When she emerged, she spotted her date across the bubbling stew of people. Gabe was embroiled in conversation with a sophisticated older couple: a man in a sharp suit and a painfully thin woman in a stylish wrap dress. They had to be friends, or colleagues, perhaps. Nat pushed her way through the thick crowd toward Gabe and his companions. When she was about fifteen feet away, Gabe looked up and met her gaze. What she saw in his eyes stopped her dead in her tracks.

A warning. Even a threat.

Gabe did not want her to approach, did not want to introduce her to this classy pair. If Natalie walked up to him, he would shun her, dismiss her, even disparage her. Because she was a paid escort, nothing more. Gabe was embarrassed to be seen with her, ashamed of her. She stood still, in the middle of the crowd, her face hot with humiliation. Ahead of her, Gabe clapped the man on the upper arm and kissed the woman on the cheek. As the couple moved back toward the theater, Gabe made his way toward Nat.

“Ran into an old client,” he said, his upbeat tone forced. “Shall I get us that champagne?” But a musical tone rang out then, and the house lights flickered. “I guess I left it too late,” Gabe said lamely.

“That’s okay.”

Nat led the way down the aisle, Gabe close behind her. His hand was not on the small of her back as it had been when they arrived. He seemed tense and distracted; she could feel him looking around the theater. When they sat, he didn’t lean over to whisper in her ear.

For the second half of the show, he didn’t hold her hand.

22

Honduras

Running into Michael and Suze Weintraub while he was at the theater with Natalie had been a close call. Luckily, Gabe’s date had gone to the restroom, allowing him to catch up with his former client and the man’s wife without raising any suspicions. Gabe’s firm had helped Weintraub’s company with a hostile takeover that had gotten messy. Spending all that time in the trenches together, crossing the lines that had to be crossed, had developed a rapport between them. They shared a bond that went beyond the professional. Michael had suggested dinner with their wives, and they’d found that the women hit it off, too. Suze Weintraub was in publishing. Celeste was well-read. They’d had four or five dinners before Celeste got sick and retreated to the country full-time.

Gabe glanced over at his wife, standing at the gleaming Italian marble countertop in their spacious kitchen. She was in her element, surrounded by fresh produce and cookbooks. Despite some puffiness around her eyes from lack of sleep, she was lively, almost glowing, planning tonight’s dinner party. They were hosting an old cop friend of Celeste’s—Manny Dosanjh, from the crime lab, and his newish wife . . . Trudy or Judy or something like that. Gabe found Manny coarse and pedantic, but Celeste thought he was salt of the earth.