Page 41 of Lorenzo

The multi-million-dollar view of Manhattan sparkling up at me from the terrace feels empty now that Lorenzo is gone.

I’d never admit it to Lorenzo’s face. Yet sipping crisp martinis and exchanging banter with such a handsome, witty man had always been my fantasy of romance.

And now, the full moon rises, almost as a taunt, to sharpen the effect of Lorenzo’s absence.

Rising, I bring the dinner dishes to the elegant open kitchen and load the dishwasher. While I could leave them for Ciro in the morning, I’m too much of a neat freak to leave a mess behind.

Ah, Ciro. I like him as a person, but prefer being alone here in the apartment. I relish my privacy.

With the kitchen freshly cleaned, I plop onto the sofa and scan my e-reader for books that excite me.

Then I realize I’m in Manhattan. The Big Apple. Why should I lie here and wait for a book to excite me?

The doorbell rings. It must be Ciro who’s come to clear the dishes.

Maybe he forgot his key or wanted to ask permission to enter first.

But it’s Angie.

“What’s up?”

“I was visiting Gina. And I thought I’d come down and visit you too.”

“Please come in. Glad you did. I was just thinking how I’m alone in this apartment and the entire city is buzzing below me.”

“Why don’t you go check out Lorenzo’s Club? Maybe you’ll catch him in the act of kissing another celebrity in front of her PR entourage, hahaha.”

“Ah, so you’ve seen yesterday’s headline in Manhattan Social with that Star Wars girl,” I say, remembering my conversation with Anna.

“Don’t be jealous,” she says, plonking herself down on the sofa. “You know it’s just business. But I’m serious. You should visit the club.”

“He’d kill me if he caught me there,” I say. “It turns out, he hadn’t expected me at the Koko lunch club. And you should have seen the way he cringed in embarrassment at my aunt’s old suit. Hooked me up with his ‘wardrobe consultant’ immediately.”

“Yep, that’s my cousin,” says Angie. “But you should go to the club anyway. Disguise yourself.”

“How? Disguise myself with what?”

Angie bites her lip in concentration. “When Gina first married Dante, we went shopping in SoHo. She took it into her head that she had to look like his first wife, so she went and bought a black wig –”

“A black wig? Dante’s first wife? What’s all this?”

“Forget it,” says Angie, waving away any further questions like a bad odor. “The important thing is that I bet you anything she still has that black wig in her closet. And the sexy dress I insisted she buy with it. Why don’t I go upstairs and grab them for you?”

“Fun idea,” I say, “but now that I think about going through with it …”

“Nonsense. You want to see Lorenzo in the wild, and so you shall. Stay put and I’ll be right back. I’ll grab some makeup, too.”

I arrive at the club a half-hour later, wearing my long black wig and sexy, body-hugging dress.

I stand in line with a group of other girls my age who look exactly like me in my disguise.

We’re all eye-candy tarts.

My hand instinctively goes to check my hair out of habit. Then I freeze, remembering my bright red curls are tucked tightly under the heavy black synthetic wig.

If even a single strand slips out, my cover is completely blown.

The bouncer takes a look at us and waves us in with a flirtatious wink.