A mingled sense of dread and excitement went through her when the driver’s side door flung open.

The image of him uncoiling his long body and stepping onto the pavement burned her consciousness. Sunlight turned his hair into thick, burnished brown waves. He removed a pair of sunglasses and fixed her with his stare. Everything came to a temporary halt.

Her heartbeat. Her judgment. Time.

He wore a black suit, white shirt, and light silver tie. He looked impossibly handsome and . . . foreign somehow to her stunned brain. Exotic. She was reminded that he was the CEO and owner of a French car company and had extensive family roots in Europe. His tall, lean, muscular body might have been made to wear suits like that. He looked perfectly comfortable and natural in the expensive, fashionable clothing. He probably wore suits like that all the time. Most people were likely used to seeing him attired in such a way. She’d witnessed the exception, seeing him in gray mechanic’s coveralls and jeans.

The realization that she’d peered into his private world and seen a part of him that the rest of the world hadn’t made her feel heartsore, like she’d lost something.

Something you never had.

The thought galvanized her. Without saying a word to him, she hurried toward her car, digging in her purse for her keys.

“Emma,” he said behind her. She gave him a reluctant sideways glance as he approached while she unlocked her car.

“How did you find me?” she asked, straining to keep her voice even.

He shrugged as if the question was unimportant. He was clean-shaven today. His cheeks looked a little hollowed out, but he didn’t appear gaunt. If anything, he looked more handsome to her than he ever had.

So far out of her league.

In more ways than one.

The realization made her drop her gaze and reach for the door handle.

“Cristina’s funeral is in an hour,” he said. “It’s a small one. Graveside. I’d like you to come.”

A stabbing sensation of sadness went through her. She lowered her head, protecting herself instinctively.

“You really liked her, didn’t you?” he asked quietly, and she knew he’d noticed her sudden sadness.

She nodded, reigning in her upsurge of emotion. “I did like Cristina. She was edgy and sharp, yes, but she had a forceful personality and she made me laugh.”

“Laugh?”

“Laugh. She was an excellent observer of character. She saw straight to the heart of someone and read their faults,” Emma said, staring unblinkingly at the top of her car.

Maybe you’re the one who is afraid. Maybe you’re such an expert on death because you’re afraid to live.

“Everyone’s faults but her own,” Vanni stated dryly.

Emma recalled Cristina talking in her sleep during that nightmare. You knew what I was capable of and what I wasn’t.

“She did see her faults,” Emma said quietly. “She felt so guilty about them that it was hard for her to speak of them out loud. She dreamed of them, though. They haunted her.”

His gaze narrowed on her. “Did she tell you anything significant about her life?”

“What do you mean?” Emma asked slowly. “Are you talking about what she said at the end?”

“No, I heard most of that. Anything about when she was young?” he prodded.

“She told me about that shop that she owned where all the women donated their designer clothes and things, and other women bought them. She used to talk about your father and the French Riviera, just little details.”

He didn’t respond. She glanced at him uneasily and was caught in his gleaming stare.

“I came to get you,” he said simply.

She shook her head adamantly. “The hospice holds two funerals every year for all of our patients that have passed. Family can come, but it’s primarily an opportunity for the staff to mourn,” she explained, avoiding his steady stare by examining her hand on the door handle. “If I went to every patient’s funeral, it’d—”

Finish me.

“Were you there? In my bedroom suite last Monday night? When I was with Astrid?” he asked suddenly.

Chapter 12

Her hand fell away from the metal handle. She stared up at him, dry-mouthed. Mute.

After a moment, he closed his eyes and lowered his head slightly. The breeze ruffled his thick hair in the taut silence that followed.

“You were,” he said with an air of grim finality. He inhaled, a tried executive who had just realized his worst assessment of the situation had come to pass, and was grimly positioning himself for his next move. Her heart beat uncomfortably against her breastbone. “Why?” he asked simply, opening his eyes.

“I didn’t want to be there. It was an accident,” she said, unable to keep the misery from her tone. His arm jerked slightly, as if he wanted to touch her, but then it went still at his side. She recalled how she’d flinched away from him after Cristina had died. He’d thought she’d recoil again at his touch, she realized, her throat swelling. “The washer was broken in Cristina’s suite and the repairman said he wouldn’t have the part to fix it until the end of the week. We needed clean linens and towels.”

“So you searched for a washer and ended up—”

“In your suite, yes, by accident,” she said, the words tumbling out of her throat now as if the confession had been stored under pressure and the lid had just been released. “I heard you two coming, so I hid. I know it was stupid, but I thought I’d be in trouble for leaving Cristina’s suite. I panicked,” she admitted.

“You hid in the armoire,” he said heavily.

She swallowed back the dread rising in her throat. “You knew I was in there?” she whispered.

“No,” he said, staring off into the distance, his light eyes reflecting the low clouds and blue sky. “I just put it together this weekend. I thought I’d heard something rustling in there that night, but dismissed it. Later, I saw you walking up the steps. You carried a bag.”

“That was the laundry,” she said tremulously. Her pulse began to throb at her temple. Her head ached with all of her thoughts. He knew she’d watched him flog that woman. He knew she’d seen him screw her with such ruthless precision using that gliding rack that had clearly been designed for his selfish kink. The same man had made love to her with sweet, intense passion on that beach. What was she supposed to do with the paradox? Michael Montand Jr. Vanni. She rubbed her temple. She was going to have a headache later. “I never saw your face,” she murmured, wanting to get this over with now that she’d started. “And like I said last Thursday, your hair was longer and lighter looking. When you cut it, a lot of the sun streaks disappeared. And she—Astrid—called you Vanni. I didn’t know that was what you were called.”

“So you didn’t realize Vanni was me, am I right?” he asked, exhaling heavily, his tone making it clear that the pieces were falling into place for him. “Emma?” he prodded. He waited for her to answer.

“You didn’t realize it was me until you heard Cristina call me Vanni. Do I have it right?” he pushed.

His gaze narrowed on her when she didn’t reply.

“I wouldn’t have wanted you to see that,” he grated out. “I didn’t ask you to watch. In fact, it’d be one of the last things I’d want anyone to witness,” he said in a hard, quiet voice. “I’m well aware it wasn’t my finest moment. But what you saw was consensual between Astrid and me. I’d never even met you. It was just a bad coincidence. It doesn’t have anything to do with what happened between us.”

“Of course it doesn’t. For you.”