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escort. Penny Harrigan had no choice. There was no sign of Climax-Well. A cadre of photographers was corralled behind a velvet rope, but they didn’t give her a second glance. None of them snapped her picture. No one with a microphone stepped up to say how nice she looked and ask about her dress. Another car arrived at the curb, the valet opened another door, and she had no choice except to proceed through the restaurant’s gilded entrance, alone.
    In the foyer, she waited for the maître d’ to notice her. He did not. No one noticed her. Elegantly dressed men and women lingered, waiting for their cars to arrive or to be seated. The din of laughter and conversation made her feel even more invisible, if that was possible. Here, her dress was barely good enough. Her jewelry drew bemused stares. The same way she’d wanted to run from the haughty saleslady at Bonwit Teller, Penny again longed to turn and flee. She’d wrap the gorgeous red gown in its original tissue paper and take it back tomorrow. Men like Maxwell didn’t date girls like her.
    Still, something nagged at her. She wished she’d never bragged about this date. Her roommates … her parents … even the taxi driver had thought she was a liar. She had to prove she wasn’t. Even if one gossip columnist saw her with Corny Maxwell or a shutterbug snapped their picture together, she’d be vindicated. This thought pushed her the length of the foyer, toward the door to the main dining room. There, a flight of carpetedsteps led downward. Whoever entered would draw every eye in the vast, crowded space.
    Standing on the top step Penny felt as if she were on the edge of a high cliff. Ahead of her beckoned the future. Behind her, the rich and powerful were already bottlenecked, backing up like gridlocked traffic in the streets. Someone cleared his throat loudly. Below her, the room was packed. Every table was occupied. A mezzanine held even more watchful diners. Where Penny found herself, on the stairs, was like a stage, visible from every seat.
    In the center of the room, one man sat alone. His blond hair caught the light from the chandelier. Open on his table was a small notebook, and he was studiously jotting notes in it with a silver pen.
    A stranger’s breath touched Penny’s ear. An officious voice behind her whispered, “Pardon me. Young lady?” The speaker sniffed loudly.
    Everyone in the restaurant was watching the lone man scribbling, but watching in that discreet New Yorker way: ogling him over the tops of their menus. Spying on his reflection in the silver blades of their butter knives.
    More insistently, the officious voice at Penny’s shoulder whispered, “We must keep this space open.” He said, “I must ask you to step aside.”
    Frozen, Penny willed the solitary diner to look up and see her. To see how pretty she looked. The crowd forming behind her grumbled, restless. She couldn’t move. The doorman, the parking valet, someone would have to lift her and carry her out like a sack of potatoes.
    At last, the man writing in his notebook looked up. His eyes met Penny’s. Every head in the cavernous room turned to follow his gaze. The man stood, and the noise of so many people dwindled. As if a curtain were rising at the opera, every voice fell silent.
    Without breaking eye contact, the man crossed to the bottom of the stairs and began to climb toward her. Still two steps down, he stopped and offered his hand. As she had once been below him on the office carpet, reaching up, now he was beneath her.
    She reached out. His fingers felt as cold as she remembered.
    Just as she’d seen in the
National Enquirer
, C. Linus Maxwell escorted her. Just as he’d escorted so many exquisite women. Down the remaining steps. Across the hushed room. He pulled out her chair and seated her. He took his own seat and closed his notebook. Only then did the voices that surrounded them begin to rise.
    “Thank you for joining me,” he said. “You look