Saints Astray (Santa Olivia #2)

Saints Astray (Santa Olivia #2) Page 24

“Ahh…” Henry blinked. “Apologies to Mr. Picco.” He put one hand on Loup’s shoulder, then withdrew it. “Perhaps Mr. Picco would be interested to know that Ms. Herrera is the world’s only optimally engineered bodyguard.”

She translated.

Vincenzo Picco stooped, peering through his tinted glasses at Loup. He poked her sternum experimentally with one long finger; poked harder when she didn’t budge, but Loup merely raised her brows at him. He spoke to his assistant.

“Vincenzo Picco is intrigued,” she said, turning to Pilar. “Who are you and why are you here?”

“Pilar… Mendez. I’m just here to assist you, ma’am.”

The assistant sniffed. “Alessandra.”

“Alessandra.”

Another exchange.

“Vincenzo Picco approves of your dress,” Alessandra said grudgingly. “Now you must all retrieve the wardrobe.”

They waited at the carousel where Vincenzo Picco pointed imperiously at crate after crate.

“You so got the best clothes out of this deal,” Loup whispered.

Pilar glanced down at her 1940s-inspired wraparound dress with little polka dots. “I know. I totally did.”

The entourage and bodyguards rescued the last crate of couture.

“Ready, sir?” Henry asked.

Vincenzo Picco clapped his hands twice with authority, then let out an alarmed cry at the sight of a careening, giggling toddler carrying an open, sloshing cup of soda bearing down on him, his mother in hot pursuit.

“Whoa!” Loup darted around the client, lightning quick. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, little man!” She snatched up the boy in one arm, securing the cup in her free hand. She bounced the delighted toddler on her left hip before setting him on his feet. “Here you go, lady,” she said, handing over the unspilled drink. “Sorry about that.”

The mother gawked.

A lot of people gawked.

Vincenzo Picco brushed off the sleeves of his suit and inclined his head, issuing a soft utterance in Italian.

“Vincenzo Picco is impressed,” his assistant offered.

Loup eyed her. “Does he talk about himself that way or is that just you?”

She tilted her head in an effort to look down her nose. “That is not your concern.”

“Whatever. Ma’am.”

They escorted the designer out of the airport, falling into a neat four-square formation while members of his entourage pushed the rolling crates. When it came to loading the crates into the cargo van, Loup helped, hoisting them effortlessly.

“Jesus,” Henry Kensington murmured. “What you did back there with the kid… you know what kills me?”

“No.”

He nodded at her crisp white shirt. “You didn’t even spill a drop.”

Loup shrugged. “I’m pretty dexterous.”

“In oh, so many ways,” Pilar added absently, studying the news feed on her Dataphone.

Henry Kensington blushed. “Ah… right.”

The designer insisted on going directly to the venue, an elegant space that had once been an art gallery. There was a showdown with the Fashion Week security people, who refused to admit them without passes. Vincenzo Picco harangued his assistant in Italian. Alessandra translated his harangues into voluminous English. Many phone calls were made. Photographers snapped pictures of it all. Loup took her cue from Henry and the other guards and simply held her position, alert and attentive.

In the end, they were admitted. The cargo trunks were rolled into the secondary gallery space that served as the backstage. The entourage fanned out and began unpacking the clothing and hanging it on racks while Vincenzo Picco strode up and down, examining items and giving curt orders.

“Um… what do we do now?” Loup asked Henry.

“Stand around and look stern. Stay out of everyone’s way.” He stifled a yawn. “Truth is, we’re probably just window dressing on a job like this. PR stunt. But on the other hand, you can see why someone might want to kill the bloke, eh?”

“Yeah, kinda.”

“You! Assistant!” Alessandra beckoned imperiously to Pilar. “I have a job for you.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

She pointed to a gleaming espresso machine that had emerged from one of the crates. “Watch.” She demonstrated. “One level scoop. No more, no less. Use only bottled water.” Frothing brown espresso hissed into a delicate white cup. “When Vincenzo Picco shouts, ‘Caffè!’ you will make one immediately and bring it to him. Understand?”

Pilar sighed. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.”

They stood around for hours while the designer and his entourage engaged in a flurry of activity, steaming and primping his collection. Or at least Loup and the other guards did; Pilar dragged a folding chair over to her coffee station and sat, reading the news online in between cries of “Caffè!”

“So what’s up?” Loup asked eventually, deciding she could stand and look stern next to Pilar as well as anywhere.

She made a face. “Not as much as we’d hoped. That guy Ballantine, he’s trying to get Congress to hold hearings, but he can’t force them. And the administration’s made it a big huge crime for members of the military to talk about it. National security.”

“That’s bullshit. They’re just afraid their big huge lie’s gonna get out.”

“Yeah, I know.” Pilar looked up. “It’s crazy, you know? People there really think Mexico tried to invade America?”

“We did, too,” Loup reminded her.

“You didn’t. Anyway, it’s not like any of us had access to real news.” She gestured with her Dataphone. “They do!”

“I think the whole world went kinda crazy for a while.”

“True.” Pilar looked thoughtful. “If this is all coming out in the open, I wonder if Ballantine showed anyone the interview we did.”

“Maybe,” Loup said. “If he did, that means Magnus was right.”

Pilar paled. “And maybe it’s a good thing we’re here, and not in Mexico, huh?”

“With fake passports and everything,” Loup agreed in a low voice. “Do you ever get the feeling Magnus knows more than—” She glanced over at a sudden commotion. “Oops. I gotta go be a bodyguard.”

Vincenzo Picco was flinging plastic cups of fruit-flavored sherbet to the floor while members of his entourage dove to protect the clothing from splatters. He massaged his throat, complaining to a defensive Alessandra in voluble Italian.

“Hey, Alessandra,” Pilar called from behind Loup, having abandoned her coffee station. “Did he say something about gelato?”

“Yes!” she said irritably.

“There’s an Italian gelateria about five blocks from here.”

Loup glanced at her. “There is? How’d you know that?”

“I did my homework, baby.” Pilar poked her. “See, this is the kind of stuff Addie taught me to do. It was in the dossier. Lemon gelato. It’s like ice cream, only Italian. It soothes his throat.”

Alessandra conferred with a mollified Vincenzo Picco. “Yes, please. But he would like the fast one to go. As fast as possible.”

“Me?” Loup blinked. “Okay, but it’ll attract attention.”

The corners of Vincenzo Picco’s mouth twitched upward.

“He wants to attract attention,” Pilar whispered in Loup’s ear. “And he so totally speaks English.”

“Mm-hmm. Give me the directions.”

She ran the five blocks at a quick jog, dodging startled pedestrians, overshot the unobtrusive gelateria, and backtracked, finding it. By the time the lemon gelato she ordered was ready, there was a small knot of onlookers awaiting her on the sidewalk.

“Excuse me—” a man began.

“Can’t talk.” Loup shook her head. “Got a big, important designer waiting for his fancy ice cream. Vincenzo Picco, you know? Very important.”

“Erm…”

She took off at a run and made it back to the venue before the gelato had even begun to soften. The designer received it with a courtly bow. After the first spoonful, he smiled and spoke to Alessandra.

“Vincenzo Picco is pleased.” She turned to Pilar. “Is it, um, possible that you might know of a reputable sushi restaurant nearby? Vincenzo Picco wishes to have lunch catered so everyone may keep working without pause.”

Pilar smiled happily. “Sì, signorina!”

After a day of standing around interspersed with errand-running, they got the designer and his entourage ensconced in the hotel. Mercifully, he elected to dine alone in his room. “Vincenzo Picco desires privacy the night before a big show,” Alessandra informed them. “He will expect you in the morning.”

“Of course,” Henry Kensington agreed.

In their hotel room, Pilar flopped down on the bed. “Ohmigod. My feet are totally killing me.”

“That’s what you get for wearing sexy little pumps that are a little too tight.” Loup pried them off. She sat cross-legged on the bed and rubbed Pilar’s feet. “I told you not to buy them. You could have waited to shop in London.”

“Mmm. I know. But they were perfect with the dress.”

“Vincenzo Picco approves of your dress,” Loup intoned.

“Hey! That’s actually a pretty big deal.”

“I know, I know.” Loup squeezed her foot. “You were great today. Everyone was impressed.”

“I made coffee.”

“You did a lot more than make coffee, Pilar.”

“You think?”

“Uh-huh.” She dropped Pilar’s foot and slithered up her body, bracing herself. “And not a single screwup. We just have to get through the big show tomorrow.”

Pilar kissed her. “We can do that, right?”

“Right.”

Backstage at the venue the following day was pandemonium. In addition to Vincenzo Picco’s entourage, there was a small army of dressers and stylists provided by the event organizers to assist, plus members of the media and assorted celebrities and fashionistas. Pilar was back on coffee duty, while Loup and the security detail were expected to restrict access to the designer. In between granting interviews and schmoozing with luminaries, the designer ranted and raved about tardy models.