Trotter guffawed. “Damn straight,” he said loudly, and waved expansively toward no one in particular and a waiter quickly came over.

“That glass of Barolo, make it a bottle. I trust that’s okay, gentlemen? Second thought, bring the glasses and then the bottle in a few minutes. I need a real drink after the morning I had.”

Edmund looked on, suppressed irritation sticking in his craw. That little sideshow just set him back at least a couple hundred bucks. But scenes like this were part of the cost of doing business with Jerry Trotter.

“No serious problems, I hope, Jerry,” Edmund said.

“Everything’s a fucking problem,” Jerry said in his usual penetrating voice. A man in a Cucinelli sweater who’d brought his family to lunch turned around and shot Jerry a look.

“Whoops, apologies, forgot where I was,” Jerry said to the man.

“I thought we should meet in the office,” Edmund said. “You know, easier to speak freely.” Jerry Trotter, like a lot of financiers, swore like a stevedore. Edmund didn’t care about that but he wanted to discuss LifeDeals’ predicament without having to hold back in front of the other diners.

“Got to eat, Edmund,” Trotter said, picking up the menu.

“Of course, Jerry.”

Edmund thought that Jerry Trotter probably knew the menu better than the restaurant’s own waitstaff. Everyone insisted on playing these childish games, thought Edmund, aware that, once more, he was the one being toyed with. Edmund studied Trotter’s face. He knew the man was at least sixty, but he looked closer to forty-five with his sweep of gunmetal hair, a few trace laugh lines, and bright blue eyes still a shade of azure that caused more than a few people to take a breath when they saw them. If he’d had any cosmetic work done, it was very good.

“Max, what was that special again?”

The waiter was handing out the glasses of Barolo.

“The pasta?” Higgins questioned with his upper-crust London accent. “Orecchiette with sweet sausage, broccolini, touch of ricotta. Sounds marvelous.”

“Ah, gives me a hard-on just to think about it. Of course. Times four, what do you say, guys? Cold day, calls for some soup, I think. The other special, squash soup, little bit of cream, am I right, Max? All around, sir, if you don’t mind.”

The waiter agreed it was a great selection. Edmund made a point of looking at his menu a couple of beats longer, then folded it and handed it over. He was too upset to protest. Now Trotter was swirling the red wine around in his glass. It was a lovely ruby color and on another occasion, Edmund would have been rhapsodizing about it.