by BETH KERY
“Can you meet me at the Breakers at seven?” he asked. “I don’t know how much I’ll be good for, but I’ll try to sleep on the plane. Maybe I’ll get a second wind,” he added more quietly, and it’d almost been like he was there, speaking the words to her intimately, his words gruff and warm in her ear, his aquamarine eyes gleaming a promise.
She walked on air the rest of the day, having to take pains to tone down her euphoric mood while in the somber atmospheres of her patients’ homes. On the way to her apartment, she stopped at the grocery store and splurged on an expensive bottle of champagne to commemorate Vanni’s homecoming. It was expensive for her. She was sure he had much more expensive, premium bottles of the stuff at the Breakers, but Emma wanted to give him something she’d purchased.
Amanda wasn’t home when she returned to the apartment at five thirty, so she left a note not to expect her back tonight. She carefully got ready, packing a few items so that she could go straight to work from Vanni’s tomorrow morning. She donned a sundress that showed off the light gold tan she’d received in the French Riviera. At a few minutes before seven she arrived at the Breakers, her heart pounding with excitement.
All was silent in the massive garage when she entered. As she passed the large, elaborate kitchen, she noticed it was empty. An idea struck her. She looked around in for an ice bucket, opening several cupboards, but didn’t find one. She’d just put the champagne in the refrigerator and come back for it after it’d chilled.
“You certainly know how to make yourself at home.”
She paused with her hand inside the open refrigerator. Mrs. Shaw stood in the entryway of the kitchen, wearing a chic, dark blue pantsuit and scarf and looking at Emma with a cold, furious expression. She clutched some papers in her hand, as if the sound of Emma moving around in the kitchen had interrupted her while she did some filing. Emma set down the champagne in the refrigerator and closed the door. Taking a deep breath, she faced Vanni’s aunt.
“Vanni asked me to meet him here. Has he arrived yet?”
“He called a moment ago to say he was delayed.”
“For how long?” Emma asked, concerned. Instead of answering her, Mrs. Shaw’s thin lips clamped tight. “Is he still arriving tonight, just later than his scheduled time, or is he still in France?” Emma prodded, irritated by the housekeeper’s surly uncooperativeness.
“He won’t be home tonight,” Mrs. Shaw said. She stepped over the threshold of the kitchen as if crossing some invisible line. Inexplicably, the hairs on Emma’s forearms stood on end.
“I understand that Vanni has become quite taken with you. From something Niki told Dean after the race, I’m getting the impression Vanni has told you all about his life up to now . . . things he’s never opened up about to another woman.”
Emma lifted her chin, sensing a storm brewing but unable to guess the direction it would take.
“And now you’ve been to La Mer,” Mrs. Shaw said, lifting her upper lip slightly when she said the last words.
“Yes. It was beautiful there. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Of course you haven’t.”
Emma blinked at the undiluted acid in the other woman’s tone. Her sense of trepidation increased as Mrs. Shaw began to slowly walk in an arc around her. She couldn’t help but think of a predator circling. Warily, she turned, keeping Vera Shaw in her sights.
“Michael—Vanni’s father—loved La Mer. So did I. Laurel didn’t get it like we did,” Mrs. Shaw said quietly, referring—Emma knew—to Laurel Montand, Vanni’s mother. Vera’s pale blue eyes glittered like fractured glass. “Michael appreciated my love for his ancestral home. Of course Adrian and Vanni loved it, too. Now you’ve been there as well. Dean and Michelle insinuated that you and Vanni were supremely happy together there. That’s why I left, so I wouldn’t have to witness you in a place that was so special to Michael and me. You should congratulate yourself. For a nurse, you’ve been flying high. But despite what you may think,” she said with a contemptuous glance at the refrigerator, “despite Cristina’s favoritism toward you and Vanni’s infatuation, you are far from belonging in a place like this. You will never belong in Vanni’s world.”
Emma exhaled with effort, finding it difficult to breathe in the woman’s presence. What had freed her hatred? It wasn’t as if Emma hadn’t felt it before, but Vera Shaw had kept it carefully contained.
Not anymore.
She turned again and faced the unpleasant woman full on. “What do you have against me, Vera?”
Vera didn’t try to disguise her snarl this time. Emma knew why she was infuriated. Calling her “Vera” had been a subtle way of putting them on equal footing. The New Horizon nurses had been instructed to address her as Mrs. Shaw. Vera came to a halt in her circling prowl.
“I know your type. I recognized you right away. Sweet, pretty little martyr. Sure enough, you immediately caught Vanni’s attention. Men can be so predictable when it comes to lust. Michael was drawn to the type, just like Vanni is. That’s why Michael asked my sister to marry him. He needed a saint to watch out for the boys. Oh, he wanted Laurel, but he wanted a lot of women. Michael had many types. Don’t kid yourself that this thing with Vanni will last. The appeal of the saint is very short-lived when it comes to the appetites of a Montand.”
Emma arched her brows in a show of patient contempt, but the skin of her forearms had roughened even more. Vera was seriously unbalanced. “You seem confused. Maybe you should rest. First off, I’m no saint. Secondly, Vanni and his father are two very different men. And lastly, Michael didn’t ask Laurel to marry him in order to watch out for the boys. He asked Cristina to do that.”
“That’s what you think,” Vera spat, her eyes alight with malice. The prickling on Emma’s forearms transferred to her spine.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Emma asked with forced calmness.
“Michael pulled a switch, that’s what I mean,” Vera said, looking madly pleased by her enigmatic statement. Emma remained silent, not wanting to stir the pot. Still, Vera bizarrely seemed unable to resist releasing the venom of her secret.
“No one knew, save Cristina, Michael, Laurel, the doctor . . . and me, of course. I knew because Laurel confessed it to me before she died. She wanted me to take over, looking out for Vanni and Adrian in her place. Mothering Michael’s sons. I was the only one who could do it. Certainly that slut Cristina wasn’t up for the job.”
Emma had gone very still now. The tingling in her body had amplified, feeling like ice-cold water dripping down her spine. “What are you talking about, Vera?” The woman really was delusional, despite what Michelle had said. Emma knew firsthand from Vanni that he endured Vera because of her relationship with Laurel, but he hardly considered her as a substitute mother. His attitude to Vera Shaw was at best respectful, at worst forbearing and vaguely impatient.
“I’m talking about the truth,” Vera said, shrugging. “It was Cristina who was Vanni and Adrian’s real mother.”
“What?” Emma asked, disbelief making her voice sound hollow.
“Michael got Cristina pregnant when they met in Italy. But of course, Cristina was too selfish to ever settle down. She was furious at Michael for getting her pregnant, worried about what motherhood would do to her figure and her social status. Cristina Carboni, glamorous socialite who used to run fast and furious with that movie star sister of hers and their elite crowd of golden people; Cristina Carboni, who settled for no man: forced into motherhood, her wings clipped for good, tied to just one man? Never,” Vera said scathingly. “She flat-out refused Michael when he proposed after she became pregnant with Adrian and Vanni.”
“You’re crazy,” Emma whispered.
“No,” Vera said triumphantly. “I’m telling you the truth,” she stated, punching the air with the hand that clutched the pieces of paper for emphasis. “When Cristina refused to marry Michael, he was able
to convince her to give him the children. It wasn’t hard. She didn’t want them. He tucked her away in a resort in the Adirondacks while she was pregnant. When Cristina continued to refuse to marry him, he grew desperate. He caught sight of my sister while he was in New York. It was pure chance . . . pure luck on my sister’s part. She was the administrative assistant to one of Michael’s business associates, and Michael imagined himself smitten. It could have been me. It should have been me.” Vera straightened her spine and lifted her chin in a bizarre gesture of imagined self-importance. “I was always the stronger sister, much more suited to be Michael Montand’s wife and mother of his children. But no . . . Michael wanted a pale little saint. And so he married my sister, who was biddable enough . . . weak enough to agree to have him, even once she learned about the children. Of course Michael forgot about her once they were married. He took up with Cristina again. He took up with any number of women. But none of them meant anything to him.”
“And you?” Emma asked coldly. She was having difficulty absorbing all this. The only thing that seemed clear and evident was Vera Shaw’s mad hatred. “Did you take up with him? Did you mean anything to him? Or is all of this some fiction you’ve created in your head because you know deep down you never meant anything to Michael Montand, and that you only hold Vanni’s affections because of loyalty to his mother?”
“Laurel wasn’t his mother,” Vera shrieked. “Haven’t you been listening? And Michael’s and my relationship was above sex. He seduced women with ease. His conquests meant nothing to him, just like you mean nothing to Vanni. Sleeping with all those women—with that bitch Cristina—didn’t earn women the respect Michael gave me.”
Emma shook her head, staring at the woman in mounting wariness. She felt nauseated. All she wanted at that moment was to be away from Vera Shaw. She was a twisted, hateful woman who clearly saw Emma as some kind of threat to her ordered but delusional world. She’d somehow morphed Vanni into some bizarre mixture of Michael Montand and the son she’d never had with him—the man she’d desired above all else.
“I’m not really sure why you’re telling me this . . . this story, but I think I should be going. You don’t seem—” Right in the head, Emma stopped herself from saying at the last minute. “Well,” she finished with a glare. She started toward the door.
“I have proof!”
Emma was caught off guard when Vera shoved the piece of paper in front of her chest. She hauled up short and found herself staring at what appeared to be an official document.
It was Vanni’s birth certificate. Vera snapped away the top document, revealing the one beneath it. She shoved both pieces of paper closer to Emma’s face. “And here is Adrian’s birth certificate as well. You see? Who does it say Vanni’s mother is? Who does it say is Adrian’s? Cristina Elizabeth Carboni!” she spat, spraying some saliva into Emma’s face. “I found these after she died, hidden away at the bottom of one of her shoeboxes when I went through her closet to see what she’d left you! That whore would put something so sacred in such a place. That’s how much Adrian and Vanni meant to her. Only after she started to age a little, only when she began to suspect she couldn’t remain the prima donna of the European social circuit forever did she finally listen to Michael. After Laurel died, he begged her again to marry him. He was blind with lust when it came to Cristina. She finally agreed, probably seeing nothing better in her future, and came. You should have seen it!” Vera laughed. “You’ve never seen a woman less suited to be a mother. Vanni hated her from the first, and Cristina couldn’t stand the sight of him. What do you think it would do to Vanni to find out Cristina was his mother?” Vera shouted.
Emma staggered back as if she’d been shoved, the force of Vera’s vitriolic excitement was so great.
“He hates her with a white-hot passion. Cristina killed Adrian—her own son, Vanni’s twin. He’s never loved anyone like he did his brother. Vanni has never—will never—forgive Cristina for that, and yet it’s her cold, selfish blood that runs in his veins! What do you think it would do to him?” she demanded again.
“It would kill him,” Emma gasped, too shocked and set off balance to say anything but the truth.
Vera’s smile was an ugly thing. “Perhaps he deserves to know the truth.”
“No,” Emma said forcefully, anger fortifying her. She stepped toward Vera, meeting her stare in preparation to fight. “You say you care about him. You know very well finding out Cristina was his real mother would . . . unhinge him. Do you really want that for him?”
“No,” Vera said, her chin going up. “Do you?”
Emma inhaled slowly, reading the truth in the woman’s glittering eyes. “Just tell me what you’re planning,” she bit out angrily.
“I’ll keep the secret until my grave. If you promise never to see or speak to Vanni again.”
The refrigerator hummed on in the tense, horrible silence that followed.
“You must realize this thing with Vanni won’t last forever,” Vera reasoned. “How long do you have before this affair between the two of you is over? Weeks? Days? All I’m asking—”
“All you’re doing is blackmailing me,” Emma interrupted coldly. A fury started to build in the pit of her belly, melting her icy shock over the bizarre unfolding of events. “You know as well as anyone how much Vanni has suffered. You claim to care about him. Yet you would make him suffer in this way, out of spite toward me?”
“You claim to care about him as well,” Vera challenged, showing her teeth. “Would you make him suffer, just so that you can satisfy your lust for a few more nights? Don’t try to tell me Vanni has promised you more. I know him. He’s unfailingly honest when it comes to what he’ll give a woman. Well . . . has he promised you more? Has he professed any other emotion but lust for you?”
Emma refused to answer, but perhaps Vera saw the flash of doubt in her eyes. Vera smiled.
“I didn’t think so,” Vera said in a low, victorious tone. “You’ll have to tell him that you decided to end it now, since you know it’ll end some time soon, anyway. A girl like you, so sweet and fragile . . . it’d pain you too much to keep things going until they inevitably end.”
Emma snarled in a very unfragile manner and lunged toward the disgusting woman. Vera’s eyes widened in momentary alarm.
“How do I know you won’t tell him anyway, even if I agree to this? How do I know you won’t harm him in another way, you crazy bitch?” Emma demanded.
For a few seconds, Vera looked like she was ready to resort to violence, but Emma was ready. She waited. Vera inhaled, regaining her composure.
“He’s like a son to me,” Vera said. “I’ve never done anything to harm him. Has he ever mentioned that I have?”
“No,” Emma said. “He doesn’t think about you much at all, let alone talk about you.”
Her arm went up instinctively, blocking Vera’s striking hand. She gripped her wrist tight when Vera tried to jerk it away. Vera’s attempted blow at her face had brought her closer. Emma stared unblinkingly into Vera Shaw’s eyes while her heartbeat roared in her ears. A memory came back to her in that harrowing moment: Niki Dellis staring at her, sadness and concern in his dark eyes as he spoke of Vanni. Sometimes I think if something else horrible happened to him, it’d end him.
She couldn’t bear the idea of him learning that Cristina was his real mother. Just imagining his pain felt as if it took her breath away.
“Promise me you won’t tell him about Cristina,” Emma grated out. “Promise me you won’t do anything to harm him.”
“I promise it easily,” Vera hissed. “If you promise to walk away now.”
Emma shoved the other woman back with force. Vera stumbled back, looking outraged. She started to lunge toward Emma again, but suddenly came up short when their stares met.
“I know someone who will keep an eye on you,” Emma said fiercely, channeling all of her fury into her
gaze. “If I hear you’ve run to Vanni with this information, I’ll find out. I’ll tell Vanni what you did, just in case you convince him that you were only telling him for his own good.”
Vera laughed. “Are you referring to my stupid sister-in-law, Michelle? Or maybe my annoying brother, Dean? Yes. I hear you’ve become quite the darling with them as well. Fine. Check on Vanni’s well-being, if need be. But if you intrude too far into his life again, all bets are off. Do you understand me?”
“Unfortunately, all too well. You’re pitiful,” Emma said, casting a glance of cold disdain over the woman before she walked out of the kitchen.
* * *
Previously, Emma hadn’t allowed herself to imagine too greatly what it would be like when she eventually was forced to walk away from Vanni. Maybe it was best that she was doing it unexpectedly.
When she reached the garage—that place where she’d first spent time with Vanni, peered into the private world of a man who had suffered and lost and was ever so cautiously starting to live again, where she’d first felt her heart pound with boundless passion—what had just occurred in that kitchen suddenly struck her with force.
She stumbled slightly, gasping, and braced herself against the Bentley, her gaze landing on the backseat window. Pain swept through her. The thought of Vanni eventually arriving home and expecting to see her there felt unbearable. She choked on the air she’d just gulped as if her lungs didn’t know how to process it.
Don’t do it. You can’t abandon him!
But the truth was, Vanni wouldn’t feel abandoned. Not really. Her absence would confuse and annoy him. He’d definitely made it clear he didn’t like the idea of things ending on her terms. He wanted and needed her. For now. But abandoned?
No. That wasn’t realistic.
Was it?
It didn’t matter, in the end. The thought of him learning that Adrian had died while under the watch of his true mother, that Vanni carried the blood of Cristina in his veins, was an even worse agony for Emma to consider. He despised Cristina. He guarded the memory of Laurel Montand above all else. She was a pillar of goodness in his tainted, pain-strewn world.
