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 toward 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.”