Pasta Imperfect - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,36

speeding Vespas disturbed the Florentine siesta with their constant chain-saw buzz.

"Blow twenty-five hundred dollars on a coat?" I cried. "Are you nuts?" Much as I adored leather, I liked food on the table and a roof over my head better.

"Yeah, but it was full-length."

We stashed bags labeled Intimissimi, Eredi Chiarini, Ferragamo, and Versace near our feet for safety and grabbed the plastic-encased menu from the middle of the table. None of the bags were mine. I was just a pack mule.

"Pizza looks good," Jackie said, studying the menu. That was nice to know, especially since pizza was the only item on the menu. The choices were written in Italian; but I'd been in Italy for two days, so my translation skills were improving by the minute.

"Just for your information, Emily, salsiccia is sausage, vongole is clams, cipolla is onion, and olive is olive. So, do you know what kind of pizza you want?"

"Yup." I pointed a proud finger at my selection. "Hawaiian." When I looked up again, I found Philip Blackmore navigating his way through a maze of tables toward us, Sylvia Root, Gabriel Fox, and the two divas traipsing close behind.

"Excuse me, Emily," he interrupted politely, his right shoulder drooping from the weight of the huge bottle of water he was toting in a sturdy L.L. Bean harness. Guzzling designer water might be considered trendy these days, but not if you ended up looking like Quasimodo. I wondered if Philip Blackmore was familiar with the term "water fountain."

"I realize we haven't been formally introduced," he continued, "but would you mind if we joined you? Duncan recommended this cafe to us, and as you can see, all the tables are filled...except yours."

Our table was big as a wagon wheel and could easily accommodate eight. "Um, sure," I said. "Happy to have you join us." Did I have a choice? I scooted my chair closer to Jackie's. Marla stood back, drilling me with a wary look.

"Should you be out in public? Philip warned us that you're highly contagious."

"Well, I don't know about the rest of you," Sylvia griped, pulling out a chair and plopping herself into it, "but I'm starving." Then to me, "If you're contagious, do me a favor and don't breathe on me. Is this the menu?" Her jacket and pants puddled around her like hundred-year-old-wrinkles. Her hair was thin and manishly cut, her face bland and colorless. She lacked style, sex appeal, and soft edges, but she oozed the kind of self-confidence and control that made you think the only time Sylvia Root wouldn't have the upper hand would be if she were eating a plate of spaghetti in that jacket of hers.

Gillian Jones looked slightly unsettled as she hovered beside Marla. "Is your skin condition very painful?" she asked me delicately.

"Why don't you ask her if it throbs?" Marla said under her breath.

"I heard that," Philip Blackmore said. "And as I cautioned the two of you back at the hotel, we are not having this conversation."

"Are you people going to stand there jabbering, or are you going to sit down and order?" Sylvia demanded.

While making introductions all around, Philip directed Marla and Gillian to adjacent chairs, which I thought was pretty risky considering they might be given access to silverware later. Gabriel Fox slid into the chair beside me. "So what's the story with your skin condition, Emily? No need to be embarrassed. We're all friends here." His light brown hair was razor cut to within an inch of its life, his beard a precise quarter inch of growth, his fingernails buffed and polished. His mouth gleamed with what I would guess was ten thousand dollars' worth of veneers, but his smile couldn't do the teeth justice. He looked about as comfortable smiling as Dumbo had looked flying.

"No story," I answered, raising my hands in the air. "I have everything under control."

He gave me a slow look up and down. "Somehow, I would have guessed that. So you can guarantee we won't be sorry we dined with you?"

"Not unless you choke on your food," said Sylvia. "And if that happens, you're on your own. I never learned the Heimlich maneuver."

"I know it!" Jackie volunteered. "I could save him."

"Don't waste your energy, honey." Sylvia dipped her head to eye Jackie over the top of her reading glasses. "It'd be a shame to break one of your pretty nails over him."

Gabriel grinned his amusement. "Sylvia's charm is her trademark. You should catch her on a bad day." He hugged