Page 100 of Casanova LLC

“We’re not doing this.”

“So you deny what I just saw with my own eyes?”

“What, that she’s gorgeous? That he’s an idiot?”

“More than gorgeous.”

“You jealous? Is that what this is?”

The look on his face at that. I had to turn away. Luckily, the bourbons were waiting for me. I picked up both glasses and held one out to him. “Take it.” He just looked at me. “I’m sorry. Okay? That was a stupid thing to say.”

“A very stupid thing.”

“Which is why I’m sorry.” I nudged the glass at him. He still resisted. “There’s four hundred dollars’ worth of bourbon in this glass. Enjoy it. Please.”

“Nipoto. I have drunk rice wine of the emperor’s private cask from his daughter’s navel. Keep your hillbilly swill.”

I set the glass on the bar.

We regarded each other.

“Lie to me. But not yourself. This deal is bad for you.”

“You worry too much. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

He clapped me on the shoulder. “For all you have learned, there is still so much. I will see you back at Livia’s. Tonight.”

He left and I shot the rest of my drink, because why not, and then I set about savoring his, settling my back against the bar and surveying the crowd.

To be more accurate, I was surveying her. The craziness (or whatever it was that I had felt and my uncle had seen) had subsided. My mind had come back to itself. I had regained control. I could now assess her as I would assess any woman.

She was standing next to Richard, saying good-bye to people. I watched her grab brief moments of solitude between the good-byes. I watched her complacent mask occasionally slip. I watched, and built my strategy for what was to come.

But the more I watched, the more I realized how wrong my assumptions had been. I’d imagined a trophy wife. Fake and gaudy and quietly simpering. She was the opposite. She was the kind of woman who didn’t spend your capital, but added to it. What had Craven said? She expands my portfolio? I understood now. Yes, she was elegant and poised, but just beneath that was a genuine and authentic woman. She was dressed in a simple white cotton blouse knotted at her navel and a white flowy skirt with little black dots. It was quality and probably came off a runway, but it wasn’t flashy. This was her rehearsal dinner and she looked as if she’d come directly from an afternoon tea. The guests acknowledged Richard first, but quickly gravitated toward her. And stayed there. She was magnetized.

Their relationship made sense to me now. He was getting married, something he swore he’d never do, because she made him—his choices—look interesting. Inspired. He’d chosen her, hadn’t he? Imagine what he could do with your stock portfolio. This was a woman whose sole purpose was to make people go: If she likes him well enough to marry him, he must be special.

The best thing that could happen to her, I began rationalizing, was that he divorced her. And in the meantime, I would give her an incredible night. A night to remember, to show her what she was missing. I could help her like I helped all my guests.

Because I knew—I just knew—what their sex life was like. Like so many rich pricks, he had control issues. Power issues. That’s why there would be other women, if there weren’t already.

It was a shame, but it wasn’t my problem. She’d have to save herself.

I decided that the first moment I saw her would be the last moment I cared about her.

The room had emptied. There were now about a dozen people left. A few aimlessly wandering individuals and pairs and trios scattered around the circular tables. Two men talked with Richard by the exit. Claire had disappeared.

When Richard finally said good-bye to the men, he turned to me, knowing right where I was, and pointed discreetly behind me.

Marching orders in hand, I finished Jacopo’s bourbon and took the last two glasses of room temperature champagne off the abandoned tray sitting on the abandoned bar, and went off in the direction I’d been sent.

She was standing in front of another large abstract on the back wall of the gallery, studying it, alone.“Ready?”

“For what?”

Her head whipped to me. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were Richard.”

“Do you need him?”

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