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“But I’ll let you know, okay?”
    “Fine. Just let me know.”
    Emma clicked the phone off, shrugged out of her robe and plunged into the steamy shower.
    THE parking lot of L’Etoile wasn’t too crowded when Emma got there, and she managed to find a space fairly near thefront door, where a green and white striped awning stretched out to the sidewalk.
    The interior of L’Etoile was dimly lit and soothingly cool after the mugginess of the Tennessee evening. Emma pulled her pashmina shawl up around her shoulders. L’Etoile was Paris’s most upscale restaurant—the go-to place for special birthdays, memorable anniversaries and popping the question. The tables were covered in white linen, the silver was heavy, the waiters wore dinner jackets and there wasn’t a revolving rack of cakes and pies for sale by the hostess stand.
    Emma walked through the bar, where the bartender paused briefly in his glass-polishing to give her the once-over. Judging by the smile on his lips, she passed.
    The maitre d’ stood behind a wooden console, a stack of menus in his arms.
    “Mademoiselle.” He bowed and tugged at the collar of his dress shirt. A couple sat on the banquette just outside the dining room, waiting for their table. They were holding hands and looked nervous.
    “I’m meeting a friend.” Emma scanned the dusky restaurant. Only half the tables were filled—it was late by Paris standards—but she didn’t immediately see Guy. Drat, she was hoping he would have already arrived.
    A couple was tucked into the darkened corner in the back, and something about the girl caught Emma’s eye. Even seated, Emma could tell she was very tall, and thin, with long, honey-colored hair. Her arms were draped around her companion’s shoulders like a sweater, and their heads were together in a whispered tête-à-tête. The girl moved slightly, and Emma caught a glimpse of the man’s face.
    It was Guy.
    No wonder the woman looked familiar—it was Nikki St. Clair, the model Guy was rumored to have been playing around with before Emma had fled New York. Emma hadstyled a number of shoots with her and Guy. You couldn’t open a magazine or newspaper these days without seeing her posing half clad for some advertisement or fashion layout, and her photos were plastered on billboards from New York to California. Emma noticed the other patrons glancing at her and whispering to each other.
    Guy looked up and caught sight of Emma. She saw the shocked look on his face. Had he been planning on ditching Nikki before she got there? She didn’t stay long enough to find out.
    She turned on her heel, flew past the astonished maitre d’, past the bartender whose head swiveled to follow her as she blew by, out the door and into the car.
    Loose gravel churned up and hit the side of the car as she blasted out of the parking lot and down the street.
    EMMA didn’t cry until she got back to her apartment and slammed and locked the door behind her. Her mind was whirling, and her hands were shaking with fury. She leaned against the closed door as hot tears ran down her cheeks. Guy Richard was nothing but a sniveling, lying, cheating
bastard
!
    And she was through with him. Finished.
Finito. Finis
. No matter what language you used, the result was the same—she was through!
    She kicked off her high-heeled sandals, dropped her dress on the bed and pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of yoga pants. Her stomach rumbled loudly, but she couldn’t face the prospect of eating. What she needed was some chocolate. And a glass of wine.
    Arabella had left the refrigerator stocked with basics like ketchup, eggs, bread and a wedge of Brie. Fortunately, Arabella’s idea of the basics included an ice-cold bottle of pinot grigio. Emma rummaged in the drawers until she found thecorkscrew. She grabbed a glass from the shelf, poured the wine and put the bottle back in the refrigerator. She went through the cupboards again, but the only chocolate she could find was a half-finished