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microphone. He sang his own version of the “Rose of Tralee.”
    Though lovely and fair as the rose of the summer
    It was not her beauty alone that won me
    Oh no! ’Twas the truth in her eye ever beaming
    That made me love Paris, the Rose of New York.
    “My God, that man is a die-hard romantic if I ever saw one.” Stephen leaned on his elbows against the bar, listening.
    “If Paris can get over herself long enough to see that, she’ll be the luckiest woman in Manhattan,” Anton said as he sipped his drink.
    “Thanks for bringing him to me. You just don’t find blokes like that every day.”
    “Blokes, what is that, the New Zealand Irish barkeep’s version?”
    “Right-o, mate. Oh my gawd, here comes the redhead herself. Duck.”
    Paris was standing in the door, framed inlight, listening to the last refrain of Turner’s song. She was damn stunning in that purple faux fur, Anton thought to himself. She came over to him, trying to act calm, but in his opinion she still looked a little blotchy around the eyes. “I figured you’d take him to Dolan’s.”
    “You’ve got cream cheese right here—this corner.” Anton pointed to his own mouth.
    Paris picked up a bar napkin and dabbed at the corner of her mouth. “Stephen, darling, how are you? How’s business?” She feigned pleasantness.
    “Lovely, fine, booming. Can I get you a drink?” Stephen gave her a fakey, twangy, nasal comeback. Anton watched them face off and come to a silent agreement that they’d behave. After all, it wasn’t Stephen’s fault that Anton had dragged Turner there, and Paris was smart enough to figure that out.
    “I’ve sworn off the stuff. Just have Nadine fry me up a single and get me extra vinegar. Oh, and a cup of chowder. No, a bowl, and a ginger ale. Did you actually give him a job?”
    “He’s just going to drop in and sing a number here and there. He’s got a hell of a voice. But I’d give him a permanent job if he was staying in town longer,” Stephen said. He looked like he regretted saying that as Paris glared him into a charbroiled smoking bit of New Zealand barkeep. “Or not.” He turned to stack glasses, out of eye contact.
    “I need to have a talk with him. Can you direct him to that dark little table over there when he’s done?”
    “You bet,” Stephen said over his shoulder.
    “I’ll join you for a bit.” Anton followed Her Majesty at a safe distance.
    “I’m not speaking to you.”
    “What is my crime?”
    “Fraternizing with the enemy.”
    “I couldn’t help myself. He’s so piacevole, so nice to be around. So genuine.” Anton lapsed into his family’s creative Italian and gestured toward Turner, who was now done singing and was headed her way, no prompting necessary from Stephen.
    “Yeah, yeah,” Paris muttered.
    “Give the man a chance, Paris. He came all the way to New York to prove to you he’s serious about this marriage thing. I told you, Venus was in your seventh house. It’s an excellent aspect.”
    “This marriage is not legal. It’s not real, and he’s not real. It will all fade away and we can get back to work.”
    “This from the woman who has had a serious drop in bookings? Darling, the universe is giving you a big sign. It’s ten feet tall and glowing red. Can’t you see it?”
    “Shut up, you are so…so…”
    “Honest?”
    By now Turner was standing in front of her table. “I’m glad you stopped in, Paris. We should talk.”
    “Anton, get lost.”
    “Yes, dear. Turner, I”ll have your steak sent over.”
    “Thanks. Thanks for everything, Anton.”
     
    Turner couldn’t take his eyes off Paris. She was shielding herself quite nicely with a thick layer of fur. It was darn cold out there tonight. And unfortunately, darn cold in here, as well—when he got near Paris. Turner said a silent prayer for Paris’s soul. She needed healing, he could see that much more clearly here than he had in Las Vegas.
    “Turner, I’m glad you’re here.”
    “So am I. Your