Page 30 of Lorenzo

Then he gestures toward the dining room. “Right this way.”

I follow him through the dining room. A woman in pearls leans toward her companion and whispers in her ear when she sees us.

At the table next to them, a man in a chalk-striped suit glances up from his plate of glistening oysters to watch us walk past.

They’ve obviously seen the gossip column. Aunt Jane’s suit is a dead giveaway I’m the same girl from the wedding pictures.

From the looks of it, this Manhattan Social column is read by everyone in New York.

The maître d’ finally stops in front of Lorenzo’s banquette. In front of him sits a martini with a plump green olive on its rim.

With his slick suit and dark good looks, Lorenzo could be posing for an advertisement. My temporary husband is certainly handsome.

Too bad he’s such a jerk.

His pose calls to mind a centuries-old illustration I saw in one of Jane Austen’s books. It was titled something like Mr. Darcy reclines at his lunch club.

Well, yet more evidence that reincarnation may be true.

Darcy lives again.

My pulse quickens at Lorenzo’s proximity. I’m close enough to inhale a whiff of that exotic aftershave of his. I feel a sensation of heat and moisture between my thighs. Damn!

How I resent my body’s reaction to him.

Seeing me, surprise flashes in Lorenzo’s dark eyes.

“I gotta call you back,” he says to whoever he’s speaking with on the phone.

“Your wife, Mr. Ricci,” the maître d’ says, leaving with a curt nod.

“What are you doing here?” Lorenzo demands, setting his martini glass on the table with a sharp clacking sound. “Spying on me, is that it?”

Startled, I watch the olive bobbing in his glass as it settles.

“Spying? You invited me. The concierge asked me to confirm my reservation.”

“A misunderstanding, obviously,” Lorenzo says.

As if suddenly aware all eyes in the room are on him, he smiles and rises like the most charming of hosts.

Immediately, Lorenzo makes a show of kissing me on both cheeks. Then he steps forward so I can slide into the banquette.

When I’m seated, he takes another quick glance at the room. Once he’s assured himself we’re no longer the subject of their attention, he turns his gaze to me.

His eyes fall on Aunt Jane’s suit.

“Don’t you have any other clothes?”

“I packed light,” I say, smoothing the lapel of Aunt Jane’s jacket. “Given the promised brevity of our marriage, I didn’t see the need for anything else.

“Even the briefest of marriages deserves a change of clothes. And when you’re married to a man in my position, far more than a simple alternate outfit.”

A man in his position? Well, Lorenzo certainly has the arrogance, I’ll give him that.

“The news has broken. You’re not anonymous anymore. Every person in this room is deciding what to make of you.”

As he says the words, an older couple materializes at the edge of the table.