He gasped at the sensation of her taking him deep and began to shudder in orgasm. He came into her throat, but dislodged his cock as the second shudder tightened him. Pleasure continued to wrack him as he ejaculated powerfully on her tongue, and she sucked and swallowed.

An ecstatic moment later, he opened his clenched eyelids. Had he hurt her?

Her eyes were open and fixed on him as she continued to bob her head over his cock. There was a blazing quality to her gaze as she sucked him clean, and he was reminded yet again that he was foolish to think his flashes of savageness could ever degrade her. She was as deep as the sea and every bit as mysterious.

“Come here,” he said, holding out his arms for her. He held her against him, his hand moving between her thighs. He squeezed her tighter when she climaxed against him a moment later, eating the small whimpers that fell across her lips, treasuring her pleasure as much as he had his own.

More.

The thought of losing her felt like hot knives piercing him, stealing his breath. But he would lose her. All things that he treasured left him in the end. Emma had been wise—as she was in a lot of things—for setting the limit of parting. Not knowing when the ax of loss would fall was worse.

Wasn’t it?

He flipped her onto her back on her side of the recliner and came down partially over her, burying his face in her neck. He closed his eyes and inhaled her fragrance, letting it chase away his pain until it was only a dull, throbbing ache.

Chapter 38

Despite her distraction that first time, she did read to him sometimes while they lay together next to the sea. She’d wondered at first if he wouldn’t fall asleep after a while, given the steady cadence of her voice and the hypnotic, rhythmic waves hitting the beach, but when she’d glance aside occasionally, she’d see the aquamarine crescents of his eyes as he stared up at the top of the canopy or out at the sea . . . or at her face.

She set aside the book once and picked up the glass of lemonade Mrs. Denis had sent down with their lunch, taking a sip and setting it down again. “She was a lot more calm than I would have been, meeting a queen,” Emma said, referring to the passage she’d just finished reading in the book where the heroine of the book, a sixteenth-century peasant unaware of her royal roots, had been presented to the monarch of the land.

“You were pretty calm when you met royalty,” Vanni said from where he lay next to her, his own glass of lemonade perched on his taut belly and seeping moisture onto his skin. He was turning even more golden brown and beautiful with each passing day in paradise.

She laughed, and then did a puzzled double take when she saw his serious expression. “When did I meet royalty?” she asked.

He reminded her of the couple she’d met in the racing box—the mustachioed man and the sober, polite woman sitting next to him. She just stared at him. “They were not,” she scoffed after a moment.

“Well, granted, he’s several steps away from the crown, but still . . .”

A shiver of amazement mixed with outrage and amusement when she realized he wasn’t kidding. She slapped him on the shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded, trying desperately to remember the details of the couple and what she’d said and done. “Did I make a fool of myself?” she demanded anxiously. “Wasn’t I supposed to address them in a certain way?”

“No,” Vanni assured, chuckling. “He’s enough steps away that a formal address isn’t required in non-ceremonial settings.”

“He seemed so nice and . . . normal.”

“I’m sure he thought the same of you,” Vanni said drolly, grinning as he set aside his drink.

“You know what I meant,” she chastised. He reached, pulling her against him. She nestled against his chest and stared out at the wide, sunlit sea.

“Royalty isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. They’re just people, like anyone else. You couldn’t pay me to have their jobs, though.” She sighed as his fingers brushed in her hair. “Niki is normal enough, don’t you think? And Cristina? They both belong to offshoots of the same family.”

“Really?” she asked, stunned. She listened while he described the lineage. It all sounded very convoluted and confusing to her. Still, she was glad to hear him speak of Cristina. He hadn’t said her name since that volatile morning out on the dock.

“Vanni?” she asked after a moment, turning her face and kissing his chest.

“Hmmm?” he purred, sounding supremely relaxed.

“I know you didn’t like Cristina. But . . . was she ever kind to you and Adrian?”

She held her breath, wondering how he would react to the question. Maybe it was foolish of her, but Emma didn’t abide by the idea of keeping things locked tight inside. The things Vanni had avoided discussing for most of his life had ended up taking their toll on him . . . hurting him.

“To Adrian, she was more frequently kind,” he said at last. “But Adrian was very easy to be kind to. Me . . . not so much. Very rarely, she was kind to me, though. It’d come upon her in fits.”

“Fits?” she asked, lifting her head and looking at him.

He nodded, his fingers falling out of her hair. “It was like she’d see the light one day and want to do better, mothering us, taking care of us . . . noticing us.” His mouth flattened at the last. “It wouldn’t last.”

She just stroked his chest, saying nothing. She wanted to bring up the topic of his guilt for Adrian’s accidental death, but she felt she’d already pushed her luck enough by bringing up the topic of Cristina and not ruining their peace.

One morning she awoke in bed to find Vanni gone. She showered and dressed in her swimsuit and a tunic and grabbed her book before going downstairs to breakfast. Mrs. Denis directed her to “his workshop,” as she called it, and provided her with a tea tray. Vanni’s workshop turned out to be a garage that, while not as large as the one at the Breakers, was large enough for four cars and a huge table where various car parts and machinery sat. She found Vanni wearing a pair of coveralls, similar to the ones he wore in Chicago, with one hand inside what appeared to be an engine that sat on the table. He’d glanced around when she greeted him, the small smile on his lips telling her he was pleased to see her.

“Don’t stop working on my account,” Emma insisted when he withdrew his wrench and picked up an oil-smudged towel to wipe off. “I’ll just sit here and drink my tea and read.”

“You’re sure?” he asked, and she could tell by the way his gaze drifted back to the engine that he wanted to continue with his task.

“Of course, if you don’t mind.”

He shook his head with certainty. She sat on a stool near the table and poured some tea.

After that, she joined him in his workshop several more times while they were at La Mer. At first, she read while he worked for an hour or so, but once she realized he was quite glad to tell her what he was doing and what his goal was, she forgot the book and just observed him while they talked, learning more about the workings of a car than she’d ever imagined was possible. She recalled what her friend’s father, Mort Forrester, had said about Michael Montand Sr. and Vanni both being brilliant mechanical engineers. She started to understand just the very edges of Vanni’s genius during those visits with him while he worked, and he gave her a rough blueprint for comprehending the advances he’d made in mechanical technology. She respected him even more with that understanding.

She loved him impossibly more.

Of course days and nights as special as those couldn’t last forever. They planned to fly back to Chicago on Sunday morning, and Emma was due back at work on Monday. As their time together drew to an end, neither of them seemed willing to be apart even for a short time. Vanni asked her what she’d like to do on Saturday, their last day at La Mer, and she replied without hesitation that she wanted to spend it on the beach with him next to the sea.