Espresso Shot

me, his gaze holding mine until I took it. Then a half smile broke his intense mask, and he continued out the door.

Breanne didn’t miss the gesture. “What’s that he gave you?”

I shrugged. “Just his business card.”

Her eyebrow arched. “Let me see that.”

I handed her the small, flat rectangle. She examined it, flipped it over and laughed.

“What?” I asked.

“He asked me your name after you left the room. Then I watched him write something on one of his cards. It’s his hotel room number, Clare.”

“What?”

“At the Mandarin Oriental, about thirty floors up.”

“Good Lord. You keep it then. I have no intention of visiting the man in his hotel room. What does he think I am?”

She laughed again, slumping down in her chair as if the air had been let out of her. “You should be flattered. He obviously liked you as much as your espressos. Why not give him a whirl?”

Give him a whirl? Then and there I decided that Breanne Summour was the perfect mate for my ex-husband. Neither of them viewed sex as anything more meaningful than a carnival ride.

“I’m not going to the man’s hotel room,” I said, “because I’m in a relationship, and I don’t cheat.”

Breanne rolled her eyes. Clearly my morals, like my clothes, were far too bourgeoisie for her taste.

“Ms. Summour?” Terri was at the door, holding a package. “This was just delivered by courier. There’s no return address, but it’s marked ‘Wedding gift, open immediately.’ ”

“Bring it in,” she said. “Terri, would you like to see my rings?”

Terri nodded vigorously. Roman brought them out again.

“Ohmigod, they’re so beautiful!”

Bree and Terri talked for a minute about the rings, then her schedule, then some phone calls that had come in during her meeting with Nunzio.

“Terri, I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re a gem! I’m just sorry your promotion will have to wait a little longer.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said. “I’m already making lists for article ideas. I’ll be ready to help out any of the section editors who want to work with me...”

As the two continued to talk, Roman examined the label on Breanne’s new gift. “Bree, sweetie, this gift says to open immediately. You might want to do that. What if it’s perishable? I mean, for heaven’s sake, it could be edible.”

“You open it then. I don’t want to break a nail.”

As Breanne sent Terri off to run an errand on another floor, Roman cut the tape with a letter opener and opened the cardboard box. Inside he found a long, slim package wrapped in glossy black paper. He pulled the gift card free and handed it to Breanne.

“It’s heavy,” he announced, tearing away the black paper. Roman opened the gift box and stared at the contents with puzzlement. “Odd gift for you,” he said, “seeing as how you seldom set foot in your own kitchen.”

I stepped forward and peered into the gift box. Nestled inside a blizzard of packing peanuts was a brand-new, stainless steel meat cleaver with a great big bow attached to its polished wooden handle. Like the wrapping paper, the bow’s color was not bridal white but funereal black.

The sight of it alone chilled my blood. “Who gave you this?” I asked Breanne sharply.

Her blue eyes squinted at the gift card. “It’s from Neville Perry. ‘A special gift to express my feelings for the bride.’ Signed, Neville. Oh, and he includes his ridiculous Prodigal Chef Web site address.”

Bree rolled her eyes and tossed the card into the garbage.

“Don’t do that!” I fished it out. “The gift is a threat. The card is evidence.”

“It’s a joke,” Breanne said. “And not a very clever one.”

I stepped up to her desk. “Let me use your computer.”

“No, Clare. I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to indulge you with this.” She checked her watch. “I have a call to make and e-mails to return. If you really need a computer, use Terri’s. She’s doing some research for me, so she’ll be away from her desk for a little while.”

“Fine.”

I left Breanne’s office and went straight to Terri’s cherry wood desk, sat down, and examined the computer screen to find an icon that would bring up her link to the Internet. Roman trailed behind me, looking over my shoulder.

“Roman, tell me something. You must have met Neville Perry once or twice, right?”

“I know him quite well, actually.”

“You do? How does he strike you?”

“He’s a fairly eccentric individual, actually.”

“Eccentric? Or crazy? Could he be dangerous?”

A woman laughed. I turned to find Monica Purcell standing there watching us in her thigh-high boots, arms folded. “Neville Perry’s not dangerous, for heaven’s sake. He’s hilarious. I read his blog all the time.”

“Really?” I said. “He’s got a real hate on for your boss. That doesn’t bother you?”

Monica shrugged. “I just read his site for the restaurant and bar reviews.”

I glanced back at Roman. “Does Perry strike you as the kind of person who could do physical harm to someone?”

“That I couldn’t tell you,” Roman said. “But if you’re curious, you can meet him tonight and judge for yourself.”

“Tonight? Really? Where? When?”

“I’ve been invited to dinner at an underground restaurant in Flushing, Queens. Neville is going to be there, too. He’s mentioned it in his blog posts already. You’re welcome to accompany me, Clare.”

“Underground restaurant?” Monica said. “I’ve heard of those but I’ve never been to one.”

“It’s quite clandestine, because it’s also quite illegal,” Roman said. “At eight thirty this evening, I’m to stand in front of the Friends Meeting House on Northern Boulevard. A man will approach me and take me to the secret location. Doesn’t it sound intriguing?”

Monica shuddered. “It sounds weird. Plus it’s in Queens. Ugh.”

“Neville Perry will be there?” I pressed. “You’re sure?”

Roman nodded. “I’ll introduce you. Then you can ask the chef any questions you like.”

“All right, Roman. You’ve got a date.”

“You two have fun,” Monica said, shaking her head. “I’d rather go clubbing.”

“Well, before you go, Monica, I’d like to ask you a few questions.” I stood up to confront her.

“Who are you, anyway? I mean, you work for Fen, right? I saw you at the boutique.”

“My name’s Clare Cosi. I’m a friend of Breanne’s. I’m helping her with the wedding.”

“I see,” Monica said, stifling a yawn.

“And I was wondering if you had an opinion on something that happened at Fen’s.”

“What’s that?”

“Breanne’s fitting was sabotaged.”

Monica folded her arms. “What do you mean sabotaged?”

“I mean someone sent an e-mail from Breanne’s mailbox, telling the boutique manager to have her gown altered a certain way. Do you know about that?”

“Why would I?”

“It’s just that Terri told me you used to be Breanne’s assistant. I thought maybe you’d have an idea who would have access to her passwords.”

Monica glanced around, stepped closer, and lowered her voice. “If you ask me, Terri’s the one who probably did it.”

“Really?”