Lucienne acts like she’s doing me a big favor by arranging our “date.” She doesn’t realize I have a lot to clear off my plate before this marriage can proceed, and “dating” doesn’t even rank.
I hit the intercom. “Christoph, make a reservation for tonight at a suitable restaurant for me and Gabriella. Pick out a black pearl necklace as well. Akoya.”
He doesn’t comment, although he knows as well as everyone who follows society gossip that I give black akoya pearls when I want an amicable breakup.
So at seven thirty sharp, I’m at the French bistro where Gabriella and I had our first date. It’s near her agency and her favorite.
Not surprisingly, I arrive first. Gabriella is always five minutes late, no matter what. Even if Christoph tells her we’re to meet five minutes earlier than we’re supposed to, she still manages to be five minutes late.
I order a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and wait for Gabriella’s entrance. Bizet’s “Habanera” fills the restaurant, Anna Caterina Antonacci’s voice soaring effortlessly. It’s a pleasant enough interlude.
Exactly five minutes later, Gabriella walks in, all smiles. Her olive skin is glowing—she probably did something to her face, since she spends half of her life in one spa or another—and anticipation twinkles in her dark eyes. I’m not sure what’s gotten her so excited. Christoph knows better than to hint what this dinner is about to anybody, especially to her.
She tosses her high ponytail as she sits down. The V of her white sleeveless shirt plunges so low, it’s obvious she isn’t wearing a bra. As she leans over, I can see the outlines of her nipples.
Oddly enough, I’m unmoved by the sight. I’m thinking of another set of breasts instead—ones encased in golden fabric that didn’t show any nipple outline but made my blood run hot. What the fuck? Annoyed, I take a sip of my Sauvignon Blanc. The wine’s color makes me think of Lucienne’s hair.
Damn it.
Gabriella isn’t stupid, and she notices my disinterested irritation. “What’s wrong?” She usually speaks with a faux Italian accent, but when she’s agitated it goes away. And right now, that accent’s nonexistent, her Bronx roots subtly coming out.
“Here.” I place a gold and pastel-blue jewelry box on the table.
An uncertain smile curves her full lips. “Well. What’s the occasion?” She opens the box. The light in her eyes dims. “What’s this?”
“Black pearls. They’re from Sebastian Jewelry’s premium collection.”
“That isn’t what I mean.” She closes the lid. “I thought we were getting along great.”
We were, although things have been getting a bit stale recently. We’ve both been busy, and I was starting to get restless. A relationship is past due when I’m looking forward to a tennis match with Grant or Huxley more than rolling around in bed with the woman. “I’m getting married, Gabriella.”
She sits back in her chair, all her earlier lean-in body language completely gone. “Since when were you engaged?”
Her demanding tone grates on my nerves. I don’t need this after the crap I’ve been putting up from my family and Lucienne’s unannounced visit. “Since twenty-four hours ago.” It comes out more tersely than I’d prefer. “I want an amicable breakup. I thought you’d agree that’s better, given our professional arrangement.”
“You mean with me being the main model for your current marketing campaign.”
“Yes. And I hope you’ll continue.”
Her throat tightens. An angry shade of red suffuses the face pretty enough to grace countless fashion magazines all over the world. “You’ve been seeing somebody behind my back?” Her voice quavers.
“No. Seeing multiple women at the same time is my dad’s thing. I don’t do that.”
“Then?”
“It’s complicated, but I thought it best that you found out from me before it’s officially announced.”
“Are you in love with her?” Her tone says she can’t believe any man could fall in love with another woman when he could have her.
No is on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it. My family has a vested interest in making this marriage look good. Gabriella doesn’t.
Her expression twists like I just threw a bowl of chowder in her face. Finally, she blinks a few times and shakes her head. “Well. Fine. I suppose we can be friends.”
“I’m glad you understand.”
“But you’ll still buy me a last dinner as a couple?” she says with an unnaturally bright smile.
Something sharp flashes in her eyes, but I’m too tired to analyze it. She’s probably just upset and shocked by the abrupt end to our relationship. “Of course.”
“And we’ll be friends? This won’t impact my deal with Sebastian Jewelry?” she asks, like she needs to reassure herself.
“Yes to the first and no to the second,” I say, since I feel just the tiniest bit guilty about how abrupt I’ve been with her.
Her smile grows relaxed. “Well then.” She lifts her glass of water. “To your marriage.”
