Apparently, not only did good looks thrive on the French Riviera, so did raging libidos, Emma thought dazedly, blinking and looking away from the amorous driver.
As the waiter cleared away the remains of their meal and couples began to dance out on the terrace, Georgia regally excused herself to go to the ladies’ room. A dark haired man with a mustache drew Vanni away to clarify some question that was a point of contention at another table. Estelle and Simon Fournier were twirling together on the dance floor, and Dean and his wife were off socializing at another table. Only Niki and she remained.
“Did I mention that you look amazingly beautiful tonight?” Niki asked her, smiling.
“Only once or a dozen times,” Emma replied, blushing despite his light, teasing tone.
“Something in France seems to be setting you alight,” Niki said, glancing pointedly across the room to where Vanni stood. “And I’m not the only one who’s noticed. You’ve caught the attention of almost every male in the room. Vanni is a fool to leave your side. Mario Acarde looks like he wants to eat you alive,” Niki said derisively under his breath, nodding subtly in the direction of the dark-haired man with the startling blue eyes. Mario was now talking to two women not twenty feet away. When Emma glanced in his direction, she saw him looking at her over the two women’s heads. He raised his highball glass as if in a private toast and took a healthy swallow of liquor.
“Drunken, horny bastard has been circling ever closer to you ever since he noticed Vanni was called away,” Niki muttered darkly under his breath.
“He’s one of your rivals, isn’t he? Marco told me a little about the race and the frontrunners,” she explained when he glanced at her in mild surprise.
“Acarde wishes.”
Emma chuckled. “I heard you won the time trials earlier. Congratulations. Are you nervous about the race on Sunday?”
“A little,” Niki admitted. “I’m usually not nervous before a race, but no matter how much I’ve practiced on the stock car, it’s still my second language, so to speak.”
“Do you think it’ll make a difference in the outcome of the race?”
“The Americans have the advantage as far as the car. But we,” he said lifting his highball glass and giving her a pointed, mischievous glance, “have the advantage of the road. No perfect little oval racetracks here—narrow roads, tight hairpin curves, and plunging shifts in elevation down the mountainside.”
“Will it be dangerous?” Emma asked warily.
“Without a doubt,” Niki replied, as if she’d stated the obvious. She caught the gleam in his eyes and laughed. He smiled. “I realize you probably don’t know much about road races in the South of France, but they are traditionally the gladiator arena for drivers seeking their fame.” He noticed her alarmed look. “Don’t worry. It’s much better nowadays, and the local governments have assured we put together a safe race.” He shrugged. “Relatively safe, anyway.”
He flashed her a grin when she gave him a teasing “don’t mess with me” glance. “If anything, it’ll be a test of our basic driving instincts. We’ve only been allotted two early mornings of practice in addition to the time trials before raceday, given the constraints of the surrounding villages. It’ll be exciting, that much is certain. It started out as a lark between Vanni and me. But the level of competition has grown fierce in the past several months. We all craved the unique challenge, apparently. I’m glad,” Niki said, setting down his glass. “It was a gamble on Vanni’s part to attempt it, but he’s got a phenomenon on his hands. Excellent publicity for Montand Motorworks and Automobiles Montand
.
The race is going to become an annual, highly anticipated event, mark my words. Bit of a shame for Vanni, though,” Niki said, casting a hooded glance across the room to where Vanni stood at a table, flanked by two men in tuxes. “He actually hates high-profile events and being the center of attention, despite understanding the need for publicity owning the type of businesses he does.”
Emma recalled what he’d said that first time she’d officially met him about the “vampires” at press events. “Yes. Has he always been so reserved?”
Niki turned his highball glass distractedly. “No. He was a hotheaded teenager. It wasn’t that he wanted to be the center of attention or anything, but it was like he couldn’t stop it from happening . . . a little like expecting a raging inferno to be dim,” Niki said with a rueful sideways glance. Emma nodded in understanding.
“What happened to change him?” Emma asked quietly.
“Life. Death. Then . . . Meredith,” Niki said simply. He met Emma’s stare, and she could tell he was curious as to whether she knew who Meredith was. She didn’t, technically, but she made a guess.
“His wife?” she asked.
Niki nodded, looking a little relieved that she knew. “He was only twenty-two when she died. First he lost his mother young to leukemia, then—”
“Adrian,” Emma finished soberly.
Niki blinked. She had a feeling Niki Dellis didn’t look surprised often.
“Vanni told you about Adrian?” he asked, shock ringing in his quiet voice. Emma nodded. Niki’s gaze sharpened on her as if he’d truly seen her for the first time. “Well,” he said after a moment, looking away. “I knew you were having
some
kind of unprecedented effect on him, but I didn’t guess . . .” He seemed to come to himself and sat up straighter in his chair, taking a deep breath. “It was Adrian’s death that hit him the hardest, being as young as they were and the tragic circumstances,” Niki said grimly. He took another idle sip of his bourbon. “His mother’s and Adrian’s death turned him into a blaze of trouble. Nothing mattered to him. Nothing
meant
anything. As a teenager, he was on a one-way road to hell, and anyone who got in his way on the journey was going to get burned. Unfortunately, I was a hotheaded teenager myself and on a similar clueless path. Fire can’t burn fire,” Niki said, all remnants of the mischievous charmer vanished. “So I was no help. I was too stupid to realize where that trip was going to take him. Us. Then, while Van was in college, a miracle happened.”
“He met Meredith?” Emma asked through a tight throat.
Niki shrugged. “I never really knew if it was Meredith who did it, or if Vanni was just ready to stop grieving and get on with his life.” He shrugged. “Whatever the reason, he seemed to find a purpose . . . a focus, even before she came along. When his dad protested against the marriage, it only firmed his resolve. It was during those months before he met Meredith and after they were married, when Michael Senior and Cristina had cut him out—both from their lives and financially—that Van designed the revolutionary intake manifold and carburetor for racecars that made him his personal fortune. Those inventions became the linchpin for his own company, Montand Motorworks. Everything seemed like it was falling into place for him. He seemed content for the first time in his life. Then . . .” He faded off, shaking his head.
“What did Meredith die of?” Emma asked in a hushed tone.
“Thyroid cancer. It spread very fast, once she was diagnosed.”
Emma found herself staring at Vanni’s tall, striking form across the room, her heart heavy.
“After Meredith passed, he seemed to completely shut down emotionally. He turned cold and methodical—ideal for eventually being the head of two separate multibillion-dollar companies, but not so much for anything else. He eventually built that new house in the place where Adrian died, almost as if he wanted to . . .”
“Punish himself?” Emma asked, dread filling her chest cavity. She turned to Niki and met his stare. He was looking at her with blank incredulity.
“You’ve guessed that? Surely he’d never tell you—”
“No,” Emma mouthed, swallowing thickly. “I guessed from something Cristina said, when she was dying. And just . . . intuition.”
Niki didn’t respond for a moment, but then he set down his glass with a thud. Vanni couldn’t have heard the sound from far across the crowded, music-filled room, but he turned suddenly and looked directly at Emma. She felt his stare in the pit of her belly.
“Vanni was the stronger of the twins,” Niki muttered next to her when someone said something to Vanni and he turned away. “For whatever reason, Adrian was smaller and much frailer. Michael Senior used to goad both Vanni and Adrian when they were little by joking that Vanni had stolen all of Adrian’s strength in the womb, and Adrian had stolen Vanni’s kindness.”
Emma stared at Niki, stunned. “What a horrible thing to say to children.”
Niki nodded thoughtfully. “You don’t need to tell me that. Michael was not the kindest of men, although he was a force to be reckoned with. He did have his moments . . .”
Neither of them spoke for a moment when Niki drifted off, both seemingly lost in their own thoughts.
“They were both caught up by the riptide, you know,” Niki said quietly. “From what I gather—because Vanni never talks about it—Vanni tried to save Adrian, but couldn’t.”
“He could only save himself,” Emma whispered, shivers crawling across her skin.
“He was all of nine years old,” Niki said, his mouth pressed into a grim line. “He was lucky to have accomplished that.”
“He believes the opposite. He thinks he’s cursed,” Emma said softly.
Niki sighed and met her stare. “There’s one thing I can be thankful for. Tragedy hasn’t struck him in years. If he
was
cursed, so to speak, hopefully the storm has passed. Sometimes I think if something else horrible happened to him, it’d end him.”
Emma swallowed thickly, trying to ignore the spasm in her chest cavity.
A little while later, the restaurant started to clear. Emma was leaving the ladies’ room, when someone caught her hand and halted her. She looked around and saw Mario Acarde standing there.
“I’ve been trying to find you all night,” he told her, the thickness of his speech making her think he’d had a bit too much to drink.
“Really?” Emma asked in a friendly, neutral tone, removing her hand from his. “I’ve been sitting in the same place the whole time.” Another hand enclosed the one she’d just dropped. She looked over her shoulder.
“Hi,” she said, smiling.
“Hello. Sorry for leaving you like that. Everyone has something to say about the race,” Vanni replied, his gaze running over her face and then flicking over to Mario. “But I promise I won’t leave your side for the rest of the night. Excuse us, Mario.”
“Are you off to the tables?” Mario called, but Vanni didn’t respond. He just led Emma onto the terrace, which had cleared out. It was a warm, starry night, a full moon in the sky making a swath of the sea gleam and wink. The band had stopped playing and was starting to pack up their instruments. Vanni left her, approached one of the men, and exchanged a handshake with him.
“
Encore une chanson, s’il vous plait
?” Vanni asked quietly.
The man looked down appreciatively at his palm. “
Avec plaisir, monsieur
.”
The musicians all took up their instruments again and at a signal from the leader began playing. Vanni came toward her, a small, devastating smile shaping his mouth. A thrill went through her when he took her into his arms and they began to dance. She looked up at him as he pulled her closer, her smile matching his.
“Do you always do things perfectly?” she asked softly.
“What do you mean?”
“They’re playing ‘Moonlight Serenade,’” she said with a small laugh, glancing significantly out at the moonlit water.
“It’s not me who is perfect tonight,” he murmured. Her breath caught when his lips closed gently over hers and lingered as they spun to the music. Her flesh tingled next to his solid length. It was pure magic.
“I’m sorry for leaving you. It seems every time I turned around, someone has a question or something to say about the race,” he said a moment later.
“Don’t worry. I understand. This is your work. Niki kept me company.”
“I saw. I asked him to watch out for you.”
“Did you?” she asked, entranced by the image of his angled, bold face etched in shadow and moonlight and the feeling of his body moving in subtle rhythm next to hers.
He nodded, his expression sober. “And then I got jealous when I saw him doing it,” he growled softly, capturing her lips again for another kiss. She felt his body harden next to hers, and the kiss deepened.
“You have absolutely nothing to be jealous of,” she told him breathlessly a moment later. “All I can see is you, Vanni.” One dark brow rose in a wry expression.
“For these weeks and days and hours?” he asked, a thread of sarcasm in his tone. One of his hands lightly skimmed over her lower back and the top of a buttock. Emma shivered.
“For these weeks and days and hours.”
“You’re mine.”
She smiled and pressed closer to him. “You know it’s true,” she chided.
“I still like to hear you say it.”
“I’m yours,” she whispered. His head lowered, and their mouths fused again.
* * *
“Almost everyone will have gone into the casino,” Vanni said as he led her through the mostly deserted restaurant after the memorable dance was over. “Would you like to stroll through before we leave, or would you rather not?”
“I’d like to at least have a look,” she said as they entered the palatial grand lobby of the hotel, and Emma glanced around eagerly. Vanni’s stare stuck on her face.
“Of course. I keep forgetting you haven’t been here before,” he said.
“I’ve never even been to Europe,” she said.
“What?” he asked, his stride breaking slightly.
“It’s my first time. I have a passport because I was supposed to go to London for a trip arranged through my college after graduation. But then my mother died, so I never got to go. She had a small life-insurance policy, but funerals are a lot more expensive than I’d realized.”
He didn’t say anything as he led her to the entrance. There was a line to enter the casino, but Vanni surpassed it. The burly man wearing a tuxedo guarding the entrance nodded once at them and murmured, “Mr. Montand,” before releasing a velvet rope for them to enter.
When they entered the bustling casino, Vanni squeezed her hand.
“I’m sorry about how busy I am. I’ll be a better tour guide, I promise,” he said quietly. “As soon as the race is over. And tomorrow, we’ve been invited onto Niki’s yacht. You’ll get a nice view of the local country from the sea.”
“We have been?” she asked excitedly. She noticed how sober he looked and squeezed his hand back. “Don’t worry, Vanni. You’re treating me to the experience of a lifetime. Don’t you know that?”
He gave her a small smile and they proceeded into the casino. The atmosphere was electrical and chic. She recognized many of the faces she’d seen at the dinner, people looking around and greeting Vanni as he passed. It wasn’t just a casino, Emma realized. In the distance, she could see a crowded club where people were dancing and lounging in deep, cushioned booths and drinking exotic-looking beverages. If a patron chose, they could escape the sounds of music and slot machines and music by walking out onto a wide veranda that faced the Mediterranean. Unlike other closed-off, stuffy casinos she’d been in in the States, the opened patio doors made the atmosphere open and sea-air fresh.
“Do you gamble?” she asked Vanni, watching gamers as they passed a row of roulette tables.
“Not much anymore. Would you like to play?” he asked her politely, noticing her curiosity.
“Can we just watch?”
“Of course.”
They paused behind a table that was a little less crowded than the others. Vanni ordered them drinks from a passing waiter as Emma observed. She wasn’t familiar with the chip denominations, but she had a feeling from the extremely well-heeled and bejeweled players around the table that this was a high-limit table. She’d been to Las Vegas once, but had never played roulette. The game hadn’t been all that popular in the States, but roulette appeared to rule here in the Cannes casino. Vanni patiently answered some of her questions about how it was played, before three men appeared—two of which Emma recognized as American drivers she’d been introduced to at dinner—and drew him into conversation about the race.
“He’s a fool to keep ignoring you,” a man said near her ear in an Italian-accented voice. She glanced aside reluctantly and saw Mario standing very close. Emma stepped back to a more appropriate distance.
“The race is a pretty big deal,” she said lightly, turning her attention back to the table and the spinning wheel. “He’s just doing his job.”
“If you were mine, I’d make
you
my job,” he said quietly. He leaned closer yet again and whispered in her ear. “Do you know what I think? I think you’re lucky. I can sense luck from a mile away and I saw it in you the second you walked in to that restaurant tonight. I know you have no reason to believe me, but I have been utterly captivated by you since that moment.”
Emma’s eyes widened in amazement. Mario must play the part of a Lothario frequently, because he managed to make the corny statement sound completely genuine.
“Do you even remember my name?” she asked him with hushed incredulity.
He looked offended, but she had the distinct impression he was in fact fumbling for her name mentally. She resisted an urge to laugh, glancing anxiously to her left, where Vanni stood. His back was partially turned to her as he spoke with the three other men. Mario seemed to notice his preoccupation and moved in for the kill, sliding his hand suggestively against her forearm. She thought for a disbelieving second he was reaching to hold her hand. Instead, he pushed something against her palm. Emma’s hand instinctively cupped the objects.
“Take a chance with me,” Mario whispered hotly. “Luck should be with a winner.”
She held up her hand and stared blankly at what she held.
“Close your hand, you little fool,” Mario hissed, covering her hand with his, but not before Emma noticed what he’d given her . . .
A casino chip and a hotel room key. She stared from the items to Mario in stark disbelief. Had he really just propositioned her with Vanni standing right next to her?
Narcissistic swine
. Mario had frozen and was looking over her shoulder, his eyes glassy from too much drink, his expression stiffening with anxiety. Emma glanced around, and did a double take. Vanni stood next to her and was facing them both. She started when he shoved Mario’s arm and Mario’s hand fell away from Emma’s. Holding Mario’s panicked gaze with a glacial stare, Vanni lifted her hand. He looked down at what she held, his jaw going rigid. Emma glanced up and saw a startled expression on Mario’s face as he looked at her hand as well. He recovered quickly.
“I was just inviting her to play roulette, giving her a little gambling money. She looks as if she wanted to play, and I was trying to be a good host, since you were so busy,” Mario said, his anxious expression belying his cocky tone.
“Funny, I hadn’t realized the Hôtel Le Maj had roulette tables in their hotel rooms these days,” Vanni bit out.
Sensing his cold, sharp fury at Mario and not wanting there to be a scene, Emma tried to intervene. “It was just a misunderstanding,” Emma assured, putting her hand out to give the chip and the hotel keycard back to Mario. The men who had been talking to Vanni were starting to look over at them, obviously sensing the rising tension between Mario and Vanni. Mario put out his hand to take back the key and chip, a relieved expression on his face.
“I’ll say it was,” Vanni said, halting her action with a hand on her arm. He stepped past her toward Mario aggressively.
“No, please,” Emma said. She put her hand on his shoulder. “Let’s just go, Vanni.” Vanni looked down at her touch, his icy, focused anger fracturing slightly. His face settled into a determined mask. He put his hand on her upper arms and turned her in front of him. The next thing she knew, he was urging her up to the table. People were laying down their chips.
“Vanni . . . what—”
“Bet it,” he said quietly from behind her. She looked over at her shoulder, shocked. Was he so furious at Mario, he’d gone crazy? His face was still stiff from anger, but when she met his stare, he gave her a small, imperceptible smile. “
Bet
it,” he repeated, placing his hands on her waist.
“What do I do?” she asked, turning back to the table.
“Pick a number on the inside and put the chip directly on it,” Vanni instructed. She thought she understood what he meant by emphasizing
directly
. Some people were setting their chips between and at the corner of numbers. He wanted her to bet it all on one roll of the wheel.
She bit her lip uncertainly. A thought struck her. “What’s the Montand racecar number?” she asked impulsively.
“Fourteen,” Vanni said from behind her.
She placed the chip on the velvet-covered table directly on fourteen. She heard someone curse bitterly and glanced around to see Mario standing there, his handsome face pale.
“You said you were playing host, Mario,” Vanni said with false calmness. “You certainly were being a generous one.”
Mario bared his teeth, and the wheel was spinning. Emma looked on, her heart beating fast with rising excitement. Somehow, she knew what was going to happen before it did. The ball rattled to a stop as if in slow motion. The croupier called out something, but Emma couldn’t discern what for the roaring in her ears.
The ball had landed on fourteen.
She spun around in Vanni’s arms.
“I
won
?” she asked with excited disbelief.
“You won,” Vanni said, a smile breaking free. He caught her against him when she jumped, his deep laughter adding to her sense of euphoria. Over Vanni’s shoulder she saw the men Vanni had been talking to laughing and congratulating her.
“I’ve never won anything in my life!” She told them ecstatically. Then she caught sight of Mario’s desperate, angry expression and immediately sobered. “Oh . . . but it was Mario’s chip, of course . . .”
“Nonsense,” Vanni said briskly, setting her back down. “Take your winnings. It’s time to go.” He shot Mario a dark glance. “Mario knows the rules of the house. Maybe he won’t take be quite so
hospitable
next time.”
Mario opened his mouth to protest, but seemed to think better of it under the influence of Vanni’s glare. He turned and disappeared into the crowd.
“Take your winnings,” Vanni directed again gently. “We’re leaving.”
Emma scooped up her chips and followed Vanni through the crowded casino. This time, when people tried to stop him to talk, he politely put them off.
“Do you want me to cash them for you?” Vanni asked her a moment later when they approached a desk that looked like it might be casino services.
“Are you sure we should?” she asked doubtfully, handing him the chips. “Mario seems pretty drunk. It doesn’t seem fair.”
“He didn’t realize he’d given you such a big chip,” Vanni said succinctly. Emma blinked in surprise. “He gets sloppy when he drinks. Trust me, I’ve seen it before. And if you think I’m going to feel sorry for that idiot for propositioning you right in front of my face, you’re sorely mistaken. You
do
realize he was trying to buy you for the night—or an hour or two—with that chip?”
“Yes,” Emma admitted.
“And you’re still defending him?”
She sighed. “No. I guess he got what he deserved. I just feel bad that I’m the one to benefit from his stupidity.”
“Who else should? You were the one he insulted. I’ll be right back,” he told her, turning to the desk. A minute later, he returned and handed her a receipt.
“I had them convert it into American dollars. They’ll be sending the check to your address at home,” he said, grabbing her hand. Completely undone by the strange turn of events, Emma just followed him out of the casino and hotel lobby. As the doorman opened the gilded doors for them, however, she glanced down at the receipt. Stunned, she stopped dead in her tracks at the top of the marble stairs. Vanni looked back at her when she broke his hold, his brow furrowed.