Chapter 17
LORENZO
“Good evening, Mr. Ricci,” the concierge says as I enter the airy lobby of The Circle Hotel.
I shoot him the friendly grin I reserve for favored staff, then keep moving.
It is odd to come home with the sun still out.
Yet given Manhattan Social’s breaking news about our marriage, I’m arriving home for dinner so that Emily and I can continue our ‘playing house’ charade.
Ciro’s in the kitchen when I enter, his back straight as usual as he slices vegetables. Biscotti, Gina’s French bulldog, lies at his heels.
Ah. Scene of domestic bliss.
“Good evening, sir. I’ve set a table on the terrace given the good weather,” he tells me.
“Fine,” I say as the aroma of whatever he’s prepared drifts over from the stove. “Where’s Mrs. Ricci?”
“In your library, sir.”
I stop. “My library? Why the hell did you allow her in there?”
“She didn’t ask, sir. I assumed you would not want me to stop your wife.”
Biscotti darts out from the kitchen, paws digging into the delicate silk of my trousers.
“Get away, mutt,” I mutter, even as I lift the Frenchie and give him a gruff hug.
I may talk tough when it comes to Biscotti, but he’s everything I wanted in a pup when I was a kid and wasn’t permitted to have.
Tucking him under my arm, I carry him down the hall.
The library door is closed.
My library door.
I stand there a moment with Biscotti squirming in my arms, taking in the thin line of light under the door.
Emily’s in there with someone. I can hear her talking.
What the hell?
Well, well.
The schoolmarm’s certainly made herself at home here.
And at this moment, she’s claimed the one room in this apartment that’s mine.
Daring.
Emily better be sitting on top of my desk with her legs spread to welcome me when I open that door.
Because that’s the only version of this I’m willing to forgive.
Just as I’m about to push the door open, her voice carries through the heavy wood, low and unhurried.
A second voice crackles through a speakerphone.
“To my point, on the surface Lorenzo looks and acts just like a Darcy,” I hear Emily saying.
What the fuck is a Darcy?
“Darcy is a snob. Darcy is arrogant. Darcy makes demands and expects others to follow. And he proved it today with that ridiculous shopping spree,” Emily continues.
“What do you mean,” the other voice asks.
“Darcy looks and dresses with refinement and expects everyone in his orbit to do the same.”
“Why do you say ‘on the surface?’ the other voice asks.
Emily hesitates for a moment.
“In his heart, Darcy was a good guy. A gentleman who always did the right thing.”
“So Lorenzo fancies himself a bad guy who chooses the bad thing?” the voice quips.
Then I hear both women laugh.
“He’s not ‘bad’ bad. Just so full of himself he can’t see anyone’s point of view. Like last night when we were going to bed …”
“Yes?” the voice asks.
I lean in, eager to hear.
What the fuck did I even do in bed?
I’d like to hear what she has to say.
Just then Biscotti barks and won’t shut the fuck up.
“Look, Anna, I gotta get off now. He’ll be home any minute,” I hear Emily say.
I wait. After a few seconds, the door opens. She strides out cool as a cucumber.
“Lorenzo. You’re home.”
“Damn right I am. Who were you talking to?”
Her green eyes shoot me a none of your business look, before her lips speak the words. “My friend Anna. why do you want to know?”
“I don’t like being talked about.”
“And I don’t like men who eavesdrop.”
“Then we’re even,” I say, taking a long look at her.
The dress Antoine chose is black. Simple, expensive, and exact.
The dress’s shape accentuates her slim but shapely figure.
And though I think it bizarre that a twenty-year-old girl wears her hair so tightly pulled back, the chignon accentuates her graceful neck.
Interestingly, her neck is one of the most erotic necks I’ve seen.
Men talk about boobs and butts, but the neck is the most sensual area of a woman to me.
“Let’s start clean,” I say, turning to signal Ciro in the kitchen. “I need a drink and so do you. Especially you. Come, join me on the terrace.”
When I pull open the sliding glass door, it’s already twilight. The lights of Manhattan sparkle below.
The romantic scene inspires me to pull out her chair for her.
“Chivalrous,” she notes, peeking up at me under her long lashes I somehow hadn’t noticed before.
“Not by nature,” I say with a grin.
Though gossip rags like Manhattan Social often refer to me as ‘Lorenzo the charmer’ or more frequently, ‘Lorenzo the Lady Killer.’ I’ve never been one to treat women with kid gloves.
Most of the women I date are temporary.
They serve one purpose.
And one purpose only.
Ciro appears with two martinis.
“I don’t drink,” Emily says when he puts it in front of her.
“You will tonight, schoolmarm.”
“I’m not a teacher. Why did you call me that?”
“It fits you.”
“I’ve been called worse,” she says. “But why do I need to drink this martini?”
“The way I figure it, there are only two ways to loosen you up. One’s a martini.”
“And the other?”
Fuck. She asks this in total seriousness.
Just then Ciro walks in with our dinner.
He sets the silver-domed trays gently onto the table, a waiter’s grace in every movement. Then he disappears back inside, Biscotti trailing him at soldierly attention.
I try to make charming conversation, but it’s a struggle. I hardly know this woman.
When the meal finally ends, I look at my watch.
“This was pleasant. And now,” I say, standing. “I’m going to the club.”
“Excellent. I’d love to go with you. I read so much about it in Manhattan Social.”
The schoolmarm knows Manhattan Social?
“This is work. Not pleasure,” I say, more gruffly than I meant.
As I head out the door, I realize dinner was a mistake.
Ignoring that stupid Manhattan Social leak would have been the way to go.
Pretending we’re really married to conform to expectations was wrong.
The sooner Emily realizes it’s just business between us, the better. Just then, my phone rings.
“It’s Max,” he says. “Trouble at the club.”