“He said all you need to do is get on the plane. He has everything you’ll need already there. His pilot, Marco, knows where to take you when you arrive. And he said . . . he expected you to come,” Amanda said delicately.
“Expected?” Emma asked, her spine stiffening in rising anger.
Amanda nodded, studying her with sober blue eyes. “He said you’d agreed to spend the time with him, and that you weren’t the type to go back on your promise.”
Amazement broke through her anger. He really did have balls, sending a message like that. She once again sensed Amanda’s hesitation.
“What else did he say?” she asked slowly.
“He said to remind you that you’d agreed to ‘whom these days and hours belong.’ And he said to say that you aren’t a coward. What did he mean by that?”
Blood started to pound in her ears in the taut silence that ensued. She shook her head, her throat too thick to answer Amanda’s question.
“Emma, I’m trying not to butt in, because I can tell you don’t want to talk about this thing with Vanni,” Amanda said quietly. “But I can tell you really like him. Are you worried you like him too much?”
“I’m worried I more than like him, Amanda. Much more,” she said in a choked voice.
Amanda’s eyes widened. “Oh. I see. No wonder you’re worried about going to France.”
Emma just nodded.
“It’s just . . .” Amanda hesitated, clearly torn between speaking or not.
“What?” Emma asked.
“Well, you were the one who told me after Colin and I—” she faded off, but then rallied. “You were the one who said it was worth it to take a risk for passion. And I happen to agree with Vanni about one thing for certain.”
Emma gave her a querying glance.
“You’re not a coward, Emma. You never were,” Amanda repeated. “He told me to give you this. He said as soon as you called, this man would arrange everything.” Emma glanced briefly at the piece of paper with the name Marco Hagan and a phone number with an international prefix on it.
She remained unmoving, watching her sister leave the room.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Emma was feeling some strange combination of nervousness, ebullience, and exhaustion when the sleek plane landed at the Nice Côte d’Azur Airport early on Friday morning. She hadn’t slept much on the transatlantic flight, too awed by the luxury of the private plane Vanni had sent for her and excited about the prospect of seeing the French Riviera for the first time . . .
. . . Too overrun with anticipation at the thought of seeing Vanni again.
She still didn’t appreciate his heavy-handedness in regard to her job and so many other things, but she did know one thing. She’d sent him away last Monday because she was overwhelmed by what was happening between them. Vanni had known that. His message to Amanda was meant to prick her pride. But it’d been more than that.
I need you there.
She recalled him saying those words before Cristina’s funeral. And whether she was a fool or not, she somehow had heard a similar, secret message in the one he’d given Amanda. Like before, she hadn’t been able to refuse.
As Marco taxied the plane along the tarmac, she stared out the window onto a glorious Mediterranean summer day. The air itself seemed saturated with golden sunlight. As they’d landed, she’d seen the picturesque orange, pink, green, and white roofs of luxury residences and hotels that cascaded down the mountainside to the brilliant azure sea. The sea itself was dotted with thousands of tiny white boats and yachts. It was a scene right out of a glamorous Montand car commercial. Her excitement was huge, but she suddenly regretted not flying there with Vanni. She already felt out of place as things stood, an outsider who didn’t know what to expect. Arriving there alone, she didn’t have Vanni’s epic confidence to ease her anxiety.
“Vanni isn’t coming?” she asked Marco tentatively after they’d passed through customs and headed to a parking garage. Marco rolled an enormous trunklike suitcase behind him but still insisted upon carrying Emma’s duffel bag.
“He couldn’t. Time trials for the race were held this morning, so he’s been busy with that,” Vanni’s pilot explained. He was a stocky, friendly American in his forties with reddish-blond, thinning hair and fair skin that looked as if might be perpetually sunburned. He’d acted like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to cross the ocean to go and pick her up at his boss’s orders, an attitude Emma appreciated.
It also bothered her a little.
Did Marco regularly go on runs to fulfill Vanni’s companionship requirements?
Marco stowed the bags in the trunk of a sedate, black luxury sedan and then opened the passenger door for her. “Vanni’s schedule has been pretty booked up with last-minute planning for the race on Sunday and a bunch of pre-racing events. Do you like racing?” Marco asked conversationally once he’d gotten into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
“I’m afraid I don’t know all that much about it,” Emma admitted. “But I’ve been listening to Vanni. I gather he’s going out on a limb a bit, using stock cars instead of the Formula Ones?”