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.”
THIRTY-ONE
I should have been relieved the second my cab door closed, but I held my breath all the way along Central Park South. When we reached the horse-drawn carriages across the street from the Plaza,