Chapter Nineteen
The c
ab dropped them off at the same building where he’d parked the car. They returned to his sedan to retrieve his leather portfolio and the canvas bag in which she’d packed a change of clothing for tomorrow and a few other necessary items. After they’d left the car, he led her to a different elevator than the one they’d taken from the street.
“Is your apartment in this building?” she asked him when they left the elevator and entered a sedately opulent lobby situated just off Michigan Avenue.
“Yes,” he said, nodding to the doorman who greeted him by name and hurried to open the door for them. “My offices are just a block away from here.”
She was having a little trouble keeping up with his long-legged stride. When they got onto the residential elevator, he pushed the button for the fifty-sixth floor. Emma leaned against the brass railing and panted softly.
“Are you all right?” he wondered, dark brows slanting in concern.
“Yes. You were walking kind of fast,” she said, grinning.
He stepped forward and palmed her jaw. Her panting breath froze in her lungs when she noticed his intent expression.
“You are certain you’re well, aren’t you?”
“What?” she asked, surprised.
“I know that you said you were . . .” he hesitated. “Cured of that childhood ailment, but are you certain?”
Her mouth fell open. “Of course I’m sure. I just was at my doctor’s last month. I’ve been perfectly healthy since it happened when I was a kid.” A horrible thought occurred to her as the elevator lifted them silently. “You’re not afraid you’ll catch something from me, are you?”
He stiffened. “What? Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then why . . . oh,” she said, realization dawning. “You thought maybe I was carrying my eternal optimism too far. You think I’m fooling myself into believing in the miracle cure.” She couldn’t help but smile. “I’m not that much of a Pollyanna. I’m a nurse, too, you know. I can be very practical.”
He seemed to relax a little. The elevator dinged and the door opened. He took her hand and led her into a hallway.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “And I’m sorry for rushing just now, too. I’m impatient.”
“For dessert?” she asked cautiously, stopping when he did in front of a door. He paused with a key in the lock, leaned down and brushed his lips against hers. An electrical tingle went through her, a hint of what was to come.
“For dessert,” he agreed before he pushed open the condominium door. Emma entered, staring in openmouthed awe. He didn’t switch on a light, but he didn’t need to. She hardly noticed the sumptuous living room as she walked through it. Her attention was snagged by the stunning view of Millennium and Grant parks, the Art Institute, and the brightly lit tiny ribbon of cars far below them that was Michigan Avenue. She sensed Vanni step up next to her as she gazed out at the splendid sight.
“Which view do you like better? The one at the Breakers or the one here?” she asked wistfully.
He didn’t immediately reply. A shock of regret went through her when she realized that the view at the Breakers was the site of his twin brother’s untimely and tragic death.
“Vanni . . . I’m sorry, that was an insensitive thing to ask.”
His face looked compelling and unreadable in the dim light provided by city far below them. He didn’t appear offended, however, so she couldn’t stop herself from speaking her pressing thought out loud.
“Why did you do it?” she whispered. “Why did you build a house where you’re constantly forced to look out at the place where Adrian died?”
The silence stretched. He reached for her with the hand that wasn’t holding the desserts and his briefcase.
“Because there are more things in that view than the place where Adrian died. There are also places in it where he lived.”
If only you could live there as well. Truly live.
Not only his words, but her thought echoed in her brain. She wasn’t sure if he’d given her an answer full of meaning, or if he’d sidestepped her question altogether. She did know this in that moment: Vanni Montand had been leading half a life.
“I don’t want to talk about depressing things, Emma,” he said with quiet finality. Maybe he was right. She nodded in agreement. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
She shook her head. “When will you return from France?” she asked.