Espresso Shot

Thirty

The five-star Mandarin Oriental Hotel occupied 248 rooms on nearly twenty floors of the Time Warner Center’s north tower. Nunzio’s two-room suite featured Italian-made bed linens, a fully stocked private bar, a marble bath with a flat-panel TV, and a soaking tub with a picture-window view.

If I hadn’t been in a relationship, I might have considered spending the night with the sculpted Italian sculptor (if only to have the transcendent experience of soaking in a tub with a bird’s-eye view of Central Park). But I was in a relationship—with a man I cared very much about—so sleeping with Nunzio was out of the question, which meant I had to outwit this guy or I was screwed (a vulgar term, I grant you, but all too apropos, considering Nunzio’s implied agenda).

The moment I stepped out of my cab, the skies opened up. Everything the storm clouds had been carrying for the last few hours sloshed out like an overfilled fountain—and came down all over me.

Perfect.

I hurried the few steps from the curb to the entrance of the glass-wrapped tower’s West Sixtieth Street entrance, but I got plenty wet anyway. I headed directly to the elevators, ascended to the fifty-third floor, took a resolute breath, and knocked on the door of Nunzio’s hotel suite.

“Ciao, bella.”

His broad features were as forceful as I remembered, his dark eyes as bedroomy, too, like twin bottomless pools of spiked cocoa. His wavy hair was still caught in its rakish black ponytail, but he’d exchanged his Armani suit for brown slacks and a form-fitting sweater the subdued yellow shade of Italian polenta.

“Hello,” I said after an unfortunate moment in which my tongue failed to work. “I’m here... as you can see.”

Nunzio must have taken the “see” part as some kind of invitation, because he leaned against the doorjamb and studied me, his artist’s gaze sweeping my body a lot less subtly than it had in Breanne’s office. I wasn’t dripping wet, but my pearl-pink wrap dress wasn’t exactly dry, either. His gaze appeared to smolder as it lingered on certain areas. I felt my cheeks warming, but I refused to look down at the state of my thin, silk, embarrassingly damp garment.

“Come,” he finally said, waving me in.

The suite was tastefully appointed: an odd blend of 1940s Hong Kong and sleek, efficient, generic modern hotel. The sitting room held delicate fine-grained tables of Asian cherry wood, original Chinese artwork, plush sofas in forest green, and a state-of-the-art entertainment system. The rug and walls were a neutral cream, but the decor wasn’t really the point. Nothing in the room could hold a candle to the expansive floor-to-ceiling views of Central Park and the Manhattan skyline, its million golden windows shining through the urban night like earth-anchored stars.

Through an open door, I glimpsed the suite’s bedroom. The view was just as spectacular in there. With the table lamps turned low, the drapes fully opened, and the Fili D’oro linens crisply waiting, I knew sleeping with a man in a place like this would feel like making love on a cloud in heaven. But then I thought of all those mortal girls pursued by Greek deities and shivered; few of them came to good ends.

Nunzio closed the front door and locked it, then crossed to a bucket of icing champagne. “Go into my bedroom, bella, and take off your clothes.”

Every muscle in my body froze. I’d expected to have at least a little wiggle room to talk this man out of his feudal bargain. But if he was going to take that attitude, I had no choice. With a sigh, I turned around and headed for the front door.

“Where are you going?!”

“I’m not here to take demands, Nunzio.”

He threw up his hands. “Your clothes and shoes are wet. There is a robe in the bath. Hang your dress over the towel warmer, and it will dry.” Nunzio popped the champagne and began to pour. “I will not touch you, Clare, unless you wish it.” He met my eyes. “Cross my heart.”

I gritted my teeth, my hand on the doorknob, and glanced down at my wet dress. It wasn’t obscene or anything, but the clinging silk wasn’t exactly modest, either.

“Fine.”

I moved into the bathroom, ignored the damn marble tub with its damn Central Park view, and removed my damn damp dress. The towel warmer was on, and I hung the silk garment over the dry towel already on it. I took off my platform sandals, too, and wrapped the long, fluffy terry robe around me. My hair was wet, so I used the blow dryer on the counter to fluff it up. With another fortifying breath, I moved back out into the sitting room.

Nunzio was waiting with the poured champagne. He handed me a flute. “To Breanne and her groom,” he said, raising his glass to mine.

I drank to that (hoping the groom had at least called his bride by now) and tried not to enjoy the dry tickle of costly bubbles on my palate. Then I started my rehearsed speech.

“Nunzio, listen to me, okay? Despite what this looks like—” I gesture to my robe and bare feet. “I’m not here to trade my body for your fountain.”

He laughed. “Lover’s Spring is not on the auction block, bella. I was going to lend it to Breanne for her wedding, not give it away.”

“Well, I’m not on the auction block, either. If you have legitimate concerns, I’m willing to discuss them, allay any worries about the way it will be displayed—”

“It’s not that,” he said, moving to sit on one of the overstuffed sofas. “I have never shown the piece here in America.” He shook his head, gesturing to the muted flat-panel TV, where an Italian channel was playing highlights of a soccer match. “I don’t know if Americans will be able to appreciate my art.”

“Why? Because we play baseball instead of soccer?”

“Your culture is...” He shook his head. “Loud. Violent. Scusa, but I find it... how you say? Volgare.”

“Vulgar? Americans are vulgar? Oh, really? The country that gave birth to Ben Franklin, Mark Twain, Billie Holiday, Ira Gershwin, the Wright brothers, Frank Lloyd Wright, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Jackson Pollock, and Jacqueline Onassis is vulgar? I see. Then I suppose you’re not expecting to distribute your new jewelry line here—one of the most lucrative markets on the planet? If we’re too vulgar to appreciate your genius sculpture, then I guess we’re too vulgar to pay for your amazing rings and necklaces, too, is that right?”

He frowned. “How do you know about my new jewelry line?”

“I was in Breanne’s office during most of your meeting. I overheard her mention it.”

Nunzio nodded, stretched his free arm across the back of the sofa. “I remember that meeting, too, bella. I remember the look on your face when I touched your hand. Come sit beside me.”

Nope, not gonna work. “I’m only here to persuade you to go through with your promise.”

“Si. That is why you are here. I agree.” He sipped his champagne and smiled. “To persuade me.”

“Good!” I crossed to where I’d dropped my tote bag. “Then try these...”

I pulled Janelle’s three bakery boxes out of the damp bag. Luckily, the thick tote had shielded the boxes from getting the least bit wet. “You heard about Hurricane Katrina’s damage to New Orleans, right?”

“Katrina?” His dark eyebrows came together in confusion. “Si. I heard of this tragedy. But why—”

“The woman who made these amazing confections came to New York after she lost her job in a restaurant that was destroyed by Katrina. For a few years, she worked as the pastry chef at Solange, a highly acclaimed New York restaurant. But the place closed last fall after the owner died, so she took a job with a specialty cake baker. She worked two shifts a day to earn the money to quit after a few months and start her own company. These pastries, for Breanne’s wedding, were baked by her new little company. Here, try an anginetti...”

“This is an anginetti?” He examined the tiny work of art.

“Amazing isn’t it?”

Typically, Italian desserts were delicious to eat but presented in unassuming forms, unlike the polished precision of French cuisine. Italian bakers favored simple presentations, using things like candied fruit and nuts, powdered sugar, or a light glaze to finish a cake or tart. “The perfect is the enemy of the good.” That’s how my grandmother used to put it. (And she probably would have pointed out: “What good is Monica’s perfect body doing her in the morgue?”)

I did understand wanting to be perfect. I used to strive for perfection in everything—my coffee, my marriage, myself. But life was naturally messy, and perfection required far too much ruthlessness. Being human was better. Humans made mistakes and moved on. Like Nana tried to tell me years ago: being good was better than being perfect.

Still... looking at Janelle’s beautifully shaped and decorated anginetti, I had to admit that she’d done a near-perfect job on reinventing the rustic Italian cookie, getting it all dressed up for its Manhattan debut.

“I enjoyed these cookies at family weddings when I was a little girl. The ring shape represents the wedding bands. But Janelle recast the idea of a single rope of dough. See how she sculpted each tiny cookie to look like a coffee cake ring?”

“Si. Very clever.”

I sampled a bite for myself. The texture was tender and buttery, the glaze of icing a sophisticated kiss of lemon flavor.

“Janelle’s using Meyer lemons. They have less acidity than other varieties. And the sculpting of the anginetti into a tiny coffee cake shape goes with our primary theme for the dessert display: Saloma Sunrise.”

“Saloma?” Nunzio smiled. “My little hometown?”

“And Ovid’s, too, right?”

He nodded, clearly happy that I’d done my research.

“We worked with the metric volume of liquid that your fountain holds and determined the perfect amounts of peach nectar and cherry juice to be added to the Prosecco in order to create a Bellini that will mimic the romantic golden orange color of a Saloma dawn. The wedding is at sunset, but the coffee and dessert station is looking to our bride and groom’s future, to their first sunrise as a married couple. So the primary pastry theme is breakfast.”

“Breakfast?” Nunzio frowned. “What? Eggs and bread?”

“No, no, no... it’s just a theme. Look...” I opened the second box. It was filled with samples of cookies shaped and baked with a slight egg wash to look exactly like miniature croissants. “Each cookie carries a different flavor experience. The Grand Marnier croissant cookie is accentuated with orange rind, the Frangelico with finely powdered hazelnuts, and the Kahlua with a premium coffee infusion from Panama’s Esmeralda Especial geisha coffee trees—what we call the champagne of the coffee world.”

Nunzio sampled each one, sipping champagne between bites of the tiny, sculpted pastries. “Delizioso!”

“Now try Janelle’s version of orange à l’orange.”

Nunzio nodded, picked up one of the delicate confections that resembled a tiny half orange.

“Janelle dyes and shapes marzipan, fashioning it to resemble the shell of an orange rind. She then cooks oranges in a simple syrup, incorporates slivers of their own candied skin, and fills the marzipan shell.”

“Mmmmmm. Buonissimo.”

“Because it’s marzipan, you’ll taste a creamy hint of sweet almond to counterbalance the tangy-sweet yet slightly tart citrus filling. She’s imported blood oranges from Sicily just for the wedding. She’s doing the same thing with Key limes, which have a milder level of acidity.

“Our secondary theme is tied directly to your Lover’s Spring fountain. Since each tier in the gold-plated fountain is sculpted with reliefs that tell the stories of great lovers through time, we attached pastries to each tier.

“For Adam and Eve, we have Forbidden Fruit Cakes, which are not actually fruitcake but mini-sponge cakes soaked with the grapefruit-orange-honey flavors of the cognac-based Forbidden Fruit liqueur.

“For Antony and Cleopatra, we have stuffed caramel walnuts, a recipe translated from hieroglyphics and said to have been used by Cleopatra to fortify her lovers.”

“Ah!” Nunzio perked right up on that story. “Do you have any of those?” He began looking in all three boxes.

“Sorry, no sale.”

“Oh, too bad.” He threw me a wink.

I cleared my throat. “I’ll bet you can guess what we’re doing for Romeo and Juliet.”

Nunzio laughed. “Baci di Romeo e Baci di Giulietta!”

I smiled and nodded. Romeo’s Kisses were small almond-flavored cookies, sandwiched together in pairs with chocolate filling. Juliet’s Kisses were the same, only the cookies were chocolate.

“For Romeo’s Kisses, Janelle is replacing the almonds with pistachios, and for the filling, using her favorite recipe for chocolate ganache. For Juliet’s Kisses, she’s staying with the chocolate-flavored cookie, but for the filling she’s using vanilla pastry cream infused with raspberry—since, of course, chocolate and raspberry are a wonderful pairing. We have a latte that uses that same flavor profile at my coffeehouse.”

Nunzio tasted Janelle’s twists on the old Verona favorites. He nodded and smiled. “She is very good, Clare. An artista.”

“I was hoping you’d say that. But as good as she is, her field is highly competitive. Breaking out of the pack and getting noticed is very difficult in this town—in any profession. That’s why Breanne’s wedding is so important for Pastries by Janelle, and that’s why your fountain is so important. Without it as the centerpiece of our display, Trend magazine won’t photograph it. Janelle Babcock will have lost a great opportunity for exposure.”

“Your friend, she is quite talented. And these treats are delizioso. But I think... listening to you speak so passionately for her, it makes me want a taste of something else even more ...”

He stepped closer. I stepped back.

“I’d like you to agree to lending us the fountain.”

“We both want something then? I think we can both get it, don’t you? A nice little transaction?”

“My virtue’s not on the bargaining table.”

He snorted, genuinely amused. “Keep your virtue, by all means. I only desire your company for the evening. Is that so terrible?”

I closed my eyes. It would be easy to give in, so easy...

My attraction to Nunzio wasn’t some fantasy on his part. I was in awe of his talent, and the artist himself was magnetic. But if the situation were reversed, if Mike slept with some woman in a casual one-night stand, I’d be devastated, and I’d begin to doubt him, especially after what I’d been through with my ex-husband.

Mike’s own broken marriage was still a fresh wound. The pain of his wife’s cheating had tortured him for years. I cared too much about the man to risk damaging what we had for a fleeting few hours of fantasy love; and that’s what it would be: the facsimile of something real.

Nunzio certainly had a girlfriend or even a wife back in Italy. I was a momentary trifle, an amuse-gueule during a brief business trip. What I had with Mike wasn’t an illusion. The view was closer to earth in Alphabet City, but so was the affection: real, well-rooted, and just starting to grow. I wasn’t willing to trade that for anything.

So what else did I have to trade that Nunzio wanted? Nothing. But I could trade on something. His reputation. That’s what Otto Visser was trying to tell me today; the key to Nunzio was his ego!

I walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows and pointed down fifty-plus floors. “Tell me something, Nunzio; you’ve seen the monument of Christopher Columbus at the center of the traffic circle, right?”

The sculptor smirked. “That is why they call it Columbus Circle, no?”

“Yes, but did you know that statue of your countryman is the point at which all distances to and from New York City are geographically measured?”

Nunzio’s eyebrows rose. “Is that so?”

He stepped up behind me. He wasn’t touching me, but he was standing so close I could feel the heat of his body. I swallowed uneasily, continued my little speech.

“The Metropolitan Museum is like that for America—the place from which art is measured—the most important museum of art in the country. For your work to be seen and photographed inside the Met, among the other great masters, that would really be something, wouldn’t it?”

“I have considered this. But I have also decided that it is still not a good enough bargain. I have had second thoughts on what was agreed to.”

“What are you taking about?”

“My deal with Breanne Summour. She is publishing the big profile on me and my work and my new jewelry line. And I give her the wedding rings in trade. Lending Lover’s Spring was part of this deal. But now I think this is too much to allow without further payment. I think I am owed something more...”

“Wait, back up. You’re telling me that Breanne bartered editorial space in her magazine in exchange for free wedding bands from you?”

Nunzio sighed. “I thought you knew this. I am soon opening boutiques in Rome, Paris, London, Tokyo, Beverly Hills, and on New York’s Fifth Avenue. Trend will feature me and my work and also showcase the rings I designed for Breanne’s wedding. Next season, I will be selling that same ring design in my stores.” He glanced down at me and smirked. “Place your orders now.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Volagare, si? But I need the income. As you can see...” He laughed. “I do enjoy living high.”

“Yeah...” I felt a little dizzy all of a sudden. “Fifty-three floors is awfully high, all right.”

But it was this revelation that had thrown me off balance. Matt often told me about wonderful items Breanne received from her designer or artist friends. But he—and I—assumed these were gifts, freely given. I had no idea the woman was making backroom deals. Now I wondered: Could one of those deals have backfired on her? Could someone have felt cheated? Cheated enough to want her dead?

“She is doing this with others, Clare,” Nunzio went on. “I am surprised you did not know. The flowers, the cake, her gown—Breanne told me all of this. I was part of a group, part of her grand plan. She is using her position to get many goods and services gratis for her wedding.”

“I didn’t know.”

“That woman dresses like aristocracy, but she acts like a peasant in the way she wheels and deals and threatens. You know, my grandfather had a saying: ‘For the quiet falcon, her feathers are enough. It is the braying donkey who needs the silk shawl.’ ”

“The braying donkey...”

A cartoon animal image entered my mind and fixed itself there. I saw Breanne as a donkey, Stuart Winslow riding her, ranting about how she’d struggled financially when she’d started out in New York. I hadn’t thought much about that stuff when Winslow had spewed it. He was high at the time, and Breanne’s public bio, online and elsewhere, clearly stated that she’d come from money. It even included a long list of her upper-class associations. But now I wondered... Nunzio’s revelation about backroom deals certainly didn’t add up to a woman with a typical patrician upbringing.

“My sweet one, let’s you and I not speak of these things any longer...” Nunzio had switched languages. He was now cooing to me entirely in Italian. “You are here. I am here. I know you will enjoy my touch.”

He’d been standing close; now he stepped even closer. I felt the front of his legs brushing the back of my robe, and then his muscular forearm was snaking around my waist, his lips were pressing against my neck.

“Don’t do that,” I said in plain English.

“Perhaps we can make a simple little trade of our own, bella? You enjoyed my touch the other day. You would enjoy feeling my hands on more of your body, no?”

“No!” I broke away, stepped clear.

Nunzio folded his arms, looked down at me, his patience obviously wearing thin. “But you want the fountain, si? And what would I get in return?”

“The satisfaction of knowing you were displayed at the Met!”

“I’d like something a little more satisfying tonight, and I think you would, too?”

He stepped toward me again. I backed away—a lot farther this time. I strode all the way to the bathroom, locked the door, got dressed in my dried-out clothes and shoes, and headed for the suite’s front door.

I paused in the sitting room to collect my tote bag. Nunzio was back on his sofa. I met the man’s eyes.

“I’m sorry you won’t change your mind.”

He shrugged. “Likewise.”

I was about to turn and go when I realized I had one last card to play, a piece of information Otto had given me.

“I’m sorry, Nunzio. Then you leave me no choice. I’ll have to go to Tio.”

“Tio?”

“Yes, the up-and-coming Spanish sculptor. You’ve heard of him, right? Well, his famous Trellis is in town, an amazing work. He begged Breanne to use it for her wedding, but she’d already committed to displaying your sculpture. Janelle will be disappointed. But I think we can make adjustments in our tablescape to highlight his piece instead.” I turned and headed for the door. “He’ll certainly be thrilled to see his sculpture displayed at the Met—and prominently featured in the same issue of Trend where you’re profiled—”

“No!”

“Sorry.” I reached for the door handle. “I really have to get going.”

“Wait!” Nunzio was on his feet. “Wait, signorina! Wait, wait, wait!”

Ten minutes later, I was downstairs, waiting for the doorman to hail me a taxi. Lover’s Spring wasn’t very large—just a tabletop fountain—but it was gold-plated and heavy. The sculpture was disassembled into a single base with nesting bowls, all packed expertly into an easy-to-handle wheeled suitcase.

Afraid the sculptor would change his mind, I insisted on taking it right up to the Metropolitan. I invited Nunzio to come with me, but he waved me off.

“My sculpture is well insured,” he said as we stood on the sidewalk, watching the doorman and taxi driver load the Pullman into the trunk. “Of course, Clare, should you lose it, you will owe me something. And then, bella, I won’t take no for an answer.”

Nunzio bent to kiss me on the lips. I turned my head, giving him my cheek instead. He laughed then kissed the other cheek, as well.

Ciao, bella.

“Yeah, pal,” I muttered as I firmly shut my cab door. “Arrivederci to you, too.”