The Vendetta (2 page)

The low level of beans in the coffee grinder caught her attention, and she squatted down to dig out another bag of the espresso roast. As she poured hand-roasted coffee into the big machine, she looked around the café. Comfortable chairs vied with little round tables for space in the long, narrow store. Local art, all for sale, decorated the walls, forming an impromptu gallery and adding dashes of color to the somber coffeehouse hues of dark gold, green, and brown.

Her late-afternoon clientele was a combination of après-skiers and between-meal snackers. The store’s patrons currently included an older man dressed for skiing (cappuccino, extra froth), a mom and her two kids (black coffee-of-the-day and two hot chocolates, extra marshmallows), and an elderly woman in a full-length mink (now there was a surprise—mint chocolate mocha with a double shot). People could learn a lot about each other just from the type of coffee drink they ordered.

One thing was certain—at this hour no one came in for the art.

The bell on the entrance jangled, and she cast a quick glance at the door. A dark-haired man in a cream fisherman’s sweater, jeans, and boots stepped into the gallery.
Well, hello, gorgeous
. Here was a shot of espresso, unless she missed her guess.

“Welcome to Art and Bean. What can I get for you?”

The man stepped toward her, and without saying anything, tipped his head back to read the menu above Lisa’s head. The strong, tanned column of his throat drew her eyes.

A flush bloomed in her cheeks, and she bit her lip.
Get a grip, Lisa
.

He met her gaze, holding up his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “Espresso? A small one?”

She held back a grin to ask, “Single or double?”

He smiled, and her heart skipped a beat.

“Single, definitely.”

She turned to the big Cimbali espresso maker that took up almost the whole wall behind the counter. “Paper or china?”

His hesitation surprised her, and she glanced back over her shoulder. At his scowl of confusion she held up a little ceramic cup and raised an eyebrow.

Comprehension dawned on his face. “China. Please,” he said.

His voice had dropped from smooth to growly, and Lisa guessed his subsequent deep study of the artwork on the gallery walls was a cover for his embarrassment.

While she waited for the espresso machine to heat up, she cast a couple more looks in his direction. Her grandmother would have called him
troppo bello
—too beautiful—with his longer-than-civilized haircut, lean body, and gray eyes framed by dark lashes. Beautiful or no, dark parts of her had throbbed to life in his presence.

Her cheeks heated again and she frowned.
Down, girl.
Just because she’d been going through a little dry spell this month—OK this
year
—didn’t mean she had a right to drool on the customers. But, jeez, this guy really did it for her. When she got past the sheer, sexy impact of the man, he seemed oddly familiar. Probably famous. Telluride usually crawled with celebrities during the ski season.

Or maybe it was his accent, which put her in mind of her mother.

Shrugging off that thought, she dispensed the dark, thick espresso. She stretched up to retrieve a saucer from a small bin overhead but couldn’t quite reach it. A low drawer filled in as a step stool.

“You have so many choices here.”

An electric jolt shot through her at his voice, and she bobbled the saucer but luckily didn’t drop it. Her penny-pinching boss would have charged her retail to replace it.

She looked at Gorgeous Foreigner over her shoulder. “Yes. We pride ourselves on choices. Where are you from?”

“Italy.”

Startled, Lisa yanked her heel out of the drawer and bashed her knee on the lip of the counter.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Are you all right?” The smooth, velvety voice raised goose bumps on Lisa’s skin.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Come on, Lisa, get it together, for God’s sake.

She opened her eyes. The Italian stared at her with a concerned look on his face.

“Yep. I’m fine.” Lisa cleared her throat. “Sorry, no one ever asks for ceramic. Americans usually want it to go.”

As the Italian opened his luscious mouth to reply, Kimmi, Lisa’s fellow barista, breezed in from the back room.

“Hey, Lisa. I just talked to Ty. He said you need to put the coffee order in tonight instead of tomorrow. Some kind of…” Kimmi’s eyes darted between Lisa and the interesting customer. “…vendor thing.”

Without looking at Kimmi, Lisa slid the Italian his coffee. “Here you go. Single espresso. China cup.”

“What do I owe you?”

Lisa smiled. “On the house. Italian special. Welcome to Telluride.”

He grinned back and saluted with his cup. She couldn’t help peeking at the stranger’s very fine rear view as he walked over and positioned himself on a barstool near the window to peruse the
Wall Street Journal
and, apparently, sip at leisure.

“I didn’t realize…” Kimmi whispered to Lisa, leaning in close, “I mean, that’s Nick Carnavale.”

A tingle of awareness brushed the back of her neck. Unsettled, Lisa raised an eyebrow. “Who is Nick Carnavale?”

Kimmi kept her voice low. “Oh, come on, Lis’. As if you don’t know. I read in
Vogue
yesterday that Nick Carnavale, native of Rome, Italy, just bought some old painting for, like, a zillion dollars.”

The tingle became a more persistent prickle that swept down her arms. Lisa put a hand to her nape. Oh.
That
Nick Carnavale. The one who’d bought the Titian for a cool $22 million. Lisa had read about it too.

“Kimmi,” Lisa said, her voice also pitched low, “you’re going to have to get used to the fact that we cater to the Nick Carnavales of the world. It’s our business to sell them expensive coffee and even more expensive art. Discreetly.”

“Oh, I know.” Kimmi took out a tray and began piling on clean napkins and sugar packets. “Movie stars and so on don’t faze me. But this guy, my God, he must be worth billions. And he’s kind of a mystery man, you know.” She looked up to toss a grin at Lisa. “Besides, if we’re selling expensive coffee, why’d you just give it away for free?”

Lisa put on her stern face. The last thing she needed was starstruck help gossiping about a potential client. Or flirting with him. Although, she reminded herself, she was the one who’d wanted to strip the man naked and inspect him for flaws as soon as he’d walked in the door.

“An impulse of the moment. He seemed to need a little welcome,” Lisa replied, glancing over at the window. “But don’t tell Ty. He’d have a heart attack.”

Kimmi shrugged and finished loading the tray. She picked up a rag to wipe the tables. “Are you sure you don’t need help with the coffee order tonight? I can stay and—”

Lisa cut her off. “Nope, I’ve got it. I’ve already done most of it on the laptop.”

Kimmi moved around the counter with the tray. “That’s why Ty loves you—you’re so efficient. Anyway, Nick Carnavale…wow.” She silently mouthed the last part.

Lisa rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help grinning back.

She turned to the espresso machine to dump the used grounds out of the filter and ready it for the next drink order. Despite a demanding, stingy boss and the occasional difficult customer, she put the last three years of working at Art and Bean into the “good gig” category. It certainly paid better than some of her previous jobs, art history degree or no. A warm glow lit her heart when she thought of the modest pile of money she had been able to save for her dream to own an art gallery. If she could just stay focused, in a few months she might be able to put a down payment on the space she’d had her eye on.

She caught herself looking over toward the window again and forced her gaze back to the espresso. Maybe that was why mystery man Nick Carnavale intrigued her. In addition to being wildly attractive, she knew he knew about art. Bought it, collected it. But
he
probably just considered art a prudent place to stash his money. While to her, art was
life
.

She readied two tall coffees of the day for the next two customers, dispensing free samples of the gallery’s signature muffins with an absent smile.

All the while Lisa kept track of Nick, who had moved to a more comfortable leather club chair. He turned the pages of the paper with crisp precision. The afternoon sunlight played over his face and cast it in bold lines. Strong jaw, straight nose, slashing brows, dark hair. His eyes flicked up and caught hers. They were a bright, crystalline gray.

The jolt to her midsection forced a grin and a blush. The Italian’s eyes lit up, and for the briefest second, Lisa felt connected, whole. Then his face blanked, the dark eyebrows drawing into a frown, and he returned abruptly to his paper.

Her stomach sank to her toes.
Jeez, Lisa, why don’t you just ask the man for his autograph while you’re at it?
With a slight shake of her head, she went back to cleaning the steam wand on the Cimbali.

Kimmi burst around the corner. “Lisa, we have a problem.” She grabbed Lisa’s wrist and pulled her over to the main seating section where the cappuccino-extra-foam man lay on his side on the long bench seat that took up one wall. Sweat beaded his forehead, and his undone jacket straggled across his chest. Lisa approached him and went down on one knee. At this range she could see the mottled color of his face. His breath wheezed through his mouth and nose in labored gusts.

“Can anyone tell me what happened?” she asked.

The man’s eyes rolled toward her, open to mere slits between puffy lids. His head moved weakly on the cushion, and his fingers scratched at the neck of his shirt.

“Can’t breathe…can’t breathe…please…”

“Maybe it would be better if you sit up. Can you do that for me?” Lisa stood and grasped the man’s damp shirtfront with one hand, pulling on his shoulder with the other. He was heavy, dead weight.

“Here, let me.” Nick Carnavale reached around Lisa and pulled Cappuccino Man up so he was sitting on the bench.

“Thanks.” Lisa cast a grateful smile at the Italian. The distressed man’s breathing eased, but his hands still scratched nervously at his collar.

She turned to the small crowd gathered in the shop. “Do any of you know him?”

The blank stares and shakes of the head from the bystanders revealed nothing, but she was conscious of a vibe that
she
needed to do something. Good thing she’d dabbled as a flight attendant after college and, briefly, as an EMT when she’d first come to Telluride. Only the Italian—Nick—had stepped forward to help so far.

OK then, plan B.
She took a seat next to the man and gave him a reassuring smile. “I know your drink, sir. But what’s your name?”

The smile he returned was sickly at best. “Berger…Sam Berger.”

“OK, Mr. Berger, do you have any pain?” she asked, automatically sorting through emergency scenarios in her head.

“Not pain, exactly,” he said, his voice a mere croak.

She played a hunch. “Do you have any allergies? Peanuts, shellfish, berries? Do you carry epinephrine or an inhaler for asthma?”

“I don’t know,” he said, gasping, “Well, yes…peanuts. But I’ve never had a, you know, reaction…”

Lisa looked into Sam Berger’s eyes, saw his panic and confusion. She leaned over to take his hand, squeezing it gently. “Don’t worry, Mr. Berger. You’re going to be fine. We’ll take care of you.”

She released him and stood, looking for Kimmi. She spotted her by the photo gallery and motioned her over to speak quietly in her ear. “Kimmi, please call 911, now.”

Kimmi’s eyes grew wide but she kept her cool and turned to the counter where the phone was.
Good girl
.

The bell on the door jangled. Her boss, Ty Reynolds, walked in and Lisa’s heart sank. Ty was the worst person to have around in any kind of crisis.

“Lisa, Kimmi, is there some sort of—”

A choking gurgle came from Berger, and everyone in the room looked over as he slid to the floor. Lisa felt a jolt of panic stab at her stomach. She knelt and struggled to pull Berger flat on the floor next to the bench. With two fingers on his neck, she felt for a pulse. There it was, faint and thready.
Come on, Cappuccino Man
. She bent down, hoping to feel even a tiny bit of breath on her cheek. Nothing. She looked up and happened to meet Nick Carnavale’s silver-gray eyes.

“He’s stopped breathing,” she said.

* * *

“Let’s move him over where there’s more room.” Ms. Schumacher—
Lisa
—spoke in a calm, firm voice. Nick positioned himself to slide his hands under the sick man’s shoulders. He and one of the other men lifted Berger and settled him on the floor so Lisa would have more room to maneuver.

Nick backed out of the way as Lisa knelt and spread Berger’s shirt open across his chest. She leaned over him, her ear close to the man’s mouth. Positioning herself over his chest, she pressed his breastbone with a series of short, shallow compressions. Nick could hear her counting softly to herself.

Lisa looked up again, but not at him. “Kimmi, I need you to take over CPR while I continue rescue breathing.”

Nick glanced over at the other barista. Kimmi stared transfixed at Berger’s limp form. Nick tightened his jaw and held back, acknowledging to himself that he didn’t know what to do, and clearly the young girl did.

Lisa leaned over Berger and breathed into his mouth. The man’s chest rose once, twice, and Lisa sat back.

“Kimmi.” Lisa’s voice sounded sharp. She continued the chest compressions. “I need you. I can’t do this by myself. The EMTs could be as much as ten minutes away.”

Frustrated by the girl’s hesitation, Nick opened his mouth to offer what assistance he could, but Kimmi finally broke out of the shock that had been holding her back. She stepped forward and knelt opposite Lisa. Lisa placed Kimmi’s hands on Berger’s chest while her steady gaze held the younger girl’s eyes.

“Just think of it as another training exercise,” she said.