“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“That day, in the rain, I was such a mess, just like I am in that picture. I didn’t want you to know that was me.”
“How did you come to be on the ship?”
“To meet someone as charming as you, of course.”
Denis stared at the photo again, then at me. “When you were in my car, I told you I was coming on this cruise.”
This man didn’t miss a trick. I suppose that’s how one gets to be the ninth-richest guy in America under fifty. “Yes, so?”
He cocked his head. “You’re not here because of me, are you?”
Busted, I thought, my heart thumping with fear. “Those speeches on the Tiffany Star were booked months ago.” That was all I could think of to say.
“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?” Denis said. “Because I could tell.”
“You could?” I said. “How?”
“There’s an old tale about two tribes of Indians—the Whitefeet always tell the truth and the Blackfeet always lie. So let’s say one day you meet an Indian, and you ask him if he’s a truthful Whitefoot or a lying Blackfoot. He tells you he’s a truthful Whitefoot, but which one is he?”
“What is it with you and Indian stories?”
“Which are you, Holly?”
“Me? I’m a truthful Whitefoot, of course.”
Denis smiled. “That’s what I thought. I have to be careful because I don’t always know who I can believe.” He tapped my nose. “But I have a funny feeling that you might be entirely trustworthy.”
This would have been the perfect time to admit what I had really come on the trip to do. But I couldn’t get the words out. I reached my hand across the table and put it on top of his. “Thank you for rescuing me that day. You were my knight in shining armor.”
Denis flashed a modest smile. “You sure clean up well.”
“You know,” I said, “we’d met a few times before that day. At the museum.”
Denis looked puzzled. “How is that possible? You’re unforgettable.”
“Yes, it’s true, but inexplicably you didn’t notice me until I humiliated you in front of a room full of reporters.”
“So that was just a ploy to get my attention,” Denis teased.
“It worked, didn’t it?”
Denis laughed. “My Gulfstream’s on its way. What would you like to do?” he asked. “Stay here tonight, fly to Florence tomorrow?”
My. Gulfstream’s. On. Its. Way. The five best words in the English language, I thought. “You know,” I mused, “since we can’t meet the ship till day after tomorrow, we may as well go to Rome, look up John’s address, see what we can learn.”
“Of course! You’re right,” Denis said. “We could. We should. We will!”
I jumped up and gave him a hug. “Oh, thank you, thank you,” I said, relieved to be back on the trail of the costumes, grateful that Denis had the means to arrange it. “This’ll be amazing. Maybe we’ll find him. Do you think we will? Do you think he’ll still have the dresses?”
Denis laughed. “I hope so. Hey, in this case, we can honestly say that the butler did it.”
“I’ve always wanted to say that,” I said. I don’t know why I said that. When have I ever wanted to say the butler did it? Never, that’s when.
Denis took my hand and led me to the street, where he hailed a cab. “Come, bella, the Eternal City awaits us.”
Roma, Italy
Fly Me to the Moon
NOTHING STARTS A TRIP off on the right foot like a private jet.
There are three reasons for this. First, you don’t have to deal with security checkpoints, pat downs, liquid carry-on restrictions—all the indignities that make flying so torturous; second, the food is even better than in first class (not that I’ve flown first class, but hello! We had our own chef); and third, you can have sex at thirty-six thousand feet and they won’t arrest you. Denis and I did not join the mile-high club on this flight, but we could have and that’s my point.
When we landed in Roma (that’s how they say it in Italian), a uniformed driver was waiting with a stretch limo right on the tarmac to whisk us to our hotel. It was almost nine P.M. Denis (or his staff, I suppose) arranged for us to stay in a two-bedroom suite at the Hassler Villa Medici, a small, old-world, five-star hotel located at the top of the Spanish Steps. Everyone who is anyone has stayed there, including Audrey Hepburn when she made Roman Holiday. How do I know? Let’s just say there is very little about Miss Hepburn that I don’t know.
The king-sized beds in each room were made with 1,020-thread-count sheets and topped by feather duvets so thick that you could disappear right into them. Believe it or not, there were real antiquities in a display case in the living room of our suite. I wondered if anyone would notice if I took a really small one for a souvenir (tee-hee!). The bathrooms were enormous, finished in pink marble and twenty-three-karat gold-plated faucets. Near the tub, fresh cucumber slices were set in a bowl of ice. I could barely tolerate all that luxury at once, but somehow I managed.
The first order of business was to draw a cool bath to soothe my burned skin. With the water running, I poured in the orange-scented oil the hotel provided and the room became humid and smelled of citrus. I lit a candle, lay cucumber slices over my face and eyes, then relaxed in the tub until the bubbles disappeared. It was heavenly to just soak and feel fresh again, but then I remembered that I had no clean clothes. So I dried off and put on the thick terry-cloth robe that had been warming on the heated rack.
When I stepped into the oak-paneled living room, Denis was wearing his robe and standing
