Runaway Wolfes of Manhattan Three - Helen Hardt Page 0,19
tag. Once the customer held the item, they almost always bought it.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said.
“It does to me.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to pay you for it. That’s why.”
“But I don’t want you to pay for it.”
Blue unlocked the case from behind the counter and pulled out the piece. “It is gorgeous,” she said. “I had a customer look at it this morning but—” Her cheeks reddened.
“It’s okay, Blue,” I said. “It’s an expensive piece. I’m glad the customer didn’t buy it, because it’s perfect for Riley. Has her name right on it.”
Riley blushed adorably. “No, it doesn’t.”
“Well, not yet, but I’ll engrave it and then it will.”
“May I look at it?”
I took the piece from Blue, hastily whisked off the tiny price tag, and handed it to Riley.
She fingered the delicate silver chain. “It’s so lovely. I could almost swear it was white gold.”
“It’s rhodium-plated sterling. That’s what I use for all my fine pieces. It resists tarnishing, which is why it resembles white gold. Not quite as sparkly, but a good substitute.”
“I can’t accept it.” She handed it back to me. “We hardly know each other.”
She was right. It was a generous gift, and we’d only known each other for two days. I gave it to Blue. “Put this in the back.”
She nodded, placed the piece in a cotton-lined box, and went into the back where she presumably locked it in the safe.
Riley smiled. “You’re keeping it for me?”
“Only until you leave. If you still won’t accept it then, I’ll put it back for sale.”
“You’re sweet.”
Was it odd that she hadn’t asked me what the price was?
Most women would have asked, especially if they’d offered to buy it, which she had.
But then…most women weren’t familiar with the expensive pieces at Tiffany’s. Most women didn’t drink real Champagne from France.
Most women weren’t Riley Mansfield.
Money didn’t seem to be an issue for Riley. Yes, she’d said her parents had money…
Still, something wasn’t adding up.
I was determined.
I’d solve the equation of Riley Mansfield.
And I’d do it in the next several days.
13
Riley
I’d wanted to accept the pendant.
I’d really wanted to accept it.
But I couldn’t.
As much as I wished I were a normal woman who might be able to have a normal relationship with a wonderful man like Matteo Rossi…I wasn’t.
I never would be.
Taking the beautiful piece wouldn’t have been fair to Matt. I’d certainly be willing to buy it. In fact, I’d wanted to.
It would be a beautiful souvenir of my week here in Sumter Falls, Montana.
“Is everything here one of a kind?” I asked.
“Pretty much,” Matt said. “Sometimes someone will ask me to duplicate a piece, and I will, but I always make it just a tiny bit different. Even if I’m the only one who knows.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s art, honey. Every piece should be unique.”
I nodded. “I get it. My brother’s an artist.”
“Oh? The one who lived here in Montana?”
Crap. First rule of disappearing—don’t volunteer too much information about yourself. “Yes. I only have one brother.”
Actually three, but that was way too much information.
“What kind of artist is he?”
“A sculptor.”
Rule number two of disappearing—if you inadvertently give away too much information, lie to cover it up. Roy was a painter. His preferred medium was oil on canvas. I doubted he’d ever sculpted anything in his life.
“What does he sculpt?”
Rule number three of disappearing—give only vague responses.
“A little bit of everything.”
“What’s his name?”
Rule number four of disappearing—never give names.
“He’s not well known. It’s really just a hobby.”
“Yeah, that makes sense, since he had to move to New York for work.”
Damn. Had I said that? I cleared my throat. “Yeah.”
“I see.” Matt gazed into my eyes.
I resisted the urge to look away. Not meeting a gaze was a sign of lying. I knew that. I was good at lying. Except lying to Matteo Rossi. Apparently I was really bad at that.
“Oh,” Matt finally said. “Still, he has a name, right?”
“Sure. It’s…Michael.”
“Michael Mansfield. Maybe I’ll google him.”
“He doesn’t have a website. He’s a teacher. Like I am.”
“Ah. An art teacher and a business teacher.”
“Right.”
“But he had to move to New York for work.”
What the heck was wrong with me? Major mistake. Why would an art teacher have to move to New York?
“A friend of his from high school recommended him for a job at a private school.” Nice save.
“I see,” Matt said again. “Did your lawyer parents have a problem with the two of you going into education?”
“No.”
“Good.” He nodded.
I braced myself, ready to answer more questions. Ready to give out more misinformation.
But Matt didn’t ask