Page 14 of The Picasso Heist

BERGAMO LEADS THE way, although not in a manner that overtly suggests we’re heading inside the house together. He meanders, even shaking a few hands and giving air-kisses to some guests. His life is fashion, after all. Appearances are everything.

I follow right along but keep a safe distance, even once we’re both inside. Servers from the catering company come and go. We aren’t completely alone until he turns a corner off the foyer and into a living room.

“Wow,” I say, looking at the massive S-shaped sofa. “Is that a Vladimir Kagan?”

“The girl knows her furniture.” He doesn’t break his stride. “Come, it’s this way.”

We walk through a den and into his office, then go through a sliding door.

“Wow again,” I say, doing a quick pirouette. Welcome to the greatest woman’s closet of all time.

“Do you see anything you like?” he asks.

“Absolutely.”

“Yeah. Me too.” Only he’s not looking at the racks and racks of BFD dresses, gowns, and coats. He’s looking at me. “Did I tell you how beautiful you are?”

“Yes,” I say. “A few times, in fact.”

“Once more couldn’t hurt, then, right? Because you really are stunning,” he says. “Are you attracted to me?”

I don’t answer, but I do smile. He smiles back, stepping toward me.

“What about your wife?” I ask.

“What about her?”

“You’re married.”

“A minor inconvenience at the moment.”

“I’m serious.”

“I am too. You’re irresistible,” he says. “I can’t help it. You’re like the Ferrari in the showroom window—I just have to have you.”

“Okay, but not here,” I say.

“Where, then?”

“Maybe somewhere with a bed?”

“Yes, of course. A guest room. I’ve got lots of those.”

We’re face to face. I lean in, whisper in his ear, “Do I look like a guest-room kinda girl?”

I can almost hear Bergamo’s engine revving. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” he asks.

“Yes, but I want you to say it. Tell me.”

“That turns you on, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, tell me what you’re going to do to me,” I say.

“How bad do you want to hear it?”

“Really bad.”

“Good. Because I’m about to fuck you in the master bedroom, Halston.”

“Now you’re talking,” I say. “Let’s go.”

To watch Enzio Bergamo sneaking through his own house is a sight to behold, but he’s awfully good at it so I’m the only one who gets to see.

Bobbing and weaving, stopping and starting at the sight of servers and a stray guest or two, he leads me through the living room, out to the foyer, and up the spiral staircase to the second floor, which is perfectly quiet.

“That was the hardest part,” he says. “We’re alone now.”

Not for long.

We go down a wide hallway to a double door straight ahead. Bergamo pushes through it and stops dead in his tracks.

“Hi there, Enzi. Long time, no see.”