STEFAN LEANED FORWARD to speak to the driver. “Pull to the curb after the next light.”
Penelope shivered in the back seat of the black Town Car. Any other time, she would’ve enjoyed strolling on an autumn evening in New York, but her nerves were still frazzled after the shooting incident—not to mention the unexpected proximity of Stefan.
“Cold?” he asked, shifting his arm around her. “You’re still in mild shock.”
She nodded. On several levels. Earlier that evening, her world had shifted on his balcony. This path was dangerous, but she’d faced down threats many times in her career. She could handle it.
Besides, a girl had to eat. Stefan had offered, and really, what could it hurt?
She ran her fingertips over his hand, relishing the feel of his arm around her and remembering what they’d lost so many years ago.
The driver pulled to a stop and Stefan got out first. Satisfied they hadn’t been followed, he held his hand out to Penelope and helped her from the car. She’d shed her evening dress and borrowed one of Stefan’s long white dress shirts, cinching it at the waist like a dress with a belt and rolling up the sleeves. Thank goodness he was taller than she was.
She still wore her Manolo Blahnik stilettos, but this was New York—where most anything but last year’s gown at this year’s Met Gala would do. And the more original, the better.
Stefan slid his arm around her. “Is it too soon to say I’ve missed you?”
“No,” she replied, and then added softly, “Jeg har også savnet dig.” She quickly turned her face. I’ve missed you, too.
Outside the door, as the scent of garlic wafted through the air, she realized how hungry she was. Glancing at him from the corner of her eye, she admired how he’d taken charge of the evening, though part of her hated to admit it.
Not that she couldn’t take care of herself—she had been doing exactly that since she was fourteen. Traveling the world, taking care of friends and family members who needed help, and managing her money so that someday, if she could no longer find modeling work at the ripe old age of thirty or thirty-five, she would have a secure future. Her parents had raised her to be independent and altruistic. It was the Danish way.
A red canopy fluttered above the door. Mama Rosina’s was a tiny, living room-sized restaurant tucked between Guido’s Shoe Repairs and Lucky Alterations. Penelope knew the best food in New York was often found at tiny neighborhood places. She stepped inside the Italian trattoria and was immediately reminded of the family restaurants she loved to visit whenever she was in Italy. “How’d you find this place?”
“I was out for a run one day when torrential rains forced me to take cover. Smelled so good I couldn’t resist. Came back, and the family has been feeding me ever since, whenever I’m in town.”
“And is that often?”
“More often than not, now. If I hadn’t gotten out of L.A. when I did, I would’ve needed a criminal attorney. Not that Monica knew where the kitchen was located.”
As he spoke, a robust man in his fifties with a thick head of white hair crossed the intimate restaurant and held his arms out to them. “Stefan, we’ve missed you.” The two men embraced and exchanged a few words, after which the man showed them to a booth lined with faded burgundy cushions. A woman in a white apron with dark, gray-shot hair knotted in a thick bun—presumably Mama Rosina—waved in welcome from the kitchen. Nearby tables held chattering multigenerational families.
After they sat down, Stefan gazed at her with approval. “You sure do more for that shirt than I do.”
“I love it.” She flipped up the collar and tilted her nose. “You might not get it back.”
“It’s yours then. I’ll enjoy thinking of you in it.” He stretched his arm and rested it on the back of the booth above her shoulders. “Like it here? Pretty different from the fashion show party.”
Penelope leaned toward him. His presence was so familiar that she found it easy to fall back into step with him. Too easy, she reminded herself, shifting slightly. “I love intimate places like this where it doesn’t matter who you are or where you come from. As long as you’re hungry, you’re family.” Places like this, in the comfortable neighborhood boroughs of New York, were exactly what Penelope liked.
“You won’t find any paparazzi or spotlights here.”
“I’ve had enough of that.” She shrugged a slim shoulder at this inevitable part of the business. Some models craved the spotlight, though for her, as much as she loved her work, fame had lost its allure. Most days, she showed up, did her job, and then went home to remove her makeup, have a swim, and pull on her favorite cotton PJs, although the tabloids often reported otherwise.
Wine and bread soon arrived unbidden. Penelope lifted a glass of fragrant red wine to her nose while admiring the label. “Barolo, very nice, from Piemonte. What are we celebrating?”
He gazed into her eyes. “Tonight, to life.” He touched his glass to hers. “Tomorrow, to the future. Skål,” he added in Danish. Cheers.
“Skål.” Penelope sipped, enjoying the richly nuanced wine, but more than that, she was warming to Stefan’s presence. She drank in his strong profile, noting a dusting of gray hair at his temples and subtle, tanned creases at his eyes.
Stefan teased her fingers with his. “Still traveling as much?” he asked, as he looped her pinkie finger with his.
She nodded.
“Well-paid, though.”
“Fashion Week doesn’t pay as well as people think. It’s more about the exposure to gain other work. Besides, you never know how long your career will last.”
He shifted his arm lower on the booth, gently tapping her shoulder. “How’s your schedule these days?”
“As hectic as always.” She changed position, brushing his thigh as she did, though she didn’t move away. “From September to October, I walk for designers at Fashion Weeks in New York, London, Milan, and Paris. Then it starts all over again in February for the next season’s collections.”
“Is that all?” He laughed, showing a smile Penelope had always loved.
“Actually, no. I often walk in Paris for the haute couture collections in January and July. Which is how I initially landed my print advertising campaign contracts.” Penelope dipped her chin. That’s where she made most of her money. “I work hard, but now I can afford to be more discriminating.”
“Hope you’re banking your funds.”
“Of course. Won’t last forever. Not when eighteen-year-olds land Chanel No. 5 contracts.” She loved traveling, but she lived modestly. She’d bought her home in the Hollywood Hills before the prices had skyrocketed. It was also common practice for a portion of her compensation from designers to be in clothes, so her clothing budget wasn’t large.
Stefan nodded, taking in everything she said with an intense expression. “Do you get to see your parents much?”
“Now that they’re retired, they travel almost as much as I do, though I visit them in August in Copenhagen when I work that show.” She hesitated. “But I’d rather hear about you.”
Stefan stroked his chin. “Everyone deserves a fair trial, but I grew tired defending the murderers and rapists feigning innocence.”
“That actor. The media branded him as guilty. Was he?”
“In this situation, the media got it right, I’m sure. And I won the case on a brilliant technicality, or so the news reported.” He ran a hand over his hair. “Funny, I don’t feel so triumphant. I did my job well, but did that really serve society? Or that poor young woman and her family?”
Penelope heard anguish in his voice and saw it in the fall of his shoulders. She’d heard he’d been a star at his law firm. She slid her hand over his, realizing the cost he’d paid to live his dream. “At one time, you wanted to serve those unjustly charged.”
“I did that, too. But you can’t always choose the cases that land on your desk. Especially those that rack up millions in defense.” He paused and took a long sip of wine, his eyes focused on a distant point as his mind reeled back. “You have no idea how gruesome the crime scene was.”
She shuddered, imaging how hard it must have been on him, a man of such high principles. “Wasn’t it a crime of passion?”
“That was the media spin, and the jury bought it, too. But I don’t know if that man has a speck of passion in him. He’s cold and calculating. His charm is an act and he’s awfully good at it.” He wagged his head at the memories. “And Monica ran straight into his arms.”
“She always thrived on danger.”
Stefan gave a sarcastic half-grin. “We both know I wasn’t dangerous enough—or rich enough—for her.”
Penelope shifted in the booth next to him, turning toward him. “Then we should be celebrating your divorce.”
Swirling the wine in his glass, Stefan frowned. “Divorce—however deserved—always holds sadness. She has some good qualities, but she doesn’t let them out often. You know that, Monica was your friend, too.”
She shifted uncomfortably in the booth. Monica had been a friend she’d once confided in. She was vivacious and generous, but also crazy envious of anyone she perceived as having more than her. Penelope moistened her lips. Before she let herself slide into his arms again, she had to know more. “Hear from her much?”
“Not until tonight.” He drew his eyebrows together in concern. “She saw me and wanted to talk. She seemed desperate, in fact. Guess they broke up.”
“And did you?”
“Told her I couldn’t until later.” His eyes dropped to his phone.
“She’s been calling, hasn’t she?” Penelope had seen him silence his phone a few times.
“There’s nothing she has to say that’s more important than being here with you. She made her decision.” The front door opened with a gust of autumn wind, and Stefan brushed wayward strands of hair from her face. Holding a lock of her hair, he grinned. “I never thought I’d say this, but purple suits you well.”
“Don’t get too attached. This color won’t last long. Never does.”
“The rose gold was pretty.”
Penelope smiled. “Have you been stalking me?”
“It’s hard to miss the billboards and television ads.”
She’d just finished a lucrative perfume campaign for Dior, her largest one yet. She’d been drenched in rose gold, from her hair to her evening gown. The makeup artist had even covered her skin in rosy golden makeup. “The stylist and photographer had an amazing vision. I’m glad it turned out so well.”
“Do you know who else was being considered by the brand?”
Penelope started to shake her head, then parted her lips. “Not…”
“Monica. She smashed up half the house when she found out. And the next day, she was gone.”
“She needs help.”
“And she has refused it many times. I tried, Penelope. I want you to know that.”
“I know you did.” Penelope tried to contain the emotions raging within her. It was all she could do to keep from succumbing to his remarkable man. Yet, Monica could be vicious. Toward the end of their friendship, Penelope had watched her take pleasure in torturing people she didn’t even care about, just for fun.
A waiter interrupted, delivering a tricolore salad—so named after Italian flag of red, white, and green—with crisp arugula, endive, and radicchio, and studded with plump tomatoes and topped with shaved parmesan.
Penelope smiled. “You remembered.”
“Of course.” Stefan squeezed her hand. “Your farfalle al salmone is up next. It’s not Madeo’s in Beverly Hills, but it’s as close as I’ve found in New York.”
She kissed him on the cheek. “You really are such a thoughtful man.”
“And a superhero, too.” He puffed out his chest, teasing her.
“So now you’re taking credit?” Playfully, she jabbed him in the chest with her fork.
The owner brought their pasta, and they ate as they caught up, talking about mutual friends and places they’d traveled. Stefan loved the water as much as she did, and he told her about his deep-sea fishing trips. When she mentioned a trip to Monaco she’d taken in the spring with a good friend, Dahlia Dubois, to watch the Formula 1 races, he grinned.
“I was there with a client,” he said. “That was quite a race. Isn’t your friend dating Alain Delamare? I saw photos of them after he won the race.”
“You and millions of others.” She laughed. “He seems to be a good guy, and they’re happy together.”
“I hope they are.” A shadow crossed Stefan’s face.
“While I was there, I helped Dahlia unravel a mystery in her family. We found her mother, reunited her family, and set her history straight.” Penelope speared a farfalle.
“You’re as fearless as I remember,” Stefan said, his eyes lighting with admiration.
“I take action. It’s empowering.” What she didn’t add was that she’d really learned that after the Monica debacle. She’d been hurt more deeply than she’d thought possible.
“I admire your confidence.”
Penelope picked up her wine glass and leveled her gaze at him. “Confidence is essential when you prance down the runway in nothing but a lace bustier, six-inch heels, and angel wings.”
Stefan nearly choked on a bite of linguine, and the older couple at the next table looked shocked, and then stifled laughter. After gulping a glass of water, he said, “Still doing the Victoria’s Secret shows?”
She grinned. “Not anymore.” She shrugged a shoulder. “But remember, I’m Danish. We’re proud of our bodies. There’s nothing shameful about the way we came into this world.”
Stefan laughed. “I remember going to a spa in Copenhagen. I think I was the only guy there with a towel. People probably wondered what I was hiding.”
Penelope smirked, memories of exactly what he was hiding crossing her mind. “Do you travel often?”
“Most of my work is in L.A., but I send bodyguards all over the world, often on short notice.” He twirled pasta onto his fork. “Spend much time in L.A.?”
“Not as much as I’d like. I’m a workaholic.”
“So you haven’t changed.”
“Actually, I’d like to. I’m aging out of runway modeling. My agent is urging me to be more selective, to focus on more lucrative jobs.”
Plenty of girls aged fourteen to sixteen would love to take her place in the shows ahead. Most models aged out of runway by twenty-three or twenty-four, though some older models managed to work as long as they could.
Still, she loved meeting her friends on the circuit and showing the season’s new styles for the designers she’d grown close to over the years. She was already one of the older models on the catwalk, so she’d been shifting more to commercial print. But even that had a limited-time run. It was if models had an expiration date stamped on them. Best if used by…
They chatted while they ate, and after dinner, Penelope turned to Stefan. “I have an early call, so I should turn in.”
They walked outside to the waiting Town Car. Before he opened the door, Stefan ran a finger along her jawline, and she turned into his hand. “I had a wonderful evening,” she said, cradling her cheek in the warmth of his hand.
He brushed his lips across her forehead. “I want to see you again. Under better circumstances,” he added. “Just say when.”
Penelope’s heart thudded. She’d dreamed of hearing these words for so many years. She closed her eyes and let feelings of warmth and love wash over her, just as before. She felt his lips touch hers in a flutter as soft as butterfly wings.
She opened her eyes, taking in the rich details of his face and his penetrating eyes. The intensity of his breathing matched her own. Two hearts, beating in rhythm.
Yet still divided.
“No, please don’t call me,” she said, her voice strangled.
Stefan’s eyes widened with an excruciating expression of disbelief shading his face. He clutched her hands. “You can’t mean that.”
“I do,” she managed to say, her heart splintering.
Stefan pressed his fist to his mouth and opened the rear door for her.
Swinging her long hair to obscure her face, Penelope turned to step into the car before he could see the tears that lined her face.