Courtney helped herself to one of the flutes of champagne that were being passed around. “Well, so much for being able to take your mind off today,” she said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because Lombardo’s is the talk of the party, Nick. Hell, it’s the talk of the city.”

I was hardly surprised.

The front page of the New York Post’s late edition had screamed, “DEATH DU JOUR!” Meanwhile, the local and cable news networks were having a field day. By the time they hit the airwaves with live feeds outside of Lombardo’s, they were able to report the identity of the first victim – the guy sitting next to Dwayne and me.

I could’ve sworn I knew him, and I was right.

His name was Vincent Marcozza, and he was the longtime lawyer – excuse me, consigliere – for reputed Brooklyn mob boss Eddie “The Prince” Pinero.

“Everyone’s convinced today was payback,” said Courtney. I nodded. “I guess.”

Eddie “The Prince” Pinero had been convicted the week before on criminal usury charges, otherwise known as loansharking at an interest rate that would make even your credit card company blush.

The case was the first time Vincent Marcozza – a legal heavyweight, in every sense of the word – had failed to spring his biggest client. But hey, even Bruce Cutler didn’t win every time on behalf of John Gotti.

But Marcozza’s performance in the trial had been heavily criticized by legal pundits. They said he’d been uncharacteristically sloppy and at times seemed ill prepared. As Jeffrey Toobin told Anderson Cooper on CNN, “Marcozza really took his eyes off the ball this time.”

His eyes, huh?

Courtney raised her champagne glass. Then she gave me that big blue-eyed wink of hers. “So here’s to you, Nick.”

“Me? For what?” I asked.

“For starters, being alive,” she said. “I had no idea you were such a magnet for danger these days. A girl could really get in trouble hanging around you.”

We clinked glasses, but what followed could only be described as an awkward silence between us. It was all due to the subtext of what she’d just said.

Which brings me back to the second thing you need to know about Courtney Sheppard.

I owe you that one, remember?

THE PROBLEM BETWEEN us was as clear as the ten-carat diamond on her finger.

Courtney was engaged.

And not just to anybody, but to Thomas Ferramore, one of the wealthiest guys in New York. We’re talking loaded here. Super megabucks. A one-man stimulus package, if you will.

Ferramore owned commercial real estate, lots of it. He owned an airline. He owned over a dozen radio stations. Two soccer teams.

Oh yeah, and he owned Citizen magazine.

After their yearlong “whirlwind courtship” that rivaled the likes of Lindsay Lohan, Britney Spears, and Brangelina for boldfaced mentions in the gossip pages, the two of them were scheduled to be married this fall at the ultraposh San Sebastian Hotel here in the city. You guessed it. Ferramore owned that, too.

The whole thing promised to be the don’t-miss social event of the season. A real storybook wedding. Problem was, there’d been an unexpected chapter written. Only two people knew about it, and Thomas Ferramore wasn’t one of them.

The night before I left for Darfur, Courtney and I had slept together.

We immediately agreed that it was a one-time thing, a complete lapse in judgment due to our close working relationship over the years. And our friendship, platonic up until then. Sometimes histrionic, often hilarious.

“We can’t pretend it didn’t happen, nor do I want to,” she said the morning after. “But we have to act like it didn’t happen, Nick, okay? And that’s that.”

Compartmentalizing again.

But I suspected it wouldn’t be as easy as “that’s that.”

Sure enough, after her little toast to me, “it” was suddenly the big white elephant in the big white marble room of Astor Hall. We couldn’t ignore it, not until we at least had discussed it some more. As much as we might have tried, there was no way to stuff that elephant into a box.

More important, I didn’t want to. For better or worse, Courtney needed to know how I felt about her, and maybe it had taken getting shot at in Africa for me to fully understand that.

So I took a swig of my Laphroaig 15 Year Old Scotch, followed by a deep breath. Here goes, well, everything, I was thinking.

I turned to her. She was wearing a long black dress with a jewel neckline, her auburn hair elegantly pulled back behind her ears. Beautiful – and so, so sweet.

“Courtney, there’s something I need to -” “Uh-oh,” she interrupted.

Uh-oh?

But she wasn’t reading tea leaves. This had nothing to do with what I was about to say to her. Instead, Courtney was peering over my right shoulder. She’d seen someone, hadn’t she?

“We’ve got big trouble at twelve o’clock,” she announced.

“HELLO, NICK,” I heard coming up behind me.

I turned to see Brenda Evans, the very blond, very attractive on-air stock market analyst for WFN – the World Financial – based here in New York. Her nickname, mainly among men, was the “Bull and Bear Babe.” I, however, knew Brenda by a different moniker.

My ex-girifriend.

“Hello, Brenda,” I said. Those two words were the first I’d spoken to her since she’d broken up with me a little less than a year ago. My next five words were a complete lie. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too, Nick,” she said. She was probably lying through those brilliantly white teeth of hers, but I couldn’t be sure. That’s how good she was.

As Brenda and Courtney quickly exchanged air kisses and pretended they liked each other, I realized Brenda wasn’t alone. With her was David Sorren, the all-powerful Manhattan district attorney, not to mention one of People magazine’s “25 Most Eligible Bachelors.”

“Hi,” he said to me, not waiting for Brenda to introduce us. “I’m David Sorren.”

“Of course you are,” I said jokingly. Jeez, he had shiny white teeth, too.

Beyond the cover of People, I’d seen him on the news at least a hundred times, usually standing on the steps of the Manhattan Criminal Courthouse touting the latest conviction of some bad guy. Now, with any luck, Sorren would be a complete prick in person so I could immediately hate him.

“And you’re Nick Daniels,” he said as we shook hands firmly. “I’m a big fan of your writing. In fact, I think you got robbed last year on the Pulitzer.”

So much for hating the guy.

“Well, as we runners-up say, it was an honor just to be nominated. But thanks,” I said.

“Don’t let him fool you – he cried for three days straight,” said Courtney, chiming in with one of her patented wisecracks. She began to introduce herself, but it was another case of someone who needed no introduction.

“Yes, hello, Courtney,” said Sorren, giving her the extrafriendly two-handed grasp direct from the Bill Clinton play-book. “I’ve been wanting to meet you for quite some time. I’m glad our paths have finally crossed.”

Courtney wasn’t born yesterday.

“You’re not just saying that so Citizen magazine will run a big puff piece on you after you announce your candidacy for mayor next week, right?” she said.

Sorren wasn’t born yesterday, either.

“Of course I am. Let me know if it works,” he answered with a wink. “In the meantime, congratulations on your recent engagement. Is Mr. Ferramore here?”

“No, he’s actually traveling on business,” said Courtney. “He’s in Europe. Home next week.”

Brenda promptly took back the reins of the conversation, another thing she was always good at.

“So, Nick, I understand you had quite the eventful afternoon,” she said. “That must have been terrible. I’m sorry you had to see it.”

I was about to ask how she knew I had been at Lombardo’s when I remembered that this was Brenda Evans, the dogged reporter. Her sources extended well beyond her Wall Street turf.