Milo...Savoy

      By Pattie Lawler

 

            Albany sank onto the couch beside Milo. “What’cha ya doin’?”

            “Hm? Oh. I’m shopping for a present to give Fanny on our wedding day.”

            With a soft moan, she dropped her forehead onto his shoulder. “God, I suck. I have my head so far up my ass I can see daylight.”

            “Nice visual. What’s the matter?”

            She gestured to the catalogue. “It hadn’t even occurred to selfish, self-centered me.”

            He laughed, patting her hand. “How many kids have you had in your adult life?”

            Her head lolled in reply.

            “Exactly. If you’re still not thinking of her in three months, we’ll need to have a talk, but for the moment, you’re allowed to continue to think of yourself…and me.” He leaned over to kiss her. “You are thinking of me, right?”

            She smiled, kissing him back. “To distraction.”

            “That’s what I love to hear.” He wrapped an arm across her back, drawing her closer. Several minutes passed before either paused to breathe.

            Sitting back, Albany pointed to the catalogue. “So what are you looking at?”

            “Playing cards.” He showed her the full-color page of cards. “To keep herself amused at the countless auctions I dragged her to, Fanny started collecting cards. She’s got an impressive collection, though I think other interests are supplanting her drive to collect.”

            “It’s the age.”

            “Which is fine, but,” he shot her a self-deprecating smirk, “I can’t help myself.” He set the catalog aside to change the subject. “Though I did want say and keep forgetting that the ruby ring was a great idea.”

            “Thank you, but I can’t take credit for it. I knew a girl in school whose family did that for each girl when they got their first period. I was jealous and swore my kids would likewise mark the occasion.”

            He grinned at her. “So, Fanny’s yours now?”

            She snapped her hand at the catalogue. “Not according to Albany Central!”

            “Stop being so hard on yourself, please.”

            Her expression softened as he hugged her with both arms. “Are you coming to the theater tonight?”

            “Of course. Are you leaving soon? Can I drop you?”

            “Where’re ya goin’?”

            He heaved a sigh. “The Savoy. I’m meeting Noah Brooks.”

            “The one with the forgery?”

            He nodded. “His other pieces were genuine, but I thought I’d ask him how long he’s had the spell.”

            “Why? Or are you thinking of Phillips?”

            “I think I should explore whatever comes my way.”

            Albany grinned, meeting his eyes. “You’re not bored, are you?”

            One side of his mouth lifted as he hugged her harder. “Maybe.”

            She grabbed his arm, pulling his watch into view. “We have twenty minutes before we have to leave.”

            “Oh? What did you have in mind?”

            Leaping to her feet, she ran for the bedroom.

 <0>

            Reviewing his past encounters with Noah Brooks left Milo with one strong emotion: annoyance.

            He might have traded a score of words with the Duffer, none of them productive. Or memorable. But that aside, he could recall a handful of collectors that had tried to cultivate a relation with, or had been approached by Noah. They all recollected the event as unpleasant. Something about Noah just rubbed people the wrong way.

The doorman at the Savoy opened the car door, and Milo put his game face in place. With Simon at his side, he tugged his scarlet greatcoat straight and entered the lobby.

The majordomo approached right away, his hand out to guide them first to the coat check and then to the waiting table.

The empty table.

An unnecessary glance at his watch assured Milo that his punctuality wasn’t at fault. With a nod, he took the proffered seat and accepted the wine list. He scanned the prices, selected the most expensive, and handed the list back.

Noah was going to pay for making him wait by every means at his command.

Taking the menu, Milo set it to the side and slipped his BlackBerry from his pocket. There was no frantic message from Joe telling him that Noah had called saying he was hung up in traffic or some other likely excuse. With a mental shrug, he busied himself with the synopsis to Tales of Hoffman.

            Twenty minutes and a glass of indifferent wine later, Milo was tired of waiting. Ten minutes later, he rose to leave as Simon nodded, signaling Noah’s approach. A hand came down on his shoulder.

            “Sorry I’m late.”

            “While I assume it couldn’t be helped, a phone call would—”

            “Yes, yes,” Noah interrupted him, taking the seat across the table while eyeing the wine. “Started without me, did you?” He grinned up at the sommelier who hastened to pour him a glass. “What goes with this?” The sommelier made several recommendations which Noah acknowledged with a wave of his hand. “The same for us both, and be quick about it. I’m already behind.” He glanced at Milo, “No food allergies?” but didn’t wait for a reply, “Good.” Returning his attention to the waiting majordomo, he handed back the menus. “A little privacy, please?”

            Though their faces betrayed nothing, Milo felt for the retreating men and tracked them with a modicum of jealousy. It was tempting to leave Noah and his ego and join them.

            But once alone, Noah dropped his mask.

            “When I heard about Phillips, I knew it was only a matter of time before I heard from you,” he growled. “God! It’s like I’ve been called to the principal’s office. Are you going to punish me, Milo Scarlet?”

            “The thought has merit.”

            “Well, the answer to your burning question is yes. Yes, I knew it was a forgery. I didn’t know that when I bought it, of course, so feel free to laugh your ass off. You and all your cronies.”

            The waiter returned with salads and bread. Noah offered the same goofy grin to the man before shooing him away and removing the mask.

            “I dropped seventy-five grand on that fake and hoped to recover some of it with the sale when Phillips went and got murdered.”

            “Bad luck, that.”

            Noah snorted. “For us both. Now Swann’s has pulled the stupid spell and labeled my account suspect.”

            Watching as Noah lifted a fork and stabbed at his salad, Milo realized that this angry persona was another mask.

Experience had taught Milo that some mannerisms could be hidden behind façades while others were too automatic to disguise. The handling of silverware was one such habit. Social status, parental influence, and self-awareness were all betrayed by this simple act. Noah held the fork like his nanny had shown him, but shoveled his food like a four-year-old. These mixed signals alerted Milo to Noah’s secondary façade.

From this he conjectured that Noah was also on a fact-finding expedition. Noah was offering information before being asked so that when he began his own salvo, Milo would be more forthcoming. It probably worked in other instances, but not this time.

Like a good auctioneer, Milo changed the bidding steps from simply listening to rapid-fire questions.

            “How long ago did you buy it?”

            Noah looked up, startled. “Hm? About nine months.”

            “And when did you realize it was a fake?”

            “Three months ago.”

“And you called Swann’s the same day?”

“Yes.”

            “So the other manuscripts were simply to lend the spell verisimilitude?”

            “Something like that, yeah.”

            “Who did you buy the spell from?”

            “Ken Wheaton.”

“And where did Wheaton get it?”

“He said he’d inherited it.”

            “And you believed him?”

            “Sure. I had no reason not to.”

            “Bet you thought you were beating me and my cronies to the punch, huh?” He didn’t give Noah a chance to reply. “Well, if you think I’m going to believe that you leapt at the chance to buy a fifteen percent snake-oil Tear at seventy-five thousand, you’re mistaken.”

            Noah blinked at him.

            “No one’s that stupid; not even the Duffer. No, Noah. You invited me to lunch for two reasons and neither has anything to do with your forgery.”

            Noah sat back, his expression schooled.

            Milo nodded, lifting the napkin from his lap. “You came here to see what kind of poker player I am. Having now satisfied you on that score, you’ll excuse me.” He dropped the napkin over the untouched salad and rose.

            “The other reason?” Noah asked, reaching for his wine.

            Milo turned his back on him. “Live in ignorance.”

<0> 

            “Do you know what he was after?” Simon asked as he moved the car into mid-town traffic.

            “I have a feeling his opening act was meant to get me to feel sorry for him and take the spell off his hands. If his wounded and bitter act worked, my natural pity would take over. Or, maybe I’d purchase it as a curiosity. Either way, he’d learn what degree of pathos affects me.”

            “Did you believe him about Swann’s labeling his account?”

            “I sincerely doubt he admitted to them that he knew it was a forgery. I could see him in the throes of histrionics with no effort. I think we should see which acting school Noah attended.”

            “What’s your next step?”

            “I won’t know until Joe gets back to me with his recent acquisitions.”

            “And here I thought you were daydreaming at the table.” Simon chuckled.

            Milo smiled. “He shouldn’t have left me alone for so long. Half an hour’s mental devotion to Noah Brooks raised dozens of questions.”

            “Anything on Phillips?”

“No, though I’d wager Noah guesses I’m working with the police on Cameron’s case. Maybe he was hoping for some insider information, but we never got there.”

“So basically this was a bust?”

“Totally. And I’m starving. Let’s get some lunch.”

<0> 

The noise level in the small, hot diner almost drowned out the BlackBerry when Joe got back to Milo. Their platters of burgers and fries all but covered the table as Milo placed the little computer under the lip of his plate. Joe’s email listed Noah’s auction activity for the past year and alerted Milo to an appointment she accepted on his behalf for the following day.

He looked at Simon. “Wow. I never knew Cameron was related to the Phillips of Phillips de Pury auction house.”

“How well do you think you knew him?”

Milo shrugged, dragging a french fry through ketchup. “I just think it’s funny he hasn’t, I mean he never mentioned it. His uncle is flying over and wants to meet me.” Simon’s phone rang, allowing Milo a moment to return to his meal. Simon’s greeting as he connected, however, captured his attention.

“Jason.”

In the ensuing silence, Simon nodded twice, locked eyes with an expectant Milo and nodded again.

“Excellent. We’ll see you at the opera house around eight.” He disconnected, slipping the phone back into his pocket. “One more worry off the list.”

With a smile, Milo began eating with gusto.

<0>

Jason was talking to the house guard when Simon found him.

Harry didn’t waste time as he pointed to Jason. “He tells me he’s Albany’s new bodyguard.”

Simon shook Jason’s proffered hand. “That’s right, Harry. I would appreciate it if you allowed him access to Ms. Wendel. I’ve spoken to the stage manager.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, they told me. I have no problem with that but didn’t wanna just let him in on his own.” He smiled at Jason. “No hard feelings.”

Jason’s smile grew. “None at all. I appreciate you making my job easier.”

“Well, you’ll both wanna know that I pitched Reynolds’ latest offering into the dumpster. There was nothing of interest about the roses, just the usual lavender ones, no note or nothing.”

“That was today?”

Harry nodded. “Around six.”

“Same florist?”

“Yeah. But only a dozen tonight. Like a little reminder.”

Simon turned his frown on Jason. “No time like the present to introduce you to life with Milo Scarlet.” And he began recapping all Harry had told him of Reynolds.

<0> 

Milo sat at Albany’s dressing table, the long, thin box he had had delivered during the performance before him. He half-listened to her excited chatter, his eyes following her reflected form in the mirror as she redressed, his distracted mind full of imaginary reactions to his present. When finally clean and presentable, she stood behind him, ready to receive his gift and be taken home.

Milo smiled at her reflection as he raised the lid off the box and withdrew from the tissue an opera-length, black glove. He saw her start, her mouth opening as a soft gasp escaped her lips.

Her magnificent lips.

He focused on the glove to recall his racing psyche.

Even though his glove he could appreciate the suppleness of the kidskin. The leather hung like satin across his fingers.

            Albany fairly twitched to take it from him.

            “Ever since the accident, I’ve loathed gloves,” he said, turning the glove to inspect the black pearl buttons that decorated the seam. “For me, they’re a constant reminder of youthful folly. And then I met you.” He looked past the glove and met her eyes. “Before you, lace and satin were my biggest turn ons. Never in my wildest dreams would I have ever suspected that gloves would challenge that.” He caught the opening of the glove and bunched its length in his hands as he worked his fingers to the wrist and twisted to face her, holding it out for her hand.

            But Albany hesitated, her eyes locked on his face. “When I discovered all things opera, one of my first purchases was a pair of white, satin opera gloves. I treasured them. And when they passed beyond usefulness, I actually buried them in the garden, in a shoe box, like a beloved pet. My next pair were cheap, black leather. My biggest turn ons were born from that pair. Leather and gloves.”

She removed her sweater, exposing the cream, satin and lace camisole beneath then stepped forward, slipped her hand into the unlined glove and wiggled her fingers into place.  With a soft moan, her eyes closed. “When you helped me up from the floor of the antique shop, I knew I was dreaming. Here was this drop-dead gorgeous man, in leather coat and gloves, reaching for me. Me! Mousy Widdle Wendel! That couldn’t have been anything but a dream.” She gently pushed her hand down, allowing him to smooth the length of the glove up her arm. “Knowing how you feel about your hands, I never said anything about liking gloves. I think it would have been cruel.”

            “Thank you.” He reached the top of the glove and continued to caress her bare arm. As his hand smoothed over the curve of her shoulder, he rose and kissed her collarbone. “I wanted to give you something for your brilliant performance, but roses seem so common.”

            Albany stroked his cheek with a leather-clad finger. “I love you, Milo Scarlet. And when we got home, I’ll model these gorgeous gloves with your choice of lingerie.”

 

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