The Confirmation (21 page)

Long nodded. “It's a fair criticism. First of all, I never believed the Senate had the votes needed to remove Justice Franklin. Perhaps I would have taken a different position if there had been, but now we will never know.” He tapped the podium like a professor with his index finger. “This dispute involved the other two branches of government. Respect for the separation of powers required me to refrain from any action that might prejudice my selection of the next justice if and when there was a vacancy. I know a lot of politics was involved here. But I had to put the Constitution first.”

“Thank you!” shouted Lisa from the corner of the stage.

Long caught a glance of Lisa out of the corner of his eye. “Thank you all very much, and let me again thank the American people for their prayers for Claire and our family.” The media horde leapt out of their chairs to hurl more questions, hoping to catch Long at a spontaneous moment.

“Is Marco Diaz on your list?”

“What is your reaction to the impeachment vote in the House?”

“Joe Penneymounter says he won't hold a hearing until after the Court is in session!”

Long ignored them, turned on his heel, and exited through the narrow doorway leading to the Oval Office. Lisa Robinson, Charlie Hector, and a trail of aides followed him.

On the front row Dan Dorman of the
Washington Post
, turned to a colleague, whispering in her ear, “Nukes in Iran, a health-care bill going down the tubes, a Supreme Court vacancy, and the First Lady in rehab. If the Long presidency were an IPO, its stock would be in a free fall.”

“Yeah, but you gotta give him credit for one thing,” replied the colleague.

“What's that?” asked Dorman.

“He isn't boring. The Longs sell a lot of newspapers.”

Dorman flashed a wicked grin. “For that we are eternally grateful.”

FIFTEEN

Gabriella Fellissi breezed through the lobby of the Hotel Hassler, a bottle of Fellissi Reserve under her arm, Gucci shopping bag in her hand, flicking back her sun-streaked mane of brown hair with her other hand. Every head turned reflexively. And why not? Gabriella was dressed to kill: black skinny jeans, Dolce and Gabana leopard-spot tee, tapered leather jacket, Chanel sunglasses, Gucci purse, and matching leopard-spot Mahlano Blahniks. She asked the concierge to call Jay's suite and announce her arrival.

“Yes, Ms. Felissi,” replied the concierge dutifully. Gabriella wore fame the way she wore her designer jeans: effortlessly. “Mr. Noble, Ms. Felissi is here.”

“Tell him I brought the wine,” she said playfully.

“She brought the wine, sir,” said the concierge as ordered.

When Jay stepped off the elevator less than a minute later, Gabriella stood before him, hand resting on jutting hip, sunglasses resting on her flowing hair, head cocked and wearing a mischievous smile. Jay tipped the bellman to bring up the case of wine and invited Gabriella up to his suite. Was it too forward to invite her to his room? He hoped not. Jay grabbed a wine opener and two red wine glasses, and they walked out on to the veranda. He opened the bottle and poured a small amount gingerly into one glass. He lowered his nose, breathing in the aroma, then taking a sip.

“Incredible,” he said.

“Let it breathe,” instructed Gabriella. “When the oxygen hits the grape, the flavor will come out like a bouquet.” She bunched her fingers and then spread them, imitating a blooming flower.

“Sorry I don't have a decanter,” said Jay.

“No, it's fine. The glass works.”

They swirled the wine in the bottom of their glasses, alternately inhaling the smell through their noses and taking deliberate sips. An hour later, when Jay opened the second bottle, the sun was going down over the Roman skyline, and the mood grew more relaxed. The conversation flowed easily. Gabriella slid her chair closer, and her long, slender fingers occasionally brushed against his arm or knee when she made a point. Jay felt a jolt of sensual tension every time she touched him, however briefly. They were talking about business and politics since the election in Italy was now only eight days away, but their eyes spoke of deeper yearnings, helped along by the wine.

Jay held his glass aloft, gazing at the rust-tinged, scarlet color of the liquid illuminated by the sinking sun. “Look at that!” he exclaimed in wonderment. “It's almost brown. I've never seen red wine with quite that color before.”

“It is the grape,” said Gabriella, leaning over to gaze at it from Jay's angle. Her breath tickled his neck. “The Sangiovese grape in the Montalcino region has more character than a merlot or a cabernet. For the reserve, it is selected from Papa's very best grapes, handpicked by my father, from a seventy-five-year-old vineyard with soil that produces the smallest number of grapes per plant, of the highest quality.” She crossed her arms proudly. “After that, we age it in oak barrels for three years and then in bottles for eighteen months.” She gazed down at her glass, spinning the wine in the bottom. “The year 2003 was very good.”

“I had no idea the process was so complicated,” said Jay, amazed. He turned to Gabriella, their faces a hands-length away. The thought entered his mind to kiss her. But he was leaving Italy in a week. This was no time for romantic complications.

“Have you had dinner?” asked Gabriella, as if reading his mind.

“No, not yet.”

“What is it with men? You never eat!”

Jay thought:
Me? You must live on celery to be able to pour yourself into those jeans.
But he bit his tongue.

“Come on, I will show you a place,” she said, gathering up her Gucci bag and curling her arm through his. They rode down the elevator to the lobby and out into the driveway, where the valet had her black Porsche 911 up front. Jay had a car and driver but thought it would be more fun to ride in Gabriella's Porsche. Besides, he liked the idea of her being in charge of the evening's itinerary. A mile later they pulled up to another hotel, the Molvano, which Jay did not recognize. They rode the elevator to the roof.

“You will like this,” Gabriella said with girl-about-town assurance. “It is a magnificent restaurant and then becomes a club at night.” She winked. “It gets wild later.”

“Sounds like my kind of place,” said Jay with a smile.

It was ten o'clock when they were finally seated. The maître d' escorted them to a table against the rail with a view of the illuminated dome of the Pantheon, with St. Peter's in the background. They ordered another bottle of wine and ate ravenously. Gabriella ate like a horse, ordering a beluga caviar appetizer and lobster pasta. Jay had calamari and fried eel simmering in olive oil pulled out of a pan thirty seconds earlier.

The waitress brought them a dessert menu. Gabriella ordered the chocolate soufflé.

“Bring two spoons,” she said.

“Fattening him up before the kill?” the waitress asked with a smile.

“Yes,” replied Gabriella, winking.

Jay felt a tingle go through his body. He was a little tipsy and was losing control of the situation. Jay knew he was being followed by U.S. reporters in Italy, so he tried to keep a low profile. But he found Gabriella irresistible, and he had lost count of how many glasses of wine he drank. Was it the wine, Gabriella's looks, or was he simply catching an Italian babe on the rebound from Lisa Robinson and Nicole Dearborn, the girlfriend who turned out to be a mole for Sal Stanley? Probably all three, he surmised.

“Can I ask you a question?” Jay asked.

“Sure, what?”

“Were you ever a model?”

Gabriella blushed. “How did you know?”

Jay slapped the palm of his hand down on the table. “I knew it!” He paused. “How did I know? Are you kidding? You're freakin' gorgeous.”

“Not really. I didn't have what it took,” Gabriella demurred. “I only dabbled in modeling. I always wanted to be a businesswoman and grow the family business.”

“I want to see your portfolio!” exclaimed Jay.

“My stock portfolio?” she asked quizzically.

“No, your modeling portfolio,” Jay laughed. “I want to see the photos!”

“Okay,” said Gabriella, then, in a soft whisper: “But I'll have to remove the lingerie shots,”

“Don't you dare!” exclaimed Jay.

“I have to tell you something,” said Gabriella in a low voice as she sipped a cappuccino. She paused, looking both ways, and then leaned in closer. “I was married before.”

Should he tell her? He decided honesty was the best policy. “Me, too,” he said. Gabriella's eyes widened. Jay held up two fingers.

“Twice?” said Gabriella, relieved. “Wow. That makes me feel better.” She wriggled out of her leather jacket. Jay tried not to stare. “Maybe the third time is the charm, no?”

“I'm hoping,” said Jay. “I haven't met the right person yet.”

“You will,” said Gabriella. He wondered if she meant he already had.

They mangled the chocolate soufflé beyond recognition. Jay noticed the restaurant was taking on the look of a club, with lights, thumping music, swirling bodies, and tables moved out of the way. Gabriella grabbed him by the hand and led him to the dance floor. She seemed to glide across the floor, lost in a trance, her body moving to its own internal gyroscope as she swayed her hips and rocked her head. She was mesmerizing. Jay, trying to disguise his awkwardness, glanced around and tried to imitate others' movements.

After a couple of songs, Gabriella excused herself to use the restroom. Jay went over to the bar. As he leaned against the rail of the bar, he felt someone pinch him from behind. Shocked, he wheeled around to see an Italian version of the Upper West Side party girl. She was Twiggy on speed, blondish-brown hair with highlights falling down her neck and shoulders, looking like a raccoon with heavy mascara, sheathed in a tight purple dress, black leggings, and spiked-heel Gucci boots. The place was a meat market.

“What are you doing with Gabriella?” she shouted over the loud music. “She's crazy, you know.” She put her finger to her head and twirled it.

“Well, so am I,” Jay volleyed back. “So we'll make a fine pair.”

She handed him her card. “When you get tired of her, which won't be long, call me,” she said, disappearing into the crowd. Jay looked down at the card. It was printed in Italian on the front and English on the back. Flipping it over to the English side, it read: “Lolo Luigi,” and underneath a decidedly amorphous job title: “Massage Therapist, Spiritual Counselor, Artiste.”

Gabriella reappeared, and Jay quickly shoved the card in his pocket. He felt slightly guilty about keeping it, but he was flattered by the party girl's attention. The truth? The attention made him feel better about himself, affirmed him. They went back to the dance floor and slow-danced, their bodies touching and swaying, occasionally raising their arms and clasping their hands. When the song ended, they made their way back to their table.

“I need a shot,” said Gabriella. “Jay, will you have some grappa with me?”

“Sure,” said Jay. He was game. At that moment Jay would pretty much do whatever Gabriella suggested.

The waitress brought a bottle of grappa, and Jay and Gabriella did a shot. Then another. Then a third. Jay was beginning to feel woozy. They danced some more. He wondered how much more of Gabriella he could handle.

It was now approaching 4:00 a.m., and the dance floor empty except for a few stray couples lost in each other's gaze. Jay waved for the check and handed the waitress his credit card. When he opened the bill, it was 650 euros, close to nine hundred dollars. Who cared?

After signing the check, Jay helped Gabriella into her jacket, and they headed to an elevator, the door held open by the maître d'. When they reached the lobby, Jay saw her Porsche on the curb, the valet standing at attention. As they stepped out through the revolving door, Jay saw shadowy figures in the bushes out of the corner of his eye. Suddenly there was an explosion of flashes. The paparazzi! Panicked, Jay dove into the passenger side while Gabriella jumped in the driver's seat and gunned the engine, pulling away.

“It's the paparazzi. They are the dregs of the earth,” said Gabriella as she threw the stick shift into second gear, roaring down a cobblestone side street.

“How did they know we were there?”

“Someone tipped them off.”

Jay looked out the window to see a motor scooter to his right wedged in between the Porsche and the wall of the alley, the photographer wielding his camera like a gun, blazing away in a string of flashes. There could not have been more than two inches between them and the scooter as they flew down the alley going at least thirty kilometers per hour.

“Grab my cell phone out of my purse!” shouted Gabriella over the roaring engine.

Jay fumbled around in her bag. She dialed a number and spoke in rapid-fire Italian. She hung up.

“Who was that?”

“My friend with the Rome police. He's setting up a checkpoint outside the Hotel Hassler to block the paparazzi.”