Cleo Coyle - Espresso Shot

She dismissively waved her French-tipped fingers. But I found the answer far too pat. I could also see that she was getting uncomfortable.

“Let me ask you something else then. I noticed a man in front of the boutique. He’s a big guy, probably in his fifties, has an ex-boxer’s sort of build. Short brown crew cut, crooked nose, wears off-the-rack suits. Do you know anyone with that description?”

“Clare, really.” Breanne folded her arms. “Does that sound like someone I would know?”

“Well, do yourself a favor, okay? Keep an eye out for a man like that. If you see him loitering around your apartment building, for instance, or shadowing your movements, please let Matt or me know, all right?”

Breanne shifted her gaze, appearing impatient, but at least she didn’t argue. “Yes. Fine. Anything else?”

“What’s your schedule today?”

She checked her slim, jeweled timepiece. “Roman and I already ate a bite of lunch. We’ll be going back to the office after I’m done here. I’ve got meetings all afternoon. Matt’s picking me up for cocktails and dinner around seven, right after my six o’clock meeting with Nunzio. He’s my last appointment at the office today.”

“Nunzio? The Italian sculptor?”

“Yes, he’s flying in from Rome, staying at the Mandarin.” She checked her watch again. “He should have arrived last night, although I haven’t heard from him yet.”

“He’s designing your rings, isn’t he? Matt mentioned it.”

Nunzio was also lending Breanne Lover’s Spring, a gold-plated metal sculpture that actually functioned as a tiered tabletop champagne fountain. The one-of-a-kind piece had been famously lent to two royal couples for their weddings. After that, aristocrats all over Europe clamored to borrow it. As far as I knew, it had never been displayed in the United States.

I still didn’t know how Breanne managed to convince Nunzio to lend it to her, but it was going to be a spectacular centerpiece for my coffee and dessert station. Chills ran though me when I thought of the presentation Janelle and I had planned around that amazing piece of art.

It was also an extremely valuable opportunity for publicity, not only for the Village Blend but for my friend Janelle Babcock, a gifted pastry chef who was just launching her new catering business. The entire tablescape was going to be photographed and appear in a splashy Trend spread-apparently as part of a bigger profile on Nunzio-and both Janelle and I were going be credited in the caption along with our businesses.

“Yes, Nunzio is a genius,” Bree said. “I couldn’t be more pleased with his wedding ring design. I’ve only seen sketches and a digital photo, but he’ll be bringing the actual rings to our meeting at six today. We’re featuring them in the magazine.”

I tapped my chin, thinking Bree’s day over. “If Matt’s going to be picking you up at your office, then I’ll stay with you till he comes. That’ll make him happy,” I added quickly before Breanne could protest. “We’re humoring your groom, remember?”

Breanne sighed, her expression close to an aggrieved grimace. “So you’re coming back to the office with me?”

“Yes.”

Another sigh. Then she looked me up and down again. “You can’t wear that to my office, Clare. We have advertisers and VIPs coming through all the time. We have an image, you understand?”

“But I’m not part of your staff, so why would-”

Breanne wasn’t listening. In three long strides, she moved around me, opened the fitting room door. “Adele! Would you come in here?”

The boutique manager was a small-boned, stylish woman, a head shorter than Bree and probably ten years older. Her short, cinnamon-brown hair was cut into a meticulously layered style, and her pinstriped suit, the color of raw salmon, was accessorized with a shimmering opalescent scarf that perfectly matched her sheer blouse and designer eyewear.

“Please find this woman something to wear,” Bree said, then lowered her voice. “Keep it under seven.”

“Thousand?” Adele asked quietly.

“Hundred,” Breanne whispered.

“I can’t afford that!” I interjected (neglecting to keep my voice down).

Breanne shrugged. “If you can give up a day for Matt. I can give up some petty cash.”

I tried not to choke on that one. Seven hundred had been my monthly mortgage payment back in New Jersey. But if Her Highness was paying, I figured what the heck. At least I could boast to Mike Quinn that someone actually compensated me for my investigative services.

“Okay,” I said, effectively green-lighting the assault on my dignity.

THE humiliation began immediately. Adele looked my body up and down with a critical eye, which included an exceedingly uncomfortable few moments puzzling over my hips and buttocks. Finally, she gave me a plastic, slightly pained smile.

“Let’s get you measured, shall we?”

“Fine,” I said, “just give me a minute.”

Skirting two tailoring dummies, I headed back down the hall to the boutique’s main floor. My gaze immediately searched the front windows for any sign of Pacing Man. But he was no longer on the sidewalk.

I approached Roman, who’d returned to reading Gourmet on the white leather couch.

“Would you do me a favor?” I asked.

“Sure, sweetie.”

I explained how Breanne wanted to dress me in appropriate attire for her office. Then I gave Roman a description of the man I’d seen earlier. “If he comes back, I want you to let me know right away, okay?”

Roman scratched his head. “Whatever for?”

“I want to question him.”

Roman’s eyes widened a bit, as if I’d piqued his interest. “Okay, Shirley Holmes,” he said. “Consider me your Watson.”

Ten minutes later, I was back in the fitting room. As I stood there in nothing but my bra and panties, a dozen outfits were brought in for Breanne’s approval (now who was the dummy?).

“She’s got issues,” Breanne said, shaking her head as she held hanger after hanger of beautifully cut cloth against my scantily clad five-two frame.

“Yes, many ,” Adele said. “She’s a petite, her legs are good, her waist is fine, but those hips.” She shook her head, practically tisking aloud. “A real problem area. And she’s far too big on top.”

I am?

“We could put her in a wrap dress, even an empire waist,” Breanne mused, “but we’re going to my offices, not a tea party. And the fitted suits won’t work without alterations. We have no time for that. Let’s try some separates.”

Adele nodded. Then she regarded me again. “Who did your work, by the way?”

“My work?”

She tipped her head toward my chest. “Your augmentation?”

Oh, for pity’s sake. “These are real.”

Adele frowned. “Aren’t they a burden?”

“They weren’t when I was nursing my daughter.”

“You’ve never considered a reduction?”

“No!”

“Well, you should if you want to wear quality designers.”

Okay, maybe it was my early exposure to Renaissance art and all those plump, buxom Madonnas with breasts and bellies looking like lovely ripe peaches; or maybe it was simply my disgust with reading about yet another runway model who died from ingesting nothing but lettuce leaves and Diet Cokes, but I could never understand this requirement that women starve themselves until they no longer had their God-given hips, breasts, and buttocks.

My gig here might be attempted murder, but I found it a crime how some women shamed others when it came to something as beautiful and natural as a healthy female form. Just what the hell were we teaching our daughters, anyway?