He rose, picked up his glass, and walked slowly toward her. The two Italian women at the next table stopped their conversation to watch. One uncrossed her legs. The other shifted in her chair. They were young and beautiful, but this fallen Renaissance angel zeroed in on her.

“Signora?” He gestured toward the chair across from her. “Posso farti compagnia?”

She felt herself nod, even as her brain ordered her to turn him away. He slid into the chair, as seductive as a black satin sheet.

Up close he was no less devastating, but his eyes were a little bloodshot, and the stubble on his jaw seemed more a product of fatigue than a fashion statement. Perversely, his ragged edges intensified his sexuality.

She was only mildly startled to hear herself address him in French. “Je ne parle pas l’italien, monsieur.”

Whoa… One part of her brain ordered her to get up and walk away right now. The other part told her not to be in such a hurry. She did a quick survey to see if anything obvious would give her away as an American, but Europe was filled with blondes, including ones like her who’d had light streaks added to perk up their spirits. She was dressed in black, as he was-slim trousers and a cropped, sleeveless cotton sweater with a funnel neck. Her uncomfortable shoes were Italian. The only jewelry she wore was a thin gold bangle with the single word BREATHE inscribed inside, to remind her to stay centered. She hadn’t eaten, so he couldn’t have witnessed that telling transfer of fork from left hand to right that Americans made when they cut their meat.

What does it matter? Why are you doing this?

Because the world as she knew it had collapsed around her. Because Michael didn’t love her, and she’d had too much wine, and she was tired of being frightened, and she wanted to feel like a woman instead of a failed institution.