At the end of her shift the next night, Emma entered the bedroom to say good-bye to Cristina. Her patient had fallen asleep while Emma gave her report to Debbie, the night nurse. Emma paused next to the bed. Cristina looked even more shrunken than usual, her skin like dry, gray parchment stretched too tight over bone. A hospice nurse’s main goal was to make the last days of her patient’s life as comfortable and fulfilling as possible. Finding out what that meant for Cristina was proving to be a challenge for Emma. She sensed Cristina’s soul was heavy. Shedding that weight—even a little—might help ease her passage from this world.

“Night, Cristina. Sleep easy,” Emma whispered before she turned to leave the hushed room.

“It’s your own fault. You knew what I was capable of and what I wasn’t. You were capable of even less.”

Emma blinked and spun around at the death-rattle voice.

“Cristina?” she whispered, confused to see that her patient hadn’t moved from her sleeping position. She turned to go again after a pause. Cristina was having increasingly disturbed sleep, nightmares, and occasional hallucinations.

“It was too much for me. Not only one, but two! You knew as well as I did I wasn’t cut out for it. So you found yourself a martyr. Is it my fault she died? And then you had the nerve to think I’d transform into her overnight and replace her, you bastard!”

Emma started at the venomous shriek. She hurried toward Cristina, who was now jerking and tossing on the bed, her mouth bared in a snarl, arms flailing.

“I’ve got her,” Debbie said, appearing by Emma’s side as Emma gently restrained the swinging arms and spoke in firm, soothing tones, calling Cristina back to the waking world.

“I think she’s okay,” Emma said after a moment when Cristina began to quiet and settle. Still, the invisible threads of her patient’s nightmare seemed to brush against Emma . . . cling to her.

She waited until Cristina settled fully into sleep before she walked out of the bedroom and retrieved her purse. She noticed the stack of clean towels on a small table.

The vision triggered the memory of wandering around the house last night, of being trapped in that armoire. Lots of things triggered that memory. Almost everything, in fact, Emma reminded herself grimly as she searched for her keys in her purse. She’d finally escaped from that miserable experience and found her car, the laundry bag still slung over her shoulder like an inexplicable artifact she’d brought from another world.

She’d witnessed a lot of grief in her life, and understood the complexities and paradoxes of loss. Death transformed the living. It changed them, whether they wanted it to or not.

She’d been changed somehow last night, breathing the singular male scent that clung to the garments hung in the armoire, listening to the sounds of sexual excitement ringing in her ears. She’d been altered, but not by death, by something she found far more disturbing. The whole strange incident had upset her in a way she couldn’t name. Something had rocked her comfortable world, and she resented the man—irrationally, she knew—for that earthquake.

She hadn’t wanted Colin to touch her this morning when he’d stopped by before catching his train for work, a fact that bewildered her almost as much as it had Colin. She hadn’t seen him since Saturday night, after all. Sure, their physical relationship had mellowed lately—and it had never been firework explosive since they’d started sleeping together two years ago—but she’d normally be glad to see Colin and eager to express her affection.

As a means of punishing herself for her odd behavior and her inability to shut off her brain in regard to the man at the Breakers and his perversities, she’d sentenced herself to labor. She’d gone to the Laundromat this morning, one of her most hated errands, and finished what she hadn’t last night.

It’d been hard to return to the Breakers today following the “armoire incident,” as she’d taken to calling it in the privacy of her mind. Once she was there, however, burying herself in work helped, like it always did. She hadn’t slept well after she’d returned home last night. As good and exhausted as she was, all she could think about was dreamless, deep sleep, a rest blessedly devoid of the disturbing image of that man—Vanni—locking down his climax as though he thought he didn’t deserve the pleasure.

Who was he? One of Montand’s guests? A relative?

She constantly found her mind wandering, taking little imaginary excursions through the mansion, seeking him out. Was he in the mansion at the same time as her? What was he doing? She’d asked Margie this afternoon in a deliberately offhand manner if there were any other inhabitants of the house beside Montand. Margie had told her only Michael Montand lived there on a full-time basis—although he was currently away, to her knowledge—while Mrs. Shaw, two maids, a gardener, and the cook were day help. Alice, the maid, had told Margie that Montand was known to have guests there, though. Occasionally he threw lavish house parties, which affluent guests from all over the world attended.

Who was Vanni then, and how was he related to Montand? Or perhaps her original suspicion was right, and they were one and the same man?

No. They couldn’t be. That didn’t make any sense.

Stop thinking about him. He was cold and heartless about something that should have been intimate. He was a sick, strange man.

No, another voice in her head argued.

He was suffering. And something about him had called out to her . . .

A good night’s sleep would end her stupid obsessions. She flung her purse over her shoulder and started for the exit. She came to a sudden halt and gasped.

“Oh my God, you startled me,” Emma said to Mrs. Shaw, who stood in the entryway to the suite, unmoving.

“I’ve come to get you. Mr. Montand would like a word,” she said unsmilingly.

Her mouth fell open. “With . . . with me? Mr. Montand? Why?”

“He didn’t tell me his reasons, but I assume it’s about your work here. He’s very particular in regard to his stepmother’s care,” Mrs. Shaw said with a tiny smug smile.

“I see,” Emma said, even though she didn’t. To her knowledge, Montand had never spoken to any of the nursing staff individually. His expectations had been discussed with Dr. Claridge, who was the hospice doctor, and Monica Ring, the nurse supervisor. A flicker of anxiety went through her. What if this request was somehow associated with the armoire incident? Was she about to be called out or accused? Her heart started to beat uncomfortably in her chest.

There was only one way to find out.

“Okay. I’m ready,” she said briskly, hitching her purse higher on her shoulder.

She followed a silent Mrs. Shaw down the hushed staircase, past the lavish workout facility and indoor pool, her heartbeat pounding louder in her ears with every step. Mrs. Shaw left the staircase behind on the next level. She led Emma into the luxurious living room she’d seen last night, the lush ivory carpeting hushing their footsteps. Emma could almost feel the housekeeper’s disapproval and dislike emanating from her thin, stiff figure.

Mrs. Shaw paused before a door and swung it open.

“Ms. Shore is here,” she said to someone in the room.

She stepped aside and gave Emma a glance of loathing before nodding significantly toward the interior. Her heart now lodged at the base of her throat, Emma stepped past Mrs. Shaw into the interior of the room. She had a brief, but vivid impression of a stunning dining room consisting almost entirely of black, white, and crystal. A huge white modernist china cabinet and wet bar structure dominated the wall closest to her. The long, grand dining room table was made of African blackwood and was surrounded by more than a dozen handsome blackwood and white-upholstered chairs. Two large crystal chandeliers hung above the table. The far wall consisted of warm brick in beige and reddish tones, offsetting the cool luxury and sleek lines of the room. On the brick wall hung a large painting that she recognized in a dazed sort of way was a modernist depiction of an engine.

She heard the door shut and glanced over her shoulder. Mrs. Shaw was gone.

Emma turned back to the single inhabitant of the room. He sat at the head of the table turned toward the glass wall that faced Lake Michigan. For a few seconds, she just stood there, speechless. He matched the room in almost every way. He wore a black tuxedo with careless elegance. His brown hair was not cut short, necessarily, but it wasn’t long, either. A woman could easily fill a hand with the glory of it. It was thick and wavy and had been combed back from his face. A dark, very short goatee seemed to highlight a sensual mouth. He was all precision lines and bold masculinity: an angular jaw, broad shoulders, handsome Grecian nose. The only way he didn’t match the immaculate, stunning room was the way his tie was loosened and the top collar of his white dress shirt unbuttoned at his throat.

He was even better looking than the actors hired to drive cars and drink champagne for his company commercials. Impossible.

“Well don’t just stand there,” he said, just a hint of impatience in his tone. He set down the fork he’d been holding on to a plate. Emma blinked. It hadn’t even registered immediately that he’d been eating, she’d been so captivated by the image of him. “Come here,” he prompted when she remained frozen.

She stepped forward, a surreal feeling pervading her. As she drew nearer, she realized that his eyes were the same color of the lake on a sunny day—a startling blue-green. The lake would serve to soften and warm the cool, sharp lines of the beautiful, austere dining room during the day. This man’s eyes, however, would soften nothing. They seemed to lance straight through her.

His firm, sensual mouth quirked slightly.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he demanded quietly.

“Am I looking at you a certain way?” Emma asked, surprised and set off balance by his question. “I hadn’t realized,” she fumbled. She yanked her gaze off his compelling visage and glanced around the room, wide-eyed. “I’ve never seen a room like this. It was a little like walking into a photo from a magazine or something.” Especially with you sitting at the end of that grand table in that tux.

She looked at him when he laughed mirthlessly. “Cold and uncomfortable, you mean. I’ll be sure to pass on your compliments to my architect and interior designer.”

She matched his stare. “That’s not what I meant.”

He frowned slightly but didn’t respond. Nor did he look away. “You’re Michael Montand?” she prodded in the uncomfortable silence that followed.

He nodded once and glanced at the chair nearest to him. “Have a seat. Can I get you anything to eat or drink?”

“Would you mind telling me why you asked me here first?”

His eyebrows arched in mild surprise. They were a shade darker than the hair on his head and created a striking contrast to his light eyes. Clearly, she was just supposed to follow his command without comment.

“You’re taking care of my stepmother. Surely you don’t think it odd that a family member would want to speak with you about your work,” he said.

“You haven’t called anyone else from the nursing staff down here.”

“Nobody else has directly disobeyed my orders.”

She swallowed thickly at the ringing authority in his tone. Her heartbeat began to roar so loudly in her ears, she wouldn’t be surprised at all if he heard the guilty tattoo. What could she say that wouldn’t betray what she’d accidentally seen last night? Had that man—Vanni—told Montand something?

Was he Vanni? she wondered wildly. No, Vanni wasn’t a nickname for Michael. Plus, the man she’d partially seen last night had long hair and it had been lighter, with gold streaks in it. She opened her mouth to utter some feeble excuse—she had no idea what—but he cut her off.

“It may seem random to you that I asked for the drapes to remain closed in my stepmother’s suite, but I can assure you that I did so with a reason.”

“I can explain . . . What?” she halted her pressured confession.

He gave her a nonplussed glance.

“The drapes,” he repeated.

Relief swept through her. He’d meant the drape incident, not the armoire one.

“What did you think I was going to say?” he asked, eyes narrowing on her.

“I wasn’t thinking anything,” she lied. “Of course I’ll respect your wishes about the drapes.”

“I’d appreciate if you respected my wishes in regard to everything I have specified with your supervisor.”

She held her breath for a split second. Had he emphasized the word everything, or was that her panicked brain jumping to conclusions?

“Of course,” she managed.

He nodded once and then picked up his fork. Emma had the distinct impression that she’d been dismissed. She wavered on her feet.

“It’s just that the sunshine . . . it might do Cristina some good.”

He regarded her with glacial incredulity. Emma felt herself withering from the sheer chill.

“It’s such a beautiful view. I see no reason to deprive her of it,” Emma rallied despite his intimidating stare.

He set down his fork, the clanging sound of heavy silver against fine china startling her. He sat back in his chair. He possessed a lean, muscular . . . phenomenal frame, from what she could see of it. Clearly, he hadn’t built that elaborate workout facility for show. Emma wasn’t sure what to do with herself in the strained, billowing silence that followed.

“It may be beautiful to you,” he said finally.

“It’s not to you?” she asked, bewildered. “Why did you have this house built then? The view dominates every room.” At least when you’re not in it, it does.

One look at his frozen features and she knew she’d gone too far. His gaze dipped suddenly, skimming her body. If another man had done it, she would have been offended. In Michael Montand’s case, it was like a mild electrical current passed through her. Her nipples tightened and something seemed to prickle in her belly, like a hook of sensation pulling at her navel. She shifted uncomfortably on her feet, her wisp of confidence evaporating.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t beautiful to me,” he said. He glanced away and Emma knew she’d imagined that flash of heat in his eyes. He seemed to hesitate. “How is she doing?”

“Cristina?”

He nodded once and picked up a roll from a basket. Emma noticed he possessed strong-looking hands with long, blunt-tipped fingers. “She’s in a great deal of pain. It’s getting worse. I’ve asked the doctor to increase her pain medications.”

He looked up sharply.

“It’s not uncommon, as the cancer spreads,” Emma said, reading his glance of unease.

“Won’t increasing her pain medication make her more confused?”

“Possibly. But it’s better than forcing her to suffer. She’s living the last days of her life. We’re not talking about a headache here. This is severe, mind-numbing pain. When she’s in the midst of it, she’s not very cognitively sharp anyway. None of us would be,” Emma said pointedly.

They stared at each other for a few seconds. Again his gaze dropped over her, so fleeting it might have been her imagination.

“Why do you dress that way for work?” he asked, returning to the task of buttering a roll.

Her mouth fell open. “I like to be comfortable. My hospice doesn’t have an issue with it. Do you?”

He began slicing a filet of beef, his gaze averted from her. When he didn’t reply for a moment, her anxiety ratcheted up, but it was accompanied by a spike of defiance. “Is it not formal enough for you?” she asked, as if determined to dig her own grave. He looked up, and she glanced down significantly over his tuxedo-clad form.

He gave a small, unexpected smile, white teeth flashing against tanned skin. Her heart paused.

“You’re wondering if I put on a tuxedo to dine alone near midnight as a custom?” He raised his fork to his mouth and took a swift bite of beef, watching her as he chewed. Emma became highly aware of the movement of his lean, angular jaw and then the convulsion of his strong-looking throat framed by the stark white, open collar as he swallowed. He reached for a crystal goblet of red wine. “That would be pretty pitiful on my part if I did, wouldn’t it?” he asked before taking a swallow of wine. Emma heard the thread of humor in his voice and didn’t know how to reply.

“I just meant—”

“I know what you meant. And no, I’m not a formality hound. I just came from a public relations event in the city sponsored by my company. I didn’t get hungry until now. I always lose my appetite at those things. All those cameras. All those vampires,” he added distractedly. He took another bite of beef, and for a moment, Emma wondered if he’d forgotten she was there. “I didn’t mean that I object to your clothing,” he said quietly after a pause. “I just asked because I noticed it was different than the other nurses’.”

His words seemed to hang in the air. I noticed. There was only one way he could have noticed since he never visited Cristina’s suite. He’d taken notice of her on the surveillance camera. Maybe his thoughts went in a similar direction, because his expression suddenly grew sharp and then went carefully blank.

“I thought it might relate to your age,” he said, picking up his knife. “You seem much younger than the others.”

“You thought my dressing habits related to my age? Or my difficulty in not following your instructions did?”

“Both.”

Her back stiffened at that. “I’m twenty-three.”

His succinct nod seemed to say, well it all makes sense then. Irritation shot through her.

“You’re not that much older,” she said impulsively. The cool glance he gave her revealed she was mistaken; it made her feel about twelve years old. What she’d said was technically true. He didn’t look much older than his early thirties or so, but he seemed decades older. Maybe her blurting out those words was her desperate attempt to even the playing field.

He took another bite of meat. “I’m thirty,” he said with infuriating calmness after a pause. “And years are one thing. Experience another.”

“I have a master’s degree in palliative and hospice nursing. I’m very well qualified to take care of your stepmother. And I have plenty of experience,” she defended.

That small smile quirked his lips again. “How did you manage all that in twenty-three years?”

She hesitated, frowning. She realized she was being defensive, but his aloof contempt annoyed her. “I have a late birthday. Plus I did my bachelor’s degree in three years,” she mumbled, already regretting her outburst. Despite her flash of annoyance at his small, patronizing grin, the thought struck her that he had a very sexy mouth. He gave a small shrug.

“Even if you weren’t as experienced as you are I wouldn’t complain. You’re very good with my stepmother. She likes you.” He shot her a hard—or was it bitter?—glance. “And that’s rare. Please just follow my instructions from now on,” he said after a moment, picking up his water glass.

“I will,” Emma said shakily. She wasn’t sure what had gotten into her, to respond so defensively with a patient’s family member. She normally let criticisms or suspicions in regard to her youthful appearance slide right off her. Her work always ended up being a testament to her worth.

“Good night,” he said.

“Good night,” she said under her breath.

Despite the fact that he’d been looking at his plate when he dismissed her, the prickly sensation on her back gave her the distinct impression his gaze was on her as she left the room.

After her shift the next night she exited the Breakers and walked out into a warm July evening. There were no stars or moonshine, and the air felt close. She inhaled deeply before she climbed into her Ford Focus, smelling rain. Heat lightning flickered on the distant western horizon. How fantastic would it be, to live here and be able to take a midnight swim on a humid night like this before a storm broke, to wash away the residue of the day in the cold, refreshing water?

The thought triggered an uncontrollable vision of slipping into that lovely pool that overlooked the lake and swimming toward the near-naked, sexy form of Michael Montand.

Get a grip.

Her fantasies were getting out of hand lately, she realized with disgust as she dug around in her purse for her keys. Her dreams, which had been dark and disturbingly erotic for the past few nights, were just plain out of control. Nor were they making for a restful night’s sleep. She twisted the key in the ignition.

Nothing happened. She turned the key again.

“Oh no. Not tonight. Start, you bitch,” she hissed heatedly. Her car seemed unimpressed by her cursing, however. Emma imagined it silently flipping her off for not having it serviced for months on end.

Sensing defeat, she placed her forehead on the steering wheel and sighed in intense frustration.

It was almost eleven thirty. Colin had been exhausted all week. He’d said on the phone earlier that he was determined to get to bed early tonight. He still hadn’t gotten used to waking at six a.m. to catch a train into Chicago for his new job as a forensic science technician. Amanda didn’t have a car. She took mass transportation almost everywhere, including to school and to her job as a waitress.

She’d just have to wake up Colin, she realized, feeling guilty not only for that, but the fact that she’d been so irritable and standoffish with him yesterday morning. Well, there was no help for it. She reached for her phone and started to dial.

Her head sprung up when someone tapped on her window.

“What’s wrong?” came his muffled voice.

She stared in openmouthed surprise at the dark shadow of a stooping figure outside.

“Are you okay?” he demanded.

“Uh . . . yeah,” she replied. Her already warm cheeks heated when she realized he probably couldn’t hear her. She peered out the window, trying to see him better. The only source of illumination was a few lights in the house that were left on, but those were distant and filtered through tall trees.

It was him. Michael Montand.

Wasn’t it?

She opened her car door a crack. The interior lights didn’t turn on.

“My car won’t start,” she explained without getting out.

“Get out and I’ll have a look,” he said matter-of-factly.

She squinted, realizing he wore some kind of gray utility coveralls, like something a mechanic would wear. The garment stood in stark contrast to the tuxedo she’d seen him in last night, confusing her. She set aside her phone, unbuckled her seat belt, and got out of her car. He’d straightened. She realized he was very tall, maybe seven or eight inches past her five foot seven inches. Flustered, she moved aside as he strode past her with a single-minded purpose. He sat in the car, immediately moving the seat back to accommodate long, bent legs, the action practiced and smooth.

“Your battery is dead as a doornail,” he said after only a second.

“I have jumper cables somewhere . . .” She faded off when he rose out of the car.

“I’ll set you up,” he said, his deep voice striking her as slightly different than last night. It was still cool and brisk, but tonight his utter confidence reassured her.

“Oh . . . that’s . . . okay, thanks,” she fumbled when she realized he wasn’t even listening to her as he started toward the house. His booted feet scraped against the concrete when he came to an abrupt halt. She squinted, trying to put form to his shadow. It was definitely Montand. She could just make out the outline of his broad shoulders and singular, bold profile against the night sky.

“It’ll only take five or ten minutes,” he said. “This is the garage level, all my stuff is right here. Do you want to go back into Cristina’s suite and wait?”

“Do you need help?” she asked, feeling like an inadequate, ditzy female, a feeling she resisted wholeheartedly.

“No.” There was a short pause. “But you can come with me, I guess. You shouldn’t stand out here in the dark alone.”

Great. She either sounded like a helpless ditz or like she was afraid of the dark. Like it matters. She shut the car door with a brisk bang. “Lead the way.”

Did he hesitate for an instant? More than likely, he thought she’d just get in his way. He was probably right, but she didn’t want to just stand there in the driveway like a useless idiot, anticipating the moment when he returned.

She followed him to a tucked-away, secluded entrance shrouded by trees and shrubs that she’d never before noticed on her arrivals for work. No one would ever find the door if they didn’t realize it was there. He fleetly entered five numbers on a lit keypad and they entered.

“Wow,” she breathed, staring around wide-eyed after they’d exited a long mudroom.

He’d led her to a garage that was the size of a warehouse. She counted twenty gleaming cars lined up, ten in two rows—everything from shining antiques to luxury, high-performance sports cars to sophisticated sedans to road hugging, fleet-looking racecars. There was a hydraulic mechanism for lifting the vehicles so they could be serviced. The car pulled to the front, a shiny black one that looked like it came from the 1920s, had its hood up, the engine exposed.

Montand turned.

“Oh—”

“What?” he asked sharply when she cut herself off, coming to a halt. He took a step toward her, eyes narrowing.

Emma shut her stupid, gaping mouth, but couldn’t stop staring. She’d forgotten the impact of him. The cloak of darkness and the coveralls and his solicitous manner out there in the drive had made her forget. Somehow, the more casual clothing, oil-smudged hands, and a dark scruff on his lean jaw seemed even more devastating than the vision of him in a tux. He seemed more comfortable tonight. More approachable. And that was a dangerous thought to have about a man like Michael Montand.

“Nothing. You just look so . . . natural that way,” she finished lamely, nodding at the coveralls. For a few charged seconds, he just continued to study her with that X ray stare.

“No reason I shouldn’t. I’m more comfortable under the hood of the car or working on engines than I am in a boardroom,” he said before he turned and walked toward the far side of the garage.

She followed him across the concrete floor, studying him curiously while he wasn’t looking. He seemed younger today. Or maybe he didn’t. It was difficult to categorize him.

His hair was worn more casually tonight, rippling back from his face in finger-combed negligence. In the front, a few long bangs had fallen forward, parenthesizing his striking eyes. The style, in combination with the dark scruff on his jaw, contributed to a sense of effortless sexiness. So did the easy, graceful saunter of his long, male body and the subtle glide of his hips. She hastily admired broad shoulders, a strong-looking back, and a trim waist. The coveralls were somewhat baggy, but even so, his butt looked just as good as everything else—

A metal clanging sound started her from her uncharacteristic lechery. He’d moved aside a tool on a table.

“This garage is huge. It’s cut into the bluff?” she asked, mentally cursing the high-pitched sound of her voice. He had an unprecedented effect on her, one that she needed to try to minimize at all costs. She was way out of Michael Montand’s league. He was megarich, powerful, world-weary . . . sexy as hell. He could have any woman he wanted. Emma wasn’t sure she was even interested in being in his league.

He stood before a utility table and a wall hung with various tools, his back to her. “Yeah. A lot of the house is dug into the earth, but the garage most deeply. Keeps it nice and cool in the summers, warm in the winter. Good for working in here.”

“So you like working on cars?” she asked, gazing back at the magnificent collection.

He nodded. “I like taking them apart and putting them back together, designing new parts. I have since I was kid. It’s kind of hard not to know and like the ins and outs of cars in my family,” he mumbled as he unceremoniously shoved aside more implements on the worktable and lifted some coiled jumper cables.

“You own a car company that makes racecars, isn’t that right?”

He shook his head. “No. My company makes certain key parts for racecars and sports cars, not the cars themselves.”

“But your father owned a French car company?”

He cast her a sharp sideways glance, and she realized how many questions she was asking him.

“To whom have you been talking about me?”

“Just some of the nursing staff.”

“What else did they say?” he asked, turning toward her, looking mildly interested.

“Nothing much,” she said, striving for an offhand manner. “Someone just mentioned in passing you and your father both were in the car business. Besides, almost everyone has seen Montand commercials. They’re famous.”

She squirmed a little while he studied her for a moment. Finally he nodded, and she disguised her exhale of relief.

“My father founded Automobiles Montand.” Just the way he said the company name with such an effortless accent made her suspect he probably spoke French.

“Were you born here? In the States?”

“I’ve lived in Kenilworth my whole life, but I’ve spent a lot of time in France with my dad’s family. My dad was born in Antibes and started his company there; my mom’s family was from New York. I have a dual citizenship with the US and France.”

“Are they both gone?” she asked softly.

His eyes flashed. For a few seconds, the aloof prince sitting at the end of that table last night had returned. Then his irritation seemed to fade to slight puzzlement as he stared at her. “Yes,” he replied after a moment.

“Mine, too.”

He blinked. “Really?”

“Well, not in the way you meant,” she admitted. “My mom passed three years ago from breast cancer. When I say my father’s gone, I mean he’s nowhere I know of. He may be dead, for all we know. He left when I was five.”

“He abandoned you?” Montand asked, his forehead crinkling into a scowl.

She nodded. “Gone for good. I don’t recall much about him. You don’t miss much what you never had,” she said, following him.

“Lucky you,” she thought she heard him mutter under his breath. What had he meant by that? Had he, too, been abandoned by someone in his life? “What about the rest of your family?” he asked.

“It’s always been my mom, my sister, and me.”

“Is your sister still around?” he asked, turning his head as he walked.

“Yes, we live together.”

He stopped and turned abruptly. Emma started and pulled to a halt to prevent from running into him.

“So you’re not married?”

She inhaled sharply. “No.”

“What were you planning on doing out there?”

“Do? When?” Emma asked. It didn’t help her bewilderment that she was looking him full in the face again, especially since this time she was closer to him. He was good-looking—extremely, the most effortlessly handsome man she’d seen in her life—but it wasn’t his handsomeness that was setting her off balance. Or at least she didn’t think so. She’d never been that shallow or giddy in the past around a good-looking guy. It was his eyes. She couldn’t stop herself from looking straight into them even though doing it made her feel light-headed, like the air pressure had just changed drastically. The light, iridescent color of them contrasted appealingly with arched, thick eyebrows, eyelashes, and short sideburns.

“Before I showed up,” he explained. “Were you going to call someone for help with the car?”

She whipped her brain into focusing. “Oh . . . yeah,” she said, realizing he must have seen her phone in her hand as she sat in the car earlier. “I was.”

“Who?”

She stared, tongue-tied.

“Roadside assistance?” he prompted, leaning his head down slightly. On her anxious inhale, she thought she caught a scent of him—a subtle waft of spicy aftershave and the residue of peppermint chewing gum and . . . motor oil?

“Your sister? Your boyfriend?” he prodded pointedly.

“My boyfriend,” Emma admitted in a croaking voice, stepping away from him. The word had never felt so hollow for her. She cleared her throat, struggling for her composure. Of course the word boyfriend wasn’t meaningless. It meant Colin, a living, breathing, wonderful guy. “I was feeling guilty about it, actually, because Colin—that’s his name—has been especially tired lately. New job and all. Hasn’t gotten used to the schedule yet.”

He didn’t reply to her rambling. His angular, whiskered jaw worked in a subtle circular motion in the uncomfortable silence that followed. His thin goatee looked very sleek, the way it encircled his mouth distracting her. How could his lips look so hard and firm, and yet so soft and shapely at the same time?

He turned and walked away.

“Get in,” he said gruffly, nodding toward a shiny little dark blue roadster that probably cost ten times as much as Emma made in a year. It was a convertible. A strange feeling fluttered in her stomach as she peered inside the dream car, seeing supple caramel-colored leather seats.

She got in. She glanced sideways as he got in on the driver’s side, holding her breath for some reason. His large body fit into the small confines of the car like a puzzle piece sliding home. Had the space been made specifically for him?

He twisted his wrist, and the car hummed to life. She continued to hold her breath as the engine vibrated into her body, the feeling smooth and restrained, but undeniably powerful. He twisted the wheel hard. A thrill coursed through when they surged forward in the path between the two cars.

Montand must have touched some switch, because two large metal doors eased back, creating an opening in the bluff. They zoomed onto a dark drive. This road ran parallel from the one her car was parked on, Emma realized. They had to travel down it before it met up with the other road.

A minute later he deftly maneuvered the sports car next to her vehicle and applied the brake. He popped the hood and flipped open the car door in preparation to get out, at first not noticing her wide-eyed, stunned state in the passenger seat. His head turned when she didn’t move. He did a double take.

“You really know how to drive,” burst out of her throat. Her laugh rang out into the humid air. She couldn’t help it, even when he gave her a slightly bewildered glance. He seemed to have no hint of how exciting even that short ride had been for her—the plunge into the dark night, the powerful car . . . his effortless handling of it. She hastened to explain her strange behavior. “I’ve never been inside a car like this. It’s amazing. What kind is it?”

“A 750 XG.”

“Is it a Montand car?”

He nodded.

“Did you have anything to do with designing it?” she asked, glancing around with admiration at the swift, badass little car.

“Yes.” He leaned forward slightly, hands gripping the wheel, looking at her as if he’d never seen a female in his life. The overhead lights had come on when he’d opened his door, allowing her to see his lips curve slowly into a smile. It wasn’t the grim one she’d seen on him in the past. This grin unsettled her even more than his former mirthless one had.

“Do you know much about cars?” he asked.

“Nothing, really,” she managed to get out despite that deadly smile of his. “But you really don’t have to know much to appreciate it, do you? You can feel it.”

His smile faded. “What do you feel?”

She swallowed thickly, suddenly very aware of his stare on her face.

“It’s like it’s alive. It’s like . . . riding a creature or something.”

“It’s true,” he said soberly after a taut moment. “A car like this can be dangerous. The power of it can go straight to your head. If you don’t watch it, you can find yourself doing something stupid.”

Something flickered in her belly like a dozen moths trying to escape a rising flame.

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

His sensual lips twisted slightly. “I’ve had some experience with fast cars.”

Disappointment went through her when he pushed back his door. She blinked guiltily, hastening to follow him out of the car. What was wrong with her? She was here because her battery was dead, not to flirt in a sexy car with an even sexier, unattainable man.

Although her original intention had been to help him somehow, Emma knew better by that time than to get in the way of his easy mastery. The only thing she was required to do was turn the key in the ignition. It took him about three seconds flat to get her car purring with life again. She got out of the driver’s side door.

“You could be one of those guys in the . . . what are they called? The pits? At car races?” she said with a grin as he disconnected the cables and slammed shut her hood.

She saw his mouth quirk in the headlights of her now-running car. “I have my share of experience in the pits, too.”

“Really?”

His shrug looked a little weary. “I told you I was a gearhead.”

She smiled. “Well I’m thankful for it. This is all my fault, really. The car’s been due to be serviced forever, I just never have the—”

“Do you work tomorrow?” he interrupted.

“Yes,” she said, watching as he recoiled the cables by clutching one end and looping them around his bent elbow. Every movement he made struck her as knowing. Masterful.

“What time?” he asked, dropping his arm, his hand gripping the recoiled cable.

“Three to eleven. That’s my shift.”

“If you leave your car unlocked and the keys under the front seat, I’ll service it for you while you work.”

She stared at him for a few seconds. Aloof billionaire Michael Montand was going to service her car instead of one of a dozen interchangeable mechanics down at the FastOil where she usually went? It seemed highly improbable, like the idea of the president volunteering to clean her bathroom.

“That’s okay. Thank you for the offer, but you’ve already done enough. I’m sure you’re busy with other things.”

“I wouldn’t want you not to show up for work because your car didn’t start. Leave the keys.”

Lightning lit up the night sky and thunder answered. A storm was about to break. She could feel it churning in the sky just behind her, just like her mind spun desperately to think of a way out of accepting his hospitality. She wasn’t sure why, but the prospect intimidated her out of proportion to his offer. It thrilled her, too, which made her all that much more wary.

“Why are you so hesitant? What else have you heard about me besides the family business?” he demanded suddenly.

What had he read on her face?

“Nothing,” she insisted.

The small, grim smile returned. “You’re not a very good liar, Emma. What else did you hear?”

Her heart began to thump uncomfortably in her chest at the sound of him saying her name. To hide her discomposure, she rested her forearm on her open car door. His dark brows quirked slightly, his manner the cool, slightly impatient one of a prince being kept waiting.

“Okay. But you’re the one who insisted,” she said. “The rumor is that you’re a cold, selfish bastard.”

His expression remained masklike. A car passed on the country road in the distance, the sound striking her as lonely in the cloaking darkness. A puff of rain-scented wind swirled around them, rustling his thick hair.

“It’s seems to me they’re wrong,” Emma added, her voice shaking a little.

“No. They’re right,” he said.

For some reason, her chin went up defiantly. Neither of them spoke for a stretched few seconds. His face looked like carved alabaster in the harsh white lights, his gaze fierce. Emma cleared her throat and looked away.

“Well, you certainly were kind to me tonight. Thank you again. Good night,” she said, starting to get into her car.

“How far do you live?”

“Evanston. Not that far.”

“That storm is about to break,” he said, nodding to the western sky. “I’ll follow to make sure you get home okay.”

“No, that’s all right.”

He blinked at her adamancy. Did he think she didn’t want him to follow her because she didn’t want him to know where she lived? If anything, the opposite was the truth, and that’s what had made her speak so harshly. An alarm in her head blared that she was approaching some seriously dangerous water, while the rational part of her insisted that the idea that Michael Montand was vaguely interested in her was ridiculous, so what was she worried about? He was idiosyncratic, that’s all. Weren’t rich people known to be odd and unpredictable? Didn’t they live by different rules than someone like her? Besides, he’d just been warning her away from him by saying all the nasty rumors about him were true.

Hadn’t he?

“I just meant that you’ve already done enough for me tonight. I’ll be fine,” she said.

He nodded, and for a few seconds, she thought he’d actually succumbed to her wishes. But then—

“I’ll follow you,” he repeated in a tone that didn’t brook argument. He started toward the sleek sports car but paused and looked back at her. “And remember to leave your keys in the car tomorrow,” he said pointedly. “You can put them under the front seat. I’ll find them.”

The decision to agree to that seemingly innocuous request felt like too weighty of a choice to make in that moment. She lowered into the driver’s seat and shut her door.

She couldn’t stop glancing at her rearview mirror on the trip home. Every time she saw those steady headlights behind her, something swelled tighter in her chest. He stayed a respectable distance behind her.

He might as well have been inside her head, she was so aware of him.