Cleo Coyle - Espresso Shot

We signed off, and I rang Breanne. By now, she was out of the ER and back in her Sutton Place apartment-no hairline fracture, no damage to her vocal chords. She was just bruised, sore, and shaken. Before I could ask her about Randall Knox, she asked me about Matt.

“Have you heard from him yet, Clare?”

Bree’s typical cool, clipped tone was gone. Her voice sounded vulnerable and human. For the first time since Matt had announced their engagement, Breanne Summour sounded like a woman in love.

“I’m sorry,” I said gently, “he hasn’t come back yet. I can’t reach him on his cell, either.”

“Neither can I. You’ll let me know when he shows, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

I told Breanne about my visit to Knox’s office, including the Miriam Perry appearance. I also warned her about gossip boy’s declaration that he’d be publishing a scandalous story on Monday, something that included an angle on the stripper Hazel Boggs.

“Whatever this story is, he promises it’s going to upset you a great deal. So brace yourself.”

Breanne had little to say after that, just thanked me for informing her. Finally, I told her about her ex-husband being released on bail.

“… and since Matt isn’t there with you, Mike Quinn strongly suggests you hire a bodyguard.”

“I already have,” she said. “He’s outside my apartment door right now.”

It’s about time. “Okay, Breanne, just make sure you show him a photo of your ex-husband, so he can stop the man the moment he comes near you. Would you do that?”

“Good idea, Clare. I’ll do that right now.”

I hung up, went back to the bar for another double shot, and sat back down near the fireplace to continue thinking things through. When the bell jangled over the door a few minutes later, I glance up and noticed an African American woman walking in.

“Janelle!” I waved her over.

Janelle Babcock waved back and crossed the wood plank floor, her ample hips smoothly negotiating the crowded café tables.

“Espresso?” I asked as she sat down across from me. “Latte?”

“No, thanks, Clare.” She smiled.

Like the city she hailed from, Janelle had a smile that was warm and easy. Her flawless skin was the shade of a lightly creamed cup of Sumatra, and her features were Creole, not surprising since she’d grown up in New Orleans. She’d learned French there, too, along with the building blocks of French cooking, which is what led her to her first professional bakery job and eventually to a plane ticket to Paris, where she’d studied at the Cordon Bleu.

“I’ve got to get back to my kitchen,” she said. “I just came to drop off some more samples…”

Beaming with pride, she pulled three white bakery boxes out of her large tote bag and set them on the marble-topped café table between us. We glanced at each other in silence, then I peeked into the first box with nearly infantile excitement.

“The anginetti ! Oh my God, Janelle, they look spectacular! What did you do with them since the last batch?”

“I adjusted the ingredients slightly, and instead of making the ring with a small rope of dough, I used a pastry bag. Now each cookie ring is made out of eight little mounds that touch. See…” She pointed to the delicate cookie. “During the baking, the small mounds create a single ring that looks just like a miniature coffee cake.”

“The white glaze and nonpareils really complete the effect.” I picked up one of the tiny cookies and examined it. “Amazing. It’s like a miniature work of art, but then all of your samples have been.”

“Thanks, Clare. You always say the sweetest things. You know, for fun, I pulled out my food coloring and made a few anginetti with purple, green, and gold glaze. See…”

She handed me one of the alternate samples.

“Oh my God! It looks just like a tiny king cake! You could sell these for Mardis Gras parties next year!”

“That’s what I was thinking. If I can figure out a few more novelty cookies, I could even set up a mail-order business online. But I really need more catering clients in New York first.” She squeezed my arm. “I can’t thank you enough for getting me this job on your ex-husband’s wedding. My whole family’s waiting for Trend to come out so they can see my name in the caption under our tablescape.” She sighed and smiled. “Imagine, my little pastries showcased around Nunzio’s Lover’s Spring, in the Metropolitan Museum of Art!”

My phone rang again. “Excuse me, Janelle. This shouldn’t take long.” I pulled out the cell, hoping it was Matt. (I’d left him five messages by now.) But I didn’t recognize the number.

“Hello?”

“Clare? Clare Cosi?”

The voice was deep and male, betrayed an Italian accent, and was (regrettably) recognizable.

“Yes. This is Nunzio, right?”

Janelle’s big brown eyes widened. “Nunzio!” she whispered. “He’s on the phone with you now?”

I nodded.

“Omigawd!” Janelle bounced up and down. “Nunzio! Omigawd!”

“Si, bella…” The Italian sculptor’s voice was low and silky, like my cat Java’s purr. Unfortunately, a few hits of Pounce treats weren’t going to satisfy this smooth-coated predator. “Breanne, she tells me you are coming to see me this evening? She says you are willing to discuss my concerns about my Lover’s Spring . You do still wish for me to lend you my beautiful fountain, si, Clare?”

“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “Breanne told me about your, uh… situation.” (I’d almost said proposition -only it wouldn’t have been much of a slip.)

Glancing at Janelle, I tried to decide what to do. She was grinning at me, but that was only because she hadn’t heard that Nunzio was balking on his deal to lend us his fountain, and unless I could find “some way” to change the man’s mind (in his hotel room, no less), Breanne was dumping our tablescape out of Trend.

“I was wondering, bella , what you are drinking when you come to see me. Is champagne to your liking?”

“I, uh-”

God, it was so humiliating being put in this position, but if I hung up on the guy now, without even trying to persuade him, I’d feel far worse. The Village Blend didn’t need a Trend splash page, but Janelle did. I had to do this, I had to try to persuade the man to change his mind, or I couldn’t live with myself.

“Yes,” I told Nunzio through gritted teeth, “I like champagne.”

“ Bene . My room number is 5301. See you soon, bella, eh?”

I checked my watch. “Right. Soon.”

“Ciao.”

He hung up, and I hung my head.

“Hey, girlfriend, you look upset? Anything wrong?”

I massaged my eyes. “Let’s just say this has been a very long day-and it’s about to get a whole lot longer.”

THE five-star Mandarin Oriental Hotel occupied 248 rooms on nearly twenty floors of the Time Warner Center ’s north tower. Nunzio’s two-room suite featured Italian-made bed linens, a fully stocked private bar, a marble bath with a flat-panel TV, and a soaking tub with a picture-window view.

If I hadn’t been in a relationship, I might have considered spending the night with the sculpted Italian sculptor (if only to have the transcendent experience of soaking in a tub with a bird’s-eye view of Central Park). But I was in a relationship-with a man I cared very much about-so sleeping with Nunzio was out of the question, which meant I had to outwit this guy or I was screwed (a vulgar term, I grant you, but all too apropos, considering Nunzio’s implied agenda).

The moment I stepped out of my cab, the skies opened up. Everything the storm clouds had been carrying for the last few hours sloshed out like an overfilled fountain-and came down all over me.