The Affair: Week 5 (3 page)

“I stopped by your place. Amanda told me you’d gone shopping here.” His gaze flickered over her face and landed on her lips. He glanced aside distractedly when a woman with several large bags bumped into him. “Is this what you came shopping for? Perfume?”

“No,” Emma said, still staring at him. She still couldn’t believe he was here. She had an almost uncontrollable urge to touch him. Memories of sleeping in his arms when they were last together flooded her consciousness. She’d lain against his solid chest all night and stroked him whenever she chose, which was often. She’d allowed him to tie her up and spank her. They’d made love with savage abandonment.

Now he stood here so unexpectedly, and it was all so
unbelievable.
Her longing for him was still there—in fact it felt doubled. But the idea of touching him suddenly made her shy.

Idiot.

His eyebrows arched. His head lowered and she realized he was waiting for her to speak. “What are you shopping for then?” he prodded quietly as a group of shoppers rushed past them.

“Oh . . . you know. Just looking,” she managed. “A dress, maybe. Possibly a swimsuit.”

His steady stare seemed to swallow her whole.

“Damn it,” he said suddenly under his breath. He stepped forward and his arms encircled her. “When are you going to stop going shy around me?” he asked, his mouth slanted in amusement.

“I’m not—”

His mouth cut her off. All her awkwardness and uncertainty evaporated in a second beneath his kiss. She forgot where she was as he pierced her lips with his tongue and his taste flooded her consciousness.

“God you smell good,” he mumbled a stretched, delicious moment later, nuzzling her ear and neck. Emma shuddered in pleasure. “Is that the perfume you just put on?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Did Dr. Parodas contact you about our test results?” he asked, his nose in her hair, his lips brushing against her ear and making all the hairs stand on end along her neck.

“Yes,” Emma managed, finding his kiss and the topic both highly intimate in these mundane surrounding.

He looked at her, his expression shifting ever so slightly. If Emma had to guess, she’d say he was very satisfied by her answer.

“I have an idea,” he said.

“What?” Emma asked. He might have suggested they jump naked off the Sears Tower together and she would have done it she was so momentarily enthralled by his eyes and deep, quiet voice.

“I’ll take you to a place where we shop for a few items you’ll need. Then I’ll take you to bed and keep you there until we’re too weak to get out of it.”

A lightning flash of arousal went through her.

“A few items I’ll need for what?” she asked, choosing to focus on the safer topic.

“For your trip.” He arched his dark brows significantly. “To the Côte d’Azur?” he prompted as if he was gently reminding her of something she’d forgotten because she was so clearly befuddled by his kiss and nearness.

“To the French Riviera?’ she asked skeptically.

He smiled, slow and brilliant. She felt that smile at the very pit of her being.

“Now you’re getting it. We leave on Tuesday.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said bemusedly as he took her hand.

“It’s simple. I have to be back in France soon for the buildup to the race and the race itself. We’ll go back in a few days, but when I go, you do. I want you there with me.”

“You do?” Emma asked. She blinked and glanced around at the familiar surroundings of the department store, trying to ground herself. She’d been flying around in his eyes for a moment. “I can’t. I have work.”

“You’ll take a vacation,” he said, pulling on her hand. She fell into step beside him. “You can call the office tomorrow, ask for time off.”

“Maybe, but it might be kind of tricky getting it on short notice,” she said, scurrying to keep up with his long-legged stride, her heart starting to pound with excitement in her chest despite the craziness of his proposal.

“It’ll be fine. You need a vacation. You’ll love the Côte d’Azur . . . and my house there.” He gave her a gleaming sideways glance.

“
Maybe
,” she hesitated, swept away by the sheer force of him. “It’s
possible
I could figure out something for work . . . but what about—”

He shook his head and pulled her in front of him as they neared the revolving doors. “I’m not going to this damn race without you,” he stated flatly. “Now . . . let’s go finish your shopping so that I have you to myself,” he said with grim determination, nodding toward the door.

It was easy to be swept away by the power of his personality . . . by his intense attractiveness. By the time she sat in the passenger seat of a fierce-looking, ebony Montand convertible, reality hit her.

“I have a bone to pick with you,” she told him, smoothing her ruffled hair out of her face as he zoomed out of the parking garage. She’d never known a person to make such tight hairpin turns so effortlessly.

“What about?” he asked unconcernedly.

“I found out about you buying my apartment complex.”

He brought the car to an abrupt halt in the garage.

“How did you find out about that?” he demanded, eyebrows slanting.

“That friend’s father who I told you about? The cop who was going to help me with my deadbeat landlord?” she clarified hotly, all of her confusion and irritation over the discovery blazing high in her suddenly. “Why did you do that? And why didn’t you tell me?”

He shrugged slightly. “Because I thought you might react like this.”

“Of course I would. And will you answer my question?
Why
?”

He began driving again. “I didn’t intend to originally. When you told me about your trouble with your landlord, I had someone at my office look into it, just to see if I could nudge your owner into fixing all the stuff at your place.”

“You shouldn’t have done that. I could have taken care of it myself,” she said, scowling. He continued like she hadn’t spoken.

“The person I had working on it reported to me that Arthur Tamborg, the owner of your apartment complex, was in some seriously dire personal and financial straits and wasn’t responding to most phone calls. I had a look at his financials and decided the apartments he owned weren’t a bad investment. It was his lame management that was tanking things. So I decided to take the properties off his hands. I promoted somebody in order to manage, made a decent personal investment,” he paused while he paid the parking attendant, “and you got everything fixed on your list,” he said a moment later. He gave her a swift sideways glance before he pulled onto Wabash Avenue. “Why is that such a terrible thing?”

“So your decision to buy the apartments had nothing to do with me personally?”

“It related because I originally looked into Tamborg and the properties because of you, but after that, it was strictly business. It was a good investment. I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t think so,” he said, his gaze trained on the road.

“And it’s not going to make any difference whatsoever that you’re my landlord after we . . . after our time together is over?”

“Do you really think I’d try to hurt you somehow through your lease?” he asked, eyes flashing.

“No,” she admitted.

“I’m not your landlord. I won’t be even remotely involved in the day-to-day management of the apartments. That’d be the responsibility of the new property manager I hired.”

“I guess I don’t have any control over who buys or sells the place one way or another,” she conceded. “It just seems odd, that’s all. That you own my home.”

“Would you rather Authur Tamborg was back?” he asked levelly as he crossed the bridge over the river on Michigan Avenue. Emma noticed several pedestrians doing a double take and staring at Vanni in the sleek, badass convertible.

“No,” she stated, frowning in memory of her dealings with the unresponsive landlord.

“Then there you have it. This way, if any other problems should arise at your apartment, you’ll get immediate results.”

“Just like everyone else who calls in with a problem,” she clarified.

“Of course,” he said smoothly as he pulled onto a side street. Emma studied him suspiciously, but she couldn’t locate a crack in his armor.

“Are we good?” Vanni asked her a few minutes later after they’d parked the car and walked down the sidewalk of a quiet, tree-lined street.

Emma looked at his profile. He caught her stare, and she couldn’t help but smile. It was hard to be miffed at him when her heart was doing cartwheels over seeing him again. He looked so tall next to her, so male . . . so beautiful.

“Just don’t do me any special favors,” she warned, forcing the smile off her face and replacing it with what she hoped was a forbidding glance.

He halted her by grabbing her hand and stopping. “What if I want to?”

Her fierce look faded at his sudden intensity and quiet question. “I meant in regard to owning my apartment complex. I don’t want any tenant favoritism.”

He gave a small smile and stepped forward. Her breath stuck on an inhale when he put his hands on her waist and the fronts of their bodies brushed together ever so slightly. “For now, you’re mine, Emma. I won’t have you struggling in any way if I can stop it. I’ll show you all the favoritism I want to,” he said before his mouth covered hers. She softened and heated beneath his kiss, his words ringing in her head.

For now, you’re mine.

By the time he lifted his head and stared down at her a moment later, she’d completely forgotten why she’d been irritated with him, or even that she stood on a city street lined with brownstones interspersed with shops and businesses. His sleek, demanding tongue and addictive taste had
made
her forget. He lightly caressed the shell of her ear, and her sex tightened with desire.

“It’s kind of hard not show you any favoritism,” he murmured and Emma swayed forward, entranced by the heat in his eyes and his singular scent. “Are you going to complain more if I take you into that store right there and spoil you a little?” he nodded down the block. Emma turned to see where he indicated, her expression freezing when she saw the renowned department store on the corner. It was so exclusive and expensive that Emma had never even dreamed of stepping over the threshold, let alone shopping there.

“I don’t really need to go shopping, Vanni,” she said, backpedaling from what she’d said at Macy’s. “I was just passing the time when you found me.”

He began to walk down the street and she followed, her hand in his. “Trust me, if we didn’t need to do this, I wouldn’t be here right now. I’d have you at the Breakers in bed.”

“But I can’t—”

“You said you needed a dress and swimsuit,” he reminded her. “You’ll definitely need some new things for the trip.”

Emma sighed in exasperation as they entered the crosswalk.

“What?” he asked.

“I haven’t even spoken to Mrs. Ring yet about taking time off. Just because you act like something is going to happen doesn’t mean it
will
,”
she said chuckling, both irritated and amazed by his absolute confidence.

“You’ll speak to Mrs. Ring tomorrow, and we’ll fly out on Tuesday,” he told her patiently. “You’ll see. It’ll be fine. And once we’re in France,” he nodded toward the department store, “you’re definitely going to want a new dress or two. Or three. This is more than just a race, it’s a social event that lasts almost a week.”

Emma glanced at the famous glass entrance to the department store. “But I can’t afford to buy things
here
, Vanni.”

“That’s all right,” Vanni said, reaching for the door and opening it for her. He met her stare steadily. “You’re with me.”

She shook her head, refusing to enter. He frowned.

“It’s a very simple thing, Emma. Do you want to come with me to the race?”

“Yes . . . if I can get it off, that is,” she said fervently, dreading the idea of missing another week of their time together.

“If you think you’ll feel comfortable attending some of these events with me without any new dresses, then I’m fine with it. I was thinking of you in offering this.”

“Vanni,” she muttered under her breath, moved by his thoughtfulness and generosity, but torn. She glanced again anxiously at the name of the department store over the gilded entryway. If Mrs. Ring
did
grant her the time off and she indeed ended up going with him to France, he was correct. She’d look horribly out of place standing next to him in the extravagant European playground of the French Riviera. She didn’t want to embarrass him.

And they only had so much time together, after all . . .

He put out his hand.

“Come on. Just a couple of dresses, and then we’ll have some time to ourselves.”

“Okay,” she conceded, taking his hand.

* * *

The dressing room in the store was the size of her bedroom, featuring a lounging area with a sofa, coffee table, two armchairs, and an enormous, movable triple mirror. The friendly, chic middle-aged saleswoman, whose name was Sophia, escorted her into the changing lounge while asking her questions about fabric preferences and sizes. When Sophia asked her the names of her favorite designers, Emma gave her a wry grin.

“I doubt you’d find any labels from my closet here.”

Sophia’s smooth expression didn’t falter. “Not a problem. We’ll just introduce you to some new ones then.”

A younger associate peeked her head into the door and asked Emma what she’d like to drink.

“Nothing, thank you,” she told the young blond woman, a little flustered at the unexpected question.

“Bring her a tea service, please, and me as well,” Vanni instructed. Emma turned in surprise. He’d followed them into the women’s dressing lounge. Was there any place he wouldn’t tread with complete confidence?

“I’ll wait for you out there,” he told Emma, pointing to the lavish sitting area that was part of the lounge. They’d passed it on the way in, so she knew to what he referred. He directed his attention to Sophia. “Please bring her out so that I can see the ones that are worthwhile.”

“Of course, Mr. Montand. I’ll be right back with some selections for you to start on,” Sophia told Emma. “Just have a seat and relax.”

The young blond salesgirl returned first, carrying not a cup of tea, but an entire service including a pot of tea, a tiered tray of small sandwiches, fruit, scones, jam and cream, and a glass of champagne. Despite Emma’s awkwardness in the surroundings, she realized she was hungry and sampled one of the sandwiches and then a strawberry. A few minutes later, she sat on the couch with the teacup in her hand and a scone melting on her tongue, watching wide-eyed as Sophia breezed in with an armful of dresses.

“What about this one first?” she asked Emma, holding up a stunning mauve strapless gown. Sophia waved the dress over a sort of pedestal. Much to Emma’s amazement, a video popped up on the mirror of a gorgeous, slinky model strutting down the runway wearing the precise dress Emma was about to try on. She gasped.

“Is there a chip in the dress?” she asked Sophia, standing.

Sophia grinned. “Yes, a tiny one on a tag. Our customers like to see the outfits we sell professionally modeled.”

And the store likes to see their merchandise purchased, Emma thought amusedly as she began to shuck off her clothes. It was a brilliant sales maneuver. How many customers actually pictured themselves in the gorgeous model’s shoes when they donned the dress?

She suddenly wished she’d put on a fancier bra and underwear set when she’d set out on what she thought would be a solitary, run-of-the-mill trip downtown this morning. Little had she guessed her solo trip to Macy’s would end up like
this.

“Oh my
goodness
,” Sophia said, eyes going wide as she turned from hanging some dresses on a rack. At the woman’s exclamation, Emma cringed where she stood in her bra and underwear. Were her undergarments
that
bad? Then she realized where the woman stared and her hand flew to her throat. “Is that a Prisatti angel?” Sophia asked, her tone hushed and thick with awe.

“I . . . I don’t know. It’s a
petit ange
. It was a gift,” Emma said, letting her hand fall.

Sophia met her stare, a smile starting on her mouth. “From
him
?” she asked, glancing sideways in the direction of the sitting room where Vanni waited.

“Yes.”

Sophia gave her a
lucky you
smile. “It’s a Prisatti angel. They’re extremely rare, handmade by a man named Angelo Prisatti, an Italian jeweler who lives in France. He only makes a few a year, the metalwork and etching is exquisitely detailed, even under a microscope. Prisatti insists on approving of the wearer himself. Their spirit has to match the essence of the piece he makes . . . match up to his standards, in other words. Otherwise, you’d see every spoiled rich girl in the world wearing one.”

“
I’ve
never met him,” Emma said. “Maybe it’s not a Prisatti angel, after all.”

“He must have altered his expectations for Montand,” Sophia said with a knowing smile. “Because that’s
definitely
a Prisatti angel.”

Emma absorbed this amazing bit of news. It didn’t surprise her that it was an extremely valuable necklace—she could have guessed that just by its unique, delicate beauty. What bewildered her was why Vanni would have taken pains to acquire such a rare piece for her.

As the rack in the huge, ornate dressing room began to fill with not just dozens of dresses, but resort wear, hats, shoes, belts, and accessories, Emma’s confusion about Vanni’s gift had to be moved to the back burner.

“I really just need a dress and maybe a swimsuit,” Emma told Sophia uncomfortably.

“These are the items Mr. Montand indicated,” the woman overrode her with pleasant politeness. “Here, let me help you with that,” she said, moving behind Emma to zip up the gorgeous creation she’d just put on—a stunning green halter dress that came with a short jacket. When Sophia had zipped her in, she stared at her reflection in awe. The dress did amazing things for her figure. It made the gold of her hair look especially rich and vibrant and her skin gleam. She looked . . .

. . .
fantastic
in it.

“Oh my,” Sophia said, stepping back and grinning. “This is definitely one to show Mr. Montand, don’t you think?” She set down a sinfully sexy pair of strappy sandals in front of her. “Leave the jacket,” the saleswoman directed when Emma reached for it after she’d buckled the sandals around her ankles. Emma saw the sparkle in Sophia’s brown eyes. “He’s not going to want it on you. Trust me.”

Emma’s cheeks went hot, but she followed a beaming Sophia out of the dressing room. Vanni was sitting in a Louis the XIV–style armchair, reading a newspaper, his tea service set out next to him on a circular table. Despite his T-shirt and jeans, he looked every bit the insouciant, confident prince of the palace.