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Roman offers me his arm. I take it, my heartbeat cranking up several notches.
Violins play the first notes of For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow, and Tony and Gil open the double doors.
The ballroom beyond is aglow with chandeliers and overflowing with elegant guests in evening gowns and tuxedos. Everyone launches into thunderous applause, filling the space with a buzz.
The crowd parts, and Roman leads me through the throng. My gaze darts from side to side, taking in the people. I recognize Sofia, Roman’s brothers, city officials, and a few faces from the New Alderney Times society pages.
Up ahead, the orchestra continues playing the second verse of the song, which I can barely hear through the pulse pounding through my eardrums.
As we reach the stage, Roman unclasps my arm and brings my hand to his lips for another kiss.
“Stay here,” he murmurs into my ear.
I nod, relieved that he doesn’t want me to join him onstage, and I watch him mount the steps and head toward the microphone.
“Thank you, thank you,” Roman says into the fading applause. “I’m so pleased to see so many familiar faces here tonight to celebrate my homecoming.”
The crowd breaks into cheers and whistles. I turn around to see their happy faces when I lock gazes with a gray-haired man whose photo often graces the culture pages.
It’s Ernest Lubelli, the owner of the MoCa art gallery.
My heart skips several beats. Should I approach him about my paintings?
TWENTY-NINE
EMBERLY
I should be listening to Roman’s speech, but all I can focus on is that gallery owner. Is he the one Roman mentioned earlier? Since he’s invited to this party, he must be a friend, or at least an associate.
Roman thanks his brother, Benito, and asks him to come onstage. As Benito says a few words to welcome all the well-wishers, I move through the crowd toward Mr. Lubelli.
The older man straightens, his gaze fixed on mine. If it’s intrigue I see on his features, then it’s probably because I walked in on Roman’s arm.
“Hi,” I murmur beneath the sound of Benito’s speech. “Are you Ernest Lubelli?”
“Well, hello,” he says with a smile. “Yes, I am. And you are?”
“Emberly. Emberly Kay. I’m an artist.”
His brows rise. “Roman mentioned commissioning an up-and-coming painter for a portrait, but he neglected to reveal it was someone so charming.”
My cheeks heat. “He didn’t mention my name?”
“You know Roman. He’s a very private man. Perhaps he wanted to keep you all to himself.”
It makes sense that Roman didn’t give Mr. Lubelli my name. I’m supposed to be in hiding. I turn toward the stage, where Cesare walks up and says a few words.
The older man places a hand on my shoulder. “Do you have any photos of your artwork?”
Damn it. The one time I get to meet an art dealer and I don’t even have my phone. I clear my throat. “Could I send you an email?”
“Of course.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and extracts a business card. “When you finish Roman’s portrait, I’ll be honored to see that too.”
The blonde woman standing beside him loops her arm through his as though marking her territory. She’s in her late thirties, wearing a red gown the exact shade of her lipstick.
I take the card and shoot her an apologetic smile. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Lubelli. I’ll be in touch.”
“Wait a second,” the blonde woman says. “Did I hear you say you paint portraits?”
