The Affair: Week 1 (5 page)

“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 an early 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 seatbelt, 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.”