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Devon nodded. “Sure.”
“Where do you want to have lunch?”
“Lunch?”
“Yes. Lunch. That’s what we were going to do before we ran into Madam Viper.”
“Actually, I’m not terribly hungry.”
“I am,” Ryan said grimly.
“Well, then...” Devon nodded toward a hot dog vendor on the next corner. “Buy yourself a hot dog, why don’t you?”
“I am not in the mood for a hot dog from a pushcart,” Ryan said irritably.
Damn Sharon, anyway! Ten minutes ago, he’d been strolling along with a sweetly smiling woman at his side, feeling as if he’d conquered the world.
Now he was stomping along Fifth Avenue with a fire-breathing dragon in tow. His euphoric mood seemed a thing of the far distant past.
Why had he let Sharon get away with all that crap? The sweetness-and-light routine, all that pretense about not getting Devon’s name straight. It had all been bull. But he’d been so busy, trying to feel like a husband instead of a character in a bad farce, that he hadn’t been able to do a damned thing about it.
And now Devon was putting on a jealousy act that was driving his blood pressure off the scale.
Ryan’s eyes narrowed. OK, he thought. OK, let’s have this out, here and now.
He jerked his head up, spotted a restaurant marquee down a side street, and grabbed hold of Devon’s wrist.
“Where are we going?” she demanded.
“To have lunch,” he growled, “and to talk, like civilized human beings.”
Ryan hadn’t chosen the restaurant so much as it had chosen him. The second he tugged Devon inside the door, he knew he’d made a mistake.
The place he’d unknowingly entered was one of Manhattan’s newest, most exclusive restaurants. Ryan had been in it once and once had been enough. He was not impressed by pretention, and pretention was what this pocket of smoked glass, recessed lights, and overbearing waiters specialized in.
He was about to turn on his heel and walk out—but before he could do that, he caught the captain looking over him and Devon, all but sneering at their jeans, sweatshirts and sneakers.
Considering Ryan’s mood, wild horses couldn’t have dragged him out after that.
The captain approached, his face screwed up with distaste.
“Did you have a reservation, sir?”
Ryan looked beyond the tiny entryway. The restaurant was a sea of black leather booths, most of them empty.
“No,” he said coldly.
“Ah, well then, I’m afraid—”
“Your restaurant is all but empty. I see no need for a reservation. We’ll have a booth, please, and lunch menus.”
“Sir, even if I ignored our reservation policy, you are not dressed—”
“Are you saying the lady and I have no clothes on?”
Devon bit her lip. “Ryan,” she murmured, “really, I’m not hungry at all. Can’t we just—”
Ryan’s hand tightened on her arm. “Show us to a booth, please.”
