The Stranger by Kyra Davis Page A

he’s the only man you want . . . if you look him in the eyes and tell him you’re sure, if you tell him those lies while standing at the altar . . . will that be excusable? If you care about him, doesn’t he deserve a wife who’s sure she’s making the right decision in marrying him?”
    “But I’m lying to him now.”
    “You’re making sure,” Simone says between sips of her cocktail. “You’ve been dating for six years, you’re not married, you’re not engaged, and you’re not living together. If there was ever a time to explore . . . just to be sure, this is it. It’s your last chance.”
    I know what she’s saying is wrong. It’s against every ethic I have. But her logic is so appealing, so sinfully freeing. That’s the thing about sin; once you fully embrace it, you don’t have to worry about doing what’s right anymore. You can do whatever the hell you want.
    It’s a slippery slope that I sort of want to get off.
    Sort of.
    “And if I decide I don’t want to do it that way?” I ask, again lifting my eyes to the quiet dancers. “If I decide I need to let Robert Dade go . . . Simone, how do I do that ?”
    She exhales and slams the rest of her drink. All traces of the Roman noble are gone as she morphs back into the quintessential modern girlfriend I need. “I haven’t seen Jax in three years,” she says, “but I still have the magnificently twisted fantasies he inspired. I keep them under my pillow, in my pocket, tucked inside my bra. They’re always within easy reach. You can keep this Robert Dade or you can let him go. But the memories and the fantasies are yours forever . . . there are some gifts that just can’t be thrown away . . . even when we try.”

CHAPTER 9

    T HE ATMOSPHERE AT Scarpetta is light. High ceilings, neutral colors. Even after the sky’s turned black, the dining room feels as if it’s being filled with soft sunlight. It’s what I need for this moment as I sit across from Dave. He’s talking to me about work, about family, about rubies—did I know that you can no longer directly deposit income into Swiss bank accounts and expect to avoid American taxes? Did I know that his mother just got a new mare whose coat is the exact color of a patchy gray sky? Did I know that rubies were actually more expensive than diamonds?
    The talk is light like the room. Among teasing reminders of the expense of his devotion he shares bits and pieces of his world with me never suspecting that I might be hiding bits and pieces of mine. Every word is spoken with the casual intimacy that comes with trust. And for a little while I forget that I can’t be trusted at all.
    But as the appetizers are replaced by entr é es, and the entr é es replaced with cappuccino and dessert, I find that acting is an exhausting hobby. How do those celebrities do it? How do they smile at their costars and recite their lines with all the assigned emotion without once giving away hints of who they really are, the person beneath the character, beneath the stardom, beneath the image? How do they have the energy to keep that person tidily under wraps? I stir a white line of sugar into the froth of the cappuccino. We’ve fallen into one of our silences. I used to love this moment, the moment when you can sit quietly with the person you’ve chosen to be with without exchanging a word. It’s a showy testament to our comfort with each other. But I can no longer sit with silence. Silence is the pathway to my darkest thoughts that have no place in this light-filled room.
    “Dave.” I whisper his name, afraid of what I’m in danger of giving away. “You don’t just work with men at your firm.”
    “Of course not,” he confirms.
    “Some of the other lawyers . . . or your clients . . . are they beautiful?”
    The question takes him off guard. He dips a small spoon into our panna cotta, making a little nick in its smooth surface. “I don’t pay attention to things like