The Affair: Week 2 Page 7

  “Again?” she whispered, amazed.

  “I changed the condom. Is it all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wasn’t finished being inside you.”

  “No. I wasn’t finished having you there,” she said with a small laugh.

  She winced at first as he entered her, still tender from their first time. From him, in general. It wasn’t like being with Colin.

  She settled in his lap again, his cock lodged deep inside her, and sighed in relief. Bliss. “Yes,” she repeated breathlessly, her arms going around his neck, her breasts pressing to his chest. She contracted her muscles around him and he gave a rough groan, pulling her even tighter against him. Now that he was inside her again, it felt wonderful. The crisp hair on his hard chest felt so good against her swollen nipples. One of his hands swept along her sensitive sides and settled on the side of her breast. He cupped her, and for a minute, didn’t move. His hand felt warm surrounding her, delicious. Possessive.

  He began to mold the flesh softly to his palm, his fingertips brushing across the nipple. She sighed, and he jerked inside her, the moment sublime.

  They stayed like that for as long as they could, stroking each other. He occasionally uttered rough praise into her ear as he touched her. He said she was beautiful again and again, and she felt it, there, in his arms. As time wore on, and he began to move her on his again-rigid cock, the anthem he whispered heatedly became more terse and dark and raw. It was no less beautiful to her, though, and exponentially more thrilling.

  * * *

  Emma still felt dazed and shaky and euphoric by the time he approached the Breakers’ driveway at 2:45 a.m. It’d been the most incredible night of her life. Everything felt different, as if she’d been opened up to another world, had finally gained admission to that coveted, forbidden, dangerous place called passion. Everything looked different, too, the starlit, dark blue dome of the night sky miraculous. This world sparkled and shone, and seemed to throb with life. Her bare skin tingled with new awareness. Even the ache between her thighs was pleasant to her, a reminder of what had happened on that beach in his arms.

  She’d recall the purely physical reasons for the affair later, but not now.

  He grabbed her hand once he’d gotten the little car up to the zooming speed that he wanted, his gaze focused on the road. She’d held it back fast, stealing glances at his profile, halfway amused by her inability to control her amorous behavior, halfway uncaring. How many nights like this happened in a girl’s life, anyway? Certainly only one in Emma’s so far.

  He had to release her hand as he downshifted when they reached the Breakers. Sadness spiked through her intoxicated state at the idea of returning. She’d rather spend the night with him in his arms.

  She looked over at him after he’d pulled the sports car into the garage and parked with almost mechanical precision.

  He turned to her. It was the first time in hours that she’d looked him full in the face in the light. His solemn male beauty struck her anew. She resisted a strong urge to touch his jaw . . . sink her fingers into his thick hair. The realization that she still felt uncertain around him given her agreement to a purely sexual affair and what had just occurred on the beach sobered her.

  “Can you stay?” he asked simply.

  She was glad she’d crashed to earth before he said it, or else she’d undoubtedly have agreed. His allure was alarmingly potent.

  “No. It wouldn’t be right. Not only because Amanda would worry, but because of work. It’s already wrong enough, what I did tonight . . .” she trailed off.

  He took the keys out of the ignition, but didn’t move to get out of the car. He placed his wrists on the top of the wheel, his relaxed hands draping over it, his lean body slouching in that graceful, insouciant, but strangely ready manner that seemed so much a part of him. “It didn’t feel wrong,” he said after a pause.

  “No. It didn’t.”

  She saw his jaw working in the silence that followed. “We’ll go someplace nice next time.”

  “You didn’t think tonight was nice?”

  She couldn’t decide if his sideways glance at her was amused, disbelieving, or vaguely irritated.

  “I did. Very. But you should expect more, Emma,” he said in that flat, authoritative tone that confused her at times. “I should have picked someplace more appropriate for the first time.” He shrugged. “I just couldn’t wait.”

  “I’m a pretty good judge of deciding what I think is nice, and what I want and don’t want. Thanks.”

  “I just meant you deserve something better.”

  “Than your selfishness?” she couldn’t resist teasing him when he was so grave.

  He glanced at her with hard incredulity. Despite her determination to lighten the moment, she resisted the urge to flinch at his stare. May as well face it, he was not a man used to being teased.

  “I did exactly what I wanted to do tonight. Stop taking yourself so seriously,” she said, reaching for her car door.

  He reached out and caught her hand. She looked around in surprise. Her eyes widened when she saw his blazing expression. His hand moved to the back of her head, cupping her to his palm in an increasingly familiar gesture. He brought her to him, seizing her mouth. He kissed her furiously. She’d thought the volcano of their passion had quieted for the night, but she’d been wrong. She felt herself submerged in the heat all over again. Arousal expanded at her core, an undeniable ache. He abruptly tore his mouth from hers and spoke next to her parted lips.

  “Do you want to teach me how to lighten up, Emma?” he growled softly.

  She swallowed with difficulty, her body vibrating with reawakened arousal. “I think someone should,” she managed.

  “Fine. Then just be prepared for the darkness during the attempt.”

  Her mouth fell open, but she wasn’t sure how to respond to his remark.

  “I’ll come and get you tomorrow after you finish your shift,” he said.

  She nodded. Then he was turning and getting out of the car. And Emma was cast right back into that churning sea of doubt and longing.

  * * *

  She slept in the next day until noon, only to awake to sunlight blazing through the miniblinds. It seemed to burn away the vestiges of her dreams—dark, erotic dreams that held her fast in its clutches, dreams that had nothing to do with the beauty of what had happened last night on that beach.

  That was what she’d focus on, that indescribably moving experience. And she was going to see him again tonight . . .

  She bounded out of bed and flipped open the binds, staring out onto a gorgeous July day. A day reserved for the young and healthy, she recalled Cristina saying. Emma wasn’t so sure about that, but it did feel like a wonderful moment to be alive. It was like everything was freshly minted, a golden sheen applied during the night. Amanda gave her a surprised look when Emma entered the kitchen humming cheerfully after her shower.

  “What’s got you in such a good mood?” Amanda asked as she rinsed out a cereal bowl. Emma belatedly recalled her breakup with Colin—and Amanda’s part in it—and realized how odd her presentation must be to her sister.

  “Nothing. It’s a pretty day, that’s all.”

  “You look great,” Amanda said, her gaze skimming over another new outfit Emma had purchased over the weekend, this one a simple body-hugging black V-neck and a new pair of jeans that did especially good things for her legs and hips. She noticed Amanda’s focus on the necklace he’d given her. Her sister’s expression grew suspicious. “Are you not telling me something?”

  “Can’t a girl be in a good mood?” Emma asked as she poured some juice.

  “Sure, I guess,” Amanda said slowly. “Emma, have you met someone?”

  Jeez, first Cristina, then Montand, now Amanda. She really needed to stop being so transparent. Amanda distractedly hit the switch
for the garbage disposal. Emma lunged over to the sink, hoping Amanda would forget her question. They both watched in satisfaction as milk, water, and leftover cereal were sucked down the drain in an instant. They looked at each other and shared a grin. For a few seconds, it was like they were twelve and ten all over again and they’d never even heard the name Colin.

  Reality hit Emma, and she turned away. She was trying to make peace with Amanda. It was just hard.

  “I can’t believe our apartment is fully functional now,” Amanda said, attempting to smooth over the awkward moment.

  “Yeah. I’m still in shock,” Emma admitted.

  Toby Martin had been true to his word and fixed everything in their unit, even though it’d taken him the better part of three whole days to do it. What confused Emma was his amiability and downright cheerfulness at doing all the work that had been postponed for so long.

  “Emma . . . I’ve been meaning to speak to you about what happened on Sunday when you saw Colin and me in the parking lot. I wanted to explain.”

  “You don’t need to,” Emma said, sipping her juice to neutralize her sharp tone.

  “He was really worried about . . . everything.”

  “He was worried about you,” Emma said levelly. “Are you going to see him tonight?”

  Amanda looked stunned.

  “I know you’ve seen Colin every night since Sunday,” Emma continued. Just be honest, Amanda. Are you going to see Colin? Regularly?”

  Amanda nodded uncomfortably. “I’ll make sure he never comes over here,” Amanda whispered.

  Emma sighed and set her glass down on the counter. “No. That’s not necessary. This is your home.” She glanced around at Amanda. “Maybe try to do it when I’m not around, though? At least until I get used to things?”

  “Maybe it’s not a good idea to have him here at all,” Amanda said miserably.

  “Don’t worry about me, Amanda,” she said, getting sick of being perceived as the tragic victim in all this. “Believe it or not, part of me wishes things work out between you and Colin.”

  “Really?”

  Emma met her sister’s stare and nodded. “If you guys end up euphorically happy together, if it becomes obvious you two were meant to be together . . . then at least I’ll be able to make sense of what you did,” she said before she walked out of the kitchen.

  * * *

  The brilliant day and her glow about what had happened the previous night stood in direct contrast to the bleak mood hovering in Cristina’s bedroom suite when she arrived that afternoon. Emma took one look at Maureen Sanderson’s drawn face and knew her patient had reached the end of her days.

  “Is she still with us?” Emma asked quietly when Maureen joined her in the living room of the suite.

  “Only just,” Maureen said.

  “Did she ask to speak to Montand?”

  “No. She wants to speak to you. I held off on giving her afternoon pain meds because she asked me not to. She seemed worried she’d go before you got here.”

  Emma nodded and promised to call Maureen if anything happened on her shift in regard to their patient. She took a deep breath to center herself and stepped into Cristina’s bedroom. After taking one look at Cristina’s bleary-eyed expression and hearing her wheezing breath, Emma knew neither Maureen or she would be returning for work at the Breakers tomorrow.

  “Hi, you,” Emma greeted Cristina warmly when she saw her eyes were open. “Let me prop you up a little bit,” she said when she saw how Cristina had slumped on the pillows. “Are you comfortable, Cristina?” she asked a moment later. Cristina nodded. She seemed to want to speak, but was conserving her energy. Her lungs rattled with collected fluid as she laboriously gasped for air. Cristina nodded significantly toward the windows. Emma looked around at the draped wall of glass.

  “The windows? Do you want me to open the curtains?” Emma interpreted.

  Cristina nodded, her anxiety evident even in her waning state.

  Emma immediately opened the drapes. Sunlight reflected brilliantly off the sealike stretch of water. She turned, only to see Cristina staring out at the lake and the sunshine, transfixed. A film of tears shone in her rheumy blue eyes. Emma sat in the chair near the bed when she saw Cristina start to speak.

  “Such a beautiful place to die,” Cristina whispered.

  Emma’s heart lurched. The phone in the bedroom suite began to ring shrilly, jarring her out of the poignancy of the moment. She recalled Montand’s direction to keep the drapes closed. Cristina had specifically made the request for her to open the curtains, however, and Emma wasn’t going to deny her dying wish because of his inexplicable demand.

  She started to go answer the phone, but it stopped abruptly midring.

  “Here . . .” Cristina beckoned with her outstretched hand. Emma sunk down in the chair next to her bed and took her hand.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m sorry,” Cristina whispered between gurgling gasps.

  Emma nodded. “I know you are,” she assured, understanding that Cristina wasn’t apologizing for anything she’d done to Emma. She was trying to do what she’d hinted she wanted to do; she was repenting in the bright sunlight. For what, Emma didn’t know. It was enough that she unburdened herself and Emma was there to bear witness.

  “Tell him . . . I’m sorry . . . for not wanting them. For hating . . . them, at times,” Cristina pleaded with great effort, every word appearing to take gargantuan effort.

  “Tell who?” Emma asked. “Your stepson?”

  “Vanni . . . I couldn’t share the spotlight . . . Michael’s love. Any of it. I was better suited to be a plaything. A mistress, not a wife. Not a mother.”

  Emma nodded, tears filling her eyes when she sensed the deep well of the older woman’s regret. Her desperation. The resentment she had spoken of just now had blocked her from speaking until she was at the threshold, and knew there was no going back.

  “I’ll tell him,” Emma assured.

  “And . . . tell Vanni . . . to forgive himself. I know he thinks it’s his fault. Maybe because I refused to—”

  Cristina wretched. Emma sprung up to alter her position, but before she could assist, Cristina caught her breath and continued and squeezed Emma’s hand hard enough to make her wince.

  “. . . to accept the blame. No child should have been left to feel so much. No man forced to feel so little. But I couldn’t help him. Not me.” She met Emma’s stare, her eyes wild. “I am what I am, and nothing more.”

  “Try to relax, Cristina. It’s going to be okay. Please rest easy,” Emma implored, sitting again so that Cristina could more easily see her face. “I’ll tell him.”

  Cristina’s gaze shifted over Emma’s shoulder, her stricken expression making Emma’s throat tighten painfully.

  “Don’t be afraid, Cristina. It’s going to be all right. You’ll see,” Emma assured.

  But Cristina was clearly lost in her painful memories, her focus elsewhere. “I never . . . meant to harm Adrian,” she gasped, her blue eyes now haunted. “I was selfish . . . neglectful, but not malicious. Forgive me Vanni . . . please.”

  Emma opened her mouth to assure her that her last words were being heard, but someone else spoke.

  “Ask for my mother’s forgiveness. Ask for Adrian’s.”

  Emma blinked in shock upon hearing the male voice behind her. She turned around and saw to whom Cristina spoke. He stood just behind Emma’s chair, his face as hard and beautiful as sculpted marble.

  “Your mother and Adrian would forgive me, Vanni It’s you who won’t.”

  “Ask it,” he bit out harshly.

  “I do . . . ask it,” Cristina sputtered, fighting for breath.

  “If you ask for theirs, there’s no need for mine. I survived,” Montand said quietly, something indefinable leaping into his blue-green eyes.

&
nbsp; “Did you?” Cristina sputtered.

  He pinned the dying woman with his stare. Emma turned back when Cristina inhaled with great effort, seemingly clawing for air. Emma was reminded again of a drowning person flailing for one last breath, one last chance.

  It wasn’t granted to Cristina. The hand that clutched Emma’s went lax.

  “Cristina,” Emma cried out shakily, but Cristina never exhaled. She had died on an unfinished breath.

  Emma went into automatic mode, standing and checking for a pulse. When she found none, she noted the time on her watch, then checked for a pulse a second time. Then a third.

  After a stretched moment, she gently closed Cristina’s eyes and drew the sheet over her rigid face.

  “She’s gone?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Emma replied woodenly.

  She faced him.

  Vanni.

  He wore a simple white T-shirt and jeans. The brilliant sunshine flooding the room made his short-sleeved T-shirt look superwhite against his tanned skin. It brought out golden streaks in his brown hair. She realized numbly that every time she’d seen him before, it had been in the subdued light of the enormous garage or beneath a night sky. She had seen those golden highlights in his hair, though—in the lamplight of his bedroom suite. The shirt was short-sleeved, allowing Emma to see the Asian-looking tattoo symbols on his muscular biceps.

  A strange, unpleasant tingling sensation started at the base of her spine and ran the length of her backbone.

  “Emma?” he asked, his gaze narrowed on her face. He reached out to touch her—steady her, perhaps, because dizziness had assailed her—but Emma backed away, clumsily running into the chair and tripping. She caught herself on the back of the chair.

  “You’re him? Vanni? That’s you?” she asked in a strangled voice. Blood started to pound in her ears as she stared at the tattoo, unable to deny the truth with the evidence right there in front of her. He’d cut his hair since that night. Most of the sun-lightened streaks had been sheared away, leaving it much darker looking. When she’d been trapped in the armoire, it draped his face. She hadn’t recognized him sitting there like an aloof, lonely prince at the end of that grand dining room table or when he’d tapped on her window and offered his assistance. She hadn’t recognized him, as he’d made love so fiercely—so perfectly—to her in the darkness.