Cleo Coyle - Espresso Shot

Perfect.

I hurried the few steps from the curb to the entrance of the glass-wrapped tower’s West Sixtieth Street entrance, but I got plenty wet anyway. I headed directly to the elevators, ascended to the fifty-third floor, took a resolute breath, and knocked on the door of Nunzio’s hotel suite.

“Ciao, bella.”

His broad features were as forceful as I remembered, his dark eyes as bedroomy, too, like twin bottomless pools of spiked cocoa. His wavy hair was still caught in its rakish black ponytail, but he’d exchanged his Armani suit for brown slacks and a form-fitting sweater the subdued yellow shade of Italian polenta.

“Hello,” I said after an unfortunate moment in which my tongue failed to work. “I’m here… as you can see.”

Nunzio must have taken the “see” part as some kind of invitation, because he leaned against the doorjamb and studied me, his artist’s gaze sweeping my body a lot less subtly than it had in Breanne’s office. I wasn’t dripping wet, but my pearl-pink wrap dress wasn’t exactly dry, either. His gaze appeared to smolder as it lingered on certain areas. I felt my cheeks warming, but I refused to look down at the state of my thin, silk, embarrassingly damp garment.

“Come,” he finally said, waving me in.

The suite was tastefully appointed: an odd blend of 1940s Hong Kong and sleek, efficient, generic modern hotel. The sitting room held delicate fine-grained tables of Asian cherry wood, original Chinese artwork, plush sofas in forest green, and a state-of-the-art entertainment system. The rug and walls were a neutral cream, but the decor wasn’t really the point. Nothing in the room could hold a candle to the expansive floor-to-ceiling views of Central Park and the Manhattan skyline, its million golden windows shining through the urban night like earth-anchored stars.

Through an open door, I glimpsed the suite’s bedroom. The view was just as spectacular in there. With the table lamps turned low, the drapes fully opened, and the Fili D’oro linens crisply waiting, I knew sleeping with a man in a place like this would feel like making love on a cloud in heaven. But then I thought of all those mortal girls pursued by Greek deities and shivered; few of them came to good ends.

Nunzio closed the front door and locked it, then crossed to a bucket of icing champagne. “Go into my bedroom, bella, and take off your clothes.”

Every muscle in my body froze. I’d expected to have at least a little wiggle room to talk this man out of his feudal bargain. But if he was going to take that attitude, I had no choice. With a sigh, I turned around and headed for the front door.

“Where are you going?!”

“I’m not here to take demands, Nunzio.”

He threw up his hands. “Your clothes and shoes are wet. There is a robe in the bath. Hang your dress over the towel warmer, and it will dry.” Nunzio popped the champagne and began to pour. “I will not touch you, Clare, unless you wish it.” He met my eyes. “Cross my heart.”

I gritted my teeth, my hand on the doorknob, and glanced down at my wet dress. It wasn’t obscene or anything, but the clinging silk wasn’t exactly modest, either.

“Fine.”

I moved into the bathroom, ignored the damn marble tub with its damn Central Park view, and removed my damn damp dress. The towel warmer was on, and I hung the silk garment over the dry towel already on it. I took off my platform sandals, too, and wrapped the long, fluffy terry robe around me. My hair was wet, so I used the blow dryer on the counter to fluff it up. With another fortifying breath, I moved back out into the sitting room.

Nunzio was waiting with the poured champagne. He handed me a flute. “To Breanne and her groom,” he said, raising his glass to mine.

I drank to that (hoping the groom had at least called his bride by now) and tried not to enjoy the dry tickle of costly bubbles on my palate. Then I started my rehearsed speech.

“Nunzio, listen to me, okay? Despite what this looks like-” I gesture to my robe and bare feet. “I’m not here to trade my body for your fountain.”

He laughed. “ Lover’s Spring is not on the auction block, bella . I was going to lend it to Breanne for her wedding, not give it away.”

“Well, I’m not on the auction block, either. If you have legitimate concerns, I’m willing to discuss them, allay any worries about the way it will be displayed-”

“It’s not that,” he said, moving to sit on one of the overstuffed sofas. “I have never shown the piece here in America.” He shook his head, gesturing to the muted flat-panel TV, where an Italian channel was playing highlights of a soccer match. “I don’t know if Americans will be able to appreciate my art.”

“Why? Because we play baseball instead of soccer?”

“Your culture is…” He shook his head. “Loud. Violent. Scusa , but I find it… how you say? Volgare.”

“Vulgar? Americans are vulgar? Oh, really? The country that gave birth to Ben Franklin, Mark Twain, Billie Holiday, Ira Gershwin, the Wright brothers, Frank Lloyd Wright, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Jackson Pollock, and Jacqueline Onassis is vulgar? I see. Then I suppose you’re not expecting to distribute your new jewelry line here-one of the most lucrative markets on the planet? If we’re too vulgar to appreciate your genius sculpture, then I guess we’re too vulgar to pay for your amazing rings and necklaces, too, is that right?”

He frowned. “How do you know about my new jewelry line?”

“I was in Breanne’s office during most of your meeting. I overheard her mention it.”

Nunzio nodded, stretched his free arm across the back of the sofa. “I remember that meeting, too, bella . I remember the look on your face when I touched your hand. Come sit beside me.”

Nope, not gonna work. “I’m only here to persuade you to go through with your promise.”

“ Si . That is why you are here. I agree.” He sipped his champagne and smiled. “To persuade me.”

“Good!” I crossed to where I’d dropped my tote bag. “Then try these…”

I pulled Janelle’s three bakery boxes out of the damp bag. Luckily, the thick tote had shielded the boxes from getting the least bit wet. “You heard about Hurricane Katrina’s damage to New Orleans, right?”

“Katrina?” His dark eyebrows came together in confusion. “ Si. I heard of this tragedy. But why-”

“The woman who made these amazing confections came to New York after she lost her job in a restaurant that was destroyed by Katrina. For a few years, she worked as the pastry chef at Solange, a highly acclaimed New York restaurant. But the place closed last fall after the owner died, so she took a job with a specialty cake baker. She worked two shifts a day to earn the money to quit after a few months and start her own company. These pastries, for Breanne’s wedding, were baked by her new little company. Here, try an anginetti…”

“This is an anginetti ?” He examined the tiny work of art.

“Amazing isn’t it?”

Typically, Italian desserts were delicious to eat but presented in unassuming forms, unlike the polished precision of French cuisine. Italian bakers favored simple presentations, using things like candied fruit and nuts, powdered sugar, or a light glaze to finish a cake or tart. “The perfect is the enemy of the good.” That’s how my grandmother used to put it. (And she probably would have pointed out: “What good is Monica’s perfect body doing her in the morgue?”)

I did understand wanting to be perfect. I used to strive for perfection in everything-my coffee, my marriage, myself. But life was naturally messy, and perfection required far too much ruthlessness. Being human was better. Humans made mistakes and moved on. Like Nana tried to tell me years ago: being good was better than being perfect.