Espresso Shot

have it on display in my gallery for at least another week. It’s a stylized garden trellis with a pair of lovers wrapped around each other like vines. Tio was reluctant to part with it, until I pointed out that the buyer would soon be lending his collection to the Museum of Modern Art for an exhibition, and so...” Otto paused and smiled. “Tio relented.”

I nodded, happy for Otto’s triumph, even though I frankly didn’t see how his advice was going to help me in my current situation. My problem was with Nunzio’s libido, not his ego.

“There you are, you rotter!”

A British voice was shouting over the party noise. I turned to see a redheaded woman knocking a server aside. The young man’s tray of choros a la chalaca went flying, and I gasped, heartbroken at the sight of a mountain of mouthwatering mussels sent clattering across the floor.

The woman who’d done the dirty deed didn’t appear to care. She looked to be in her late thirties, and she hadn’t dressed for a party. Her bulky wool pinstripes and sensible heels looked more like she was on a break from a bank office or legal firm. The dreary gray outfit didn’t take away from her flawless, peaches-and-cream complexion, however, and I watched with growing interest as the woman made a beeline for Matt, her angelic face flushing angrier by the second.

“Bugger!” she cried. “You’re ‘not the marrying kind’! That’s what you told me! Then I get this in the post!”

The woman waved a gold-embossed card and threw it in Matt’s face.

“Bridget, I—”

“Oh, shut up, you git.”

I thought the woman was going to slap Matt. Instead, tears came to her long-lashed brown eyes, and she fled the room.

In the silence that followed the confrontation, Matt stooped down and picked up the engraved card she’d flung. I moved closer and saw that it was a wedding announcement. I knew what Matt and Breanne’s wedding invitations looked like, and this wasn’t it. This was just a simple engraved announcement card declaring that Matteo Allegro would be marrying Breanne Summour in New York City. It gave the date of the nuptials but no other information.

Seriously odd.

From the expression on Matt’s face I could tell he was as dumbfounded as I was. Then a conclusion appeared to dawn in his eyes, and he whirled to face his mother.

“Someone’s been sending out wedding announcements to my old flames—which explains why these women have been confronting me all week. This was your doing, Mother, wasn’t it?”

Madame, who was still visiting with Javier Lozado and trying to cheer up Hector Pena, blinked in complete shock. “I swear to you, Matteo, I did no such thing.”

Matt turned to face his fiancee. As soon as he saw her expression, he knew the truth. “You did this. Didn’t you, Breanne?”

“Yes, it’s true,” she said, not a trace of contrition in her tone. “I had my assistant download your PDA for the addresses and phone numbers stored inside. I just wanted all of your friends and acquaintances to know that you were getting married, that’s all.”

“When?” Matt demanded. “When did you do this?”

Breanne shrugged. “Maybe a month ago.”

I shook my head. The woman’s expression appeared to be all surprised innocence, but her action had been coldly calculated. She’d effectively notified every last woman in Matt’s little black PDA book that he was no longer available.

“Son of a—” He shook his head. “You invaded my privacy, went into my PDA without telling me. You contacted people from my past, with your own agenda, without even warning me. You humiliated me, Breanne. You, you—”

Breanne reached for her groom, but he pulled away.

“Get away from me,” he rasped.

“Matt, please—”

But he wasn’t listening. Before anyone could stop him, Matt stormed out.

“Please, someone, follow him,” Madame said with worried eyes.

Flanking Matt’s mother, Javier and Hector instantly nodded and chased after Matt. Koa Waipuna took off after them.

As soon as they were gone, all heads turned to Breanne. By the time she finished a swallow of her Pisco Sour, her calmly superior mask had slipped back over her stunned expression. But I’d gotten to know the woman well enough in these last few weeks to see the little cracks around her edges. Matt’s violent reaction to her brazen stunt had rocked her. Up to now, he’d been patient and accommodating. She was probably expecting him to roll over and accept this little prank without a peep. Clearly, she’d miscalculated.

On the one hand, I was appalled that Breanne had violated Matt’s privacy. But I had to admit I was pretty impressed with the move. It was shrewd, a way to keep Matt from straying—with all the old flames, at least. Her actions also made me wonder just how well Roman knew his best friend. Sure, Breanne gave lip service to being free of middle-class morals, but this little trick made it clear that she actually did care about fidelity—or at least sharing Matt with other women.

I felt myself smiling. If anything, this was a good sign. In my opinion, Breanne was starting to act like a wife.

For a good twenty minutes, the bride-to-be put on a good face for her luncheon guests, chatting with the Rayos, an Ecuadorean couple, before finally retreating to the ladies’ room.

I felt a touch of pity for the woman. After what just happened, I assumed she must be feeling terrible. I glanced at Madame, hoping the mother of the groom would take it upon herself to comfort her future daughter-in- law. But when I saw the expression on her face, I knew she wasn’t unhappy with the conflagration. Clearly, Madame continued to hold out hope that her son would say, “I don’t.”

But somebody should really check on Breanne...

When it was obvious that no one else was going to step up, I sighed, set my glass down, and followed Ms. Wonderful to the women’s room.

Twenty-Six

“Breanne?” I called. “Are you okay?”

There were three stalls in Machu Picchu’s ladies’ facility, only one of them appeared to be in use. Behind its closed door, I sensed movement then heard a muffled sound.

Was that a sob?

“Breanne, please answer me.”

No response, just more movement inside the stall.

With a sigh, I glanced around. The floor space in this restroom was bigger than some of my baristas’ studio apartments. The decor wasn’t half bad, either. An array of primitive masks continued the pseudo-Inca theme of the dining room. Andean wood flutes warbled from hidden speakers, and sweet-smelling incense burned in clay pots. Three sandstone sinks lined one mirrored wall. Three stalls stood opposite, their rustic wooden doors reaching almost to the terra-cotta floor.

I approached the only stall door that was closed and heard a choking gasp. “Breanne, are you crying?”

I didn’t relish playing girlfriend to the grand bitch of Trend. But the woman did sound like she was suffering; and if anyone knew what it was like to choke on tears over Matteo Allegro, it was yours truly.

“Come on now, Bree. It’ll be all right. Come out and we’ll talk about it—”

But the fashion maven didn’t want to talk. Instead, one of her thousand-dollar double-strapped Fen pumps