decision on the dress. I think it will be perfect.”
“Did the Siddhar tell you to do this?”
“Perhaps telepathically. I haven’t had a chance to speak to him yet.”
Emerson left and Riley brought the boxes into her room and opened them. Silky pajamas, lingerie, basic toiletries, jeans, T-shirt, sneakers, fleece hoodie, and a little black dress. She stripped her suit off, dropped the dress over her head, and looked in the mirror. Emerson was right. The dress was perfect. Better than perfect. It was the dress of her dreams. Simple, classy, sexy, flattering. She was Anne Hathaway after the transformation in
The Devil Wears Prada.
—
T he Café Carlyle is an intimate dining room with a tiny stage, low-key lighting, and wall murals that look like Matisse and Picasso painted them after they’d been out together on a bender. The waiters are elderly gentlemen who take their jobs seriously. There was no barbecue on the menu and no room on the floor for the Texas two-step, but Riley thought it was wonderful all the same.
She looked at Emerson sitting across from her. He was wearing a black Tom Ford blazer over a black T-shirt. He was getting a five o’clock shadow, and his teeth were exceptionally white in the dimly lit room. Riley was reminded of the wolf in “Little Red Riding Hood.”
Riley took in the candlelight, the wolf, and the glass of champagne that had magically appeared in her hand.
“This isn’t a date, is it?” she asked Emerson.
“Between you and me? I don’t think so. Do you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I don’t think so either.”
She sipped her champagne and looked around the room.
“Is that Al Roker at the next table?” she asked Emerson.
“Yes. He’s a nice man. And surprisingly funny.”
“You know him?”
“I did him a favor once.”
“You do a lot of favors.”
“Opportunities arise,” Emerson said.
“I bet. Tell me about Dr. Bauerfeind. I ran out of time before I could research him.”
“He’s a German chemist who has developed a technique for reading the fingerprint of gold even after it has been recast.”
“Fingerprint?”
“Precise chemical composition.”
“And this fingerprint reading is a big deal?”
“It’s unique to him.”
“And we care about this, why?”
“On a personal note, someone could be stealing my gold, melting it down, and putting it into some other form. Ordinarily it would be untraceable. On a global scale the theft and transformation of the world’s gold could bring about economic chaos.”
“Wow.”
“Exactly.”
“So have you done Bauerfeind any favors?”
“Not lately.”
“About tomorrow,” Riley said.
“It should be a fascinating day. I have a plan in place.”
“I’m not part of the plan, am I?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Emerson glanced at his menu. “I’m very fond of the chicken hash.”
“I’m going with the prosciutto-wrapped monkfish,” Riley said. “I’m all about anything related to bacon. Although it’s sort of a bummer that it’s wrapped around fish.”
“You don’t like fish?”
“I like to catch them. I’m not crazy about eating them unless they’re fried and smothered in tartar sauce.”
“I’m sure if we give those instructions to our waiter it can be arranged. The chef is very accommodating here.”
“About the plan, and the fact that I’m not participating in any way other than driving you to the Federal Reserve.”
Emerson reached behind him, grabbed the champagne bottle from the ice bucket, and refilled Riley’s glass.
“Thank you,” Riley said, “but I still want to make my role in the plan perfectly clear.”
“We can talk about it tomorrow,” Emerson said.
Riley narrowed her eyes. “Now.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You’re going to ruin the moment,” Emerson said.
“I thought we weren’t having a moment.”
“We aren’t having a
date,
but we could have a moment.”
“Would it be a romantic moment? A romantic moment might be
“Did the Siddhar tell you to do this?”
“Perhaps telepathically. I haven’t had a chance to speak to him yet.”
Emerson left and Riley brought the boxes into her room and opened them. Silky pajamas, lingerie, basic toiletries, jeans, T-shirt, sneakers, fleece hoodie, and a little black dress. She stripped her suit off, dropped the dress over her head, and looked in the mirror. Emerson was right. The dress was perfect. Better than perfect. It was the dress of her dreams. Simple, classy, sexy, flattering. She was Anne Hathaway after the transformation in
The Devil Wears Prada.
—
T he Café Carlyle is an intimate dining room with a tiny stage, low-key lighting, and wall murals that look like Matisse and Picasso painted them after they’d been out together on a bender. The waiters are elderly gentlemen who take their jobs seriously. There was no barbecue on the menu and no room on the floor for the Texas two-step, but Riley thought it was wonderful all the same.
She looked at Emerson sitting across from her. He was wearing a black Tom Ford blazer over a black T-shirt. He was getting a five o’clock shadow, and his teeth were exceptionally white in the dimly lit room. Riley was reminded of the wolf in “Little Red Riding Hood.”
Riley took in the candlelight, the wolf, and the glass of champagne that had magically appeared in her hand.
“This isn’t a date, is it?” she asked Emerson.
“Between you and me? I don’t think so. Do you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I don’t think so either.”
She sipped her champagne and looked around the room.
“Is that Al Roker at the next table?” she asked Emerson.
“Yes. He’s a nice man. And surprisingly funny.”
“You know him?”
“I did him a favor once.”
“You do a lot of favors.”
“Opportunities arise,” Emerson said.
“I bet. Tell me about Dr. Bauerfeind. I ran out of time before I could research him.”
“He’s a German chemist who has developed a technique for reading the fingerprint of gold even after it has been recast.”
“Fingerprint?”
“Precise chemical composition.”
“And this fingerprint reading is a big deal?”
“It’s unique to him.”
“And we care about this, why?”
“On a personal note, someone could be stealing my gold, melting it down, and putting it into some other form. Ordinarily it would be untraceable. On a global scale the theft and transformation of the world’s gold could bring about economic chaos.”
“Wow.”
“Exactly.”
“So have you done Bauerfeind any favors?”
“Not lately.”
“About tomorrow,” Riley said.
“It should be a fascinating day. I have a plan in place.”
“I’m not part of the plan, am I?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Emerson glanced at his menu. “I’m very fond of the chicken hash.”
“I’m going with the prosciutto-wrapped monkfish,” Riley said. “I’m all about anything related to bacon. Although it’s sort of a bummer that it’s wrapped around fish.”
“You don’t like fish?”
“I like to catch them. I’m not crazy about eating them unless they’re fried and smothered in tartar sauce.”
“I’m sure if we give those instructions to our waiter it can be arranged. The chef is very accommodating here.”
“About the plan, and the fact that I’m not participating in any way other than driving you to the Federal Reserve.”
Emerson reached behind him, grabbed the champagne bottle from the ice bucket, and refilled Riley’s glass.
“Thank you,” Riley said, “but I still want to make my role in the plan perfectly clear.”
“We can talk about it tomorrow,” Emerson said.
Riley narrowed her eyes. “Now.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You’re going to ruin the moment,” Emerson said.
“I thought we weren’t having a moment.”
“We aren’t having a
date,
but we could have a moment.”
“Would it be a romantic moment? A romantic moment might be
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