Chapter 14
EMILY
Ienter the dark, cool bedroom in a rush, with only minutes to change for lunch.
As usual, the first thing I do is style my hair. This morning it demanded a playful high ponytail.
Lunch at a private club calls for a more sedate approach.
With a few deft twists, I wind it into an elegant chignon, restraining it with my aunt’s gold barrette.
Then I shake out my aunt’s suit. The only formal outfit I brought in a small suitcase otherwise filled with jeans and summer tops.
It will have to do, I think, putting it on and modeling it in the mirror.
Nearly a century old, and it still holds its shape.
Aunt Jane told me that back in the day, designers like Christian Dior created outfits that would stand the test of time.
Well, this one did.
In spades.
Old Beacon Hill family money once paid for every luxury my ancestors could imagine.
But by the time Teddy and I were growing up, Aunt Jane was living on food stamps.
We had a roof over our heads, but little more.
Uncle Eton, executor of the family estate, was not one for extravagances of any sort.
Paying the tuition for Teddy’s private school in the Berkshires was his only indulgence.
Grabbing my purse, I take the elevator down to the lobby.
“The hotel car is waiting for you outside,” the concierge says.
After the short ride, I take the private elevator to the top floor of the GM Building. The doors open directly into the lunch club.
It’s all dark wood paneling and white tablecloths.
I’m half hoping Lorenzo would be waiting for me near the host’s stand so we can enter the dining room together.
We hadn’t spoken since this morning when he caught me awakening from that erotic dream.
“I’m Mrs. Ricci,” I say to the host when I see that Lorenzo is not waiting for me. “My husband is expecting me.”
“But of course, Mrs. Ricci.” A small, knowing smile plays about his face.
“Congratulations on your marriage. I saw the photos in Manhattan Social this morning. You two make a stunning couple.”
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 ma?tre 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 ma?tre 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.
The man is silver-haired, his suit a quiet charcoal with an actual pocket square.
“Congratulations, Lorenzo,” the man says as his white-haired wife looks at me with appraising eyes.
Lorenzo drapes his arm around my shoulders, making us appear a loving couple.
“Thank you,” Lorenzo says with a warm laugh. “We were keeping it quiet. You know how these things are.”
When the couple finally drifts away, his arm drops.
“I hadn’t foreseen this situation,” he says, taking a sip of his drink.
“What ‘situation’ is that?”
“Having what I thought to be a simple signature on a marriage certificate turn out to be a real person.”
I stare at him. “You expected me to keep out of sight? Stay in the apartment all day?”
“I’m not sure what I expected. But now the cat’s out of the bag. People see you as my wife.”
His eyes drop briefly to Aunt Jane’s lapel pin, then back up to meet my eyes.
“You must begin to dress like Mrs. Ricci.”
“And what does ‘Mrs. Ricci’ wear?” I scoff. “Scandalous attire that befits your club?”
Lorenzo’s mouth turns up in something that’s not quite a smile.
“Certainly not. Don’t be ridiculous.”
He reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket and produces his phone. I watch as he makes a quick call, turning away so I can’t quite catch what he’s saying.
When Lorenzo disconnects, he turns to me.
“Antoine will be waiting for you at Saks when you finish lunch. My driver will take you there.”
“Who is Antoine?”
“A world-famous image consultant. He’ll know what’s required for your wardrobe,” he tells me before turning to the waiter.
Lorenzo orders lunch for both of us and another martini for himself.
“What?! Ordering for me? First taking possession of my wardrobe, then directing my meal?”
He pauses a moment, his dark eyes on me.
“The first thing you’ll learn is that Mrs. Ricci only wants one thing.”
“What’s that?”
Lorenzo picks up his martini and takes a slow sip, watching me as he does so.
“Exactly what I want.”