2 Priceless

by Marne Davis Kellogg

  “You might like to try a limoncello martini. Very tart.”

  “Very powerful,” I said. “I had a limoncello after lunch.”

  He shrugged slightly. “You’re among friends and you won’t be driving, will you?”

  I laughed and shook my head. “I’d love to try it.”

  “And for our friend?” He indicated the dog. “A little Pellegrino water and biscotti?”

  “Grazie.”

  Once he was gone, Alesandro looked over at me and took off his dark glasses. He really was unbelievably handsome—not pretty, but masculine and weather-beaten. His eyes were lively, black as coal, shining with intelligence and humor above his dark mustache. “What is your dog’s name?”

  “Bijou.” I fed her a little piece of cashew.

  He nodded. “Seems an excellent choice.” His voice was smooth and deep, his accent lyrical and Latin. He exuded a powerful, raw sexuality that could seduce from a distance. He was a perfect model of a playboy, gigolo, jewel thief. It would be easy to be attracted to him. Even for a professional like me, Alesandro was Trouble with a Capital T.

  “Oh.” I self-consciously touched my brooch with the hand with the large diamond ring and smiled. “One of my weaknesses.”

  The waiter returned with my cocktail. “Limoncello martini, Signora. A gift from our barman. If you don’t like it, I’ll exchange it immediately.”

  I took a small sip. It was so lemony it made my eyes water. “Wow.”

  “You like?”

  “Very much. Grazie.”

  “Prego. Y per piccolo Bijou.” He placed a small dish of water on the terrace and laid three tiny dog biscotti on the table.

  I pulled out my book and began to read.

  My drink was so good, and so strong, I had to force myself to go slowly. Limoncello is a very fast drunk. It is a dangerously and deceptively powerful distillation of Sorrento lemons soaked in grain alcohol for ninety days at which point a little shot of sugar syrup is added. It is a lemonade-for-grown-ups that makes you drunk in about thirty seconds. If I weren’t careful, I could become a limoncello addict, I liked it so much.

  The waiter brought Alesandro his second cocktail and just as he was about ready to make a move in my direction, a party of four was shown to the table that separated us. It was obviously an important group because they had stopped at every table along the way to visit. Then one of the women turned and looked right at me—it was Marjorie Mead. The gala’s guest of honor. She had a wonderful, genuine smile on her face. She was with a famous director whose name completely left my mind when I recognized the man who was obviously their host, dashing and well known to everyone on the terrace, guests and staff alike. It was the man I met in the Paris museum. The man who looked like Cary Grant.

  He looked at me and I saw the recognition in his eyes, too, and after his party was seated, he came over and took my hand and kissed it. “Signora,” he said. “Lovely to see you again. Now I can say, ’Haven’t we met somewhere before?’” He laughed. “Would you care to join us?”

  My plan began to coalesce. I had two credible suspects, two solid links in the chain. Both men—this gentleman and Alesandro de Camarque—had been at the museum and now both were in Portofino.

  I glanced at Alesandro. I would play hard-to-get. It would do him good.

  “Yes, thank you. I’d love to,” I said.

  T W E N T Y

  “Let me introduce you to my good friends,” he said. “Marjorie Mead—our glorious guest of honor.”

  “Good evening,” I said as we shook hands. She had a good, firm grip and a straight, level gaze. “And congratulations.”

  “Thank you. It’s great fun.”

  “ … and Mickael and Katrine Forcescou. Mickael directed Marjorie in La Femme.”

  “Good evening,” I said to each. ”Buona sera.”

  “And now, signora, forgive me. I know your dog is Bijou, but I don’t know your name.”

  I smiled at him. “I don’t mean to be difficult, but I really think you ought to tell me yours first.”

  “Oh! Dio.” He clapped his hands on his chest and laughed.

  “Forgive me, again. My ego is so insufferable I sometimes forget there are still some poor souls on this planet who don’t know me! I am Giancarlo Giolitti, at your service.”

  “Priscilla Pennington,” I answered.

  “Bella,” he said as he sat down next to me.

  So this was the famous Count Giancarlo Giolitti, Portofino’s greatest patron. Not a gigolo after all.

  “See, Giancarlo?” Marjorie said. “Now aren’t you glad Consuelo couldn’t make it? I’m sorry to say so, but she’s really not very much fun. Actually, she’s not any fun at all.”

  I didn’t know who Consuelo was, but I was delighted she couldn’t make it. And when it came to fun? Well, if I put my mind to it, “fun” might as well be my middle name.

  Marjorie turned to me. “Consuelo is a dreary, dour woman that Giancarlo always trots out for these affairs because he knows if he takes one of the stars to a public function—” then she whispered sotto voce behind her hand “—actually he’s partial to starlets, his daughter will not speak to him.”

  Giancarlo laughed. “Marjorie, you’re going to give Signora Pennington the wrong impression.” He turned to me and put his hand on his heart as though he were taking a pledge. His nails were manicured and buffed and he wore a gold family crest ring on his left pinky finger. “I swear every word she says is a lie. She is an actress! Ignore her!”

  “Look out or he’ll start chasing you around the table,” Marjorie joked.

  “I think I can handle him.”

  Clearly Giancarlo and Marjorie were old, close friends and I learned that she and Giancarlo’s daughter, Lucia, had been best friends since they’d gone to school together in Switzerland. As to the other couple at the table: The movie director, Mickael Forcescou, was intense and fascinating. He had a dark cutting humor. His wife, Katrine, was either bored or on some sort of medication.

  The evening was magic. I joined them for dinner. We had course after course—antipasti, appetizers, insalata, primi piatti, segundi piatti, each one better than the one before. The Italian wines from the owner’s private cave were among the finest wines I’d ever had, which is saying a lot from a wine snob such as I who generally sticks to French Bordeaux and Burgundies. After dinner, the five of us went into the bar and drank grappa and danced and laughed until after two in the morning.

  I’m embarrassed to say I completely lost track of Alesandro.

  Giancarlo was possibly the most charming, sophisticated, well educated, urbane man I’d ever met in my life. He was so powerfully seductive, it was easy to understand why Italians had invented the word animale. He was also a total gentleman all evening and when he escorted me to the elevator, I wasn’t sure what I would do if he suggested coming to my room for a nightcap. I wondered if I’d say yes.

  He kissed my hand at the elevator door. “Perhaps you would join me for lunch tomorrow, Bella.”

  I loved being called “Bella.” Thankfully, a sober voice somewhere in the back of my muddled brain shouted at me through all the booze and said, Keep your eye on the target. You’re here to get invited to the party at this man’s house. Say no!

  “I’m sorry Giancarlo, but I have plans.”

  “I understand. We’ll see each other again. If you need anything at all, I live just up the hill.”

  I wanted to say, I know, I walk past your villa every day and it’s only the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen in my life. I swallowed.

  “Thank you,” I said, instead. “It was lovely meeting you.”

  “Buona notte.”

  T W E N T Y - O N E

  The next morning, in spite of an absolutely crushing headache, I bubbled with thoughts of Giancarlo. Certainly much more fun than thinking about Thomas, who—no matter how much I loved him, or used to love him, or whatever—just had the effect of making me angry Giancarlo was so charming. So fun. So
sophisticated. So unbelievably sexy I realized I had a crush!

  Alesandro had spent the whole day on the tennis court yesterday So, against my better judgment, I decided to take a tennis lesson. I’m not really much into physical fitness. I do the best I can but it’s not really very good. I do try to walk regularly, and I enjoy it. I’ve been enjoying my hikes here in Portofino but I haven’t really pushed myself to anything close to what anyone could call an actual limit. I’ve certainly never done anything that’s made me perspire. But I decided tennis would be a good thing to try since it didn’t appear to require too much strain or skill. From my observations, it seemed that if one were to use one’s head, one could simply reach out in one direction or the other and whack the ball. More to the point: I needed to be visible and this was the only thing I could think of to do.

  Of course, the proper clothes were the first order of business.

  After breakfast—which I’ll admit included a Bloody Mary and several aspirin—I followed the trail down to town to what was without question the world’s most expensive sports boutique, and purchased the full ensemble—short-sleeved white pique blouse, very lightweight white gabardine trousers, a snappy navy and red belt, tennis shoes, tennis socks, a sun visor, and a racket that had a face as big as a butterfly net. I know that dresses and shorts are customary for ladies on the tennis court, but no stranger has seen my legs this far in my life and as far as I was concerned, there was no reason to start flashing them around now, even though they are quite lovely Also, I didn’t expect I’d be dashing around so much the slacks would encumber me in any way

  I sprayed on Hermès Orange Verte, a crisp and invigorating scent that I think is also very sporty; added a gold and diamond Rolex on one wrist and a diamond “tennis” bracelet on the other along with three diamond-studded golden bangles, a thin chain of intermittent pea-sized diamonds around my neck, and diamond studs in each ear that were much too large to be worn, tastefully, in the daytime. Compared to the classic, low-key style I preferred, I felt like a Las Vegas billboard, but the smattering of diamonds was just right to attract attention to myself, and distract attention from my tennis game.

  If Alesandro were the thief, he would already have catalogued my jewelry from last night—the flash of my twelve carat diamond ring, the opalescent glow of the rare pearls, and the uniqueness of my brooch and earrings. If he showed up at the tennis court, he would see that I had more money than athleticism. I was a puffball, an easy target.

  “My name is Guilberto.” The young man extended his hand. “I am the pro.”

  “Lovely to meet you, Guilberto. Priscilla Pennington.”

  I believe he was ten years old and his mother had to drive him to work every day. But he was cute and charming and obviously accustomed to teaching complete beginners, otherwise he wouldn’t be at such a resort.

  “Have you played much tennis, signora?”

  “Never in my life.”

  “Never?”

  I could tell he couldn’t believe it. I was as old as his mother and surely in the five hundred years I’d been alive I’d picked up a tennis racket somewhere along the way. “Never.”

  “Bene.” His smile was broad. “That means you won’t have any bad habits we need to correct.”

  See what I mean? He was absolutely precious.

  After we got past the first ten minutes of him showing me how to hold the racket—he did this by standing behind me and helping me swing—it was time to introduce the actual ball.

  Guilberto moved to the opposite side of the net, a large basket of bright yellow tennis balls next to him, and began to lob them gently in my direction. I’d been mistaken. There was much more to tennis than holding my racket out and thinking they would automatically hit it. I had to move and reach. Bend and dash. I connected with approximately one out of every eight or ten.

  “This is much harder than it looks,” I said to Guilberto.

  “Don’t worry, signora, you’ll catch on.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  Alesandro materialized courtside with his professional-looking stack of rackets and tennis paraphernalia and took a seat and watched my lesson. He made me nervous and—hard to imagine as it may be—I played even worse.

  At the end of the hour, I was completely exhausted but also exhilarated and determined. I had actually engaged in a sport. It was thrilling.

  “Domani?” I asked Guilberto.

  “Sí, signora. À domani. ”

  He really was absolutely darling.

  T W E N T Y - T W O

  Alesandro got to his feet, offered me a towel, and poured a glass of water from one of the iced pitchers that sat on a court-side table.

  “Thank you.” I looked at him shyly.

  “You were doing quite well.”

  How he could keep a straight face and say such a thing escaped me. I wanted to compliment him: He was a credit to his profession.

  “You must be either blind,” I said, “or desperate for company”

  “Neither. May I get you a Campari?” he offered. “It’s the perfect, how do you say … ‘quencher’? … after a round of tennis.”

  “Thank you. That would be lovely”

  “DueCampari,” he said to the waiter.

  “Do we know each other?” I asked as I pressed the towel to my cheek, just like a regular athlete, although my cheek was scarcely damp.

  “No, but we should. I’ll be right with you, Guilberto,” he called to the pro who’d begun practicing his serve. He hit the ball so hard it lifted his little feet right off the ground.

  We moved to a table along the wall of cypress trees. They swayed slightly in the ocean breeze.

  “I am Alesandro de Camarque,” he said.

  “Priscilla Pennington.” I raised my arm and blotted my neck with the towel, purposely drawing the thirty-five-carat Pasha of St. Petersburgdiamond from its hiding place inside my blouse long enough for it to catch the sun for a split second. Long enough for him to see it and see that it was a stone of consequence. I was amazed at how detached I was from my brashness. It was the complete opposite from last night with Giancarlo, when I’d been my normal, restrained, reserved self. Just thinking of Giancarlo suddenly made me feel giddy, like bursting out laughing for no reason. I cleared my throat and sat up straighter.

  The waiter brought two highball glasses of spicy, cranberry-red Campari. A lemon slice was wedged on the rim of each glass like a yellow pinwheel. He splashed in a bubbly dash of Pellegrino and then set the drinks on the table.

  “Have you been in Portofino for long?” Alesandro asked.

  I shrugged. “Not too long. A week or so. When did you arrive?”

  “Just yesterday.”

  “Oh? From where?” Possibly, I thought, he might give something away, open some small door that I could chip my way into—some avenue to Colombia.

  “I’ve been with friends on their yacht in Sardinia.”

  Well, that didn’t work.

  “How relaxing,” I said.

  “Are you here for the gala?” he asked.

  “Yes.” I twisted the lemon into my drink. “I’ve been invited at any rate, I’m not sure I’ll go. I lost my husband not long ago and I’m not sure if I’m ready to start back into the gala life.”

  He blinked, and for a second an expression flashed across his face. I’m not a mindreader but it seemed to me like a quickening of interest, or a judgment call of some sort in regard to what to do about me. “I’m sorry about your loss. I understand how hard that can be.” He sipped his drink and almost smiled, as though at a private joke. “And when you get right down to it, there are so many galas, aren’t there. They all just blend together after a while. So”—he shrugged and pursed his full lips—“if you miss this one, there’s always the next one. It’s all the same people, anyway.”

  “Are you going?”

  “Naturally. I never miss it. It’s truly the party of the year,” he answered. “So many say the Red Cross Ball in Venice is the bes
t, but this one really is. It’s smaller, more fun, and early in the season before everything gets too crowded and crazy. I hope you decide to go.”

  “I probably will. It sounds as though it will be particularly special this year,” I said.

  “It does? Why?”

  “I’m sure this will sound silly, Alesandro, but I love jewelry. Especially important jewelry. I missed seeing the Millennium Star diamond in London because of the attempted robbery, and I understand Marjorie Mead is going to be wearing it.”

  He grinned at me, a genuine grin, as though he were charmed by my candor. He was extremely easy and relaxing to be around. “The gala will definitely be the place to see some very grand jewelry. But if you can get within a hundred yards of Marjorie, and the Star, good luck. I’ve heard the security is going to be more extensive than ever.”

  “I’m not planning to steal it, Alesandro. I just want to see it.”

  “Even so. I’m sure they’ll require that she keep her distance, especially with all these robberies happening. Of course, the really wonderful party is the one tonight, the VIP party.”

  “Oh?”

  “Only the celebrities and patrons of the gala are invited. It’s very exclusive, small enough that you can really have a conversation.”

  “Are you going?”

  Alesandro laughed and shook his head. “No, no. I’m in favor of supporting the International Refugee Foundation, and I do—the tickets to the gala are expensive enough. But VIP patrons have to give at least a million dollars. Some have given much more, some as much as five million. As I said, this is a very exclusive group.” He smiled. “And thank God for them—without them, the party and the charity would probably disappear.”

  “You’re right. Well”—I finished my drink—“I’d better be on my way. Thank you for the Campari, Alesandro. It was just the right thing.” I got up to go.

  “My pleasure.” He stood and we shook hands. “I’ll see you again, I hope.”