The Affair: Week 1 (6 page)

“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 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 in the ignition, 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 not necessary. 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.

A quarter of a mile from her home the sky unloaded. Thunder boomed threateningly as rain fell in torrents, pounding on her car. As she turned into her apartment’s parking lot, she noticed Montand’s distant headlights turn and disappear abruptly. He’d whipped the car around in a tight U-turn and accelerated in the other direction without a pause. She just made out the dark red rearview lights before he was swallowed by the rain and dark gray gloom.

A bitter flash of disappointment went through her, making her grit her teeth in self-disgust.

She opted for the rear entrance so that she could remove her now-soaking shoes on the tile floor of the utility room instead of the wood floor of the entryway. Afterward, she padded barefoot into the kitchen and picked up a dish towel, wiping off her wet arms. Exhaustion struck her all at once, the adrenaline high of the evening—of her unexpected encounter with Montand—running thin in her blood. In the distance, she heard the crashing of swords and the grunts of video game characters doing battle.

“Hi,” she said wearily, rounding the corner into the dim living room. She came to an abrupt halt. Amanda and Colin sat on the couch, side by side. Two video controllers lay on the floor before their feet, forgotten. Amanda’s body jerked at the sound of Emma’s voice, but Colin continued kissing her, his hand running hungrily along the side of Amanda’s tank top–clad torso and brushing a breast. Amanda made a wild, muffled sound and pushed at Colin. Emma caught a glimpse of her sister’s frightened face around Colin’s shoulder. The vision made a hot knife of sensation stab through her belly, forcing reality into her shocked haze.

Colin finally got a clue and turned. They both stared at Emma, pale faced and openmouthed.

The silence was horrible. Strangling. Emma couldn’t think of anything to say. Her tongue had gone numb.

“Emma . . .” Amanda muttered, shock ringing in her tone. She flung herself off the couch and stood. She wore shorts, her long, lustrous dark blond hair falling down her back like a cloak. The skin of her bare legs and arms gleamed in the flashing light from the television, the only source of illumination in the cozy scenario except for occasional flashes of lightning from the storm.

You’re the stupidest woman on the face of the earth.
What kind of female left her boyfriend alone night after night with a stunning woman like Amanda? It’d never even occurred to Emma to be jealous.

Colin stood slowly.

“I thought you wanted to get to bed early tonight,” Emma said to him, distantly surprised by how calm she sounded.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Colin said hollowly. He glanced uneasily from Emma to Amanda, and then back to Emma again. “We . . . I didn’t hear you come in.”

Emma nodded. “Yeah. Obviously. I came in the back door. The rain must have muffled the sound.” She started toward the hallway, moving like a robot set on automatic. “Well personally,
all
I can think about is sleep. Good night.”

“
Emma
,” Colin called sharply at the same time Amanda cried out, “Emma, wait!” Her sister’s voice rang with a mixture of anxiety, anguish, and disbelief. Emma didn’t turn around or stop walking.

“Forget it,” Colin said sharply when Amanda started to call out again, sounding panicked. “She’s not going to listen to us. Not now. Let’s go.”

That made Emma whip around. She flew across the floor toward them so fast, Colin’s eyes widened in alarm. He took a step back.

“
You
go,” she grated out, her teeth clenched. “This is my sister’s home. It’s
mine.
She doesn’t have to leave right now.
You
do.”

Colin’s mouth fell open in shock. She glared at him fiercely.

“You’re right. I’ll go. We can talk about this tomorrow,” he said after a moment, glancing worriedly at both of them. Amanda just stood there, looking shattered.

Emma turned to resume her exit when Colin started for the front door.

“Emma, stop. We have to talk,” Amanda entreated.

“I don’t want to
talk
to you. You’re the last person on earth I want to
look
at right now.”

She didn’t know what she was feeling aside from blindsided. Her brain and body vibrated with shock. Maybe she shouldn’t have acted so holier-than-thou just now. Hadn’t she just been lusting after another man? Hadn’t she been having intensely erotic dreams, dreams she’d never associate with Colin and their sex life in a million years?

In her room, she locked the door and mechanically stripped, changed into some shorts and a tank top, turned out the light, and plunged into bed. When the knock came at the door a few seconds later, along with Amanda’s pleas for her to open up and let her in, Emma reached for her headphones. She curled on her side and let the harsh, loud music crash into her, blocking everything out. Even though she clenched her eyelids shut, Emma knew for a fact she’d never sleep that night.

It’d been her secure relationship with Amanda she lost tonight, she realized numbly. The loss of a lackluster romance with Colin Atwater was
nothing
in comparison to that wound.

* * *

Death rarely followed a smooth downward decline. Emma was reminded of that the next day at work when Cristina joked with her tiredly when she woke up at around six in the evening, telling Emma she looked like something the cat had dragged in.

“Out partying last night with that boyfriend of yours, were you?” Cristina asked as Emma poured out her pain medication.

“No. I just couldn’t sleep,” Emma replied honestly. How could she rest with all the disturbing images she had swirling around her head? Colin’s hand moving along the side of her sister’s body, skimming her breast; the message in Montand’s stare as he’d stood in the headlights of her car; the silent, somehow miserable climax of that man—Vanni.

Yes. Her voyeuristic incident was still bothering her deeply, and she was doing everything in her power to repress it. It felt like her whole world had been toppled over.

“I understand from Margie that you had a good appetite today,” she said, changing the subject.

“A yogurt and half a supplement shake.
Good
if you’re an anorexic or a dying woman, maybe,” Cristina replied dryly. Neither of them spoke as Emma administered the medication and held up a glass with a straw while her patient laboriously drank a few mouthfuls of water.

“That was some storm last night,” Cristina gasped as she resettled on her pillows. “Maybe that’s what kept you awake?”

“Maybe it was the storm,” Emma said dubiously, setting the water glass on the table. What did she know about what she was feeling, after all? She’d briefly told an equally bewildered, tearful Amanda that this morning when her sister finally confronted her in the kitchen.

“It only happened that one time, Emma. I want you to know that.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better, that it happened
once
?”

“No! God, what you must be thinking and feeling—”

“I don’t know what I’m felling, to be honest,” Emma said honestly.

“
What do you mean you don’t know how you feel?” Amanda asked wildly. “You must be furious at me. At Colin, too.”

“I don’t care about Colin, Amanda,” she seethed.

She’d only been telling the truth about her bewilderment, though. Nothing and no one felt certain to Emma anymore. Even she herself had become a mystery in this past week. One thing of which she was certain: she felt no flaming jealousy when she thought of Amanda and Colin together, which seemed pitiful more than anything. Mostly, she felt a scoring sense of loss. She didn’t want to feel betrayed by her sister, given the fact that she now realized it’d been a mistake to stay with Colin.

But she did.

And she felt lonely, she realized. She’d never felt so alone in her life, even after her mother had died. It suddenly seemed that everyone was capable of entering a world of forbidden passion, while she herself was left behind, an outsider, too afraid to enter that complicated, bewildering place.

She’d been honest with Amanda about the lack of jealousy. It was Amanda she worried she’d lost more than her safe relationship with Colin. Exactly what had gone through her sister’s head when she came to the conclusion that being with Colin was more important than her relationship with Emma?

Things were still rattling around precariously in Emma’s world later that evening as she spoke to Cristina.

“Would you like me to turn on the television?” she asked Cristina. She could use a little mindless distraction. Between lack of sleep and the most disturbing dreams when she finally had gone under for a meager few hours, she was feeling less than her sharp, feisty self.

“No. There’s been something I’ve been meaning to speak with you about,” Cristina said. “Remember when I asked you if you were going to preach to me about God and repentance and fire and brimstone?”

Emma grinned as she sat in the upholstered chair next to Cristina’s bed.

“Well, I don’t remember it precisely that way, but yeah . . . in general.”

“And you said you never preached to people because you don’t like to be preached to,” Cristina recalled. Emma nodded. “You sidestepped the issue.”

“What issue?”

“Of whether or not you believe in God. Are you religious?” Cristina inquired. Her thicker than usual accent informed Emma she was growing tired.

“I don’t think so, not in the classic sense. I’m very spiritual, though.”

“Why?” Cristina demanded.

“I’ve seen things. Experienced them.”

“You’ve experienced a lot of death,” Cristina filled in for her. “Because your mother was a nurse in that old folks’ home and you used to spend a lot of time with all those—what’s that charming word you Americans use—
geezers
,” Cristina recalled what Emma had told her when they conversed a few days ago.

“They weren’t just old people. Many were my friends.”

Cristina shook her head on the pillow. “It wasn’t right, for such a young girl to be exposed to so much disease and death. There’s something twisted about it. It was wrong of your mother to allow it to happen.”

“You say it was twisted because you’re afraid,” Emma said quietly.

Cristina glanced at her incredulously. “How can you sit there, a girl of twenty some odd years, fresh and dewy as a bud still on the rosebush, and say something like that to me?” she demanded hoarsely.

“I can say it because I know. There’s nothing to fear, Cristina.”

For a few seconds Cristina just stared at her in openmouthed awe. Emma saw the doubt slink back into her expression.

“Look at me,” Cristina demanded bitterly, glancing at her frail body beneath the sheets. “I’m skin and bones and seeping sores. My insides are being eaten away by cancer. How can you say death isn’t twisted and awful?”

“It is awful at times. Painful. Scary. But one never sees life more clearly than when death approaches. And maybe that’s the biggest gift of death—life’s final gift—if we can accept it.”

A shudder went through Cristina. “You say you’re not religious, but you certainly sound like you want me to repent of my sins before I go.”

Emma smiled. “I don’t know if I’d call them sins, necessarily, but if you have something you want to talk about, I’ll listen.”

“And not judge?” Cristina wondered skeptically.

“And not judge,” Emma repeated calmly. “You brought this up, Cristina. There must be something you want to get off your chest.”

Cristina stared at the closed curtains across the room, a faraway look in her eyes. “There are so many things,” she whispered, sounding uncharacteristically sad. Wistful. After a moment, she focused on Emma again. She looked very tired. “But I still don’t think it’s right.”

“What?” Emma asked, confused.

“For a young girl like you, so full of life, to surround herself with death. Maybe you’re the one who is afraid.”

“What do you mean?” Emma asked.

“Maybe you’re such an expert on death because you’re afraid to live,” Cristina said in a thready whisper. Her eyelids closed. She didn’t speak again for several seconds. Emma thought she slept, and grew lost in reflecting on Cristina’s words.

“You really do believe it, don’t you?” Cristina asked in a quavering voice after a minute. She opened her eyes. “That dying isn’t frightening?”

“No,” Emma said quietly. “I
know
it.”

Cristina studied her searchingly for several seconds, and then closed her eyes again. Emma watched over her as she sunk into a comfortable sleep.

Was there any truth to what she’d said about her being afraid of life? Her relationship with Colin for the past two years had kept her comfortable. Safe. That seemed glaringly obvious now. She’d clung onto the familiarity. She’d needed security after the death of her mother. Maybe Colin was tired of being her security blanket and longed for something more risky. More passionate.

Who could blame him?

“Emma.”

She started from her thoughts and turned in her chair, surprised to be interrupted. Margie was already gone for the day. Cristina and she were usually alone on this floor of the house at night, and her patient was fast asleep. Mrs. Shaw stood just inside the threshold to the bedroom, perhaps rightfully aware she wouldn’t be welcome by Cristina.

“I’ve come with a message,” Mrs. Shaw said. “Mr. Montand says you forgot to leave your keys in your car, and so he can’t service it. He asked if I could collect them from you now.”

Emma stared, heat rushing into her cheeks. The decision of whether or not to leave her keys in her car this afternoon had taken on gargantuan significance in her head. She’d been a coward not to leave them. Wasn’t she a coward, period? Now it felt as if her vulnerability and confusion had been put on display for Mrs. Shaw, a very undesirable audience.

“I’ll get them,” Emma said breathlessly, hurrying to her purse. She handed her keys to the housekeeper a moment later. “Thank you for doing this.”

“He asked me to give you the entry code to the garage.” Mrs. Shaw said the five numbers like she was uttering a malediction at Emma, before she turned and glided out of the suite.