He frowned slightly but didn’t respond. Nor did he look away. “You’re Michael Montand?” she prodded in the uncomfortable silence that followed.
He nodded once and glanced at the chair nearest to him. “Have a seat. Can I get you anything to eat or drink?”
“Would you mind telling me why you asked me here first?”
His eyebrows arched in mild surprise. They were a shade darker than the hair on his head and created a striking contrast to his light eyes. Clearly, she was just supposed to follow his command without comment.
“You’re taking care of my stepmother. Surely you don’t think it odd that a family member would want to speak with you about your work,” he said.
“You haven’t called anyone else from the nursing staff down here.”
“Nobody else has directly disobeyed my orders.”
She swallowed thickly at the ringing authority in his tone. Her heartbeat began to roar so loudly in her ears, she wouldn’t be surprised at all if he heard the guilty tattoo. What could she say that wouldn’t betray what she’d accidently seen last night? Had that man—Vanni—told Montand something?
Was he Vanni? she wondered wildly. No, Vanni wasn’t a nickname for Michael. Plus, the man she’d partially seen last night had long hair and it had been lighter, with gold streaks in it. She opened her mouth to utter some feeble excuse—she had no idea what—but he cut her off.
“It may seem random to you that I asked for the drapes to remain closed in my stepmother’s suite, but I can assure you that I did so with a reason.”
“I can explain . . . what?” she halted her pressured confession.
He gave her a nonplussed glance.
“The drapes,” he repeated.
Relief swept through her. He’d meant the drape incident, not the armoire one.
“What did you think I was going to say?” he asked, eyes narrowing on her.
“I wasn’t thinking anything,” she lied. “Of course I’ll respect your wishes about the drapes.”
“I’d appreciate if you respected my wishes in regard to everything I have specified with your supervisor.”
She held her breath for a split second. Had he emphasized the word everything, or was that her panicked brain jumping to conclusions?
“Of course,” she managed.
He nodded once and then picked up his fork. Emma had the distinct impression that she’d been dismissed. She wavered on her feet.
“It’s just that the sunshine . . . it might do Cristina some good.”
He regarded her with glacial incredulity. Emma felt herself withering from the sheer chill.
“It’s such a beautiful view. I see no reason to deprive her of it,” Emma rallied despite his intimidating stare.
He set down his fork, the clanging sound of heavy silver against fine china startling her. He sat back in his chair. He possessed a lean, muscular . . . phenomenal frame, from what she could see of it. Clearly, he hadn’t built that elaborate workout facility for show. Emma wasn’t sure what to do with herself in the strained, billowing silence that followed.
“It may be beautiful to you,” he said finally.
“It’s not to you?” she asked, bewildered. “Why did you have this house built then? The view dominates every room.” At least when you’re not in it, it does.
One look at his frozen features and she knew she’d gone too far. His gaze dipped suddenly, skimming her body. If another man had done it, she would have been offended. In Michael Montand’s case, it was like a mild electrical current passed through her. Her nipples tightened and something seemed to prickle in her belly, like a hook of sensation pulling at her navel. She shifted uncomfortably on her feet, her wisp of confidence evaporating.
“I didn’t say it wasn’t beautiful to me,” he said. He glanced away and Emma knew she’d imagined that flash of heat in his eyes. He seemed to hesitate. “How is she doing?”
“Cristina?”
He nodded once and picked up a roll from a basket. Emma noticed he possessed strong-looking hands with long, blunt-tipped fingers. “She’s in a great deal of pain. It’s getting worse. I’ve asked the doctor to increase her pain medications.”