FORTY-FIVE

MY first impression?

Hunter was tall and broad and scary big, like a Viking who’d docked his longship on a West Side pier and promptly visited a high-end barber for a shave and haircut before pillaging Barneys men’s department.

Eduardo De Santis looked almost like a child beside him—if not for his close-cropped white beard and more wrinkles than one typically saw on a man in his fifties.

Despite their differences in complexion, age, and shoe sizes, however, the two men were alike in mood. As they shook hands, their eyes remained locked in silent communication, their expressions confident.

No, I thought. More than confident . . . triumphant. The question was why. What was their meeting about?

I leaned toward Matt. “Give me back my phone.”

He handed it over. “Why do you need—”

“Time to play tourist,” I whispered then loudly declared, “SMILE!”

Thank goodness Matt realized what I was trying to do, if not why, and positioned himself to give me the best shot of Hunter and the men around him. To the rest of the world, it looked like I was simply shooting photos of my date at the famous 21 Club. But I was actually snapping shots of Hunter and De Santis. Then I zoomed in and took four more snaps of the former club owner, including a close-up.

When Hunter moved to the center of the entourage to wish everyone a final farewell, I pretended to be enamored of the “toys” above us, pointing and snapping until I got more pictures that included the three smiling sheikhs.

I quickly sent the photos to Mike with the text message—

Look who’s here!

When I glanced back to the group, they were still talking. None of the men had noticed my interest in them—none, that is, but the shifty-eyed bodyguard, whose dark focus was now frozen on me.

Crap, I thought, before shaking it off. The photos were with Mike Quinn now, so let him stare!

Ignoring the young man’s penetrating gaze, I pretended to chat with Matt about the memorabilia, pointing and laughing, while still keeping a peripheral eye on Sophia’s husband.

When the group finally began to break up and move out, I signaled Matt, who rose to block our outsized prey.

Okay, so Hunter was only a head taller than my six-foot-two ex, and his shoulders weren’t quite as broad as the Verrazano Bridge, but with the fashion of the day, his snugly tailored blue suit revealed an impressive shoulder span, a trim midriff, and arms that would do Mr. America proud.

Hunter was aptly named, too. He had a cat’s vigilant gaze with dark blue pools that seemed serene but remained wary, reacting with alertness to any movement his way—including Matt’s quick approach.

“You’re Hunter Rolf?”

“That would depend on who you are,” Hunter replied in that same vaguely European accent I’d overheard at Campana’s jewelry store.

“I’m Matteo Allegro. A friend of Sophia’s.”

“Oh, yes . . . my wife has mentioned you. You are the Bean Man.”

I moved to join the two men, but Matt didn’t bother with introductions. Instead, he stepped closer to Hunter, putting chest to manly chest.

“Well, this Bean Man would like to know why you’re in a private meeting, when you should be at the hospital consoling your wife!”

Matt’s raised voice turned heads. As a waiter moved to ask if anything was wrong, Hunter’s arrogant confidence suddenly folded.

“We can’t talk here,” he hissed to Matt. “Come with me.”

He turned and moved back through the kitchen doorway.

Matt threw me a look, and I followed him into the crowded stainless steel kitchen. We headed down a flight of crooked, rubber-coated utility stairs that landed us in a basement storage area.

With the clangs and shouts of the busy kitchen echoing above, Hunter paused in front of a bricked-up alcove, removed a metal meat skewer from a hook, and shoved it into a tiny crack between the bricks. With an audible click, the lock was undone, and Hunter pushed the two-ton “wall” inward.

For the second time that day, Matt and I entered a secret underground chamber. Looking around, I had to admit this one was much cozier than the World Diamond Tower vault.

The muted glow of golden lamps and flickering candles illuminated a surprisingly inviting room lined with finished wooden wine bins. Their shelves gleamed in the romantic light, with the dark glass of vintage bottles filling every nook.

Hunter led us to a long dining table in the quiet, cozy space. Dessert and after-dinner drinks had recently been served on its polished expanse, the remains not yet cleared away.

Matt and I took seats while Hunter stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, glaring at my ex. Matt glowered back.

Great, I thought. Another rooster fight.

We weren’t going to get anywhere like this.

Time for a woman’s touch . . .