by BETH KERY
Which Vanni had intended, of course.
“See you,” Emma called to Colin as she hurried to keep up with Vanni’s long-legged stride.
Did she take any satisfaction from Amanda and Colin’s stunned expressions as they witnessed her in all her finery walking hand in hand with a gorgeous, powerful man who was light years out of her league?
Maybe a little.
She was only human, after all.
* * *
She thought they’d go straight to dinner, but Vanni had something else in store. He parked in a newly built high-rise just across from the Art Institute.
“Where are we going?” she asked, staring around at the surrounding city once they’d taken an elevator down to the ground level and stepped out onto Michigan Avenue. It was a warm summer night. The glass-sided skyscrapers gleamed in the light of the setting sun. It was thrilling for her, not just to be in the midst of the city—which was uncommon enough for her, despite the fact that she was a native Chicagoan—but there with Vanni. There was a thread of unreality to the whole thing.
“I thought we’d catch the last half of My Fair Lady, if you’re up for it. I have season theater tickets, but rarely get to use them myself,” Vanni said as they walked across Monroe at the light, her hand in his.
“I’d love that,” she said, grinning. “I’ve never been to a show before.”
He gave her a sideways glance. “Never?”
“Do you ever look at the price of the tickets, or just have your secretary buy them for you?” she shot back. His eyebrows arched in a wry expression and she laughed. “I thought so. The theater definitely isn’t in a nurse’s budget, or at least so far it hasn’t been. But I’ve always wanted to go.”
“Well you’re here now,” Vanni said, opening a golden and glass door open for her to enter at the Shubert Theatre. “I only wish I’d known. I’d have insisted on making the first half.” She gave him a doubtful look, thinking about what they’d been doing instead of rushing to make the beginning of the show. His mouth quirked. “You’re right,” he said under his breath. “It was well worth it to miss the first half.”
She smiled, feeling so excited, she thought she might be glowing.
They had just enough time for Vanni to get them two glasses of champagne before the crowd started streaming out into the lobby for intermission. Her wonderment grew when he led her to a small, ornate balcony that looked down directly on the stage. They would have an amazing overview of the stage, but were still up front enough that they’d easily see the actors’ faces. There were eight velvet chairs in the space, but Emma saw no seat numbers.
“How do we know which ones to sit in?” she asked him.
“Pick whichever ones you want. It’s a private box.”
“And no one else is coming?”
Vanni just shook his head. She sat, staring down over the balustrade. She could see straight down in the orchestra box before the stage. He came down next to her, and she beamed at him.
“This is amazing,” she told him, not even trying to guard her excitement.
His eyebrows rose. “Is it?” he asked, taking a sip of champagne.
She gave the luxurious, empty box a sweeping glance and then looked pointedly at the ornate, gilded theater.
“Open your eyes,” she said, laughing.
* * *
Open your eyes.
Her joyful admonishment kept ringing in his ears as the play resumed a few minutes later. One thing was certain, he realized as he glanced sideways at Emma’s radiant expression as she watched the play.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
If she hadn’t confessed to this being her first theater visit, he would have touched her. And if that damn thing hadn’t happened at her apartment. He grimaced and looked away from her shining face, guilt swooping through him for his lascivious thoughts as the memory interceded.
He might have very well done more than touch her in the privacy of the box if he hadn’t seen that pinched, anxious expression on her face when she’d introduced him to that traitorous sister and bottom-feeder boyfriend of hers.
Ex-boyfriend, he reminded himself with a spike of vicious triumph.
He knew Emma said she didn’t mind, but he was furious that her sister invited Colin over to Emma’s home, and what was worse—the asshole actually came.
His gaze roved back to her. Her gleaming shoulders and arms beckoned him, just as the alluring shape of her breasts outlined by the draping fabric of her dress did. Yes. If it hadn’t been for the fact that she’d confessed this was her first time at the theater, or that teeth-grinding incident at her apartment, he would have traced that elegant line of her jaw with his fingers, and then his lips. He’d have inhaled the sweet, clean smell of her neck. He might have taken her to the shadow-filled rear of the box and touched her until he’d felt her quake against him.
His cock stirred. Yes, he was that selfish.
He took the last swallow of the chilled champagne and set it aside. He stared at the movement and color on the stage, not really taking much of it in. His gaze flickered back to Emma’s rapt profile as Eliza sang “Just You Wait.” He followed the shape of her cheek, jaw, neck, and thrusting breasts. For a moment, he just stared, enthralled, watching the delicate rise and fall of her breasts, his body hardening. The number came to a crescendo and she turned to him, her smile like a lance.
Her smile froze and faded when she saw him staring at her. What had she seen on his face? he wondered. Hunger, no doubt. Blatant lust. Her lips trembled. She swayed slightly toward him. He jerked suddenly, his fingers delving into her wavy, soft hair, cupping her skull. He put his head next to hers and inhaled her scent.
“Enjoy the play, Emma,” he whispered near her ear. His cock swelled and tingled when he felt her shiver. “Because later on, I’m going to have my fill of you,” he added darkly into her ear before he raised his other hand, and gently turned her chin so that she once again faced the stage.
He leaned back in his seat, teeth clamped tight, arm draped on the back of the empty chair next to him, lest he do something else with it. It was his fault. He could have just kept her in bed and had his fill of her. Tried to get his fill of her, he amended grimly. He’d hungered for her all week, the edge of anxiety about whether or not she’d come only amplifying his lust. He needn’t have insisted upon taking her out. It was just this prickling paradox he experienced around her, a desire for rational distance, an overwhelming need to draw her close . . . to witness that smile . . .
To be pounding high and hard inside her.
She turned her chin ever so slightly, regarding him with a mixture of wariness, excitement . . . and just a whisper of a challenge. His body tightened.
How as it that her dark, shining eyes were so soft, and yet they cut straight to the core of him?
* * *
For Emma, there was magic in the summer night when they exited the theater. Vanni hailed a cab, which whisked them through the South Loop to the restaurant. She recognized that she was wide-eyed with awe when Vanni led her to the entrance of the renowned restaurant, but she couldn’t repress her excitement. Even when she recalled Vanni calling her naïve earlier, it didn’t diminish her happiness. Yes, she would likely think herself a fool at one point five weeks in the future when she had to say good-bye, but that moment wasn’t now. Now she would relish these nights she had with him, stamp them firmly in her brain. Some day, her memories would be all she had of this affair.
The maître d’ led them to a secluded table in the elegant restaurant, which gave them a stunning view from the fortieth floor down onto the glittering city. They talked about the play, and then his plans for the pioneering Montand French-American Grand Prix in the South of France. All the while, she sipped a dry white wine that seemed to open her senses even further, making the four-course meal beyond delectable. Or maybe it was just the ma
n who sat across from her that honed her nerves. He made everything seem so sharp and sensual. She’d never tasted anything so delicious as the food served to her.
When she wavered in choosing from the dessert menu—everything looked so fantastic—Vanni grabbed her menu and handed it to the waiter.
“Bring her one of each,” he said dryly, and the waiter hastened to fulfill his demand. A flash of mortification went through her—her appetite had been embarrassingly good tonight—but then she saw the glint of humor in Vanni’s light eyes, and she laughed.
“I don’t understand why you are so worried the race you’re sponsoring will be a failure,” she said a moment later as the waiter served coffee. “You’ve said you’ve sponsored dozens of racing events here in the States and that Montand Motorworks has its own racing team and cars. You seem experienced in the matter.”
“Formula One racing dominates in Europe, with very few exceptions.”
“What are Formula One cars like?”
“Like the ones you see in the Indianapolis 500?” She formed a mental picture in her mind of occasional glimpses of the race over the years and nodded. He continued. “Americans have become avid fans of stock cars, though,” he said, stirring his coffee thoughtfully. “My company sponsors stock car racing here in the States, and F1 racing in Europe, but this is the first time we’ve tried to do a stock car road race in France. You’ve heard of the Monaco Grand Prix? My race won’t be covering that specific route, but we’ll still be on very hallowed F1 racing ground.”
“And you’re worried the French will give your American cars the cold shoulder?” she asked, taking a sip of coffee.
“And the drivers, yes. Although I’ve managed to convince some very big names in European racing to enter, including some major Formula One drivers.”
“And they all will drive stock cars?”
“That’s the agreement.” Something about his wry expression suggested to her that he’d wrestled and bargained considerably to get that agreement from the Formula One racecar drivers. He noticed her raised brows. “It helped having Niki as the Montand Formula One driver. He agreed to it, and then dozens of drivers signed on, if only for the chance to beat him at a game where he might show a weakness.”
“Niki Dellis is a racecar driver?” Emma asked, recalling the handsome, charming man at Cristina’s funeral.
“The best,” Vanni said simply. “He’s driven a Montand car almost since the beginning of his career.”
“Is Niki French as well?”
“Greek. Although he has relations in Italy, Monaco and France. He comes from a very old family.” He seemed distracted for a moment, his long, blunt-tipped fingers caressing the handle of his coffee cup. Warmth infused her. It was a strangely erotic sight, his masculine fingers idly stroking the delicate china. “In fact, Niki is distantly related to Cristina.” Emma blinked in surprise. “Cristina and her sister were both renowned Italian socialites. Her sister is Maria Carboni.”
“The actress?” Emma asked, vaguely familiar with the curvy, tempestuous film actress who had transferred her success to Hollywood in the 1960s and ’70s.
Vanni nodded. “Maria is Niki’s grandmother, an older sister of Cristina’s. I try not to hold his relationship with Cristina against him,” he said with dark amusement. “But that’s how we met. He came and visited us in the States when he was ten, and we’ve been friends since.”
“When did your father marry Cristina?”
“When I was eight. Nine months after my mother died.”
He appeared entirely impassive saying it, but something struck her. She set down her coffee cup with a clatter she hadn’t intended. “Your mother passed away the year before Adrian did?” she asked weakly.
He nodded once. “I suppose someone like you would say it was a blessing.”
“What?” she asked, stunned and more than a little confused. “What do you mean someone like me?”
“Someone who believes that there’s meaning in something random like death,” he said. He noticed her stung expression. “Since my mother died young of leukemia, she never had to see one of her children die. That would have killed her on its own. You probably see that as a blessing. Meaningful. That’s all I meant. Of course, Adrian would never have died if she hadn’t died first, and if my father hadn’t felt the need to run off and find someone else to fill his bed and play mother to us. Someone entirely incompetent, at the latter task, anyway,” he added cynically under his breath.
She sat forward slightly. “Is that what you think?” she asked quietly. “That I don’t realize how hard it is, how sad, to lose someone you love, just because I told you about my experience with dying? That’s not fair, Vanni.” He blinked at the cold steel in her tone. “I still grieve my mother. I miss her every day of my life. Do you want to know the real reason I haven’t gone all self-righteous over this whole thing with Amanda and Colin?”
“I assumed it was a combination of the facts that you were ready for the relationship to end and that you’re a kinder, more forgiving and a much, much better person than I could ever be,” he said dryly.
Her expression fell a little at that. “It’s not that I’m kind or better than anyone. It’s just I. . . .”
“What?” he asked, leaning forward, his elbows on the table, when she faded off. She suddenly felt very vulnerable and stupid, sitting in the midst of this glamorous, fairy-tale setting with a gorgeous, sophisticated man, exposing her heart. Surely her confessions were neither appropriate nor wanted.
“Emma?” he pressed, his gaze on her fierce.
She swallowed. He didn’t look like he wanted her to shut up. Just the opposite, in fact. Besides, she couldn’t be someone different than she was just to fit into his world.
“It’s just that I keep picturing how sad Mom would be if she knew Amanda and I had a falling out over something as insignificant, in the grand scheme of things, as a boy.”
He listened, then shook his head slightly, his mouth tight. “What they did to you was inexcusable.”
“Yes. But not unforgivable. At least that’s what I’m trying to do . . . get past it. It’s like I told you, it’s a process. At least it is in my case. With Amanda. You’d do the same, if you loved someone the way I do my sister. You don’t know her. She doesn’t go around doing stuff like this as a matter of course. She’s never done anything like this before, so I can’t help but feel that this thing with her and Colin is something major.”
Something flickered across his stony expression. He reached across the table and took her hand. “You’re wrong, Emma,” he said gruffly. “You really are a much better person than me.”
The distant sounds of china clinking and murmuring voices faded to a distant hum. Their gazes held, and she saw the warmth in his eyes. He may not agree with her choice of action when it came to Colin and Amanda, but he understood now. Better, anyway. They both knew what it was to lose someone and have an irreparable hole torn into your life. You behaved differently, at times, with the imagined ghost of that loved one looking on.
She was vaguely aware of someone passing the table. Vanni leaned back slightly and dragged his gaze off her.
“Excuse me,” he said. The waiter who had been passing paused. “We’ll take that dessert to go. And the check please.”
“You don’t want to eat it here?” she asked, dazed after the waiter hastened to follow his instruction.
“No,” he said, leaning back and dropping his napkin negligently on the table. “I want to give it to you.”
Her core clenched tight, his words taking on a distinctly charged, erotic meaning after the intimate moment they’d just shared. She placed her napkin on the table, her pulse flickering at her throat.
He clearly was intent on giving her something, and she had the thrilling feeling that it wasn’t just the dessert.
Chapter Nineteen
The c
ab dropped them off at the same building where he’d parked the car. They returned to his sedan to retrieve his leather portfolio and the canvas bag in which she’d packed a change of clothing for tomorrow and a few other necessary items. After they’d left the car, he led her to a different elevator than the one they’d taken from the street.
“Is your apartment in this building?” she asked him when they left the elevator and entered a sedately opulent lobby situated just off Michigan Avenue.
“Yes,” he said, nodding to the doorman who greeted him by name and hurried to open the door for them. “My offices are just a block away from here.”
She was having a little trouble keeping up with his long-legged stride. When they got onto the residential elevator, he pushed the button for the fifty-sixth floor. Emma leaned against the brass railing and panted softly.
“Are you all right?” he wondered, dark brows slanting in concern.
“Yes. You were walking kind of fast,” she said, grinning.
He stepped forward and palmed her jaw. Her panting breath froze in her lungs when she noticed his intent expression.
“You are certain you’re well, aren’t you?”
“What?” she asked, surprised.
“I know that you said you were . . .” he hesitated. “Cured of that childhood ailment, but are you certain?”
Her mouth fell open. “Of course I’m sure. I just was at my doctor’s last month. I’ve been perfectly healthy since it happened when I was a kid.” A horrible thought occurred to her as the elevator lifted them silently. “You’re not afraid you’ll catch something from me, are you?”
He stiffened. “What? Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then why . . . oh,” she said, realization dawning. “You thought maybe I was carrying my eternal optimism too far. You think I’m fooling myself into believing in the miracle cure.” She couldn’t help but smile. “I’m not that much of a Pollyanna. I’m a nurse, too, you know. I can be very practical.”
He seemed to relax a little. The elevator dinged and the door opened. He took her hand and led her into a hallway.
