The dark-haired man on Veronica’s right volunteered, “I’m Cameron Hardwick from New York.” His smile was pleasant.

Veronica spoke for Regan and herself. “I am Lady Veronica Exner from Oxford, widow of the late Sir Gilbert Exner, and this is my dear friend, Regan Reilly.”

Immaculata Buttacavola’s large brown eyes filled with understanding. “Did you lose your husband recently?” she asked tenderly.

“Forty years ago,” Veronica said briskly, but then added, “sometimes it feels like yesterday.”

Oh brother, Regan thought. Let’s hope Immaculata what’s-her-name doesn’t ask Veronica how long they were married.

“Regan Reilly,” Gavin Gray mused. “What a charming name.” He gave her a knowing look and a hint of a wink.

The captain, pad in hand, approached them. “Do you care to order a beverage now?”

“Lovely.” It was obvious that Veronica had already become the self-appointed spokesperson. “But tell me. Will these two seats be occupied?” Her question was hopeful.

Regan couldn’t help but notice that Sylvie Arden was trembling to hear the answer.

“Yes, they certainly will,” called out one of two men circling the table and heading for the empty seats. He was about five feet nine, of average build, with thinning brown hair flecked with gray, a matching mustache, and horn-rimmed glasses that magnified amused, intelligent eyes. His companion was a couple of inches taller, a bit stockier, and his shiny black hair was pulled back into a pony tail fastened by a diamond clip. Both seemed to be in their early forties.

Regan watched Sylvie’s hopes dry up faster than a drop of water on a sizzling sidewalk as she realized that the newcomers were a couple.

“Oh, perfect timing,” Veronica gushed. “We’re just about to order our sherry.”

“I’m not having sherry,” Mario protested.

“It gives him a headache,” Immaculata rushed to explain. “We usually have a mixed drink before dinner. It could be a tequila sunrise, it could be a rye and ginger, it could be an old-fashioned; on special occasions I get out the blender and start to make—”

“Could we possibly place our orders?” Cameron Hardwick interrupted, a hint of impatience in his voice.

The first of the new arrivals was seated next to Immaculata. Quickly he turned to her, smiling warmly. “Your suggestion of an old-fashioned is marvelous. Will you join us in one? Does that sound good to you, Kenneth?”

The moment of tension passed as they gave their orders. You’re a nice guy, Regan thought, smiling across the table at the newcomer. And what about you, Cameron Hardwick? she wondered. You’re good-looking, well-dressed, and at an age when a lot of women should be chasing after you and you’re traveling alone? Why? You must be a jerk.

The introductions began again. Regan was relieved that on this go-round everyone just volunteered their names. The late arrivals went last.