Being unlike any house she’d ever been in, the Breakers defied intuitive navigation. There weren’t really hallways, Emma realized, only stairs that led from one cascading floor to another. So far she’d encountered a fantastical futuristic workout facility featuring a gym, racquetball court, an indoor lap pool, and a landscaped outdoor terrace. She could make out the steam rising on the large outdoor whirlpool through the glass doors as she tiptoed through the silent, sleek facility. There had been no washer or dryer in the locker room that she could find, but she had located a chute that appeared to be for soiled linen. She just needed to locate where that chute ended.

It certainly wasn’t on the next level, which opened to a stunning suite that featured a gleaming bar, a waterfall fountain, an elaborate entertainment center, and deep upholstered chairs and couches. She spotted yet another outdoor space through a wall made completely of glass panes. Several examples of graceful, sensual marble sculpture caught Emma’s eye in the room. One made her do a double take and draw nearer to study it. Heat rose in her cheeks when she recognized the sexual act being portrayed. She guiltily recalled her mundane task and resumed her mission.

The straps on the heavy laundry bag were starting to dig painfully into her shoulder. She arrived on another floor and hesitated. Unlike most of the spaces she’d seen, this one opened to a wide hallway that led to a partially open, carved wood door. A possibility, she thought, shifting the bag to her other shoulder and grimacing, although probably just wishful thinking on her part. She peered around the door and sagged in disappointment. No laundry facilities here or anything remotely potentially useful to her. Unlike the rest of the minimalist, airy décor in the mansion, this room was decorated in dark woods, leathers, and rich fabrics in shades of burgundy and dark green. A large Oriental carpet covered the wood floor. She started to back out of what appeared to be a luxurious, masculine office.

She halted.

A television monitor sat on the carved desk, a slight flickering in the turned black-and-white screen capturing her attention. She glanced around cautiously and eased into the room. An appealing scent tickled her nose: leather and the hint of men’s cologne—sandalwood and citrus. She leaned over the desk in order to fully view the screen. She saw the image of her patient, Cristina, her mouth a black, jagged slash against her white face, rising from a nightmare as she would from the depths of sucking water. Emma almost heard her scream, although the monitor was silent. Debbie’s shoulder and dark ponytail blocked the view of Cristina a moment later as she bent to assist. Margie’s voice echoed in Emma’s head.

He might have one of those screens set up in his bedroom or office or private plane, for all we know. He may be glorying in every second of his stepmother’s death.

Apparently not every second, Emma thought, frowning at the empty chair behind the desk. She glanced curiously around the office one more time. There was something odd in this scenario. She watched as Debbie settled Cristina and moved to the periphery of the screen. The stark fear and pain still lingered on Cristina’s sagging face.

“. . . how pleased I was when you called earlier. Why didn’t I hear from you sooner?”

Emma started in shock at the woman’s distant voice. For a confused second, she thought the sound came from the video feed.

“You called me,” a man replied. “And I was away. I told you that.”

Footsteps.

Adrenaline poured into Emma’s blood, making her limbs tingle. Someone was coming down the stairs from the upper level.

Her heart stalled. Shit. She was in a private suite. Not at the threshold, but in the middle of the room. The hospice staff had specifically been told to remain on Cristina’s floor. She imagined fumbling a lame excuse to two total strangers about why she was lurking about next to this desk.

My ass is so going to get fired!

Her heart resumed beating with an uncomfortable leap. Emma lurched with it, her gaze traveling wildly across the large office. There was a massive closed door that she considered entering, but what if that led her into deeper trouble?

“Of course,” she heard the woman say. “France and Italy this time. Isn’t that what you said at dinner?”

“You know I said France and Monaco,” the man replied, sounding too distracted or impatient to be sardonic at full strength. The woman’s laughter made hot blood flood into Emma’s brain and her skin prickle with a need to flee.

“I suppose you were on that floating playground of Niki’s with all of his floatable playthings?”

“I told you that Niki is here in the States, testing the new car and helping me with plans for the Grand Prix. Oh, I see,” he said coolly. “You did hear me. You’re just testing me.”

Any second now they’ll walk in and see me standing here like an idiot.

Emma transformed into a wild thing, her single objective not to get caught. Her gaze landed on a tall, regal armoire with drawers at the bottom and a large, deep cupboard at the top. She opened the door, wincing at the uncontrollable clicking sound, and carefully placed the knotted plastic laundry bag into the bottom. Fully in the clutch of fear and panic, she sat on the bottom of the cupboard and pulled her legs in, knees against her chest. The sleeves and legs of some sort of garments brushed across her face before she plunged into the depths of them. Using the latch at the bottom of the door, she swung it shut just in time.

“What, exactly, do you think you’ll accomplish by trying to trick me into revealing a lie?” the man asked with dark amusement, his voice just feet away now. A door closed briskly. Another ominous sound came—the snick of a lock.

They were in the same room now with Emma. Locked in. Her heart roared so loud in her ears, she was surprised the man—was it Michael Montand himself?—didn’t immediately throw open the cupboard and yank her out, shouting blistering accusations.

And dammit, she hadn’t yet fastened the cupboard door. She’d been afraid the clicking noise would betray her presence as they drew near. Her hand started to ache from holding the metal fastening, keeping the door closed all the way but not latched.

“I’m not trying to trip you up. How ridiculous. I just missed you, that’s all. France and Monaco? I would guess some uncivilized place. You look like a savage,” the woman said, her voice lowering to a purr. Emma fully recognized for the first time that she had a light, melodious French accent. In her mind’s eye, Emma imagined her entering the man’s arms. Touching him. “A beautiful savage. Do what you do to me. Turn me into a savage, too.”

“Why must you always overplay things, Astrid?”

Emma blinked her eyes open into the pitch black. Had she imagined his vaguely frustrated tone? Despite her near full-blown panic, she experienced a strong urge to laugh. It’d been precisely what Emma had been thinking she’d like to tell the fawning woman.

“Why are you so mean?” Astrid asked, attempting to sound unconcerned and sexily playful, and very nearly succeeding. Emma had the impression Astrid had some serious experience with flirting and seduction, yet was aware she was falling short in this instance.

“You didn’t call me because you want me to be nice.”

“No,” Astrid breathed after a pause. “You’re even meaner than me, Vanni. And we both know how bad I am.”

Vanni? Who is Vanni? The woman had pronounced it like Donny but with a V.

Was she not trapped in Montand’s suite then? Was she eavesdropping on one of his guests or a family member? Emma wondered wildly.

“Are you sure you want to do this again?” he asked soberly, ignoring Astrid’s provocative language. “I’ve told you what I can offer you. It’s the same I can offer any woman. It isn’t much.”