Cleo Coyle - Espresso Shot

Roman pursed his lips. “Let’s say it’s rare. If you want to keep your job under Breanne Summour, you do your job and do it right.”

“So what really happened? Did Monica not give them Breanne’s changes?”

“She claims she did. And Petra, the art director, claims she didn’t. So Breanne isn’t blaming anyone. But she is making Monica jump through hoops to get the pages in shape before Nunzio sees them this evening.”

I might have let all of this go as typical office politics-if it hadn’t been for that nasty e-mail sent from Breanne’s own box. Someone obviously had an ax to grind inside her office.

Leaving Roman again, I slipped back to the fitting room area. By now, Adele was busy with another customer, and I was able to casually move back to Breanne’s fitting room door.

“… and I still see typos, Monica, even in the pull quotes, for God’s sake. Get every last one of them fixed, do you hear me? Nunzio’s mother’s name is Rose not Pose.”

“Yes, Ms. Summour. What about the TK areas?”

“Nunzio knows there’ll be photos to come. He’s more concerned with checking over his biographical information and approving the cropping and layout of the photos taken at his workshop in Florence. Love’s Spring will be shot on Saturday at the wedding reception along with my rings.”

“Your wedding rings!” Monica exclaimed. “They still haven’t been photographed yet? But I thought they were already sent to you? Terri told me a package came a few days ago from Florence.”

“Nunzio’s bringing the rings from Italy personally. He should have them for me today.”

“Ooooh,” Monica gushed, “I’d die to see them!”

“I’m sure everyone will see them once they’re photographed.”

“I meant I’d die to see the actual rings.”

“I know what you meant. Just get those pages fixed and on my desk no later than four this afternoon. Got that?”

“Yes, Ms. Summour.”

I heard scuffling inside and quickly stood back. The fitting room door flew open again, and Monica’s thigh-high boots were off and running. I quietly followed her down the corridor, across the showroom, and through the boutique entrance. I intended to announce myself once we were outside, far enough away from Breanne that Monica wouldn’t have to worry about the woman overhearing. Then I’d ask her a few questions and gauge her reactions.

But the moment Monica hit the sidewalk, she pulled out her cell phone and made a call. I hustled along behind her through the crowds as she walked and talked, nearly colliding into her when she stopped on the edge of the curb and raised her hand to hail a cab.

The traffic was a snarl of buses, delivery vans, and SUVs. I bided my time, waiting for her to finish her call, when I realized the call itself was actually worth listening to: “… yes, Her Royal Bitchiness finally gave it up,” Monica told the person on the other end of the phone line. “Nunzio’s bringing the rings in to Breanne at six o’clock this evening… No. I don’t know yet… You were?… I’m sorry I missed you then. I would have arrived earlier, but I’m running behind today… Yes, she’s still at Fen’s, and they have tons of security there. I told you that already. But she’s going back to the office for her afternoon meetings… I already told you! I have no idea! I said I’ll get back to you about the damn rings!”

As a cab pulled up and Monica climbed in, I quickly backed off, checking my wristwatch to note the exact time. Given what I’d just heard, I decided to postpone my direct questioning of Monica Purcell. Since Breanne was taking me back to her offices anyway, I figured a bit of subtle snooping would be a whole lot smarter.

LESS than an hour later, Breanne, Roman, and I piled into a cab and drove across town to Columbus Circle, an uptown traffic loop at the southwest corner of Central Park. In the center of this famous hub was a seventy-foot granite column holding a marble statue of Christopher Columbus.

A century ago, the monument had been erected to honor the intrepid Italian mariner, but these days Christopher was an afterthought. Columbus Circle was all about the Time Warner Center, a two billion dollar complex of twin eighty-story towers soaring above a seven-story base with an ingenious design that curved halfway around Christopher’s circle.

On a sunny spring day like this one, the reflection of Central Park’s budding trees off the glass-wrapped skyscrapers made the whole complex glimmer like Emerald City. And when you got right down to it, the Time Warner Center was its own little city, with 198 condominiums, the largest food market in Manhattan, rental offices, a luxury hotel, restaurants, and a concert hall.

The complex also housed the offices of Breanne’s baby, Trend magazine.

We exited the cab, walked through the Center’s main entrance, and took the escalator up through the arcade of upscale shops. Hanging a right, we moved through a pair of transparent doors tucked between the Samsung Experience and the Aveda hair care boutique. Inside this small, secluded lobby was a special bank of elevators that went directly up to the floors in the towers above.

We ascended over twenty levels and entered Trend’s offices, which were as sleek and sun-drenched as the arcade below: all glass and chrome and lacquered cherry wood.

Roman and I trailed Breanne’s statuesque form as she approached the receptionist. “Any messages for me while Terri was at lunch?”

“Yes, Ms. Summour.”

The pretty young blond in the retro fluffy cashmere sweater handed over two slips of paper. “The first one’s from the Sinamon Urban Design people,” she said. “They confirmed their meeting with you at three. The second one’s Nunzio. He said his plane was delayed. It got into JFK at noon today instead of last night, so he’s totally jet-lagged, and he wants to meet with you at two o’clock instead of six so he can get some sleep before an important dinner meeting he has tonight. I tried to talk him out of the time change, but he was really snappish with me. Anyway, he said he’s coming at two, whether you like it or not.”

I glanced at my watch. The time was ten minutes to two. “What?!” Breanne cried.

The receptionist blinked. “I said that Nunzio-”

“Oh, shut up!”

Instantly Her Haughtiness was on the move again. The clock in her head obviously had started ticking: Countdown to Nunzio.

FOR the second time in two hours, the unflappable Breanne Summour was well and truly flapped. Like a gazelle on the veldt, she sprinted out of the magazine’s reception area, her treadmill-toned legs eating up the carpeted hallway. My short limbs struggled to keep up while Roman huffed behind us like an overweight rhino trailing a Serengeti stampede.

Bree made a right turn, then a left, and poked her head into one of the many offices lining the corridor.

“Have those final fixes been made yet?” Bree demanded.

“Which fixes?”

“Wake up, Monica! The ones I gave you at Fen’s less than an hour ago!”

“ Petra ’s staff is working on the Sinamon fixes first , since her people are arriving at three.”

“Well, Nunzio is now arriving at two instead of six!” Bree cried. “Tell Petra I’m giving her fifteen minutes to make the final changes on his pages.”

“Only fifteen? Do you really think that’s enough-”

“I can stall the man for a little while, but he’ll want to see those pages. You stay with the art department, do you hear me? Make sure every single correction is made. I’m holding you personally responsible this time!”