in these buildings changed hands for low to mid-seven-figure sums, and there was no dearth of clients at Sotheby’s or even Coldwell-Banker to purchase them.
Eduardo lived in a condo, evidently owned by the Peruvian government, in this very building. Sam had never been to his place, but she’d managed to track down the information from a crisscross telephone directory on the Internet. Which condo unit was his, she wasn’t sure, because he still wasn’t returning her calls. She’d left plaintive messages, sweet messages, funny messages, and finally frustrated messages, none of which he’d chosen to answer.
Now, she’d had enough. It was okay for him to be mad at her—hell,
she
would have been mad at her, if she’d seen him do what she’d done on prom night—but it was time to get over it and, as they said in Hollywood, move on to another level.
She’d dressed carefully for a mission of persuasion: her most flattering Escada black velvet jeans with the silver rivets, a red cashmere Gucci V-necked sweater she’d bought at a trunk sale at the Shed restaurant in Santa Fe, and her favorite white-leather-and-crystal sandals from Jimmy Choo. Then she’d climbed into the black Hummer and buzzed over to his building.
“So, how’s the shooting going on
Ben-Hur?
” the doorman asked, hovering over her. “Word is your dad’s starting to go over budget.”
Christ, was
everyone
in this town in showbusiness?
Sam put her hand out without answering. “May I have the article back, please? And can you tell me if Eduardo Munoz is here?”
He nodded. “Now, what did you have in mind?”
“Some people need to get to Eduardo—it’s a little surprise I’m planning.”
Then he frowned. “I don’t know. …”
Sam pulled a few twenty-dollar bills from the back pocket of her jeans, having stashed them there just in case. She slapped them into his palm and curled his fist around the money. “Better?”
The doorman smiled and pocketed the money. “Much.”
“Good. Stand aside. You’re about to see genius in action.”
Eduardo was relaxing on his hand-tooled-in-Lima living room sofa, reading a book on the conflict in the Middle East, when someone knocked on the front door of his suite. Strange. The doorman always buzzed him if there were visitors. Maybe it was one of his neighbors stopping by.
He marked his spot with a red felt bookmark and went to the front foyer. Security in the building was so good that he had no worries about simply opening the door for whoever was knocking.
Three middle-aged men in tuxedos, with white towels over their right arms, stood before him. Between them was a silver room-service warming box on wheels.
“Eduardo Munoz?” the oldest looking of the three asked.
“Yes? May I help you?”
“Dinner for one from L.A. Farm,” the man continued. He consulted a small card. “Ceviche of arugula with beets, goat cheese, and pine nuts. Crispy Thai shrimp.
Loup de mer
in a white saffron sauce with snow peas. A cornucopia of berries and sorbet. And two different wines: a Chassagne-Montrachet ’87 for dinner, followed by a private-label Gewürztraminer with dessert. I trust this will be satisfactory.”
Eduardo was confused; not only because he hadn’t placed the order, but because whoever had placed it knew him well: they’d ordered his favorite foods and his two favorite wines.
His stomach rumbled. Only now did he remember that he’d neglected to eat dinner. Funny how little he’d been interested in food since he’d seen Samantha kissing another guy on the beach. He felt just slightly sick most of the time. Lovesick, maybe. But he was determined to get over it. Certainly he’d get over her. Eventually. Even if his body kept telling a different story.
“Who ordered this for me?”
“A friend,” the lead waiter replied. “May we come in and set up for you, sir?”
“Please.” Eduardo opened the door wider and ushered them in. L.A. Farm was a terrific restaurant. “Set up
Eduardo lived in a condo, evidently owned by the Peruvian government, in this very building. Sam had never been to his place, but she’d managed to track down the information from a crisscross telephone directory on the Internet. Which condo unit was his, she wasn’t sure, because he still wasn’t returning her calls. She’d left plaintive messages, sweet messages, funny messages, and finally frustrated messages, none of which he’d chosen to answer.
Now, she’d had enough. It was okay for him to be mad at her—hell,
she
would have been mad at her, if she’d seen him do what she’d done on prom night—but it was time to get over it and, as they said in Hollywood, move on to another level.
She’d dressed carefully for a mission of persuasion: her most flattering Escada black velvet jeans with the silver rivets, a red cashmere Gucci V-necked sweater she’d bought at a trunk sale at the Shed restaurant in Santa Fe, and her favorite white-leather-and-crystal sandals from Jimmy Choo. Then she’d climbed into the black Hummer and buzzed over to his building.
“So, how’s the shooting going on
Ben-Hur?
” the doorman asked, hovering over her. “Word is your dad’s starting to go over budget.”
Christ, was
everyone
in this town in showbusiness?
Sam put her hand out without answering. “May I have the article back, please? And can you tell me if Eduardo Munoz is here?”
He nodded. “Now, what did you have in mind?”
“Some people need to get to Eduardo—it’s a little surprise I’m planning.”
Then he frowned. “I don’t know. …”
Sam pulled a few twenty-dollar bills from the back pocket of her jeans, having stashed them there just in case. She slapped them into his palm and curled his fist around the money. “Better?”
The doorman smiled and pocketed the money. “Much.”
“Good. Stand aside. You’re about to see genius in action.”
Eduardo was relaxing on his hand-tooled-in-Lima living room sofa, reading a book on the conflict in the Middle East, when someone knocked on the front door of his suite. Strange. The doorman always buzzed him if there were visitors. Maybe it was one of his neighbors stopping by.
He marked his spot with a red felt bookmark and went to the front foyer. Security in the building was so good that he had no worries about simply opening the door for whoever was knocking.
Three middle-aged men in tuxedos, with white towels over their right arms, stood before him. Between them was a silver room-service warming box on wheels.
“Eduardo Munoz?” the oldest looking of the three asked.
“Yes? May I help you?”
“Dinner for one from L.A. Farm,” the man continued. He consulted a small card. “Ceviche of arugula with beets, goat cheese, and pine nuts. Crispy Thai shrimp.
Loup de mer
in a white saffron sauce with snow peas. A cornucopia of berries and sorbet. And two different wines: a Chassagne-Montrachet ’87 for dinner, followed by a private-label Gewürztraminer with dessert. I trust this will be satisfactory.”
Eduardo was confused; not only because he hadn’t placed the order, but because whoever had placed it knew him well: they’d ordered his favorite foods and his two favorite wines.
His stomach rumbled. Only now did he remember that he’d neglected to eat dinner. Funny how little he’d been interested in food since he’d seen Samantha kissing another guy on the beach. He felt just slightly sick most of the time. Lovesick, maybe. But he was determined to get over it. Certainly he’d get over her. Eventually. Even if his body kept telling a different story.
“Who ordered this for me?”
“A friend,” the lead waiter replied. “May we come in and set up for you, sir?”
“Please.” Eduardo opened the door wider and ushered them in. L.A. Farm was a terrific restaurant. “Set up
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