A Fashion Felon in Rome Read Online Free PDF Page A

I’m a fashion designer,” I reminded him, still not meeting his dangerous eyes.
    “Well starting now, you’re going to be a detective,” he insisted as I forced a semi grin.
    I wanted to tell him that even Shaggy and Scooby Doo would make better crime solvers than me, but I kept my mouth shut.  Massimo had probably never heard of the cartoon duo and would jump to the conclusion that I’m an idiot for mentioning them.
    “So what do you say, Gianna? I’ll meet you in the hotel lobby at 8:30 tomorrow morning?  Va bene ?”
    “Sure, I guess.  But whatever investigating I help the police with has to be finished within a week.  I have a plane ticket back to New York exactly 7 days from today, and I can’t afford to extend my trip,” I told him candidly.
    “I’m sure Tomaso’s family would pay you to stay in Italy a little longer if they feel you are making progress solving their son’s murder.”
    “It doesn’t matter.  I have a business to run back in New York.  I can’t stay away longer than my two scheduled weeks.”
    “What kind of business? A dress shop?” Massimo inquired curiously.
    “No, not exactly.  I’m a tailor,” I couldn’t suppress a sigh.  No matter how delicious it sounded to call myself a fashion designer, the truth was that I was a tailor who snipped up and restitched outfits for a living.  Suddenly, the pipe dream of being Sophia Pucci’s personal designer seemed as unlikely as starring alongside Julia Roberts in her next blockbuster.
    “Tailor is a very respected career in Italy,” Massimo asserted, perceiving my negativity.
    “I know.” I grinned in earnest.  “A lot of Italian immigrants came to New York in the early twentieth century and set up tailor shops.  I guess I’m carrying on the tradition.”
    “You are an Italian beauty,” Massimo breathed like an incantation as I averted my eyes to the eggshell white wall.
    Instead of mumbling, I have a boyfriend , and embarrassing myself for not being able to accept a little compliment, I glanced at my cell phone clock and feigned shock.  “Oh, look how late it is! I have to get going.”
    Massimo’s face darkened as he nodded curtly.  “I will see you tomorrow morning at 8:30.  Sharp.  In the lobby.”
    Bolting out of his chair, Massimo left the room abruptly as I cringed inwardly.  What a clumsy way to reject a compliment.  It would have been better if I had told him about Richard.  Feeling like a jackass, I collected my purse and headed to the elevator.  Maybe a little room service order of fried calamari with spicy dipping sauce would make me feel better.
    ***
     
    Massimo was already in the lobby when I arrived there punctually at 8:27 the next morning.  Facing the road, he stared through the glass doors with his hands in his pockets.  He looked so pensive that I didn’t want to disturb him.  My boots tapped loudly in the echoing lobby as I approached him from behind.
    He swiftly turned around, appraising me in my skin tight slacks and curve hugging blouse.  “ Buona mattina ,” he clipped.
    “Good morning to you,” I replied, trying to sound cheerful and atone for my previous rude behavior.
    “There’s been a change of plans.  We’re going directly to the Sheraton this morning,” he informed, waving for me to walk ahead of him as we left the hotel.
    “Really? Why?”
    “Don’t worry about why.  Just worry about getting as much information as you can from Denise and Evelyn,” Massimo said gruffly, opening the door to a black Fiat.
    “They’re going to be there?” I asked, sliding into the passenger seat and noting 2 cigar stubs and an empty coffee cup near the gear shift. The smoky aroma permeated the car’s interior, sending me into a reverie of my late father who had adored lighting up potent Cuban cigars and smoking them after supper.
    “I hope you don’t mind the smell of cigars,” Massimo said with a huff.
    “Oh not at all.  My father used to smoke them.  I love…” I