Page 81 of Lorenzo

Something about the way Lorenzo says this makes me think of a vampire anticipating his next living meal.

I force a smile and once again, wonder what he has planned.

Last night’s trip to the museum opened my eyes to Lorenzo’s wild imagination. I should have realized that that was only the beginning.

The first course arrives looking impossibly good. I tell myself one tiny bite can’t hurt. The moment I swallow, the black bands tighten across my midriff.

I freeze mid-bite, and carefully set my fork down.

Lorenzo notices and the corner of his mouth twitches.

When we’re finished with our first course, the maître d’ glides to Lorenzo’s side and dips low, murmuring something close to his ear. My husband’s expression doesn’t change. He just gives a single, almost imperceptible nod.

A moment later, a man in a charcoal suit cuts a straight line through the dining room toward our table, carrying a slim briefcase.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Ricci,” the stranger says once Lorenzo introduces us. He has the careful, neutral face of someone paid well to suppress secrets.

“Here, sir, is the object for your approval,” he says, opening his briefcase so that Lorenzo can view whatever’s inside.

Lorenzo gives it a cursory glance. “Please show it to the lady. She’s the one who must approve.” The man sets the briefcase flat on the table and spins it in my direction.

Resting on the briefcase’s black velvet interior is a necklace unlike anything I’ve seen. It’s an architectural web of flat gold ribbons crossing and interlocking, like the lacing of a corset.

“This is so beautiful,” I say, realizing that it must be a custom design. “Does it meet with your approval?” says the salesman.

“Yes,” I say, looking at Lorenzo. “But this is not necessary…”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Lorenzo snaps, his eyes flashing. He takes the necklace from the box and tests out the various clasps.

“Pretty elaborate,” I say with a small laugh, my eyes counting the row of tiny lock-shaped clasps along the back of the necklace. “Are you afraid it will fall from my neck?”

“It’s not that,” says Lorenzo, his black eyes boring into mine. He pauses. “You know what this necklace means, don’t you?”

I don’t. Not quite. But I immediately sense that it has something to do with the BDSM exhibition we saw last night.

“Turn, please.”

I turn my back to him in the banquette so he can place the necklace around my neck.

As Lorenzo’s fingers work the lock, they feel cool and deliberate at the back of my neck.

He works each small clasp in turn. Click. Click. Click.

The sound is like a key turning in a lock. Closed and final.

When it’s done, Lorenzo turns to the man who brought it. “That would be all,” Lorenzo says.

The man takes his satchel and leaves.

“Are you pleased?”

I nod. “Thank you.”

“Now, before the next course arrives, I’d like you to go to the ladies’ room. I’ll join you in a minute.”

What does that mean, join me in the ladies’ room?

I rise carefully, feeling the dress pull tight across my hips with every step. The black ribbons seem to tighten further as I cross the restaurant.