“You know what I meant,” she chastised. He reached, pulling her against him. She nestled against his chest and stared out at the wide, sunlit sea.
“Royalty isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. They’re just people, like anyone else. You couldn’t pay me to have their jobs, though.” She sighed as his fingers brushed in her hair. “Niki is normal enough, don’t you think? And Cristina? They both belong to offshoots of the same family.”
“Really?” she asked, stunned. She listened while he described the lineage. It all sounded very convoluted and confusing to her. Still, she was glad to hear him speak of Cristina. He hadn’t said her name since that volatile morning out on the dock.
“Vanni?” she asked after a moment, turning her face and kissing his chest.
“Hmmm?” he purred, sounding supremely relaxed.
“I know you didn’t like Cristina. But . . . was she ever kind to you and Adrian?”
She held her breath, wondering how he would react to the question. Maybe it was foolish of her, but Emma didn’t abide by the idea of keeping things locked tight inside. The things Vanni had avoided discussing for most of his life had ended up taking their toll on him . . . hurting him.
“To Adrian, she was more frequently kind,” he said at last. “But Adrian was very easy to be kind to. Me . . . not so much. Very rarely, she was kind to me, though. It’d come upon her in fits.”
“Fits?” she asked, lifting her head and looking at him.
He nodded, his fingers falling out of her hair. “It was like she’d see the light one day and want to do better, mothering us, taking care of us . . . noticing us.” His mouth flattened at the last. “It wouldn’t last.”
She just stroked his chest, saying nothing. She wanted to bring up the topic of his guilt for Adrian’s accidental death, but she felt she’d already pushed her luck enough by bringing up the topic of Cristina and not ruining their peace.
* * *
One morning she awoke in bed to find Vanni gone. She showered and dressed in her swimsuit and a tunic and grabbed her book before going downstairs to breakfast. Mrs. Denis directed her to “his workshop,” as she called it, and provided her with a tea tray. Vanni’s workshop turned out to be a garage that, while not as large as the one at the Breakers, was large enough for four cars and a huge table where various car parts and machinery sat. She found Vanni wearing a pair of coveralls, similar to the ones he wore in Chicago, with one hand inside what appeared to be an engine that sat on the table. He’d glanced around when she greeted him, the small smile on his lips telling her he was pleased to see her.
“Don’t stop working on my account,” Emma insisted when he withdrew his wrench and picked up an oil-smudged towel to wipe off. “I’ll just sit here and drink my tea and read.”
“You’re sure?” he asked, and she could tell by the way his gaze drifted back to the engine that he wanted to continue with his task.
“Of course, if you don’t mind.”
He shook his head with certainty. She sat on a stool near the table and poured some tea.
After that, she joined him in his workshop several more times while they were at La Mer. At first, she read while he worked for an hour or so, but once she realized he was quite glad to tell her what he was doing and what his goal was, she forgot the book and just observed him while they talked, learning more about the workings of a car than she’d ever imagined was possible. She recalled what her friend’s father, Mort Forrester, had said about Michael Montand Sr. and Vanni both being brilliant mechanical engineers. She started to understand just the very edges of Vanni’s genius during those visits with him while he worked, and he gave her a rough blueprint for comprehending the advances he’d made in mechanical technology. She respected him even more with that understanding.
She loved him impossibly more.
* * *
Of course days and nights as special as those couldn’t last forever. They planned to fly back to Chicago on Sunday morning, and Emma was due back at work on Monday. As their time together drew to an end, neither of them seemed willing to be apart even for a short time. Vanni asked her what she’d like to do on Saturday, their last day at La Mer, and she replied without hesitation that she wanted to spend it on the beach with him next to the sea.
They made love after eating the delicious afternoon tea Mrs. Denis had prepared for them, and afterward, Emma drifted off to sleep in Vanni’s arms, lulled by the sound of the waves and his strong, steady heartbeat in her ear. When she awoke, it was evening and the sun was beginning to set. She sat up, disoriented because she was alone. For some reason, a prickle of unease went through her as she stared out at the sea and didn’t see a sign of Vanni.
“Vanni?” she called, but there was no answer.
Then she caught sight of him. He was farther out to sea than she’d ever seen him swim, his head appearing small in the shimmering waves. He was going further away still.
“Vanni!” she yelled, panicked for some reason at the sight. She shoved aside her beach cover-up, which had been draped over her while she slept, and stood naked, staring fixedly at the black spot in the sea that was Vanni’s head. For several seconds, she couldn’t breathe.
She exhaled with relief when she realized he’d changed directions and was headed back to shore. When he was just past the anchored raft, he stopped swimming, his head breaking the surface. Her naked skin prickled with awareness, and she knew he stared at her standing there, just inside the pavilion. He resumed swimming with gusto toward the beach. He stood when the water was waist-deep and began walking toward shore, his stride unbroken by the rolling waves. The roughening of her skin and that strange sense of tension mounted. He was naked, the evening sun casting a golden-reddish light onto his skin. Her gazed lowered over him, her breath catching.
He wasn’t only naked, he was fully aroused.
As he drew closer, she saw the glint of fire in his sea-colored eyes as they lowered over her naked body with a hot, possessive look. She just gaped at him in rising wonder. What had happened? Why did he look so fierce?
She didn’t have time to put the question to words, because he was taking her into his arms, pulling her against his body and sweeping down to cover her mouth with his. His heat resonated beneath the cool sheen of water, the degree of it shocking her since he’d just been submerged in the sea. He almost felt feverish. He lifted, her feet coming off the beach, and set her down at the end of the lounger.
“Scoot back and open your thighs,” he said, hovering over her, his face rigid. She hastened back on the lounger, sensing his urgency. He straddled her and came toward her on his hands and knees, the primal vision he made sending a thrill of wariness and anticipation through her. She didn’t know what was happening, but the moment was taut with unspoken, thick emotion.