SEVENTY-NINE

THE expression on Bree’s face was priceless.

For her it was like being confronted by her own mirror image—albeit a slightly shorter one, even with my cruel stilts. For me, peering at the original model gave me an even greater appreciation for the theatrical tricks Tuck and Punch so earnestly applied on my behalf.

Hands on hips, Breanne (the real one) looked me up and down, her stare colder than the pool’s frosty light.

“I don’t believe this,” she hissed. “When Cora Taylor-Chase asked what happened to the Marc Jacobs dress that so awesomely displayed my new boob job, I wondered if the poor drunken woman was delusional. Then I saw Matteo slinking around, and I knew something was up. Who are you?!” she demanded.

By now, I had pressed the panic button on my smartphone—the one that connected me directly to my police backup at this floating shindig.

“Why are you here beside the pool on the Lido Deck, Breanne?” I said, loudly stressing the words I wanted my cop to hear. “Did you come to start trouble?”

“My God,” Breanne cried when she heard my voice. “Is that Clare Cosi under that fright wig?” She threw up her hands. “Of course it is. You and Matt are like Laurel and Hardy. He’s the big dumb cluck who does what he’s told while he follows your fat ass all over town!”

I gritted my teeth. Easy, Clare. You don’t want to get yourself thrown off this ship. Just remember what Nonna used to tell you. Count to ten before you react . . .

Bree folded her twig arms. “You know, I never understood Matt’s fascination with such a common woman.”

One, two . . .

“But then, Matt Allegro turned out to be as big a loser as you are. You’re both nothing more than glorified waiters, living on tips—the dribs and drabs of your betters . . .”

Three—Oh, forget it!

“Listen, you witch, if you say another insulting word you won’t need Botox injections to get a fat lip.”

“I’m calling security,” she said, lifting her phone.

“You stupidly gave up a good man, for what? Down deep, Matt is a better person than most I’ve known, and he’s way too good for an aging East Side gold digger like you. Sure, he’s not perfect, and he’s made a lot of mistakes. But one of his worst was saying ‘I do’ to a shallow, superficial, aging vampire, clinging desperately to her sinking career and floundering social status—”

Breanne cut loose with a banshee scream and lunged at me.

“Take that wig off!” she howled, groping for my headpiece. “Let’s see your mousy, mud brown hair so I can pull it out by the roots!”

Breanne was strong—hours of Pilates, probably—but she wasn’t a street fighter so she didn’t know the score. If she was going to grab my wig, then I was going to grab her hair.

Breanne howled, but her screams made me tug harder.

She tried to slap me, but only managed to send Punch’s Jackie O glasses into the posh pool.

That’s when the heels of my cruel shoes got tangled in the leg of a stool. I went down on one knee, but I never let go of her yellow straw. As I pulled Breanne forward, she tripped over my leg and did a somersault right into the water.

Wow. What a spectacular splash, I thought, as cold spray rained down on me. Then I stared at the wad of Breanne’s salon hair extensions still clutched in my hand.

In the pool, Breanne broke to the surface, sputtering. Then she began to yell—

“Security! Security! Help! Help!”

I heard footsteps and turned to see Matt was already here. Right behind him, our police backup arrived with a pair of ship’s stewards in tow.

“What’s going on here?” Sergeant Franco calmly asked, his voice a low rumble. Then he spotted Breanne. “Isn’t it a little chilly to go for a swim?”

Franco was in uniform tonight, his wide shoulders stretching the blue material. The two stewards seemed relieved that someone with authority was taking charge.

The big cop helped Breanne out of the water and sat her on the edge of the pool. Then Franco stripped a table, and draped the white cloth around her.

Matt joined me. Breanne pushed her wet hair back and spied her husband. “Are you both happy you’ve humiliated me?”

“You humiliated yourself when you let a good man go,” I shot back, letting the sea breeze take her extensions.

A small crowd gathered. Breanne, shaking with rage, didn’t notice she had an audience.

“Matt, a good man?” She laughed. “He has nothing. He works with his hands . . . in the dirt, for goodness sake, and takes losses to help farmers halfway around the world with less than nothing—the stupidest businessman in New York.” She shook her wet head. “No, I have a real man now. Someone who can take care of me in the manner I deserve. A man with an empire I can help him run after I become his wife!”

“Okay, calm down,” Franco commanded. “Now what’s with all this fighting and ranting? What’s the problem here?”

“That woman.” Breanne pointed at me. “She’s the problem. You need to arrest her for theft of my identity.”

Franco flashed me a glance. Or was it a wink?

Then he scratched his shaved head in mock puzzlement. “But I know that woman. She’s Breanne Summour, editor of Trend magazine.”

“No, I’m Breanne Summour. The real one!”

“Do you have ID on you?”

“I only have my smartphone—and it’s at the bottom of the pool. But you can ask my date—”

“Tall guy? Older man? White hair? Brought his own bodyguard?”

“That’s him, Officer.”

“He left the ship fifteen minutes ago with an Instagram model.”

Breanne looked stricken. “That can’t be true!”

“No worries, though. Breanne Summour’s husband is standing right there.” Franco met Matt’s gaze. “So, Mr. Allegro. What’s the verdict?”

Matt didn’t hesitate.

“That one—the one who’s all wet—”

“See!” Breanne cried.

“She’s the phony.”

“You heard the man,” Franco said to the stewards. “Let’s get this gate-crashing mermaid out of here.”

Cursing like a sailor, Breanne tongue-lashed Franco and the stewards as they led her away.

“That was nice of you,” Matt quickly told me. “How you defended me, I mean.”

“How long were you watching? And why didn’t you intervene?”

“And miss a good catfight?”

As I shot him a dirty look, Matt draped a protective arm over my bruised shoulder. Ouch!

“We still make a good team, you and I,” he said, making up for my postfight pain. “Now let’s get back to that party and find the SOB who took my mother.”