what you’re asking,” Samira said, willing her cheeks not to burn and trying to ignore the low rumble of disagreement coming from Baptiste’s direction. “You’re not trying to be a matchmaker, are you?”

“Absolutely not.” Raymond waved a hand and chuckled. “None of my business. But I just saw the two of you together, and I thought maybe that was why Baptiste wanted such a big—”

“We forgive you,” Baptiste said loudly, slinging an arm around Raymond’s shoulders. “Have you sampled all the wines tonight? Did you see the winetasting bar?”

“Oh, not yet,” Raymond said, looking startled. “But that reminds me… I was supposed to meet Fisher there five minutes ago. I’ll catch you two later.”

He hurried off with a wave.

Bemused, Samira watched him go before turning back to Baptiste.

“What was that about?”

Baptiste avoided her gaze, his expression smoothing into blankness as he cleared his throat and checked his cuff links.

“I would, ah, rather not get into it now.”

“Oh.” Her heart sank. He’d never slammed the door in her face before, and she didn’t like the worrisome possibility (certainty?) that this was a sign of things to come. “Okay. We should probably find Daniel anyway. He wants everyone to join him for his remarks.”

Baptiste put a light hand on her arm, stopping her from walking off. “I told my pilot to expect me at around noon tomorrow. For Paris.”

Samira nodded, doing her best not to feel like her world was ending. “Okay.”

Sudden renewed anxiety put the rest of her voice and thoughts on lockdown.

She tried to focus on the business Baptiste had to run, rather than the glittering world he’d be returning to. Tried not to think about how many Daphnes might be waiting for him back home.

But the Voice of Doom in her head refused to shut up.

“There are some things we need to discuss before I go—are you feeling okay?”

She wasn’t. Another sudden wave of clamminess swept over her, quickly followed by more lower back pain, this time radiating around to the front and condensing into a cramp.

She held her breath and focused on riding it out without wincing or making a scene. But when the discomfort eased back a little, she slammed headfirst into the horrifying certainty that pain like this had nothing to do with her heels.

Alarm flared in his eyes as he put a hand on her waist. “Samira?”

She’d never been able to hide anything from Baptiste, and today evidently wouldn’t be the day she started.

“I’m okay.” She offered up a shaky smile, the best she could do. “I’m just going to run to the ladies’ room.”

“I’ll come with—”

“No,” she said quickly, tucking her clutch more firmly under her arm and hurrying off.

She dove through the crowd, seeing nothing, that empty smile plastered on her face. The farther she walked, the bigger the ballroom seemed to get and the more people pressed in on her. A scream swelled in her throat, locked, loaded and ready to go at any second, but she eventually made it out into the corridor, where only a few people lingered. From there, it was easy enough to turn the corner and duck into the ladies’ room.

Just in time. Another cramp came, forcing her to grit her teeth.

Luckily, no other women seemed to be around at the moment. She hurried into a stall.

Vomited. Felt better. Checked to see if she was bleeding. She wasn’t.

She gave herself a second or two to catch her breath and let a final wave of clamminess pass. Then she left the stall (the ladies’ room was still blessedly empty), washed her hands, rinsed her mouth, wiped the tears from her eyes, blotted her face with a paper towel, touched up her makeup and tried not to notice how pale and wild-eyed the woman in the mirror seemed.

She checked her watch. Saw that she still had a few more minutes until Daniel needed her.

So she found the emergency Tylenol in her clutch and took it using one of the paper cups helpfully provided with the mouthwash. Then she gargled. And then, because she still wasn’t ready to face the world, she helped herself to the scented lotion on the counter and smoothed it on her hands.

There.

Following another deep breath, she squared her shoulders, held her head high and strode out of the bathroom. Whereupon she ran into Baptiste.

“Samira.” He clasped her forearms, looking every bit as wild-eyed as her reflection. “Are you okay? I was just going to find another woman to check on you.”

She reached for her fake smile, but it had evidently run down its battery for the night and needed to be recharged.

“I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

His grip tightened when she would have turned away.

“Don’t tell me you’re fine. Tell me what’s wrong. You’re scaring me to death.”

“I have to go,” she said with rising desperation, that unshed scream collecting in her throat again. “Daniel needs me.”

“Non, madame. You need someone to take care of you right now.”

They stared at each other, stalemated.

Until the raw concern in his eyes overwhelmed her.

A sob rose up, almost slipping through her grasp before she yanked it back.

Some of the ferocity leached out of his expression. He reached for her face, stopping himself at the last second.

“Please, Samira.”

She hesitated, knowing she couldn’t go very far down this road with him right now if she wanted to be a professional and do her job for Daniel and the winery.

Then she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.

“I think I’m having a miscarriage.”