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“Hungry,” he said, the word coming out quick and sharp, as if he were a man just realizing he’d stepped back from the edge of a cliff. “Why don’t we, ah, why don’t we get something to eat?”
His head was spinning. He couldn’t think straight. What was nearby? Where could he take her that she would enjoy? Because that was what this was all about, wasn’t it? Showing his wife—this temporary wife—his city? She was his guest. She’d never been to New York before; for all he knew, after their divorce, she might choose to return to Italy.
No. Damn it, no. She wouldn’t do that. Go all the way across the ocean. Go so far away from him…
Somebody bumped into them. Rafe blinked, clasped Chiara’s hand and set off at brisk pace.
La Grenouille.
That was the name of the restaurant he took her to.
Chiara knew it meant frog, though why anyone would name a place so elegant after so humble a creature was beyond her.
She also understood what Raffaele did not.
She was as out of place here as, well, as a frog.
Everyone was looking at her. Okay. Maybe not everyone, but they might as well have been. The diners were as upscale as the restaurant, the women all fashionably dressed, their faces and hair testament to time spent in the city’s finest salons.
What must they think of her in her ugly black dress, ugly black shoes, ugly black coat? Not that it mattered. Her Raffaele was an amazing man, but he would never get a table here. It was too crowded. And then there was the way she looked…
But they did get a table. Immediately. A banquette, and she knew, instinctively, it was a coveted spot. Waiters appeared. Busboys. Menus, wine lists…
She told Raffaele to order for her.
It was enough to watch him select a wine, a meal, to watch him smile when she bit into her salmon and offered a sigh of approval.
And it was more than enough to watch the women watching him, their covetous glances turning to disbelief when they turned their attention to her.
Yes, she thought, her chin lifting, oh, yes, I am with this man. This beautiful man who is generous and kind and caring.
Was that why the waitstaff deferred to him? Or was it because of something darker? Was her Raffaele’s power similar to that of her father?
Chiara’s meal, until now so perfect, suddenly seemed inedible.
“Chiara?”
She looked up. Raffaele was watching her. He looked troubled.
“Sweetheart, if you don’t like what I ordered for you—”
“No. No, it is fine. I am…I am tired, I think. All that walking…”
He was on his feet in a second, helping her from her chair, dropping a stack of bills on the table.
The captain hurried toward them. Was everything all right?
No, Chiara thought, everything was not all right. She was married to a man who was everything she despised…except, she was not really married to him and she did not really despise him.
What she felt for him was—It was—
A tremor went through her. Raffaele curved his arm around her.
“I’ll get a taxi,” he said softly, “and we’ll go home.”
She nodded. Except, it wasn’t her home, it was his. This was all temporary. And that was good, was it not? Of course it was. She had no place in Raffaele Orsini’s life. She didn’t want a place in it. She didn’t, didn’t, didn’t…
Oh, God.
She did.
When they reached his place, he wanted to call his doctor.
Chiara refused. She was still pale but at least she had stopped trembling.
“I am tired, Raffaele, that is all. A night’s sleep and I’ll be fine.”
She went to her room. He went out to his. It was still early. He thought about phoning Falco. Or Nicolo. Thought about opening his BlackBerry and phoning a woman. The one he’d met the night he’d ended things with Ingrid…
Instead, he undressed, put on a pair of sweats and turned on the TV. Watched an old football game on ESPN. An even older movie on HBO. Clicked through the zillion channels that had absolutely nothing worth viewing and finally tossed the damned remote aside in disgust.
Taking Chiara out today had been a stupid idea.
She wasn’t his guest any more than she was his wife. She was an encumbrance. A beautiful encumbrance, but that didn’t change a thing. The sooner he called Sayers’s law partner, the better. He’d get a couple of hours’ sleep and do it first thing in the morning.
But he couldn’t sleep. Just as well because somewhere around dawn he got an idea. A really good one.
He had that place on Nantucket. Why not put it to good use? Phone the couple who looked after it when he wasn’t there, tell them to prepare for a guest, arrange for the helicopter service he occasionally used to fly Chiara to the island.
