Marco nodded as he fleetly maneuvered out of the parking facility. “There was some initial resistance on the locals’ part, but that’s all in the past. Vanni’s got himself a world-class race on his hands. He assured that by signing the best drivers from all over the world, whether they race stock cars or F1’s. It helped that Niki and he are best friends. Once Niki Dellis agreed, everyone signed up just for a chance to beat him. It didn’t hurt that Van also acquired the crème de la crème of society to sit on the racing committee and make crucial decisions. With that on his side, he eventually won over any local resistance. Everyone is pouring to the coast in droves, dying to see who will prevail in the race. It’s American-style cars, but it’s on a traditional European road-racing circuit, so both sides have something to prove. I shudder to think about all the money changing hands this week in the casinos.”
“Are there clear favorites to win?” Emma asked, interested.
“On the American front, Tito Burton, Joe Hill, and Santo Howles are top runners, the three of them have over a dozen NASCAR championships between them. On the Formula One side of things, the betting favorites are Mario Acarde, a flashy Italian driver with fifteen grand prix wins under his belt, and Niki, who has six world titles. Niki drives Montand cars, but always Formula One racers in the past. He won the pole position this morning in the time trials, so Vanni’s got to be pleased about that.”
“Wow, I didn’t realize Niki was so good.”
“The best. You’ve met him?” Marco asked.
“Yes.”
“Niki and Vanni go way back . . . family connections,” Marco said.
They began to climb the rugged mountainside in the sedan. Marco took a tight turn that looked down on the stunning coastline. Emma felt like she’d left her stomach two hundred feet behind them. She trusted Marco, but she suddenly wished it were Vanni behind the wheel taking the hairpin turns with his usual effortless handling.
“It seems like all of you have to be part racecar driver just to go to the grocery store around here,” she said a moment later, glancing down nervously at the steep drop-off on the side of the road.
“The French Riviera is no place for the faint of heart, that’s for sure. It’s a strange paradox of people living fast and furious and at the same time, being experts on relaxation. They call it a playground, and it is, but it’s a fierce one. Playing on the Côte d’Azur can become an intoxicating . . . and dangerous business,” Marco said amusedly.
“I’ll bet.”
“How beautiful,” she said in awe a while later as they passed the ancient village of Saint-Jeannet set high in the mountains. It sat on a ledge between two looming cliffs overlooking the sea far below. Winding streets passed medieval-looking buildings and stunning vista terraces. “Oh, look,” Emma pointed out, smiling at the red, white, blue, and black flags hanging from lampposts along the street proclaiming the Montand Franco-Américain Grand Prix.
Marco grinned. “The locals are buzzing about the race almost as much as the people pouring in to all the
top-notch hotels to watch it. Vanni is considered a local boy, and not just because his father started his car company in Antibes nearby. The Montand family has deep roots in the Côte d’Azur,” Marco explained.
He made his way out of the village, eventually driving onto a thickly wooded road that was so twisting, Emma quickly couldn’t say which direction she was facing anymore. She kept catching a glimpse of the Mediterranean in the far distance and a burnt red slate roof nestled among lush green treetops. Finally, Marco pulled into a secluded drive and there was the villa before them, a white limestone structure with a red roof, sprawling and enormous, yet nestled quite comfortably in the forest and cliffside, almost as if it had been there so long, it had become part of the natural landscape.
“La Mer,” she breathed out, staring wide-eyed at the ancient home. “Vanni loves it here.”
Marco gave her a swift, speculative glance, and she wondered what he’d heard in her voice. He brought the car to a halt. “That he does,” he said. “He’s a little happier, when he’s here. I don’t understand why he doesn’t live here all the time, but . . . that’s not for me to decide.”
Emma glanced at him. She had an uncomfortable suspicion of why Vanni refused to give up the Breakers—the site of so much tragedy.
A minute later, a dark-haired, aproned, middle-aged woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Denis led them into a circular, sunlit entryway that featured a white alabaster grand staircase and windows that went up for three stories. Such a lovely, bright, airy home, Emma thought admiringly as she stared around in awe. Even though the finishes were ornate, there was an openness to the rooms that she spied off the entryway, an approachability. Emma inhaled deeply of fresh sea air and . . .
“Is that bread baking?” she asked Mrs. Denis.
The housekeeper smiled. “I am always baking something.”
“Lucky for us,” Marco said amusedly.
Down a hallway, Emma saw a huge terrace that was open to the interior. Fresh sea air wafted into the elaborate entry hall. Bright flowers in huge clay pots waved in the gentle breeze on the terrace. Mrs. Denis noticed where Emma looked.
“Come,” she said in her French-accented English. “You’ll sit on the terrace and I’ll bring you some refreshment. Vanni has told me you drink tea. Some chamomile, perhaps, so that you can rest after your flight?”
“Thank you, that’d be nice.”
“I’ll just put your bag upstairs and see you later,” Marco said.
“Thank you so much,” Emma replied warmly. “For everything, Marco.”
“Not a problem. You enjoy yourself. I have a feeling you might be able to get Vanni to relax a little, despite the whirlwind of the race,” the pilot said.
“I’ll try,” Emma said, returning his friendly wave before she followed Mrs. Denis outside.
“I’ll just go and get your tea and make sure Marco gets something to eat before he goes. He always has an appetite. I wish I could get him to share some of it with Vanni,” Mrs. Denis said with a grin before she bustled inside.