Mrs. Shaw paused before a door and swung it open.

“Ms. Shore is here,” she said to someone in the room.

She stepped aside and gave Emma a glance of loathing before nodding significantly toward the interior. Her heart now lodged at the base of her throat, Emma stepped past Mrs. Shaw into the interior of the room. She had a brief, but vivid impression of a stunning dining room consisting almost entirely of black, white, and crystal. A huge white modernist china cabinet and wet bar structure dominated the wall closest to her. The long, grand dining room table was made of African blackwood and was surrounded by more than a dozen handsome blackwood and white-upholstered chairs. Two large crystal chandeliers hung above the table. The far wall consisted of warm brick in beige and reddish tones, offsetting the cool luxury and sleek lines of the room. On the brick wall hung a large painting that she recognized in a dazed sort of way was a modernist depiction of an engine.

She heard the door shut and glanced over her shoulder. Mrs. Shaw was gone.

Emma turned back to the single inhabitant of the room. He sat at the head of the table turned toward the glass wall that faced Lake Michigan. For a few seconds, she just stood there, speechless. He matched the room in almost every way. He wore a black tuxedo with careless elegance. His brown hair was not cut short, necessarily, but it wasn’t long, either. A woman could easily fill a hand with the glory of it. It was thick and wavy and had been combed back from his face. A dark, very short goatee seemed to highlight a sensual mouth. He was all precision lines and bold masculinity: an angular jaw, broad shoulders, handsome Grecian nose. The only way he didn’t match the immaculate, stunning room was the way his tie was loosened and the top collar of his white dress shirt unbuttoned at his throat.

He was even better looking than the actors hired to drive cars and drink champagne for his company commercials. Impossible.

“Well don’t just stand there,” he said, just a hint of impatience in his tone. He set down the fork he’d been holding on to a plate. Emma blinked. It hadn’t even registered immediately that he’d been eating, she’d been so captivated by the image of him. “Come here,” he prompted when she remained frozen.

She stepped forward, a surreal feeling pervading her. As she drew nearer, she realized that his eyes were the same color of the lake on a sunny day—a startling blue-green. The lake would serve to soften and warm the cool, sharp lines of the beautiful, austere dining room during the day. This man’s eyes, however, would soften nothing. They seemed to lance straight through her.

His firm, sensual mouth quirked slightly.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he demanded quietly.

“Am I looking at you a certain way?” Emma asked, surprised and set off balance by his question. “I hadn’t realized,” she fumbled. She yanked her gaze off his compelling visage and glanced around the room, wide-eyed. “I’ve never seen a room like this. It was a little like walking into a photo from a magazine or something.” Especially with you sitting at the end of that grand table in that tux.

She looked at him when he laughed mirthlessly. “Cold and uncomfortable, you mean. I’ll be sure to pass on your compliments to my architect and interior designer.”

She matched his stare. “That’s not what I meant.”

He frowned slightly but didn’t respond. Nor did he look away. “You’re Michael Montand?” she prodded in the uncomfortable silence that followed.

He nodded once and glanced at the chair nearest to him. “Have a seat. Can I get you anything to eat or drink?”

“Would you mind telling me why you asked me here first?”

His eyebrows arched in mild surprise. They were a shade darker than the hair on his head and created a striking contrast to his light eyes. Clearly, she was just supposed to follow his command without comment.

“You’re taking care of my stepmother. Surely you don’t think it odd that a family member would want to speak with you about your work,” he said.

“You haven’t called anyone else from the nursing staff down here.”

“Nobody else has directly disobeyed my orders.”

She swallowed thickly at the ringing authority in his tone. Her heartbeat began to roar so loudly in her ears, she wouldn’t be surprised at all if he heard the guilty tattoo. What could she say that wouldn’t betray what she’d accidentally seen last night? Had that man—Vanni—told Montand something?

Was he Vanni? she wondered wildly. No, Vanni wasn’t a nickname for Michael. Plus, the man she’d partially seen last night had long hair and it had been lighter, with gold streaks in it. She opened her mouth to utter some feeble excuse—she had no idea what—but he cut her off.

“It may seem random to you that I asked for the drapes to remain closed in my stepmother’s suite, but I can assure you that I did so with a reason.”

“I can explain . . . What?” she halted her pressured confession.

He gave her a nonplussed glance.

“The drapes,” he repeated.

Relief swept through her. He’d meant the drape incident, not the armoire one.

“What did you think I was going to say?” he asked, eyes narrowing on her.

“I wasn’t thinking anything,” she lied. “Of course I’ll respect your wishes about the drapes.”

“I’d appreciate if you respected my wishes in regard to everything I have specified with your supervisor.”

She held her breath for a split second. Had he emphasized the word everything, or was that her panicked brain jumping to conclusions?

“Of course,” she managed.

He nodded once and then picked up his fork. Emma had the distinct impression that she’d been dismissed. She wavered on her feet.

“It’s just that the sunshine . . . it might do Cristina some good.”

He regarded her with glacial incredulity. Emma felt herself withering from the sheer chill.

“It’s such a beautiful view. I see no reason to deprive her of it,” Emma rallied despite his intimidating stare.

He set down his fork, the clanging sound of heavy silver against fine china startling her. He sat back in his chair. He possessed a lean, muscular . . . phenomenal frame, from what she could see of it. Clearly, he hadn’t built that elaborate workout facility for show. Emma wasn’t sure what to do with herself in the strained, billowing silence that followed.

“It may be beautiful to you,” he said finally.

“It’s not to you?” she asked, bewildered. “Why did you have this house built then? The view dominates every room.” At least when you’re not in it, it does.

One look at his frozen features and she knew she’d gone too far. His gaze dipped suddenly, skimming her body. If another man had done it, she would have been offended. In Michael Montand’s case, it was like a mild electrical current passed through her. Her nipples tightened and something seemed to prickle in her belly, like a hook of sensation pulling at her navel. She shifted uncomfortably on her feet, her wisp of confidence evaporating.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t beautiful to me,” he said. He glanced away and Emma knew she’d imagined that flash of heat in his eyes. He seemed to hesitate. “How is she doing?”

“Cristina?”

He nodded once and picked up a roll from a basket. Emma noticed he possessed strong-looking hands with long, blunt-tipped fingers. “She’s in a great deal of pain. It’s getting worse. I’ve asked the doctor to increase her pain medications.”

He looked up sharply.

“It’s not uncommon, as the cancer spreads,” Emma said, reading his glance of unease.

“Won’t increasing her pain medication make her more confused?”

“Possibly. But it’s better than forcing her to suffer. She’s living the last days of her life. We’re not talking about a headache here. This is severe, mind-numbing pain. When she’s in the midst of it, she’s not very cognitively sharp anyway. None of us would be,” Emma said pointedly.