The following Tuesday when she went to work, the skies were gray and brooding. Maureen Sanderson, the nurse on the day shift, greeted her wearily when she entered the suite.

“What’s wrong?” Emma asked.

“Cristina had a bad night,” Maureen explained in a hushed tone, glancing toward the bedroom. “I thought she was gone at least half a dozen times. But she seems to be holding on for some reason. Her stepson is out of town. I know they have a rocky relationship, but maybe she’s waiting to see him once more?”

“Montand is away?” Emma asked. No one had mentioned it during her shift yesterday, but she really hadn’t conversed a lot with anyone but Cristina, and that only briefly.

Maureen nodded. “When she was doing so poorly earlier, I asked the maid to make sure he was aware that Cristina’s time was probably soon, just in case he wanted to say good-bye. Alice told me he’d gone to France.”

“When?” Emma asked, regretting her sharpness when she saw Maureen’s bemused glance.

Maureen gathered her things. “I don’t know. On Saturday, I think.”

Emma nodded, striving to push down the hollow feeling that seemed to be expanding in her belly and pressing up on her chest cavity. What should it matter to her if he was gone? He was confusing and rude and it was better to be rid of him altogether.

It matters, a stubborn voice in her head said. She tried to ignore that, too.

She hastened to the bedroom, where she sunk into the upholstered chair next to Cristina’s bed. She saw what Maureen meant. Cristina’s color was terrible and she looked so tiny and shrunken lying there on the grand, luxurious bed.

“Cristina?” Emma called, seeing her patient’s eyelids flicker. “It’s me, Emma.”

Cristina rolled her head on the pillow and regarded her with rheumy, crusted eyes.

“There you are,” she mouthed, her voice barely above a whisper. “My confessor.”

Emma smiled and stood. “Hold on to your confessions for a minute. I’m going to get a cloth for your eyes.”

A moment later she washed Cristina’s eyes with a warm cloth. Afterward, she gently applied one of Cristina’s expensive creams to the dry skin of her face, rubbing gently. “Would you like a sip of water?” she asked when she was done. Cristina nodded. After she’d drank a few laborious sips, Emma set aside the cup and straw. “There, that’s much better,” Emma said. She pulled the chair closer and sat. She realized what she said was true. Cristina’s gaze seemed sharper as she looked at Emma, a hint of her strong personality in evidence once again.

Maybe it’s not the end for you yet, Cristina.

“What’s this about me being your confessor?” Emma asked, her tone brisk and matter-of-fact.

“I don’t like it when you’re not here.”

“I was just here yesterday. Do you think I should work 24-7?” she asked, touched despite her jocular tone. She knew Cristina was not the sentimental, touchy-feely type.

“No, you deserve the time off, but that doesn’t mean I like it,” Cristina gasped.

“Watch out, Cristina, or I’ll think you actually like me.”

Cristina scowled at her. “Look at you,” she rasped after a moment, and Emma realized she was actually studying her appearance closely for the first time since last week.

Emma glanced down at herself dubiously. “What?”

“You’re all dressed up. Or at least for you, you are. What’s the occasion? Did you do your hair and put on a halfway-decent blouse because you thought you were coming to my funeral today?”

“I did no such thing,” Emma said levelly, refusing to show her embarrassment over the fact that she’d spent some time on her hair the past two mornings and relished wearing her new clothes.

And he’s not even here. He’s halfway across the world.

She squirmed a little uncomfortably when Cristina’s gaze narrowed on her.

“I know that look. You dressed up for a man. Well?”

“Well what?” Emma said, standing and straightening up the nightstand to hide her discomposure.

“Who’s the man? It can’t be that boyfriend you talk about. The impression I got of him is that he wouldn’t inspire a blush, let alone that glow I see on your face right now.”

“I must have rubbed your eyes too hard,” Emma muttered.

“Have you met my stepson, by chance?” Emma’s heart jumped when she took in Cristina’s sharp stare. She felt so transparent. “Because . . . that might be a very good idea . . .” Cristina faded off musingly.

“Why? Does he need a nurse?” Emma hedged, rolling her eyes in a show of amused exasperation. Unfortunately, she wasn’t the best of actresses. “You said you had something you wanted to say to me?” she asked, sinking into her chair again.

Something flickered across Cristina’s pinched features. She stared at the curtained windows.

“Is my stepson here?” Cristina whispered.

“No. From what I understand, he’s in France. Cristina, do you need to speak to him?”

Cristina’s mouth pinched together in the silence that followed.

“No. Not yet,” Emma thought she heard the older woman say.

Emma’s shift seemed to drag by. Cristina slept through most of it.

The silent mansion itself seemed to mock Emma, as if it knew about her stupid hopes in arriving there the past two days, had full knowledge of her naïve wish to run into Montand again. What did she imagine would happen? That he would seek her out, mad to be with her? That when she explained that she didn’t mind his using her to assuage his lust, because she needed him to do the same for her, that he’d immediately give her what she needed? It would be a lie anyway, because she did mind. Or at least at times she found the idea of him making love to her with no other impulse but lust unbearable.

Her body was less worried about it.

She was thankful when the annoyingly slow hands of the gold and glass clock on Cristina’s nightstand read ten thirty. Not too long now—

Her skin prickled when she heard a slight rustling sound out in the living room. She sat up straighter.

Someone is out there.

She hurried out of the bedroom, entering the living area in time to see Mrs. Shaw’s stiff-backed form walking away quickly.

“Mrs. Shaw?” she called, shocked by her unusual presence so late and the fact that she was leaving without speaking. In the distance, Emma heard the muted sound of steps on the stairs. The housekeeper was gone. Had she been spying? Why?

Something caught her gaze on the coffee table in front of the couch. A dark blue, flat leather jewelry box sat there. It definitely hadn’t been there before. Emma saw a white linen card lying beneath it. She hastened over to the table and picked up the card, reading the typewritten message.

Her face slack with shock, she flipped open the lid on the box. Nestled in velvet was a delicate gold chain with an exquisitely filigreed and etched charm attached. She’d never seen anything like it. She fingered the object in awe. It was a butterfly; or was it a spritelike fairy creature? The necklace was strikingly lovely and unique.

She jumped when the phones in the suite rang. A tingling sensation rippled through her limbs, her fingers still touching the precious gold charm. Worried about waking Cristina, she sprung up to answer in order to halt the noise.

“Hello?” she said cautiously, her heart starting to pound in her ears in the silence that followed her greeting.

“Emma.”

It wasn’t a question. He’d known it was her, just as she’d known it was him somehow when she’d started at the sudden, sharp ring as she stared at the unique necklace.

“Yes?” she replied through a tight throat.

“It’s Montand.”

“I know,” she breathed out quietly.

Again, that silence that sent the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.

“How are you?” he asked, and she knew by the tone of his voice he was asking about what she’d impulsively confessed to him the other night about Colin, but also his reluctant, yet powerful seduction . . . his subsequent rejection. All of it.

“I’m fine,” she assured.

“And Cristina?”

“Not well,” she whispered very softly. “She asked about you earlier.”

A short pause.

“What did she say?”

“Not much. She just asked if you were here. I think . . .”

“What?”

“I think she wants to say something to you. Before she goes.”

“I’ll be home tomorrow,” he said.

Emma nodded as if he could see her.

“I’d like to see you tomorrow. After your shift,” he said.

She gulped thickly. For some reason, she could almost picture him perfectly in her imagination, standing in the shadows and looking out an open glass door that looked out onto a grayish-pink dawn, his phone pressed to his ear, the familiar somber, intent expression on his face. The coolness of the chain looped around her fingers penetrated her awareness.

“Thank you,” she blurted out. “For the necklace. It wasn’t necessary.”

“I disagree. You deserved an apology,” he said stiffly. Neither of them spoke for a breathless few seconds. “Meet me in the garage tomorrow night. Do you remember the code?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Good night.”

“Good night,” she whispered. She returned the receiver to the cradle very carefully, like she thought the instrument was as fragile as the moment had been.

Cristina had not rallied the next night, by any means, but she had plateaued. She was certainly no worse. Emma’s shift was relatively uneventful. She saw no sign of Montand, and she was too self-conscious to ask Maureen or Cristina herself if they had news of him. She wasn’t entirely sure he’d even returned.

By the time she left work that night, the formerly cloudy, humid day had cleared. A near-full moon and a star-strewn sky bathed the back drive in soft luminescence. She entered the code to the garage and took that increasingly familiar, heart-knocking trip across the mudroom. The garage was silent when she entered, the lights turned down too low for Montand to be working on his cars or engines.

“Hello?” she called out, her voice echoing off the walls in the wide-open space of the garage. She walked into the path between the two rows of cars. “Are you here?”

Silence. She’d tried to prepare herself for a variety of scenarios that might occur tonight, but hadn’t considered this one. He wasn’t here. Disappointment flooded her. Should she wait for a bit? Perhaps he’d run into a delay traveling back to Chicago?

A scuffling noise at the back of the garage distracted her. Her heart jumped. She heard a door click open and then shut and the sound of shoes on the concrete floor. She saw him coming toward her in the distance, emerging from the shadows at the back of the garage. He wasn’t wearing coveralls this time. She’d been wrong about thinking he was gorgeous.

He was devastating.

“Hello,” he said soberly, approaching her.

“Hi.”

He wore a light blue and white button-down shirt and jeans, but it was what he did to the garments that left her tongue-tied. She could see his body more clearly when he wasn’t sitting at a table or wearing the coveralls. His waist and abdomen were leaner than she’d thought, his shoulders and chest even more powerful looking. He wasn’t like some of the guys she’d seen at the gym who lifted weights constantly with thick necks and muscles bulging all over the place. Instead, he was perfectly proportioned, his strength apparent in every line of his long, fit body. She recalled how hard he’d felt pressed against her, how solid.

He came to a halt several feet away from her.

“You look . . .” She faded off, realizing she was about to make a fool of herself by blurting out how amazing he appeared. “You look taller without your coveralls,” she finished lamely.

There was a scruff on his jaw tonight, but the goatee was still absent. The whiskers highlighted his mouth almost as well as the goatee had. Or maybe it was just that she couldn’t stop looking at his lips and remembering what they’d felt like on her own. His thick hair was finger-combed back from his forehead. His eyes looked especially light in the shadows as they lowered over her.

“You look beautiful,” he said. She blinked in surprise. He said what she’d been thinking about him so effortlessly. Plus, she wasn’t used to his complimenting her. It packed a punch. He finished a perusal that left her feeling extra warm, and met her stare. “I like that color on you.”

“Thanks,” she murmured, glad she’d settled on the new blouse. It was a pinkish, apricot color and much more feminine than her usual clothes. Even she—who was normally very severe on her appearance—thought it did good things for her skin and eyes. A gleam of amusement and something else—was it pleasure?—entered his gaze.

“I like your tomboy look, but this suits you even better. You should dress up more often,” he said.

“I’m not dressed up,” she said, feeling a little prickly that everyone kept seeing through her so easily. Her heart started to thump erratically. His expression took on a bland cast and he nodded quickly as if to say, of course not.

“Are you teasing me?” she asked incredulously after a second, seeing the lingering trace of humor in his face. It seemed so uncharacteristic of him, she couldn’t quite be sure.

His eyebrows went up. “Maybe we’re both acting a little out of character tonight.”

He grinned then, slow and sexy. His untainted smiles were so few and far between, she couldn’t resist smiling back. His gaze settled on her neck. She touched the gold necklace at her throat.

“Thank you again for it,” she said breathlessly. “I’m not sure I should take it, though. It looks very valuable.”

“Of course you should take it,” he said, his expression sobering. “I thought of the artist who makes them by hand almost immediately when I met you. It’s a petit ange. Fitting for you.”

“Really?” she asked, her tone flat with incredulity, fingering the charm at her throat. “What does petit ange mean? It’s so pretty, but I wasn’t sure what it was exactly. A fairy?” she wondered.

His gaze flickered over her wistful smile. “Little angel,” he said quietly.

“I’m no angel,” she assured wryly.

His smile left her flustered. She grasped for a safe topic. “Did you have a good trip?”

“Good enough. I was a little preoccupied.”

Emma nodded in understanding. “Cristina isn’t any better tonight, but not any worse, either,” she said softly.

They stared at each other. Against her will, the memory of being pressed against his length, of his possessive mouth covering hers, coaxing . . . demanding, of shaking against him as he played her flesh like a master, entered her awareness. She moved restlessly on her feet as the subsequent memory of his harsh, crude words sliced through her like an ice pick.

She wasn’t used to feeling this level of uncertainty and intense awareness with a man. It seemed to encapsulate them in some sort of airless bubble.

“Cristina and I are not the best of friends,” he said. “We never have been. It’s . . . complicated.”

“I understand,” Emma said quickly. “Every family has their history. Their stuff. I’m not trying to intrude or judge. That’s not part of my job, and it’s not a part of who I am, either. You’ve provided for Cristina extremely well, despite this obvious . . . rift between the two of you.”

“A rift implies we were once close. Trust me, that’s never been the case,” he said, and once again, she sensed a razor-sharp edge to his tone.

“But when I told you she asked about you, you seemed—”

“I’ve left my number with the night nurse, and Mrs. Shaw will inform the day nurse. If Cristina says she wants to speak with me, I’ll come. Now I’ve told you as well. But just so you know, I’m not holding my breath for anything,” he said pointedly. Emma nodded.

“There’s something else I’d like to discuss with you. Would you like to go for a drive?” he asked, taking a step back.

She started and stared dubiously at the rows of cars. “I . . . Yes.”

“Which car do you want to take?”

“I get to pick?” she asked, a grin breaking free. She couldn’t help it. An unexpected, giddy feeling of excitement rose in her.

His gaze caught on her smile. “Lady’s choice,” he assured quietly.