between her clients and—
The ringing of the telephone pulled him out of his thoughts. It was Alex. She was waiting for the LMI profit forecasts to finance the Micromax deal for Ventura. Mark grabbed his files and left for Alex’s office. He would continue to observe everything. That was all that he could do.
May 17, 1999
Alex was dead tired as she rode the subway home. Earlier that day, she had finally closed a major deal she had been working on around the clock for the past week. Yet, she left the party with her team at Luna Luna afterjust one drink. She didn’t feel like celebrating. She felt simultaneously burned-out and electrified. The stress didn’t bother her, but the article in the
Post
’s gossip column someone had placed on her desk during lunch did. Alex boiled with rage after reading it. Sergio had attended a charity golf tournament last weekend on Long Island with supermodel Farideh Azzaeli on his arm for the third event in a row. Sergio had asked her to make time for him, which she did. She even turned down two other invitations so she could be with him. But he stood her up and she was left at home waiting for his call. Since their return from Cinnamon Island, Sergio had completely changed his behavior toward her. Before the trip, he had sometimes called her three times a day just to say hello, but since their return he called only once in a while to get together for sex. Alex couldn’t understand what changed. She was hurt, and she was incredibly angry that she—who was so competent and powerful in her job—had lost control of the situation and let a man humiliate her like this.
Alex climbed the subway stairs at the corner of Broadway and Eighth Street and picked up some pasta from an Italian restaurant and a bottle of Brunello di Montalcino, stubbornly ignoring the repeated humming of her cell phone as she made her way home. When she finally checked, she saw that it was Sergio. She had no desire whatsoever to talk to him. She was well above playing second fiddle to a starved, cow-eyed model. She turned at the corner and saw the bicyclist too late. He tried to brake, but the front wheel and handlebars slammed into her hip and elbow. The bag with the pasta and the bottle of wine slid from her hands.
“Damn it!” she yelled at the bicyclist, who almost crashed. “Open your eyes!”
“You could watch where you’re going, lady!”
This voice sounded familiar to Alex, and she took a closer look. After a few seconds, she recognized Oliver Skerritt.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said in a sarcastic tone. “Are you chasing after another conspiracy? Why are you in such a rush?”
Then he recognized her and grinned.
“What a coincidence,” he said. “Honestly, I was just grabbing some food at Giovanni’s. I’m sorry.”
“You just ruined my dinner.”
Alex bent down to pick up the broken glass.
“Wait, let me help you.”
“No thanks, I’ve got it. Ouch!” Alex cursed as she cut her finger. Her emotions overcame her: she was mad at Sergio and feeling tired and hungry. Tears welled in her eyes.
“Here.” Oliver handed her a clean tissue, which she wrapped around her bleeding finger as they both continued picking up the remnants of her dinner.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I can’t stand to see girls cry.” He looked up and smiled, his face level with hers. She realized that he had beautiful eyes. His hair was a little shorter than it was a few weeks ago, and looking closely, she found him quite attractive.
“I’m not crying anymore,” she replied, “but now I have to find myself something to eat.”
“How about a plate of
tagliatelle al salmone
over at Giovanni’s?” Oliver straightened up. “As compensation for damages, so to speak.”
Alex looked at him suspiciously for a moment and then shrugged her shoulders. She didn’t feel like sitting in her apartment alone hoping Sergio might possibly appear at her door because she wouldn’t answer the
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