by BETH KERY
She shook her head, brushing her mouth against his. “It stings a little.” She glanced up at him humorously. “Certainly enough for me to think about it all night . . . again and again. That was your plan, right?”
His smile was a wry flash of brilliance. “Great. I set myself up for that one. Now I’ll be thinking about it all night, too, knowing you are.” He ducked his head, kissing her again, his hunger palpable. He grimaced when he stepped away a moment later. “I’d like to shower with you, but it’ll lead to other things.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“No, it sounds fantastic,” he said grimly. “Too fantastic, because we’re running late. I’ll go and shower and get ready in the room next door.” He released her and stalked toward the bathroom door. She just stood there for a moment, befuddled by the vision of his long legs, strong back, and jaw-dropping ass. He opened the door and passed through it.
“Wait!”
He paused and looked around the edge of the door.
“What should I wear? I mean . . . how formal is this dinner?” she asked.
“It’s black-tie.”
She nodded. He gave her a small smile and walked out of the bathroom.
With him gone, it was admittedly easier to attend to the task of getting ready. With him gone, it was also easier to feel a few flutters of nervousness at the idea of attending a glamorous, high-profile dinner with the world’s racing elite. Luckily, their lovemaking—not to mention some of the sweet things Vanni had said afterward—went a long way to shield her from too much anxiety. The vision of the way he’d looked at her while they lay in bed together just now—I was making love to you—went a long way to armor her against worries.
The flush of her cheeks and brightness of her eyes didn’t dissipate much after she’d showered and blow-dried her hair. When she left the bathroom, Vanni was nowhere to be seen. She recovered the rest of the items that Cristina had left her from the trunk and carried them to the closet. A feeling of warmth and gratitude swept through her yet again when she finally fingered the full array of dresses and other items that had been in the trunk. It was almost like the older woman was her fairy godmother, assuring her she would not only belong at the ball, but shine at it.
Heartened by the thought and by Vanni’s focused lovemaking, she chose a dress that was meant to be worn by a sexually confident woman, a female who was comfortable in her own skin. She thanked Cristina mentally yet again as she found some shoes and accessories to go with it.
Fifteen minutes later she examined herself in the bathroom mirror. Cristina had been right. They must have been the exact same size at the time Cristina had bought the dress. Emma had chosen a stunning teal green halter dress that emphasized her coloring nicely, but did absolutely amazing things for her figure. It clung to her curves like it’d been tailor-made, making her waist look especially small and her breasts more . . . significant. It managed to look sinfully sexy while still being elegant, Emma thought with amazement as she studied herself. She’d had no idea she possessed such an hourglass figure. She’d combed her hair behind her ears in a simple style and wore only a pair of dangling gold chandelier earrings and the Prisatti angel along with a pair of fierce black pumps. Her eye makeup was good, considering Emma had done it and not Amanda, making her eyes look large and smoky.
She turned and looked over her shoulder, flushing with pleasure and sheer amazement at what the dress did for her hips and ass. No wonder stars and models always looked so fantastic, if they could afford to buy dresses like this one. Her bottom felt tingly and slightly abraded beneath the fitted fabric of the dress. Vanni had accomplished what he wanted. She’d be thinking about those exciting, illicit moments with him all night.
She heard a sound out in the bedroom and grabbed the clutch that matched her shoes. Feeling both self-conscious and excited, she exited the bathroom. Vanni was across the room at the huge, carved armoire, standing behind an open door. He closed it a second later with a bang and was in the process of fastening a gold watch around his wrist, when he glanced up and noticed her. He did a double take. Emma stood there, her heart throbbing, as his blue-green gaze dropped over her. He wore a classic tux with a white shirt, a textured vest that was low enough to show off his tie—a classic black one versus a bow tie. He wore the garments, as usual, with insouciant ease, his long, lean body the ideal frame for such finely made, elegant garments.
“Well,” he said after a pregnant pause, clicking the watch into place and walking toward her. “Cristina knew precisely what she was doing in at least one thing. You’re stunning. You do incredible things for that dress.”
She smiled. “Isn’t it the other way around? If anything, the dress is doing it for me.”
He grabbed her hand and gracefully turned her. Emma stared at him in surprise over her shoulder as he regarded her backside. One dark eyebrow quirked up and his mouth went hard.
“No,” he said grimly, spinning her back around. “I had it right.”
“Then why do you look so unhappy about it?” she teased him as he led her toward the door.
“I’m not so sure I like the idea of you in that dress and a roomful of racecar drivers,” he said. “They’re the worst kind of womanizers, you know.”
“Like it would matter.”
He glanced back at her swiftly, giving her a hard, blazing look, before he swept down and kissed her mouth. His hand cupped her hip and then a buttock, the warmth and pressure on her tingling flesh making her shiver in his arms.
“Just remember,” he said next to her lips a moment later.
“As if I could ever forget,” she whispered.
* * *
Much to her surprise, there was a chauffeured sedan waiting for them on the back drive when they exited La Mer. Perhaps it was best that Vanni hadn’t talked too much about what to expect for their evening, because it likely would have ratcheted up her nerves. As it was, she was too amazed by the stunning scenery as they descended from the mountains, too overwhelmed by everything she was seeing. She stared out the window, enraptured as they traversed down the Boulevard de la Croisette, that famous stretch of road that ran between the exclusive Cannes beaches and luxury hotels and casinos. It wouldn’t grow dark for a while yet. People still lounged on the beach, swam in the turquoise waters, or strolled along the promenade. Others who passed were prepared for the evening, however, beautiful men and women dressed to the hilt as they headed toward the glitzy casinos.
It took Emma a little bit to realize she was one of those glamorous people as she alighted from the sedan and Vanni took her hand. As they headed toward the entry of the Hôtel Le Maj, several men took their picture. A few who didn’t have their cameras at the ready seemed to come to attention and scurry when they noticed it was Vanni.
“Just ignore them,” Vanni said quietly as he escorted her up some white marble steps. “The race is local headline news.”
Emma had a feeling Vanni was the news even more than the race, but she didn’t say anything as he opened the gilded doors for her.
The restaurant where they dined was right out of a movie set. A room had been reserved for the racing party. Although they would be eating inside, an entire wall of glass doors had been opened to a terrace and the sea, giving the impression of eating al fresco. A five-piece band played out in the open air. It took them a while to reach their assigned table, as so many people came over to greet Vanni and to be introduced to Emma. A few of the people spoke French, but several spoke English. The drivers were eager to discuss the circuit conditions with Vanni following their early morning practice runs.
Vanni was holding her hand as they crossed the room a few minutes later, so she felt him tense slightly when a tall, handsome man with longish dark brown hair, swarthy skin, and electric blue eyes intercepted their progress.
“How is it that you always manage to have the most beautiful creature in the room on
your arm?” the man asked with an Italian accent and a heavy-lidded look at Emma.
“How is it that you always manage to make a grown woman sound like a pet bird, Mario?” Vanni replied. The man gave a slashing grin, as if Vanni had been joking. Vanni sighed irritably. “Emma Shore, this is Mario Acarde. He’s a driver.”
“The driver,” Mario assured her, taking her hand and caressing the edge of her palm. “Montand just doesn’t like to admit it since he picked that rooster Dellis to drive Montand cars. But Niki isn’t going to win on Sunday . . . despite the preferential treatment.”
“All of the drivers had the exact same opportunity to practice on the circuit, Mario,” Vanni said, his bored, weary tone implying this wasn’t the first time he’d told the Italian driver something similar. “The racing officials have strict orders from the local governments to shut down the route by eight a.m. Maybe you should consider getting to be bed early tonight so you can get your full practice time,” Vanni said, his dry tone implying that the idea of Mario going to bed early was as likely as a snowy Christmas on the French Riviera.
Mario smiled, never removing his gaze from Emma. “He never could take a joke,” he told her in a confidential manner.
Vanni successfully pulled Emma away from Mario, saying something about dinner starting. She was relieved to see two faces she recognized when they approached their table—Niki Dellis and Vanni’s uncle, Dean Shaw. Niki sprung up from his seat, taking her hand and leaning down to kiss her cheeks as if they were the best of friends. She grinned as she greeted him, privately thinking to herself how perfectly Niki matched the glamorous, romantic setting with his dark good looks, easy manners, and classic tuxedo.
“The rose has bloomed,” Niki complimented her warmly, dark eyes roving over her dress in clear male appreciation.
“But is still firmly attached to the stem,” Vanni replied dryly, giving his friend a half-warning, half-amused glance. “Give it a rest, Niki, she already had to endure Mario.”
“Then she especially deserves my attention. She’ll think all drivers are swine.” She saw the merriment in Niki’s glance at Vanni. Clearly, Niki was an established flirt, but he’d been mostly ribbing his friend by admiring Emma so blatantly. Niki certainly had no cause to ogle other women. He introduced her to his date, a stunning blonde named Georgia who wore a white gown that displayed showstopping breasts. When she spoke, it was with a cool, regal English accent that was a fascinating paradox to her gilded good looks and the lack of a tan line anywhere in evidence on her plunging neckline. The paradox was only amplified when Niki referred to her casually as “George.” Vanni introduced her to Dean Shaw’s wife, Michelle, a friendly, middle-aged woman who seemed especially pleased to be introduced to Emma.
“I see I chose well,” Michelle enthused with a smug grin, glancing down over Emma’s dress as they shook hands.
“You chose impeccably,” Vanni said. “But as you can see, it would have been hard to choose poorly given the wearer.”
“Without a doubt,” Michelle said warmly.
Vanni noticed Emma’s bewildered look. “Michelle was kind enough to go to the Breakers and choose your wardrobe for your stay here,” Vanni said under his breath.
“Oh, thank you!” Emma said. “You did an excellent job.”
“Have you actually seen your inheritance?” Michelle asked her with a dry smile. Emma shook her head. “It would have been hard to go wrong. That closet is as large as our bedroom,” she told Dean, “and stuffed to the brim with clothes, most of which still have tags on them, and shoes and every geegaw you can imagine.”
“Vanni’s aunt—Vera, that is—seems very fashionable. She must have been a good assistant to help you choose,” Emma said.
“Oh, Vera wasn’t at the Breakers,” Michelle said. “She was here, in fact.”
Emma blinked. “Will Vera be here tonight?” she asked Vanni. She wasn’t sure she was so wild about the idea of socializing with Vera Shaw for the next week, but perhaps it’d give her an idea of how to break through the woman’s dislike of her? Vanni glanced at Dean, a vaguely annoyed expression breaking through his typically impassive one.
“Vera has left,” Dean said quickly, as if trying to fill the uncomfortable pause. “She had a great deal of work she needed to attend to back in Chicago.”
Another woman at the table, who Emma learned was named Estelle Fournier, listened to this exchange with a shrewd, narrow-eyed focus. Her husband, Simon, sat next to her. Estelle was a good deal younger than Simon, who appeared to be in his late fifties. Nevertheless, both husband and wife were stunning. As Vanni seated Emma and took his place next to her, Emma found herself wondering idly if the exotic Mediterranean coast somehow sprouted splendid-looking people to inhabit it.
Not only Vanni, but Niki, Michelle, and Dean were all very attentive to her during the dinner, something that went a long way to increasing her comfort level. Niki seemed very unconcerned about the upcoming race, and instead described to Emma and Vanni his adventure in catching an enormous sea bass that afternoon. Meanwhile, the woman named Estelle kept trying to engage Vanni in conversation in French, which seemed to annoy her husband, Simon. Knowing Emma didn’t speak the language, however, Vanni kept reverting to English, something that clearly annoyed the French beauty. At various times during the four-course meal, Emma noticed Estelle watching Vanni from across the table with a hungry look in her eye. She glanced at a nearby table and saw Mario Acarde stare at her—Emma—in much the same way Estelle looked at Vanni.
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 elevat
ion 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.