They stared at each other for a few seconds. Again his gaze dropped over her, so fleeting it might have been her imagination.

“Why do you dress that way for work?” he asked, returning to the task of buttering a roll.

Her mouth fell open. “I like to be comfortable. My hospice doesn’t have an issue with it. Do you?”

He began slicing a filet of beef, his gaze averted from her. When he didn’t reply for a moment, her anxiety ratcheted up, but it was accompanied by a spike of defiance. “Is it not formal enough for you?” she asked, as if determined to dig her own grave. He looked up, and she glanced down significantly over his tuxedo-clad form.

He gave a small, unexpected smile, white teeth flashing against tanned skin. Her heart paused.

“You’re wondering if I put on a tuxedo to dine alone near midnight as a custom?” He raised his fork to his mouth and took a swift bite of beef, watching her as he chewed. Emma became highly aware of the movement of his lean, angular jaw and then the convulsion of his strong-looking throat framed by the stark white, open collar as he swallowed. He reached for a crystal goblet of red wine. “That would be pretty pitiful on my part if I did, wouldn’t it?” he asked before taking a swallow of wine. Emma heard the thread of humor in his voice and didn’t know how to reply.

“I just meant—”

“I know what you meant. And no, I’m not a formality hound. I just came from a public relations event in the city sponsored by my company. I didn’t get hungry until now. I always lose my appetite at those things. All those cameras. All those vampires,” he added distractedly. He took another bite of beef, and for a moment, Emma wondered if he’d forgotten she was there. “I didn’t mean that I object to your clothing,” he said quietly after a pause. “I just asked because I noticed it was different than the other nurses’.”

His words seemed to hang in the air. I noticed. There was only one way he could have noticed since he never visited Cristina’s suite. He’d taken notice of her on the surveillance camera. Maybe his thoughts went in a similar direction, because his expression suddenly grew sharp and then went carefully blank.

“I thought it might relate to your age,” he said, picking up his knife. “You seem much younger than the others.”

“You thought my dressing habits related to my age? Or my difficulty in not following your instructions did?”

“Both.”

Her back stiffened at that. “I’m twenty-three.”

His succinct nod seemed to say, well it all makes sense then. Irritation shot through her.

“You’re not that much older,” she said impulsively. The cool glance he gave her revealed she was mistaken; it made her feel about twelve years old. What she’d said was technically true. He didn’t look much older than his early thirties or so, but he seemed decades older. Maybe her blurting out those words was her desperate attempt to even the playing field.

He took another bite of meat. “I’m thirty,” he said with infuriating calmness after a pause. “And years are one thing. Experience another.”

“I have a master’s degree in palliative and hospice nursing. I’m very well qualified to take care of your stepmother. And I have plenty of experience,” she defended.

That small smile quirked his lips again. “How did you manage all that in twenty-three years?”

She hesitated, frowning. She realized she was being defensive, but his aloof contempt annoyed her. “I have a late birthday. Plus I did my bachelor’s degree in three years,” she mumbled, already regretting her outburst. Despite her flash of annoyance at his small, patronizing grin, the thought struck her that he had a very sexy mouth. He gave a small shrug.

“Even if you weren’t as experienced as you are I wouldn’t complain. You’re very good with my stepmother. She likes you.” He shot her a hard—or was it bitter?—glance. “And that’s rare. Please just follow my instructions from now on,” he said after a moment, picking up his water glass.

“I will,” Emma said shakily. She wasn’t sure what had gotten into her, to respond so defensively with a patient’s family member. She normally let criticisms or suspicions in regard to her youthful appearance slide right off her. Her work always ended up being a testament to her worth.

“Good night,” he said.

“Good night,” she said under her breath.

Despite the fact that he’d been looking at his plate when he dismissed her, the prickly sensation on her back gave her the distinct impression his gaze was on her as she left the room.

After her shift the next night she exited the Breakers and walked out into a warm July evening. There were no stars or moonshine, and the air felt close. She inhaled deeply before she climbed into her Ford Focus, smelling rain. Heat lightning flickered on the distant western horizon. How fantastic would it be, to live here and be able to take a midnight swim on a humid night like this before a storm broke, to wash away the residue of the day in the cold, refreshing water?

The thought triggered an uncontrollable vision of slipping into that lovely pool that overlooked the lake and swimming toward the near-naked, sexy form of Michael Montand.

Get a grip.

Her fantasies were getting out of hand lately, she realized with disgust as she dug around in her purse for her keys. Her dreams, which had been dark and disturbingly erotic for the past few nights, were just plain out of control. Nor were they making for a restful night’s sleep. She twisted the key in the ignition.

Nothing happened. She turned the key again.

“Oh no. Not tonight. Start, you bitch,” she hissed heatedly. Her car seemed unimpressed by her cursing, however. Emma imagined it silently flipping her off for not having it serviced for months on end.

Sensing defeat, she placed her forehead on the steering wheel and sighed in intense frustration.

It was almost eleven thirty. Colin had been exhausted all week. He’d said on the phone earlier that he was determined to get to bed early tonight. He still hadn’t gotten used to waking at six a.m. to catch a train into Chicago for his new job as a forensic science technician. Amanda didn’t have a car. She took mass transportation almost everywhere, including to school and to her job as a waitress.

She’d just have to wake up Colin, she realized, feeling guilty not only for that, but the fact that she’d been so irritable and standoffish with him yesterday morning. Well, there was no help for it. She reached for her phone and started to dial.

Her head sprung up when someone tapped on her window.

“What’s wrong?” came his muffled voice.

She stared in openmouthed surprise at the dark shadow of a stooping figure outside.

“Are you okay?” he demanded.

“Uh . . . yeah,” she replied. Her already warm cheeks heated when she realized he probably couldn’t hear her. She peered out the window, trying to see him better. The only source of illumination was a few lights in the house that were left on, but those were distant and filtered through tall trees.

It was him. Michael Montand.

Wasn’t it?

She opened her car door a crack. The interior lights didn’t turn on.

“My car won’t start,” she explained without getting out.

“Get out and I’ll have a look,” he said matter-of-factly.

She squinted, realizing he wore some kind of gray utility coveralls, like something a mechanic would wear. The garment stood in stark contrast to the tuxedo she’d seen him in last night, confusing her. She set aside her phone, unbuckled her seat belt, and got out of her car. He’d straightened. She realized he was very tall, maybe seven or eight inches past her five foot seven inches. Flustered, she moved aside as he strode past her with a single-minded purpose. He sat in the car, immediately moving the seat back to accommodate long, bent legs, the action practiced and smooth.