The Affair: Week 3

by BETH KERY

  “Thank you,” she said thickly a moment later, blotting her face.

  “Someone should cry for her,” he said simply. His eyes were dry and clear.

  After she’d dried her face, he took her hand and started to lead her up the hill. He paused when Niki approached them.

  “Niki, would you mind?” Vanni nodded down at Emma significantly. “I’m going to . . .” He faded off and gestured with his head toward the graves. Emma was confused, but Niki seemed to immediately understand Vanni’s request. Niki took her hand with a smile. He asked her in a friendly manner about her work, and Emma answered distractedly. When they got to the top of the hill, Emma looked back. She saw Vanni kneeling in front of the third grave from Cristina’s coffin, his strong profile rigid. Was it his mother’s grave? After a few seconds, he stood and placed his hand on the gravestone. Emma could almost feel how cold and hard it felt against his fingers and palm before he broke the contact and turned and walked away.

  * * *

  “Where are we going?” she asked Vanni quietly twenty minutes later. He hadn’t spoken since they’d left the cemetery. He seemed thoughtful, although his driving was as skillful and adroit as ever as he maneuvered through crowded suburban evening traffic. He’d finally turned onto rural drive that paralleled the lakefront and flew down a country landscape, and that’s when she’d asked the question.

  “I’m taking you home . . . the long way,” he said, staring out the front window fixedly.

  “Good.” She noticed his sharp sideways glance. “Because I’m not ready to make a decision yet . . . about it all.” She didn’t want to go to the Breakers. She didn’t want to be seduced by him. Or she did, but she knew how important careful thought was in this situation with Vanni, with whom rational thought was most difficult.

  He stared ahead at the unfurling road. Maybe he’d just take her home more quickly, if she wasn’t willing to continue with their agreement tonight? She felt cast at sea, sometimes, trying to imagine what he was thinking. It was an odd paradox to how inexplicably connected she felt to him at other times.

  “I told you we were going to talk. That’s all right, isn’t it?” he asked, his gaze never shifting from the road.

  “Yes,” she said, looking at his profile. He turned suddenly, his gaze sweeping over her.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asked sharply. She swallowed thickly, both relieved and anxious that they’d approached the intimidating topic.

  “Our agreement.”

  “Are you regretting agreeing to see me? Now that you know that I’m the same man you saw with Astrid?”

  “I’m not sure that ‘regret’ is the right word,” she said slowly, thinking. “I’m uncertain. Confused.”

  “I realize you’re upset about what you saw that night. About what you think you saw,” he added under his breath.

  “I know what I saw,” she said emphatically.

  “Maybe you do,” he said soberly, smoothly taking a bend in the country road around a bluff. “But you don’t know what any of it means.”

  “Are you going to want to do those things to me?” she asked the question that had been burning at the back of her throat ever since she’d agreed to come with him this afternoon . . . ever since she’d fully understood who he was.

  He glanced sideways, his expression going rigid when he saw her anxiety. “I’m the first person to admit I’m not an expert on kindness, but if you actually think for a second that I’d be that selfish and uninspired as what you witnessed, you’ve got this all wrong, Emma. Besides, I could do those exact same things with you, and it wouldn’t be remotely the same,” he added under his breath, his lips curled into a frown.

  She stared at him, wide-eyed, still confused, but also a little amazed at his burst of honesty.

  He stopped at a stop sign and looked at her. “Just remember this. I’m not going to ask you to do anything you don’t want to do. If you don’t want something, just say it.”

  Her mouth hung open. “It’s that simple?”

  “No,” he said grimly, staring out the windshield. “But that part is as cut-and-dry as it comes.”

  * * *

  He pulled the car onto a narrow, weed-covered road with crumbling pavement that no one would ever have seen if they weren’t formerly familiar with it. A moment later, the vista of the great lake appeared. He put the car into park before a three-foot-tall wall that must serve as a damn during high water. Today, the waves struck rhythmically against a rocky beach a dozen feet below them. It appeared to be an old, forgotten lookout, Emma realized as she got out of the car and Vanni did the same, taking off his jacket and tossing it in the backseat. Weeds and grass were breaking through the pavement as nature reclaimed the area. She walked up to the wall and stared, the evening summer sun making the ruffled light blue blanket of water wink and sparkle at her. She knew immediately when he stepped up beside her, but for a moment, neither of them spoke.

  “How did you ever discover this place?” she wondered, thinking of how remote the turnoff had been.

  “Old high school and college drinking spot.”

  Emma considered him for a moment. “Did you have a Montand car? When you were a sixteen-year-old?” she couldn’t stop herself from asking.

  “Yeah,” he said, his shoulders twitching slightly as if he’d thought the question inconsequential.

  Emma glanced around the secluded area. It would be an ideal make-out spot. Not that Vanni probably ever just “made out” even as a hardened, gorgeous high school boy in a car that cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. The thought made her shift uncomfortably on her feet.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, glancing over at her with a furrowed brow.

  “I hadn’t realized Mrs. Shaw was your aunt,” she said quietly, sidestepping the issue.

  He nodded and placed his hands on the top of the wall. “Yes. My mother’s older sister. Mom was the youngest, Dean is the oldest.”

  “Was your mother . . . like Mrs. Shaw, I mean, Vera?” she asked, experimenting with the name.

  Vanni shook his head, the lake breeze ruffling his thick hair. “Not at all. My mother was warm and full of life. I realize Vera isn’t the most . . . approachable of women. She is an excellent house manager, and she and Janice, my administrative assistant, work well together to make sure I have what I need both at work and home. My mother and Vera look a little alike,” Vanni mused after a pause, his gaze cast out at the lake. “Once in a great while.” Emma’s heart squeezed a little at something in his voice. She wondered if he kept Vera around because of that, looking for similarities in his aunt, hungry for reminders of his mother. “They were definitely alike in one thing,” he added.

  “What?” Emma asked, leaning her hip against the wall and watching his striking profile instead of the sun-gilded water.

  “They were both crazy about my father,” he said dryly.

  “Really?” Emma asked, making a face. “Wasn’t that a bit awkward for your mother?”

  Vanni shrugged, the action bringing her gaze downward to his muscular chest covered in the crisp dress shirt. “My mother never knew about Vera’s crush. Or I don’t think she did. Who knows, really, what a wife suspects?” he said, the reflection off the lake making his eyes look more blue than green at the moment. “My mother likely suspected a lot of things she wouldn’t have told me about, as young as I was.” He glanced aside and noticed her puzzled expression. “My father was an inveterate womanizer. There’s no way my mother didn’t know about his infidelities,” he stated grimly.

  “Do you mean that Vera and your dad actually—”

  “No,” he interrupted, catching her drift. “At least I don’t think so. Aunt Vera’s infatuation was unrequited. I always felt a little sorry for her, existing in the shadow of her sister . . . and so many others.”

  Emma didn’t reply, a feeling of sadness going thro
ugh her at his matter-of-fact assessment of such a crucial aspect of his family life.

  He turned to her suddenly, leaning his hip against the wall, and touched the angel on her throat.

  Chapter Thirteen

  She looked up. The wariness in her large, dark eyes eating at him. Her wavy, golden hair fluttered around her delicate features. He gave in to a need he often had upon seeing her, palming the back of her skull and sinking his fingers into the soft tendrils of her hair. He’d never known a woman to have such a pretty, sexy head. Every time he saw her he wanted to cup it in his palm, delve his finger into threads of coiling, golden-blond silk.

  The truth was, if a similarly impossible scenario as the one that had presented itself with Emma came up with another woman, Vanni wouldn’t have bothered to explain. He would have just chalked it up to bad luck and moved on. He didn’t invest in relationships. There were other women. Why should he have to make an effort to rationalize his actions or his nature?

  But here he was with Emma, determined to try. What made it even more incredible, at least from where he was standing, was that he was embarrassed about what she’d seen. It wasn’t because he’d dominated Astrid sexually on that night that shamed him; that was background noise to him, even though he understood it wasn’t to Emma. No, it was his bored, lackluster performance, the evidence of how his black mood permeated even his sexual life of late. That was what shamed him more than anything.

  His gaze lowered to her pink mouth. That’s how he knew just how strongly he wanted Emma. He was willing to sacrifice a fair portion of his pride in order to have her. What’s more, he wasn’t exactly sure how to proceed. The circumstances were unprecedented. He didn’t have a lot of experience explaining himself to women. Either they got him, or they didn’t. Fitting himself into some preconceived idea of what a woman expected of him wasn’t something he was remotely interested in doing.

  He saw the anxiety flicker across her face and sighed, dropping his hand from her skull, cupping her shoulder instead. She’d really curled up in that armoire and listened while he selfishly took his pleasure with another woman. She really was undone by this whole thing.

  Yet here she was, willingly choosing to be with him. He admired her courage.

  Another feeling rose up in him, a surprising, slicing one: Jealousy.

  He couldn’t recall being as anxious as Emma looked in that moment. Not even for a majority of his childhood. His hide was too tough. He was the strong one, or so everyone said. He was the survivor. He was too bitter, too jaded to ever wear that expression again, to ever feel that vulnerable. There had to have been a time when he was that open, that unguarded to the world, though.

  Hadn’t there been?

  He shut his eyes briefly, shielding himself from her luminous face. It would be so much easier just to forget about it all. He’d have to examine himself far too closely for comfort in order to have Emma. It would be messy and just . . . too much of an effort.

  Way too much. He should take her home this instant.

  “I’m just a man, Emma. I’m not so twisted that you can’t see that, am I?” he asked quietly instead, opening his eyes.

  “I see you,” she whispered.

  The hair on his nape stood on end as she studied him. He suddenly felt anxious.

  “And you’re not twisted,” she said. “Not yet, anyway.”

  He exhaled, realizing he’d been waiting for her assessment like an irreversible, binding judgment, stupid and illogical as that was.

  He looked into shining, velvety-soft eyes. Innocent. Enigmatic. Her lush, unadorned lips trembled slightly. He experienced an overwhelming urge to plunge his tongue into her mouth, to pierce her everywhere he could . . . anything to feel her as deeply as was humanly possible, to be so tight and high inside her that for a brief, mindless moment of bliss, he possessed her.

  Christ. He was kidding himself if he thought he was the master of this situation. Did he really think he could ever defile her? Not even in his wildest depravity could he begin to span the depths of this wisp of a girl’s eyes.

  He inhaled sharply, gathering himself. He put his hands on her waist and lifted. She gave a little of cry of surprise when he set her on top of the brick wall in front of him. Her face was almost level with his now. He stepped between her parted thighs, keeping his hands on her narrow waist.

  “Okay,” he said, holding her startled stare. “What should we talk about first?”

  Her mouth trembled with amusement. “It’s come to my attention lately that I have a problematic habit of denying reality,” she said. “I’ve been known to prefer my own comfortable version of the world. I think it’s best I face the truth when it comes to you, don’t you?”

  His expression flattened. She really was unexpected.

  “Absolutely,” he said. “You were disturbed by what you saw that night. And in the aftermath, you convinced yourself that I wasn’t the same man you’d seen.”

  Emma nodded.

  “Is this the problematic habit you referred to? The one where you refuse to see certain things?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you think you didn’t want to allow yourself to know it was me?” he asked, taking a step closer to her and holding her stare.

  * * *

  She swallowed thickly at the sensation of his body brushing against her open thighs. His gaze bore straight down to the center of her.

  “Because it was safer to assume you weren’t the man who did those things,” she said honestly. He didn’t reply, seeming to sense there was more. She bit her lip and looked away. “And because I was disturbed by what I saw.”

  “Disturbed,” he repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “And disgusted.”

  She nodded.

  “Were you aroused?”

  The silence stretched, interrupted only by the sound of the gentle, soughing surf against the rocks below. Her pulse started to leap at her throat like it wanted to escape her skin. Face reality.

  “Yes,” she said softly, her cheeks burning. Her gaze leapt to his. “But I was upset. It seemed wrong, what you were doing. And I was mad at you.”

  “Mad?” he clarified, his fingers moving subtly on her waist, the sensation distracting her. “For flogging Astrid? For restraining her?”

  “Yes,” she hissed, frowning at him for his ease at broaching the most volatile of topics. “But not just for that.”

  “What then?” he asked intently. “Emma?” he prompted when she just sat there.

  “For making me feel so much,” she admitted in a rush. “For making me feel things I didn’t even know existed. I was disgusted, and confused, and curious, and angry, and . . . aroused,” she forced herself to say the word. “It was too much to consider, you being that man when I met you face-to-face the next night. Too much to handle. I didn’t do it consciously. I just ignored the facts.”

  “What facts?”

  “Lots of things,” she mused, studying his tie. “Like why would a guestroom have a monitor for Cristina in it, or worse yet, that . . . that apparatus, that thing you tied . . .”

  She faded off, embarrassment overwhelming her.

  “Yes, I see what you mean,” he said. “Why would a guestroom have that? What else did you ignore?”

  She gave him an exasperated look. “Why does it matter?”

  “It matters,” he said quietly. “Unless I understand your state of mind, it’s hard to know how to relieve your anxiety.”

  She lowered her head. “Lots of things,” she murmured. “I told myself not only was your hair shorter than the man’s I’d seen, the color was darker as well. But of course when you cut your hair, the highlights went, too, for the most part. Every other time I saw you afterward, it was in dim light, so it looked even darker.” She inhaled through her nose slowly. “Your scent,” she added in a whisper. “Sandalwood with
just a hint of citrus and leather. My mother loved things like candles and potpourri. Her sense of smell was very sharp. She could tell what certain stews and soups needed just by smelling the broth. I got her nose. When I was in the armoire,” she mumbled, “I could smell you, but there was something just a tad different mixing with your scent: motor oil. The garments I was sitting in when I was in the armoire—I couldn’t see them, because it was dark—but they were your coveralls, weren’t they? The ones you wear when you’re working on cars?”

  “Yes.”

  Her throat ached when she swallowed. “I knew it,” she said softly. “Or part of me did. I recognized your scent and the texture of the fabric when you held me last week in the garage and you were wearing the coveralls.”

  He said nothing. She looked up at him uncertainly. Expectantly. His long bangs had fallen forward in the lake breeze, so that his gleaming eyes were shadowed.

  “What do you imagine that I’m going to tell you now?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I guess you’re a person who likes BDSM, and that’s your lifestyle choice? And that it may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but it’s your sexual preference? That it’s consensual and no one gets hurt?”

  “Very politically correct,” he said, his small smile gentle despite his mild sarcasm.

  “Well what would you say?”

  His hands moved on her waist, stroking her in a seemingly distracted fashion while he thought. “I’m sorry,” he said, perhaps noticing her impatience. “Believe it or not, I don’t sit around thinking up excuses for why I want something, or why I want it a certain way. But I will tell you this. You were right to be disgusted that night.”

  “What?” she asked, taken aback. She hadn’t expected him to agree with her.

  “I did behave coldly. Selfishly. You believe that your disgust came from sexual practices you weren’t familiar with, which is part of it. But I think the reason you were disgusted is that you caught me behaving badly,” he stated starkly. He met her incredulous stare. “You caught me in the act, Emma, of depravity. It’s one thing to prefer to dominate a woman and to care about her security and her pleasure, to want to claim it. There was nothing wrong technically in the things I did that night. It was consensual, and I would never harm a woman. But because I didn’t really care, one way or the other about Astrid’s pleasure—or even remotely about her—it was wrong,” he admitted.