“Why?” she whispered numbly.
“Because she made you laugh.” She turned her head and met his stare. “She deserves to have someone there who liked her, don’t you think? But that’s not the only reason. I need you there.”
She stared at him, aghast at his harsh declaration of need.
“We’ll talk more about what you saw later, after the funeral. You’re not a coward, Emma,” he said, his quiet words piercing her like hot knives. “You can’t keep running from this.”
She tugged again on her arm and this time he let her go.
His expression was impassive when she faced him after putting her keys beneath the driver’s seat and slamming the car door. Even so, Emma didn’t think it was her imagination that she saw stark relief flicker across his bold features ever so briefly.
* * *
After Vanni had opened the passenger door for her and she got inside, she looked down at what she was wearing.
“I can’t go to Cristina’s funeral like this,” she said once he was seated next to her, anxiety overtaking her. “Can you take me to my apartment to change?”
His gaze swept down over her in a cool assessment, making her skin prickle in awareness. It was warm today, so she’d opted for a lightweight floral skirt, a pink T-shirt, and flats. It was better than jeans and high-tops, but it was still inappropriate for the funeral of Cristina Montand.
“You’re fine,” he said. “It’s going to be a very simple ceremony. Only a few people will be there.”
“But—”
“You’re fine,” he repeated quietly. You’re fine because I said you were fine. He didn’t say it, but it seemed like he did. She opened her mouth to protest.
“There isn’t time for me to take you to your apartment. Please, don’t concern yourself about what you’re wearing. It’s the last thing I’m worried about, Emma, and I told you. I need you there,” he said quietly. Forcefully. Again, she was reminded of the brew of complex emotion she sensed boiling behind his cool façade.
“All right,” she said in a choked voice.
He cleared his throat, and the charged atmosphere seemed to dissipate. He reached for a hands-free phone headset.
“I hope you don’t mind. There are a few phone calls I need to make on the way. My company is sponsoring a big racing event in
France this summer. It’s the first time for it.” He grimaced as he put on the headset. “I just hope it’s not the last.”
Emma exhaled, relief going through her at the realization they weren’t going to plunge into anxiety-provoking topics like what she’d experienced in that armoire. “Is it that French-American grand prix road-racing event Montand Motorworks is sponsoring on the French Riviera?” He gave her a surprised glance. “I read about it in the Chicago Tribune,” Emma explained.
He nodded. “It’s experimental. I’m not sure how it’ll go over. I’m tramping on European tradition a bit, attempting it.”
She didn’t really understand what he meant. She’d never been remotely interested in car racing. Him, she understood better. Or at least she experienced his unruffled manner and bone deep confidence. “If anyone can do it, you can,” she said.
She saw his blank expression of surprise. “Why would you say that so certainly?” he asked, dark brows furrowed in puzzlement.
“Because of your background and your knowledge of cars and everything. You’re both American and French and you know all about racing and you have that . . . cachet.”
He leaned forward slightly, hands on the wheel. “Cachet?”
“Sure,” Emma said, hiding her blush by digging in her purse for her phone. “The Aloof Automobile Prince Raised in America. Racecar Royalty Returns to His Roots—”
She halted her rambling and looked around at the sound she heard. He laughed. Really laughed. The sound was deep and rich and uninhibited. His smile cut her to the quick. Somehow, he seemed relieved. Something twisted and pulled inside her at the vision of white, straight teeth and the look of stark amusement on his face. There was something else gleaming in his aquamarine eyes: genuine warmth as he stared at her. This was the same man whom she’d watched make love so coldly.
Knitting the two images together was going to be so hard. Wasn’t it?
“You really are odd at times,” he said, his gaze narrowed on her. She held her breath when he reached up and touched the angel at her throat. It suddenly struck her that she hadn’t removed it, even while she slept, since she’d hurried out of the Breakers after Cristina’s death. Surely that meant something.
“You’re not so normal yourself,” she muttered.
He smiled slightly and dropped his hand, and she immediately regretted her need to lighten the moment. His attention turned to driving and his phone calls, but Emma couldn’t help but notice that although his smile had faded, his usually hard mouth looked a little softer. She really had provided him a moment of relief. The realization warmed her more than she liked to admit. It also made her wonder for the thousandth time about the unspoken tension that seemed to shroud him anytime Cristina was mentioned.