* * *
Open your eyes.
Her joyful admonishment kept ringing in his ears as the play resumed a few minutes later. One thing was certain, he realized as he glanced sideways at Emma’s radiant expression as she watched the play.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
If she hadn’t confessed to this being her first theater visit, he would have touched her. And if that damn thing hadn’t happened at her apartment. He grimaced and looked away from her shining face, guilt swooping through him for his lascivious thoughts as the memory interceded.
He might have very well done more than touch her in the privacy of the box if he hadn’t seen that pinched, anxious expression on her face when she’d introduced him to that traitorous sister and bottom-feeder boyfriend of hers.
Ex-boyfriend, he reminded himself with a spike of vicious triumph.
He knew Emma said she didn’t mind, but he was furious that her sister invited Colin over to Emma’s home, and what was worse—the asshole actually came.
His gaze roved back to her. Her gleaming shoulders and arms beckoned him, just as the alluring shape of her breasts outlined by the draping fabric of her dress did. Yes. If it hadn’t been for the fact that she’d confessed this was her first time at the theater, or that teeth-grinding incident at her apartment, he would have traced that elegant line of her jaw with his fingers, and then his lips. He’d have inhaled the sweet, clean smell of her neck. He might have taken her to the shadow-filled rear of the box and touched her until he’d felt her quake against him.
His cock stirred. Yes, he was that selfish.
He took the last swallow of the chilled champagne and set it aside. He stared at the movement and color on the stage, not really taking much of it in. His gaze flickered back to Emma’s rapt profile as Eliza sang “Just You Wait.” He followed the shape of her cheek, jaw, neck, and thrusting breasts. For a moment, he just stared, enthralled, watching the delicate rise and fall of her breasts, his body hardening. The number came to a crescendo and she turned to him, her smile like a lance.
Her smile froze and faded when she saw him staring at her. What had she seen on his face? he wondered. Hunger, no doubt. Blatant lust. Her lips trembled. She swayed slightly toward him. He jerked suddenly, his fingers delving into her wavy, soft hair, cupping her skull. He put his head next to hers and inhaled her scent.
“Enjoy the play, Emma,” he whispered near her ear. His cock swelled and tingled when he felt her shiver. “Because later on, I’m going to have my fill of you,” he added darkly into her ear before he raised his other hand, and gently turned her chin so that she once again faced the stage.
He leaned back in his seat, teeth clamped tight, arm draped on the back of the empty chair next to him, lest he do something else with it. It was his fault. He could have just kept her in bed and had his fill of her. Tried to get his fill of her, he amended grimly. He’d hungered for her all week, the edge of anxiety about whether or not she’d come only amplifying his lust. He needn’t have insisted upon taking her out. It was just this prickling paradox he experienced around her, a desire for rational distance, an overwhelming need to draw her close . . . to witness that smile . . .
To be pounding high and hard inside her.
She turned her chin ever so slightly, regarding him with a mixture of wariness, excitement . . . and just a whisper of a challenge. His body tightened.
How as it that her dark, shining eyes were so soft, and yet they cut straight to the core of him?
* * *
For Emma, there was magic in the summer night when they exited the theater. Vanni hailed a cab, which whisked them through the South Loop to the restaurant. She recognized that she was wide-eyed with awe when Vanni led her to the entrance of the renowned restaurant, but she couldn’t repress her excitement. Even when she recalled Vanni calling her naïve earlier, it didn’t diminish her happiness. Yes, she would likely think herself a fool at one point five weeks in the future when she had to say good-bye, but that moment wasn’t now. Now she would relish these nights she had with him, stamp them firmly in her brain. Some day, her memories would be all she had of this affair.
The maître d’ led them to a secluded table in the elegant restaurant, which gave them a stunning view from the fortieth floor down onto the glittering city. They talked about the play, and then his plans for the pioneering Montand French-American Grand Prix in the South of France. All the while, she sipped a dry white wine that seemed to open her senses even further, making the four-course meal beyond delectable. Or maybe it was just the ma
n who sat across from her that honed her nerves. He made everything seem so sharp and sensual. She’d never tasted anything so delicious as the food served to her.
When she wavered in choosing from the dessert menu—everything looked so fantastic—Vanni grabbed her menu and handed it to the waiter.
“Bring her one of each,” he said dryly, and the waiter hastened to fulfill his demand. A flash of mortification went through her—her appetite had been embarrassingly good tonight—but then she saw the glint of humor in Vanni’s light eyes, and she laughed.
“I don’t understand why you are so worried the race you’re sponsoring will be a failure,” she said a moment later as the waiter served coffee. “You’ve said you’ve sponsored dozens of racing events here in the States and that Montand Motorworks has its own racing team and cars. You seem experienced in the matter.”
“Formula One racing dominates in Europe, with very few exceptions.”
“What are Formula One cars like?”
“Like the ones you see in the Indianapolis 500?” She formed a mental picture in her mind of occasional glimpses of the race over the years and nodded. He continued. “Americans have become avid fans of stock cars, though,” he said, stirring his coffee thoughtfully. “My company sponsors stock car racing here in the States, and F1 racing in Europe, but this is the first time we’ve tried to do a stock car road race in France. You’ve heard of the Monaco Grand Prix? My race won’t be covering that specific route, but we’ll still be on very hallowed F1 racing ground.”
“And you’re worried the French will give your American cars the cold shoulder?” she asked, taking a sip of coffee.
“And the drivers, yes. Although I’ve managed to convince some very big names in European racing to enter, including some major Formula One drivers.”
“And they all will drive stock cars?”