“Priceless, huh?” he said, doing the one eyebrow raise again. “Where’d you get a pair of priceless, one-of-a-kind shoes?”
“I’ll never tell,” I said mysteriously. Drat, he probably thinks I stole them. Technically I did, but still. “Look, thanks for picking me up. Usually I’m not such a mess.”
“You look perfect…” he started.
I melted. Alessandro was quick to find fault with my imperfections, while Denis found perfection with my faults. That was refreshing. Still, I held my hand up in faux protest. “Please, I know I’m a sight.”
“Well, we nailed you pretty good back there. I’m really sorry.”
I felt something digging into my thigh, lifted my butt cheek, and unpeeled some pages from my skin. “Oh, geez, I sat on your book.”
“It’s only a catalog,” he said, flipping through the soaked pages. “My family’s doing Athens to Rome in a few weeks.”
The catalog was for Tiffany Cruises, the crème de la crème of luxury lines, no connection to the jewelry company as far as I knew (except for the fancy pricing). From what I’d heard, their trips started at thirty thousand dollars per person and went as high as two hundred and fifty thousand for just a week. Even movie stars and tycoons with their own yachts sailed the Tiffany Line because their ships were so opulent and their itineraries unsurpassed—Cannes for the film festival, London for Wimbledon, Pamplona for the running of the bulls. “Lucky you. Sounds like fun,” I said.
“Right side or left?” the chauffeur asked.
We were approaching Eighty-fourth, a block from my office. “Right side, far corner. By Duane Reade.” No way would I let him drop me in front of the Fashion Museum. I wondered if Elvira would blow my cover if I sent him the cleaning bill.
“Take care of yourself,” Denis said with a grin.
I wished I could stay with him longer. Forever would be nice.
Reaching behind the seat, Denis produced an enormous black umbrella, the kind doormen used, and escorted me to the drugstore. I could see the top of his head as we walked.
“Thanks,” I said.
He nodded and silently retreated into the rainy mist.
For Sentimental Reasons
I HAULED MY WET DERRIERE inside the museum and up the grand staircase to Tanya Johnson’s office. She’s the director of the museum. I’m her assistant, though not for long. Nigel Calderwood, the museum’s conservator, stood at the top of the landing. Euro-trash thin with a sleek, chiseled face, dark almond-shaped eyes, chocolate complexion, and a bald head that was as shiny as his Bruno Magli shoes, Nigel was so delectably gorgeous that everyone automatically assumed he was gay (which he was). His eyes widened when he saw me. “Holly, is that you?”
“Nigel, you’re back,” I said. “How was France?” He refused my offer of a hug.
“Sorry,” I said. “I know; I’m a mess. Is Tanya here? I don’t want her to see me like this.”
“She has someone in her office,” Nigel said. “The staff meeting’s been moved to ten.”
“Great,” I said, dropping my bag. “I have to tell you about Denis King. He picked me up this morning after his car splashed me.”
“Our Denis King?” Nigel said. “Ooh, sounds like That Touch of Mink with, who was in that?”
“Cary Grant and Doris Day. It was just like that, although he wasn’t exactly Cary Grant.”
“Too bad, because you’re so Doris Day,” Nigel said.
“Am not.”
“Excuse me, you’re sweet as a cupcake; you brighten up a room; I’ll bet you even sing “Que Sera Sera” in the shower. Need I go on?”
“No, you needn’t. But only because I’m in a hurry. Anyway, he drove me to work,” I squealed.
“Was he cute?” Nigel asked.
“Uh, yeah-ah. Although he’s shorter than me when I’m in heels.”
“A man looks taller when he’s standing on his money, luv.”
“Does he, now? No, he was really quite attractive, even though he had a touch of geek,” I giggled, checking my watch. “Oops, gotta go. I’m a mess.”
“What a coincidence! I adore rich geeks,” Nigel said. “You know who I’d fancy seeing all naked and sweaty? Bill Gates…”
“Eawww!” I yelled as I scrambled down the back stairs, and ran smack into Gus, who was guarding the vault. Gus was a feeble man in his seventies who would probably have a massive heart attack if anyone actually tried to break in. His uniforms were always a size too big and he packed heat (not a gun, but those foot warmers that skiers use). All our guards were Gus-like: gray-haired, liver-spotted gentlemen living in the last lane, but they worked cheap, which is why Tanya hired them. “A necessary evil dictated by insurance companies,” she’d say. “Like someone would ever steal from us.”
“You look like a drowned Chihuahua,” Gus said when he saw me.
“I know,” I said. “Here. Two chocolate-glazed doughnuts with sprinkles; they were out of vanilla.”
Gus took the bag, peeked inside, then gave me a polite bow. “You’re the best, Holly.”
“Can you open the vault?” I asked. Gus could get in trouble for doing that. Technically, only curators and conservators were supposed to have access.
Gus unlocked the door and made a gallant arm gesture for me to enter.
I kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks, I know you’re sticking your neck out.”
“Pish,” he said, practically spitting. “What are rules to a man with one foot in the grave?”
“My, but we’re feisty today,” I teased.
The vault was a locked climate-controlled storage facility where we kept clothes that weren’t on exhibit. We named it the vault so donors would feel extra secure lending us their pieces. I figured I could take something from Corny’s collection and put it back tonight. Borrowing clothes from the museum was strictly prohibited, under penalty of death or worse, which was why I had to do it in secret. I’d never done it before, and vowed never to do it again, but this was a
