y 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 damn it, 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 open 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.”
“You might change your mind someday.”
“Never.”
A pregnant pause followed his steely reply.
“Then the sex is enough. More than enough,” Astrid breathed. “Ah. I knew you’d missed me.”
Emma’s anxiety ratcheted up another notch when she heard a jingle of metal. A belt buckle being unfastened? She waited in dread. Was that the subtle sound of a zipper being lowered? Shit, shit, shit. How the hell had she gotten herself into this—her—hardworking, practical Emma Shore?
The man made gave a low grunt. “I suppose if you must use your mouth for something . . .
He didn’t sound aroused. He seemed . . . what? Irritated? Or was that dark amusement tingeing his voice? Forgetting her anxiety for a second, she leaned her head out of the hanging garments and moved closer to the door. It bothered her that she couldn’t picture him. It suddenly struck her that in her brief tour of the Breakers, she’d never once seen personal or family photos. Perhaps he wasn’t family, though. Astrid’s outline was clear in her head, despite the fact that Emma had never seen her. It wasn’t her true appearance that gave her shape, but the character Emma had sketched however loosely by listening to her syrupy seduction. The man remained cast in deep shadow, however, despite the frantic working of her imagination to draw him. Was he old? Young? Stern? Bored? She wished he’d speak again to give her another clue.
Instead, only a tense, billowing silence pounded in her brain. Just when she thought she’d go crazy from the quiet, Emma began to hear Astrid’s moans. They were low, excited . . . muffled. There was no doubt about it. He was in her mouth. Her throat, if the occasional gagging sound was any evidence.
Another unwanted noise entered her awareness, a wet sucking sound. She could envision the movements of the woman’s head as she plunged back and forth on the man’s—Vanni’s—cock, her imagination fed by the cadence and volume of Astrid’s muted moans.
Against her will, her sex prickled with arousal.
Her cheeks scalding, Emma clamped her eyes shut as if doing so would shut off all her senses. She felt both guilty at her violation of the stranger’s privacy during an intimate moment, but also violated herself in some way. An intense longing welled up in her to throw open the doors and quit the place—and screw her job and her pride.
But she couldn’t burst in on that.
The minutes dragged by. The woman’s moans were growing louder and more excited. The man was right. She did talk too much. Or moan too much. Why didn’t she just shut up? She was the one giving him oral sex, not the other way around.
And why was he silent as the grave?
“Enough,” he said quietly, and again, Emma wondered at how he’d said her private thoughts out loud. The skin on her neck and forearms prickled with wariness and anticipation. Not knowing what would happen next—not seeing—was driving her mad.
Astrid’s soft gasps penetrated the panel of wood.
“Go into the bedroom and get undressed. Everything off,” he said.
“But—”