He stepped closer. I stepped back.
“I’d like you to agree to lending us the fountain.”
“We both want something then? I think we can both get it, don’t you? A nice little transaction?”
“My virtue’s not on the bargaining table.”
He snorted, genuinely amused. “Keep your virtue, by all means. I only desire your company for the evening. Is that so terrible?”
I closed my eyes. It would be easy to give in, so easy...
My attraction to Nunzio wasn’t some fantasy on his part. I was in awe of his talent, and the artist himself was magnetic. But if the situation were reversed, if Mike slept with some woman in a casual one-night stand, I’d be devastated, and I’d begin to doubt him, especially after what I’d been through with my ex-husband.
Mike’s own broken marriage was still a fresh wound. The pain of his wife’s cheating had tortured him for years. I cared too much about the man to risk damaging what we had for a fleeting few hours of fantasy love; and that’s what it would be: the facsimile of something real.
Nunzio certainly had a girlfriend or even a wife back in Italy. I was a momentary trifle, an amuse-gueule during a brief business trip. What I had with Mike wasn’t an illusion. The view was closer to earth in Alphabet City, but so was the affection: real, well-rooted, and just starting to grow. I wasn’t willing to trade that for anything.
So what else did I have to trade that Nunzio wanted? Nothing. But I could trade on something. His reputation. That’s what Otto Visser was trying to tell me today; the key to Nunzio was his ego!
I walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows and pointed down fifty-plus floors. “Tell me something, Nunzio; you’ve seen the monument of Christopher Columbus at the center of the traffic circle, right?”
The sculptor smirked. “That is why they call it Columbus Circle, no?”
“Yes, but did you know that statue of your countryman is the point at which all distances to and from New York City are geographically measured?”
Nunzio’s eyebrows rose. “Is that so?”
He stepped up behind me. He wasn’t touching me, but he was standing so close I could feel the heat of his body. I swallowed uneasily, continued my little speech.
“The Metropolitan Museum is like that for America—the place from which art is measured—the most important museum of art in the country. For your work to be seen and photographed inside the Met, among the other great masters, that would really be something, wouldn’t it?”
“I have considered this. But I have also decided that it is still not a good enough bargain. I have had second thoughts on what was agreed to.”
“What are you taking about?”
“My deal with Breanne Summour. She is publishing the big profile on me and my work and my new jewelry line. And I give her the wedding rings in trade. Lending Lover’s Spring was part of this deal. But now I think this is too much to allow without further payment. I think I am owed something more...”
“Wait, back up. You’re telling me that Breanne bartered editorial space in her magazine in exchange for free wedding bands from you?”
Nunzio sighed. “I thought you knew this. I am soon opening boutiques in Rome, Paris, London, Tokyo, Beverly Hills, and on New York’s Fifth Avenue. Trend will feature me and my work and also showcase the rings I designed for Breanne’s wedding. Next season, I will be selling that same ring design in my stores.” He glanced down at me and smirked. “Place your orders now.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Volagare, si? But I need the income. As you can see...” He laughed. “I do enjoy living high.”
“Yeah...” I felt a little dizzy all of a sudden. “Fifty-three floors is awfully high, all right.”
But it was this revelation that had thrown me off balance. Matt often told me about wonderful items Breanne received from her designer or artist friends. But he—and I—assumed these were gifts, freely given. I had no idea the woman was making backroom deals. Now I wondered: Could one of those deals have backfired on her? Could someone have felt cheated? Cheated enough to want her dead?
“She is doing this with others, Clare,” Nunzio went on. “I am surprised you did not know. The flowers, the cake, her gown—Breanne told me all of this. I was part of a group, part of her grand plan. She is using her position to get many goods and services gratis for her wedding.”
“I didn’t know.”
“That woman dresses like aristocracy, but she acts like a peasant in the way she wheels and deals and threatens. You know, my grandfather had a saying: ‘For the quiet falcon, her feathers are enough. It is the braying donkey who needs the silk shawl.’ ”
“The braying donkey...”
A cartoon animal image entered my mind and fixed itself there. I saw Breanne as a donkey, Stuart Winslow riding her, ranting about how she’d struggled financially when she’d started out in New York. I hadn’t thought much about that stuff when Winslow had spewed it. He was high at the time, and Breanne’s public bio, online and elsewhere, clearly stated that she’d come from money. It even included a long list of her upper-class associations. But now I wondered... Nunzio’s revelation about backroom deals certainly didn’t add up to a woman with a typical patrician upbringing.
“My sweet one, let’s you and I not speak of these things any longer...” Nunzio had switched languages. He was now cooing to me entirely in Italian. “You are here. I am here. I know you will enjoy my touch.”
He’d been standing close; now he stepped even closer. I felt the front of his legs brushing the back of my robe, and then his muscular forearm was snaking around my waist, his lips were pressing against my neck.
“Don’t do that,” I said in plain English.
“Perhaps we can make a simple little trade of our own, bella? You enjoyed my touch the other day. You would enjoy feeling my hands on more of your body, no?”
“No!” I broke away, stepped clear.
Nunzio folded his arms, looked down at me, his patience obviously wearing thin. “But you want the fountain, si? And what would I get in return?”
“The satisfaction of knowing you were displayed at the Met!”
“I’d like something a little more satisfying tonight, and I think you would, too?”
He stepped toward me again. I backed away—a lot farther this time. I strode all the way to the bathroom, locked the door, got dressed in my dried-out clothes and shoes, and headed for the suite’s front door.
I paused in the sitting room to collect my tote bag. Nunzio was back on his sofa. I met the man’s eyes.
“I’m sorry you won’t change your mind.”
He shrugged. “Likewise.”
I was about to turn and go when I realized I had one last card to play, a piece of information Otto had given me.
“I’m sorry, Nunzio. Then you leave me no choice. I’ll have to go to Tio.”
“Tio?”
“Yes, the up-and-coming Spanish sculptor. You’ve heard of him, right? Well, his famous Trellis is in town, an amazing work. He begged Breanne to use it for her wedding, but she’d already committed to displaying your sculpture. Janelle will be disappointed. But I think we can make adjustments in our tablescape to highlight his piece instead.” I turned and headed for the door. “He’ll certainly be thrilled to see his sculpture displayed at the Met—and prominently featured in the same issue of Trend where you’re profiled—”