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 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? Michal 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, quite 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.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, anger entering his tone.
“Why didn’t you just tell me your name was Vanni?”
“I don’t know,” he replied just as edgily. He paused, seeming to search for an explanation for her question. “Not everyone calls me Vanni. Besides, I don’t recall you ever calling me anything. What did you mean when you said you watching me with Astrid doesn’t mean anything to me, but it does you?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to stand in my patient’s driveway and have this conversation,” she said, once again reaching for her door handle.
“What was it that upset you the most?” he demanded, subduing his anger.
Her mouth sagged open with disbelief. She couldn’t seem to inhale a full breath. She felt cornered by his direct question and piercing stare.
“I’d be hard-pressed to name something that didn’t. It all disgusted me,” she blurted out.
He caught her wrist when she reached for the door. She looked up at him, startled.
“You’ve been lying to yourself, Emma. You knew it was me. Or part of you did. You knew since that night I called you to the dining room.” She gasped in shock at his calm, concise understanding of the private inner workings of her mind. His fingers moved slightly on her skin as if to soothe the sting of his words. He lowered his head and spoke near her ear, his warm breath making her shiver. “I’m not an animal. Don’t label me depraved just because it makes things easier for you. Are you forgetting I’ve made love to you? You might be inexperienced, but you enjoyed giving control to me. There’s nothing wrong with it. It was natural the way you responded to me. Beautiful,” he said, his softly uttered words striking her as palpably intimate even in this unlikely setting. “Don’t run from what you don’t understand.”
It was too much. His quiet voice, not entreating her exactly, but calling to her. Speaking to something deep inside her that he knew she heard.
Somehow.
I’ve told you what I can offer you. It’s the same I can offer any woman. It isn’t much, she recalled him telling Astrid so coldly. I’m going to bind you onto the sliding track, then use the flogger on you.
Something hot and volatile swelled in her chest. He was too complex for her, too dark. The last thing she needed was someone like Vanni Montand in her life. She couldn’t handle it. She couldn’t handle him.
He leaned down, his lips brushing her temple, and her fearful thoughts evaporated.
“Leave your keys under the seat,” he directed in her ear. “I’ll call someone and have them pick up your car and deliver it to your apartment. Come with me now. I want you at Cristina’s funeral.”