Romano and Albright 01 - Catch Me If You Can (MM) (2 page)

I was paid to be friendly, so I strove to be so. “Are you enjoying the show?”

He gave me an odd smile. “Which one?”

“I’m sorry, I’m only aware of one show, and that’s Jean Pappineau’s.”

“It’s certainly…expensive.”

“Ah. You’re not a connoisseur. Did you see all the pieces? There’s another level upstairs. You don’t have to purchase. Most people are here to look and to have a good time,” I croaked. My throat lost all wetness again. I needed some water. I put my gin on the hall table and grabbed a gallery brochure. Handing it to him, I saw that his hands weren’t only large, they were crisscrossed with white scars. He wore a ring.

He saw me notice and slowly stuffed his hands into his overcoat pockets. We weighed each other for a moment, and then he nodded at the nearest sculpture—the bust of Justin Timberlake. It was life-sized and hobbled together with silver-plated watchbands, cuff links, buckles and laces. Justin’s eyes were shimmery watch faces. Swatch Swiss. The placard read:
Time waits for no man
.

I’d seen them all, had typed the cards and laminated them myself. Even so, I had to work to keep a straight face.

“This is…interesting.” He fought a losing battle to keep his own face straight.

I needed to tread carefully. “Yes. It is a conversation piece at the very least.”

We reflected wordlessly on JT as the waiters and the gallery guests swarmed the hall. The music seemed overly loud all of a sudden.

Brandon paraded past, striding into the kitchen, his ass swishing in tailored tux pants. He must be out of something at the bar. Detective Green surveyed him silently until the swinging door swung shut. “You always make your staff serve naked?”

“He’s hardly naked. He’s a model. I don’t think Brandon, or any of the other men, will catch a chill wandering around semi-clothed. They’re fairly seasoned. And it’s a good gig for them because of the press. My caterer and I thought the naked chests of the models would counter balance the ornamental and stylized busts Pappineau created for this exhibit.” Actually that was true.

The detective was anything but convinced. “It’s not a health-code violation?”

“Is Hooters, Detective?”

He gave me a tight smile and let it go. “You’re right. I guess I’d rather be at Hooters.”

No kidding. “Well the gin here is free. If you’ll excuse me, I need to speak with the caterer. Nice to have met you.”

“Wait.” He stopped me with a fast move, his spread hand landing a mere two inches from my chest. He was a big strapping guy and his action startled me. I froze, eyes wide. What the hell? We’d said everything that needed saying, what was his problem?

He cleared his throat, dropped his hand. “So. What exactly do you do here, Mr. Romano? I’m curious.”

“Well, in a perfect world, I see to the caterer—which is what I need to do right now,” I said curtly. “My job is to keep everyone happy and out of trouble. Is there something I can help you with?”

“I’m just interested. You greet the guests by name, and you seem to be the one running the show.”

He was watching me? Unsettled, I distanced myself by taking a step toward the kitchen. “Yes. That’s often the case. My job is to make sure Peter looks good, that the pieces sell, the evening runs smoothly, and to know everyone here by name—except the gatecrashers, of course.” I gave him an innocent look.

“I’m here with a friend,” he said smoothly.

No way. He’d walked in for the free food. “Well. I hope you’re both having a nice evening. If you’ll excuse me, I really do need to check with the caterer.”

“Is she a friend of yours? The Posh Nosh chick? Do you work with her frequently? I understand she’s in and out of galleries all over the city.”

I stilled at the too-inquisitive gaze of the frumpy detective. “Yes. Poppy and I went to school together.” What a strange conversation. He was pumping me…like a cop. Maybe it wasn’t that odd, but I was immediately defensive. “I can give you her card if you’re planning a party, Detective.” I dismissed him. “Have a good evening.”

“I understand.” He glanced around the packed hallway. “Maybe we could talk later this evening, if you’re free?”

I blinked. Holy hell. The light dawned and suddenly his behavior made sense: the dude was hitting on me. This was a gallery first. I glanced down at the spiffy new blazer Joey had found for me in the garment district. I must look like a sure thing. I gave the cop a once-over beginning with his scuffed loafers, working my way up the surprisingly fit body beneath those rumpled clothes and ending with the strong lines of his face. Was he gay? He stared unflinchingly back, his gaze level. His eyes grew darker as the space between us narrowed and heat flooded my face. I couldn’t decide who was acting more rudely inappropriate at that second.

A waiter flew through the door, and whatever passed between us evaporated. “Perhaps…uhm…another time.” I extricated myself from the detective with alacrity.

“Sure.” He handed me his card, which I took knowing I’d toss it, and then he nodded again and I walked away. I felt him watch me, my skin prickling as we parted. Hit on. At a show, no less. I’d be far more amused if Shep wasn’t trolling the hallways like the ghost of lovers past.

“Caesar.”

I swung around. My boss floated down the stairwell, his tux neat, his silver hair gelled into submission, his Gucci shoes freshly shined and reflective under the down lights. Suave, dapper, tall and trim, Peter was everything gentlemanly and correct. He had the usual hangers-on hanging on, and he was deep into his moment, as was the entourage. They nodded politely. I nodded back. It was all quite civil. We knew each other by day, but tonight I needed to mind my place. I was merely Peter’s darkly attractive assistant.

“There you are.”

As if I was the one sequestered on the plush second floor, surrounded by gushing pseudo celebrities and a bevy of beefy half-dressed waiters—no, I was the one manning the floor. Which was actually my job, so I adjusted my attitude appropriately. “Peter. Yes. You’ve found me. Clever of you.”

“Now, Caesar, don’t make a puss.”

I swallowed and croaked, “How can I help you?”

“There are some interested people on the second floor. You need to send Jean Luc upstairs.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Peter came in close, and I forced myself not to rear back. Had he reapplied his cologne with a goddamn ladle? My sinuses clogged with sandalwood and…my nose tingled. Was that Noxzema?

Peter went on. “What a crowd. We’ll be in the art section on Sunday, I’m sure. Peter Stuhlmann Gallery art show a bust.”

“I don’t think that’s actually the headline we want.”

He clapped me on the shoulder, and I took a breath through my mouth. I let him continue congratulating himself—pretty much an established pattern of his. “We’ve done it. I’d give myself a raise, but that’s not necessary.”

“You could always give me one.”

“What’s wrong with your voice? You sound like Colleen Dewhurst.” The entourage tittered.

“I had an incident.” I swallowed more gin. I needed to find a Perrier before I fell down. A waiter came by with a tray of chicken satay, which I declined. Peter took two. Armed with skewered poultry, he entered the North Salon brandishing his treats. He gave a hearty, “Ah-ha! There’s the man of the hour.”

I really needed to keep those two from making a scene. From the corner of my eye I noticed Detective Dan swiping a crab-stuffed mushroom cap from a silver tray. Then the kitchen door swung and I caught a glimpse of silver-blonde hair.
Poppy
. She was in the kitchen, where she damn well belonged. I spun and banged through the door.

Inside, the kitchen was a hive of activity. Waiters dumped glasses into the dishwasher and flew out of the swinging door brandishing refilled platters. Poppy frantically assembled hors d’oeuvres in decorative fantails on silver trays. Her platinum hair was neatly held in place by her customary headband—this one a soft periwinkle blue that matched both her dress and her eyes. In a white apron she looked deceptively innocent, like Alice in Wonderland.

Brandon stood with the fridge door open rifling for something. He dug out a Diet Coke. Poppy’s assistant Rachel—I had no idea what she was doing, but it appeared she was hitting the warming oven with a wrench. She squawked. “Why won’t this goddamn thing work?”

Poppy handed a tray off as another waiter came in and deposited an empty in the lineup. “I don’t know, but you’ve got to figure it out.”

Rachel blew out a breath and opened the oven door. “I told you we needed a new one. Did you listen? No.” She turned the entire appliance around on its casters and contemplated the back thoughtfully. “Let’s just serve all the hot stuff at once and then finish with dessert.”

“Then get your ass over here and start loading trays. You may have to serve too.”

“Well, I’ll need to find some other shoes.” We all stared at her stacked four-inch Mary Janes. “These are a bit tall.”

I elbowed Brandon aside and grabbed a Perrier. “Poppy.”

She didn’t even pause. “Not fucking now, Ce, I’m busy. You’re so lucky I love you, because this is insane. No more freebies. Unless you’re stripping down to serve?” She stopped cold and shot me a cunning smile. “You know, you could. You’re tight. Who doesn’t like a good-looking paesan with a little chest hair? And that would be a huge help. The warmer is done for and all this food will be cold before we can feed the masses. You didn’t tell me it was going to be a fucking crush.”

The waiters were giving me a skeptical once-over. Rachel did as well. She eyed me cutely. Chesty and sweet, she reminded me of Betty Boop, more so when she opened her mouth. “Really? He seems scrawny. Take your shirt off, Ce. I wanna see your abs. We’re having a crisis and this could lighten the mood.”

“No. What the hell is going on, Poppy? Shep’s here.”

“You need to put the liquor down because he’s not here. He’s out celebrating. That pilot got picked up last week. Some…kid’s show or some shit, and he and his people went clubbing. Can you either help or leave? Please? I’m not digging this. You’re stressing me.”

I took a sip of my drink and watched Miss Poppy. She did seem flustered. The waiters were staring between the two of us. Even Rachel went silent. “He’s here. He’s in the other room wandering around with Andre the hand model, and he’s practically swimming in gin.”

Poppy shrieked at the help, “Pick up a goddamn tray and get your tight asses back to work. I don’t pay you to look pretty.” They dove for the food and flew through the door. “Are there any more trays?”

“Poppy.”

“What?”

“See if he’s here. Text him and tell him to leave.”

“Fine. I’ll check. Rachel, load these. And you. Brandon. What the hell are you doing? Get the fuck out there to the bar.”

“Just here for some limes, chief.” Brandon industriously located a plastic bin from the refrigerator then skipped back out the door.

“He’s a good egg, but I think he’s getting too old for this thing anymore. He’s forty-five.”

“Poppy. Goddamn it,” I snapped. “I can’t concentrate with Shep wandering around. He’s a distraction and he’s macking on the help.”

“Fine. He’s not here, though. I’m telling you.” She brushed her hands off on her apron, reached in to the pocket and found her tiny pink cell phone. “Just hold on and calm thyself down.”

I stuffed a chunk of lime into my Perrier bottle and took a sip. It burned. Oh God. Maybe I
had
abraded my throat.

The door swung on its hinge again as another waiter flew in. From the door I could see Sheppard answering his text. He’d taken his sweater off. Apparently, he hadn’t seen the need for an undershirt. “Oh my God. He’s half naked.”

My horror must have radiated from the kitchen. He glanced up and our eyes met. One corner of his mouth hitched, and he winked—like we were having some kind of private moment or an intimate joke. But there was nothing funny about this. Shep smiled as a slinky young woman slid her arm around his trim hips and the door closed.

“Oops,” Poppy muttered. “Yeah. That’s Shep, all right. What the
hell
?”

I flew out of the kitchen, the door banging against the freshly painted wall, my fists clenched, my ass clenched, and my jaw—you guessed it—
clenched
. I heard Poppy say, “Well that popped his fucking cork. Did you see that, Rach?”

Shep stood there waiting for me, smiling like a goon and nonchalantly sipping his gin. His chest was orange, but beautiful. Sculpted by a true artist—or paid for by Shep. He must have a personal trainer these days. That pissed me off more. I was living in my nana’s guestroom eating Pop Tarts and my dad’s pizza pie four days a week, and Shep McNamara had hit the big time. He’d landed the breakthrough role at twenty-eight. What was he doing here? No doubt rubbing my nose in his latest success.

My manly vigor went unnoticed by everyone except Rach and Poppy. The hall on my end was remarkably empty. Not a good sign. Peter and Jean must be in the South Salon where, had the fire marshal been invited, we’d be running into a problem with room capacity. There were easily over a hundred people squished in that room, and more spilled into the hall behind Shep and into the North Salon. What the hell was going on? Maybe Jean Luc was offering an impromptu discourse on sculpture? Not likely.

I arrived ready to blast my ex, but behind him, Jean Pappineau wasn’t lecturing unintelligibly about the integrity of his art.

Oh no.

Everyone in the room was topless. The men were at any rate. For many, this was a poorly conceived plan.

Shep waited for me to react to what I now saw was his vie for my attention—honest to God, why?—while, utterly distracted, I prayed no one had lost more clothing. Jesus. This could be a full-fledged disaster. The room was flashing with the white light of flash bulbs and the music was now much too loud and not at all appropriate for the event. Were we listening to…Biggie Smalls? Cringing, I searched for the detective. I wasn’t sure if this constituted public indecency—technically Jean still had his skimpy black briefs on, and they couldn’t begin to cover what God had quite unjustly been damned generous with.