She heard a sound out in the bedroom and grabbed the clutch that matched her shoes. Feeling both self-conscious and excited, she exited the bathroom. Vanni was across the room at the huge, carved armoire, standing behind an open door. He closed it a second later with a bang and was in the process of fastening a gold watch around his wrist, when he glanced up and noticed her. He did a double take. Emma stood there, her heart throbbing, as his blue-green gaze dropped over her. He wore a classic tux with a white shirt, a textured vest that was low enough to show off his tie—a classic black one versus a bow tie. He wore the garments, as usual, with insouciant ease, his long, lean body the ideal frame for such finely made, elegant garments.
“Well,” he said after a pregnant pause, clicking the watch into place and walking toward her. “Cristina knew precisely what she was doing in at least one thing. You’re stunning. You do incredible things for that dress.”
She smiled. “Isn’t it the other way around? If anything, the dress is doing it for me.”
He grabbed her hand and gracefully turned her. Emma stared at him in surprise over her shoulder as he regarded her backside. One dark eyebrow quirked up and his mouth went hard.
“No,” he said grimly, spinning her back around. “I had it right.”
“Then why do you look so unhappy about it?” she teased him as he led her toward the door.
“I’m not so sure I like the idea of you in that dress and a roomful of racecar drivers,” he said. “They’re the worst kind of womanizers, you know.”
“Like it would matter.”
He glanced back at her swiftly, giving her a hard, blazing look, before he swept down and kissed her mouth. His hand cupped her hip and then a buttock, the warmth and pressure on her tingling flesh making her shiver in his arms.
“Just remember,” he said next to her lips a moment later.
“As if I could ever forget,” she whispered.
* * *
Much to her surprise, there was a chauffeured sedan waiting for them on the back drive when they exited La Mer. Perhaps it was best that Vanni hadn’t talked too much about what to expect for their evening, because it likely would have ratcheted up her nerves. As it was, she was too amazed by the stunning scenery as they descended from the mountains, too overwhelmed by everything she was seeing. She stared out the window, enraptured as they traversed down the Boulevard de la Croisette, that famous stretch of road that ran between the exclusive Cannes beaches and luxury hotels and casinos. It wouldn’t grow dark for a while yet. People still lounged on the beach, swam in the turquoise waters, or strolled along the promenade. Others who passed were prepared for the evening, however, beautiful men and women dressed to the hilt as they headed toward the glitzy casinos.
It took Emma a little bit to realize she was one of those glamorous people as she alighted from the sedan and Vanni took her hand. As they headed toward the entry of the Hôtel Le Maj, several men took their picture. A few who didn’t have their cameras at the ready seemed to come to attention and scurry when they noticed it was Vanni.
“Just ignore them,” Vanni said quietly as he escorted her up some white marble steps. “The race is local headline news.”
Emma had a feeling Vanni was the news even more than the race, but she didn’t say anything as he opened the gilded doors for her.
The restaurant where they dined was right out of a movie set. A room had been reserved for the racing party. Although they would be eating inside, an entire wall of glass doors had been opened to a terrace and the sea, giving the impression of eating al fresco. A five-piece band played out in the open air. It took them a while to reach their assigned table, as so many people came over to greet Vanni and to be introduced to Emma. A few of the people spoke French, but several spoke English. The drivers were eager to discuss the circuit conditions with Vanni following their early morning practice runs.
Vanni was holding her hand as they crossed the room a few minutes later, so she felt him tense slightly when a tall, handsome man with longish dark brown hair, swarthy skin, and electric blue eyes intercepted their progress.
“How is it that you always manage to have the most beautiful creature in the room on
your arm?” the man asked with an Italian accent and a heavy-lidded look at Emma.
“How is it that you always manage to make a grown woman sound like a pet bird, Mario?” Vanni replied. The man gave a slashing grin, as if Vanni had been joking. Vanni sighed irritably. “Emma Shore, this is Mario Acarde. He’s a driver.”
“The driver,” Mario assured her, taking her hand and caressing the edge of her palm. “Montand just doesn’t like to admit it since he picked that rooster Dellis to drive Montand cars. But Niki isn’t going to win on Sunday . . . despite the preferential treatment.”
“All of the drivers had the exact same opportunity to practice on the circuit, Mario,” Vanni said, his bored, weary tone implying this wasn’t the first time he’d told the Italian driver something similar. “The racing officials have strict orders from the local governments to shut down the route by eight a.m. Maybe you should consider getting to be bed early tonight so you can get your full practice time,” Vanni said, his dry tone implying that the idea of Mario going to bed early was as likely as a snowy Christmas on the French Riviera.
Mario smiled, never removing his gaze from Emma. “He never could take a joke,” he told her in a confidential manner.
Vanni successfully pulled Emma away from Mario, saying something about dinner starting. She was relieved to see two faces she recognized when they approached their table—Niki Dellis and Vanni’s uncle, Dean Shaw. Niki sprung up from his seat, taking her hand and leaning down to kiss her cheeks as if they were the best of friends. She grinned as she greeted him, privately thinking to herself how perfectly Niki matched the glamorous, romantic setting with his dark good looks, easy manners, and classic tuxedo.
“The rose has bloomed,” Niki complimented her warmly, dark eyes roving over her dress in clear male appreciation.
“But is still firmly attached to the stem,” Vanni replied dryly, giving his friend a half-warning, half-amused glance. “Give it a rest, Niki, she already had to endure Mario.”
“Then she especially deserves my attention. She’ll think all drivers are swine.” She saw the merriment in Niki’s glance at Vanni. Clearly, Niki was an established flirt, but he’d been mostly ribbing his friend by admiring Emma so blatantly. Niki certainly had no cause to ogle other women. He introduced her to his date, a stunning blonde named Georgia who wore a white gown that displayed showstopping breasts. When she spoke, it was with a cool, regal English accent that was a fascinating paradox to her gilded good looks and the lack of a tan line anywhere in evidence on her plunging neckline. The paradox was only amplified when Niki referred to her casually as “George.” Vanni introduced her to Dean Shaw’s wife, Michelle, a friendly, middle-aged woman who seemed especially pleased to be introduced to Emma.
“I see I chose well,” Michelle enthused with a smug grin, glancing down over Emma’s dress as they shook hands.
“You chose impeccably,” Vanni said. “But as you can see, it would have been hard to choose poorly given the wearer.”