Their relationship needed to officially end. Colin needed to see she wasn’t suicidal or something. She wasn’t feeling sexually rejected by him, that much was certain. She’d been turned to quivering mush the other night in the backseat of a car by a gorgeous billionaire whom she couldn’t stop thinking about despite all the drama surrounding her.

Not that she planned to confess that part to anyone. She was having trouble enough coming to terms with it herself.

What if you really are upset and don’t realize it, and are acting out in a self-defeating way with Montand because you’re feeling rejected by Colin?

One look at Colin’s face when he answered his apartment door on Saturday evening, and she knew that wasn’t the situation at all. She was ready to end it with him.

More than ready.

When he saw the carton she brought with all of the things he’d left at her place over the years, he looked sad and resigned. Even if it hadn’t been for her unexpected experience with Montand, Emma knew she would have eventually realized this breakup was long overdue. Amanda and Colin making out had just hastened the inevitable.

Now all she had to do was deal with the poison fallout in regard to Amanda.

On Sunday, Emma decided impulsively to go shopping in downtown Chicago. When Emma returned home at around four thirty, she saw Colin and Amanda standing next to Colin’s dark green sedan in the parking lot. They both stepped apart guiltily when they noticed her car. Feeling uncomfortable, Emma gathered her bags and headed toward her apartment.

She entered the still, empty apartment, closed the door, and pressed her back against it, her bags still clutched in her hands. What was she feeling? She tried to be honest with herself. Was it jealousy for seeing Amanda and Colin together?

No. That wasn’t it. What she experienced was a gaping sense of uncertainty about her future. What she experienced, she realized with a sudden sense of clarity, was the precise reason she’d clung to Colin for so long, even when she knew they weren’t right for each other.

The recognition fortified her. At least she’d put a name to what she’d been afraid of. She marched down the hallway, suddenly eager to look at her new purchases again.

Chapter 8

The following Tuesday when she went to work, the skies were gray and brooding. Maureen Sanderson, the nurse on the day shift, greeted her wearily when she entered the suite.

“What’s wrong?” Emma asked.

“Cristina had a bad night,” Maureen explained in a hushed tone, glancing toward the bedroom. “I thought she was gone at least half a dozen times. But she seems to be holding on for some reason. Her stepson is out of town. I know they have a rocky relationship, but maybe she’s waiting to see him once more?”

“Montand is away?” Emma asked. No one had mentioned it during her shift yesterday, but she really hadn’t conversed a lot with anyone but Cristina, and that only briefly.

Maureen nodded. “When she was doing so poorly earlier, I asked the maid to make sure he was aware that Cristina’s time was probably soon, just in case he wanted to say good-bye. Alice told me he’d gone to France.”

“When?” Emma asked, regretting her sharpness when she saw Maureen’s bemused glance.

Maureen gathered her things. “I don’t know. On Saturday, I think.”

Emma nodded, striving to push down the hollow feeling that seemed to be expanding in her belly and pressing up on her chest cavity. What should it matter to her if he was gone? He was confusing and rude and it was better to be rid of him altogether.

It matters, a stubborn voice in her head said. She tried to ignore that, too.

She hastened to the bedroom, where she sunk into the upholstered chair next to Cristina’s bed. She saw what Maureen meant. Cristina’s color was terrible and she looked so tiny and shrunken lying there on the grand, luxurious bed.

“Cristina?” Emma called, seeing her patient’s eyelids flicker. “It’s me, Emma.”

Cristina rolled her head on the pillow and regarded her with rheumy, crusted eyes.

“There you are,” she mouthed, her voice barely above a whisper. “My confessor.”

Emma smiled and stood. “Hold on to your confessions for a minute. I’m going to get a cloth for your eyes.”

A moment later she washed Cristina’s eyes with a warm cloth. Afterward, she gently applied one of Cristina’s expensive creams to the dry skin of her face, rubbing gently. “Would you like a sip of water?” she asked when she was done. Cristina nodded. After she’d drank a few laborious sips, Emma set aside the cup and straw. “There, that’s much better,” Emma said. She pulled the chair closer and sat. She realized what she said was true. Cristina’s gaze seemed sharper as she looked at Emma, a hint of her strong personality in evidence once again.

Maybe it’s not the end for you yet, Cristina.

“What’s this about me being your confessor?” Emma asked, her tone brisk and matter-of-fact.

“I don’t like it when you’re not here.”

“I was just here yesterday. Do you think I should work 24-7?” she asked, touched despite her jocular tone. She knew Cristina was not the sentimental, touchy-feely type.

“No, you deserve the time off, but that doesn’t mean I like it,” Cristina gasped.

“Watch out, Cristina, or I’ll think you actually like me.”

Cristina scowled at her. “Look at you,” she rasped after a moment, and Emma realized she was actually studying her appearance closely for the first time since last week.

Emma glanced down at herself dubiously. “What?”

“You’re all dressed up. Or at least for you, you are. What’s the occasion? Did you do your hair and put on a halfway-decent blouse because you thought you were coming to my funeral today?”

“I did no such thing,” Emma said levelly, refusing to show her embarrassment over the fact that she’d spent some time on her hair the past two mornings and relished wearing her new clothes.

And he’s not even here. He’s halfway across the world.

She squirmed a little uncomfortably when Cristina’s gaze narrowed on her.

“I know that look. You dressed up for a man. Well?”

“Well what?” Emma said, standing and straightening up the nightstand to hide her discomposure.

“Who’s the man? It can’t be that boyfriend you talk about. The impression I got of him is that he wouldn’t inspire a blush, let alone that glow I see on your face right now.”

“I must have rubbed your eyes too hard,” Emma muttered.

“Have you met my stepson, by chance?” Emma’s heart jumped when she took in Cristina’s sharp stare. She felt so transparent. “Because . . . that might be a very good idea . . .” Cristina faded off musingly.

“Why? Does he need a nurse?” Emma hedged, rolling her eyes in a show of amused exasperation. Unfortunately, she wasn’t the best of actresses. “You said you had something you wanted to say to me?” she asked, sinking into her chair again.

Something flickered across Cristina’s pinched features. She stared at the curtained windows.

“Is my stepson here?” Cristina whispered.

“No. From what I understand, he’s in France. Cristina, do you need to speak to him?”

Cristina’s mouth pinched together in the silence that followed.

“No. Not yet,” Emma thought she heard the older woman say.

Emma’s shift seemed to drag by. Cristina slept through most of it.

The silent mansion itself seemed to mock Emma, as if it knew about her stupid hopes in arriving there the past two days, had full knowledge of her naïve wish to run into Montand again. What did she imagine would happen? That he would seek her out, mad to be with her? That when she explained that she didn’t mind his using her to assuage his lust, because she needed him to do the same for her, that he’d immediately give her what she needed? It would be a lie anyway, because she did mind. Or at least at times she found the idea of him making love to her with no other impulse but lust unbearable.