“Wow,” she breathed, staring around wide-eyed after they’d exited a long mudroom.
He’d led her to a garage that was the size of a warehouse. She counted twenty gleaming cars lined up, ten in two rows—everything from shining antiques to luxury, high-performance sports cars to sophisticated sedans to road hugging, fleet-looking racecars. There was a hydraulic mechanism for lifting the vehicles so they could be serviced. The car pulled to the front, a shiny black one that looked like it came from the 1920s, had its hood up, the engine exposed.
Montand turned.
“Oh—”
“What?” he asked sharply when she cut herself off, coming to a halt. He took a step toward her, eyes narrowing.
Emma shut her stupid, gaping mouth, but couldn’t stop staring. She’d forgotten the impact of him. The cloak of darkness and the coveralls and his solicitous manner out there in the drive had made her forget. Somehow, the more casual clothing, oil-smudged hands, and a dark scruff on his lean jaw seemed even more devastating than the vision of him in a tux. He seemed more comfortable tonight. More approachable. And that was a dangerous thought to have about a man like Michael Montand.
“Nothing. You just look so . . . natural that way,” she finished lamely, nodding at the coveralls. For a few charged seconds, he just continued to study her with that X ray stare.
“No reason I shouldn’t. I’m more comfortable under the hood of the car or working on engines than I am in a boardroom,” he said before he turned and walked toward the far side of the garage.
She followed him across the concrete floor, studying him curiously while he wasn’t looking. He seemed younger today. Or maybe he didn’t. It was difficult to categorize him.
His hair was worn more casually tonight, rippling back from his face in finger-combed negligence. In the front, a few long bangs had fallen forward, parenthesizing his striking eyes. The style, in combination with the dark scruff on his jaw, contributed to a sense of effortless sexiness. So did the easy, graceful saunter of his long, male body and the subtle glide of his hips. She hastily admired broad shoulders, a strong-looking back, and a trim waist. The coveralls were somewhat baggy, but even so, his butt looked just as good as everything else—
A metal clanging sound started her from her uncharacteristic lechery. He’d moved aside a tool on a table.
“This garage is huge. It’s cut into the bluff?” she asked, mentally cursing the high-pitched sound of her voice. He had an unprecedented effect on her, one that she needed to try to minimize at all costs. She was way out of Michael Montand’s league. He was megarich, powerful, world-weary . . . sexy as hell. He could have any woman he wanted. Emma wasn’t sure she was even interested in being in his league.
He stood before a utility table and a wall hung with various tools, his back to her. “Yeah. A lot of the house i
s dug into the earth, but the garage most deeply. Keeps it nice and cool in the summers, warm in the winter. Good for working in here.”
“So you like working on cars?” she asked, gazing back at the magnificent collection.
He nodded. “I like taking them apart and putting them back together, designing new parts. I have since I was kid. It’s kind of hard not to know and like the ins and outs of cars in my family,” he mumbled as he unceremoniously shoved aside more implements on the worktable and lifted some coiled jumper cables.
“You own a car company that makes racecars, isn’t that right?”
He shook his head. “No. My company makes certain key parts for racecars and sports cars, not the cars themselves.”
“But your father owned a French car company?”
He cast her a sharp sideways glance, and she realized how many questions she was asking him.
“To whom have you been talking about me?”
“Just some of the nursing staff.”
“What else did they say?” he asked, turning toward her, looking mildly interested.
“Nothing much,” she said, striving for an offhand manner. “Someone just mentioned in passing you and your father both were in the car business. Besides, almost everyone has seen Montand commercials. They’re famous.”
She squirmed a little while he studied her for a moment. Finally he nodded, and she disguised her exhale of relief.
“My father founded Automobiles Montand.” Just the way he said the company name with such an effortless accent made her suspect he probably spoke French.
“Were you born here? In the States?”
“I’ve lived in Kenilworth my whole life, but I’ve spent a lot of time in France with my dad’s family. My dad was born in Antibes and started his company there; my mom’s family was from New York. I have a dual citizenship with the US and France.”
“Are they both gone?” she asked softly.
His eyes flashed. For a few seconds, the aloof prince sitting at the end of that table last night had returned. Then his irritation seemed to fade to slight puzzlement as he stared at her. “Yes,” he replied after a moment.