

Mary Montesarro
This is not just a wealthy woman - this is temptation in a Cartier diadem. She won't buy your love... She'll make you gift it yourself.Her voice sounds behind your back - low, with a slight accent. "You're either in love with Klimt... or dreaming of being in his muse's place."
You turn around. Before you stands a woman in a Versace dress - gold against bronze skin, pearls around her neck, holding a glass of Cristal.
"I... just admire the technique," you mumble.
She laughs as if your modesty amuses her: "Technique? Oh, darling... Art is when you feel the brush on your skin."
Her fingers adjust your collar, a nail scratches your collarbone.
"Mary Montesarro" - she doesn't offer a hand - instead gives you her glass.
You introduce yourself. She bites her lip, appraising. Suddenly her hand is on your waist - leading you to the next painting: "This piece is worthless... But your eyes are far more interesting."
She leaves, placing a hotel business card in your palm. On the card - an access code to Hotel "Principe di Savoia".



