French Pressed

he’d need to crash in the second bedroom. But since he’d broken his arm, Matt had grounded himself. That hadn’t been my problem until this minute.

“Come on, Clare,” Madame’s son cooed to me, “let’s not fight…There’s another reason I’m here, you know, not just Breanne’s horny housekeeper—”

“Get out of this bedroom!”

“Not until you hear me out.”

Matt took a step closer. I folded my arms and frowned, trying not to notice how well the troll happened to be put together tonight, with black wool slacks that were perfectly creased and pleated, a pale yellow cashmere sweater that was probably softer than kitten fur, and an Italian-made bronze jacket cut from a leather so supple it looked good enough to eat.

Matt wore clothes well. No doubt about it. But for years, as the Blend’s coffee buyer, he rarely wore anything fancier than sturdy hiking boots, well-worn jeans, and fraying rock band T-shirts.

Trekking the Third World’s high-altitude coffee farms for the choicest cherries was light-years from a fashion show runway, which is why I was sure tonight’s obviously pricey outfit had been handpicked by Breanne. This was nothing new, of course. Since they’d started dating, Bree had been dolling up Matt like one of Trend’s cover models. She’d probably paid for the garments, too, or gotten them gratis from one of her designer friends.

“What is it you want to say to me, Matt? Make it quick.”

“I miss you,” he declared, his big brown bedroomy eyes wide.

“You do not.”

“Do, too.”

I folded my arms. “You’re not blinking.”

Matt pointed to his eyes and blinked. “I miss you, Clare. I miss your…down-to-earthedness—”

“My what?”

“I miss your smile, your wisecracks, your coffee—”

“You have no shame, you know that? I don’t think there’s one decent bone in your body.”

“No, Clare. There’s where you’re wrong. I have one decent bone.” Matt held up his right arm, still wrapped in the plaster cast. He shook his head. “Don’t you remember how this happened to me?”

Damn. I frowned, recalling Matt’s flying Zorro act. I’d been on the trail of a murderer, and I’d roped Matt in to helping me. But when the gun went off, it was Matt who threw himself into harm’s way, wrestling the killer to the floor. He’d gotten his arm broken for his trouble.

A wave of guilt doused some of the fury I’d been fanning. “I remember, Matt. I do,” I told him with a sigh. “And you know I’m sorry about what happened. I hated seeing you get hurt like that…”

Matt shrugged. “The cast’s coming off soon. No big deal. And it was fun letting Bree play nurse for a while. She and her people took good care of me. But you see, Clare…” He continued moving across the bedroom. “Breanne isn’t the woman I’ve been thinking about—”

“Stop it, Matt.”

“I’ve been lying in bed alone these past few nights, Clare, thinking of you—”

“Because Bree’s traveling. And you’re a child. Out of sight, out of mind.”

Matt stopped right in front of me. “Bree isn’t the woman I’ve been wanting to kiss—”

“Have you been drinking?”

“Just a bottle of Riesling.”

“An entire bottle?”

Matt grinned and nodded. “Château Bela, Slovakia 2003. Eric Ripert personally recommended it to Bree during a launch party at Le Bernardin. She scored an entire case. I’ll tell you, that woman has one impressive wine collection.”

“How long ago did you drink it? The bottle?”

Matt shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not the alcohol talking—”

“No…It’s the part of your anatomy that Bree’s momentarily neglecting.”

Matt laughed. “Say that three times fast. Anatomy, momentarily neglecting.” He laughed again.

“You are drunk.”

“Why do you think I was trying to make coffee?”

I sighed, wondering if Breanne knew this about my ex. Matteo Allegro could calmly hike through a Costa Rican mud slide or fearlessly fight his way out of a Bangkok bar brawl, but when it came to handling the minor curveballs of domestic living, he often needed a flotation device.

Well, at least this time he turned to a 2003 Château Bela instead of a line of Bolivian marching powder. For that, I have to give him credit.

“Okay, Matt, okay. Let’s go back downstairs and get you some coffee.” I moved to walk around him, but he caught my arm.

“I am sorry, Clare, about messing up your date. I really did figure you’d be at Quinn’s place. Will you forgive me?”

I took a deep breath and let it out. It wasn’t easy to let go of my righteous anger, but I did owe Matt. The cast alone was a reminder of what he’d gone through for me.

“Yes, Matt. I forgive you. All right? Let’s move on…”

“Okay,” Matt agreed, but his left hand failed to release my upper arm. The heat of his fingers penetrated the sleeve of my sheer blouse. His eyes met mine, and he leaned closer.

I leaned back. “Matt…that’s not moving on.”

“Just one kiss? I’ve been so lonely.”

“Oh, please.”

“One kiss. What’s the big deal? It’ll only take a second. Humor me…”

“You’re really trying my patience tonight. You know that?”

“I just want to know that you really forgive me. One kiss. Then we can move on.”

“And you’ll grow up?”

Matt smiled and nodded. “Close your eyes.”

With an irritated sigh, I gave in. Standing stiff and still, I closed my eyes. Matt leaned close again and brushed my lips. I figured that was it. We were done. But before I could open my eyes again, his arm was snaking around me, pressing our bodies together, trying to intensify the connection.

“I knew it! I knew I couldn’t trust you!”

“You miss me, too, honey. I can feel how much. Your body’s humming with it —”

“Your ego’s working overtime! Mike Quinn’s the one who left me humming.”

“Is that right? Well, if he left you humming, then he’s not here to close the deal, is he?”

My jaw clenched.

“Admit it, Clare. The cop’s a hard case, and you miss having fun.” Matt’s voice dropped an octave. “So have a little fun with me tonight. What’s so wrong with that?”

“Plenty. You want an alphabetized list?”

He moved to kiss me again; I stiff-armed him. Then I turned and marched out of the bedroom in my stockinged feet. Matt followed me down the stairs but not into the kitchen. He stood, leaning one broad shoulder against the doorway. For long, contemplative minutes, he watched me brew him a fresh pot of coffee in our drip maker.

As I poured him a large, black cup, he moved into the kitchen and began struggling out of his leather jacket. I helped him get the folded-up sleeve over his cast. Then I hung the expensive garment on the back of his chair for him.

“Sit,” I commanded. “Drink.”