“You’d like to offer me something more, signorina?”

Again he’d used Italian. The tone was suggestive. I ignored it. Averting my focus downward, I placed his empty demitasse back on my tray and held out the final espresso. Nunzio intentionally overreached, moving his hand beyond the cup. His long, callused fingers lightly brushed my wrist then moved down, tickling the outside edge of my hand before taking possession of the saucer.

The contact was not subtle. The caress was deliberate and a little bit shocking. When I glanced up, his liquid-brown eyes locked on to my startled green ones. Then his lips lifted in private amusement. Obviously, the sculptor had caught me admiring his hands, so he’d decided to let me feel them, too.

I said nothing, simply swallowed and turned to leave the room. There was a palpable intensity in the man that became more apparent as he became more awake. I was glad, frankly, to get myself clear of it.

As I approached the double doors, they swung open, and Monica strode in.

“Ah!” Breanne halted her nonstop monologue when she noticed the younger editor. “I see the layout is here!”

“Bene!” Nunzio said.

He was sitting up straight now. The dark storm in his olive-skinned face had dissipated; his mood had visibly improved.

As I turned around to close the double doors, Breanne stood, met my eyes, and nodded-probably the closest thing to a thank-you I’d ever get from the woman.

I slipped away as the three of them-Bree, Nunzio, and Monica-began to examine the layout. Back in the break room, I brewed up four more espressos, attracting attention from some of the magazine staff. Drawn by the heavenly aroma of the Bouchon House Blend, the assistants clustered around me at the counter. They were all young women. Like Terri, they were very slender with an ethereal beauty that reminded me of pixies in the forest.

I gave them a quick lesson in how to work the machine for themselves, taking the opportunity to casually question them about Breanne and Monica and office politics. I didn’t get much beyond what I already knew. Breanne was a tough, demanding boss, who had little patience for screwups and sometimes belittled employees. (Telling the receptionist to shut up was apparently par for the course.) And Monica had been a very trusted, well-liked golden girl for years, which she cunningly used to advance herself.

A few minutes later, I was off again with a tray full of espressos. Returning to the corner office, I found Nunzio and Bree talking animatedly-but not unhappily-about his profile pages. By now, Roman Brio had also joined them.

I served the sculptor, Monica, and Roman. This time Breanne passed, so I took the last espresso for myself and backed away. Sipping the shot near the office doorway, I quietly observed the scene, paying special attention to Monica. She seemed agitated and tense, just as she had at the House of Fen. There was a notepad in her hand, and she was furiously scribbling in it as Nunzio made comments on the pages.

“The layout is good,” he finally declared, his Italian accent strong. “Make the changes I desire, and I will review her again before she prints, si?”

“Of course!” Breanne said. “Your instructions will be followed to the letter, Nunzio. I assure you.”

“And now I have something for you…”

The sculptor’s powerful hand reached into his Armani jacket and came out holding a small blue ring box. He flipped open the lid and, with a little bow, presented it to Breanne. Nestled in the blue velvet were two wedding rings.

“Oh. Oh God. They’re magnificent…”

Bree’s voice had gone soft, as if she were actually envisioning the moment the rings would be exchanged with her groom-instead of the moment they’d be photographed for her magazine.

Everyone in the room fell silent, aware of Breanne’s emotional shift. I stepped a little closer to see the rings, too. Then Monica, Roman, and Breanne began gushing about the intricate design. Hundreds of micro-thin strands of the finest white, yellow, and rose gold had been woven into a patterned circle. The design was inspired, with the metallic threads reflecting light as if shimmering stars were hidden within.

“I worked with the finest goldsmith on the Ponte Vecchio to realize this vision,” Nunzio said. “There are no other rings like these on earth-” He paused and smiled. “At this time.”

“Yes, of course. They’re the perfect prototype to launch your international jewelry line,” Breanne said, her tone all business again. “And your profile in Trend will be your introduction to a lucrative market in the United States.”

Nunzio set his empty espresso cup aside and rose from his chair. With a little smile he said, “May your marriage be blessed.”

Breanne thanked the sculptor and turned to Roman. “Take these,” she said, handing him the blue velvet box. “You’re as good as my best man, Roman, and I’d like you to watch over the rings until the ceremony.”

Roman smiled, obviously touched. He tucked the box into his lapel pocket. Like Puck making promises to his fairy queen, he crossed his heart with his pudgy hand.

“I’ll keep them with me at all times, my dear. I’ll guard them with my life.”

“I believe him,” Nunzio said with a laugh. Then he checked his watch. “Now I must go. Scusa, please.”

Breanne air kissed the artist. “Monica, show Nunzio to the elevators.”

“Yes, Ms. Summour.”

Before the young woman left, Bree caught Monica’s eye and smiled. “Good job on the pages.”

Monica’s tense expression registered relief. “Thank you.” She returned her boss’s smile then led Nunzio toward the door.

On his way out, the sculptor noticed me. “Arrivederci, signorina.”

“Buona permaneza,” I replied, telling him to enjoy his stay.

Monica continued into the hallway, but Nunzio slowed his steps until he’d stopped dead in front of me. Using two long fingers, he reached into his jacket’s breast pocket and brought out a cream-colored card. He held it out to 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.”