On What Grounds

“Calm down, Clare. I’m not Lebreux. If I wanted to franchise this place, I’d do it the right way.”

“I don’t want to hear the word franchise out of your mouth ever again, do you understand?”

“I’ll make you a deal,” Matt said, shedding his jacket and cufflinks and rolling up his sleeves. “You tell me what I want to know, and I’ll nix the word from my vocabulary.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Don’t laugh—”

“What?”

“The cup. You saw something in that cup.”

“What cup?”

“That kid Mario Forte’s espresso cup. After dinner, when I brought it down to you in the Blend’s basement. You saw something. I could see it in your face.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake—”

I couldn’t believe Matt was still thinking about that twenty-four hours later!

“Come on,” he said. “Tell me.”

“Matt, conditions weren’t even right for an accurate reading! The coffee that was in that cup didn’t produce enough residue,” I lied. “And I was really distracted at the time you showed it to me. I barely glanced at it.”

Okay, so I didn’t want to tell Matt the truth. In the split second I gazed into that cup, I did indeed get a clear and certain picture in my mind of Mario’s character, personality, and path in life—

The image I saw in the residue was called The Hammer, the sign of a forceful, strong, and independent spirit, a leader who turns dreams into achievements. That was very good. Unfortunately, for Mario, his “Hammer” was surrounded by dried grounds in the shape of barbs or licks of fire. That meant that his life would be fraught with peril—and much of it would be of his own making.

Those with the Hammer sign seldom choose an easy path in life, and that hammer would have to pound a lot of nails before any true happiness would be possible.

Seeing that in the grounds actually made me sad, because I knew if Joy was serious about Mario, then she had a long, hard road ahead of her.

Why did I know this? Because the first time I read my ex-husband Matteo’s grounds, I saw the exact same thing. So I gave my ex-husband the only answer I could.

“There was nothing there,” I told him. “I didn’t see a thing.”

Matt stared at me for a moment. He didn’t want to believe me. But I wasn’t giving him any choice.

“Guess the word franchise is still in my vocab, then,” he said, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow.

“I can live with that,” I said.

“And me?” he asked. “Can you live with me?”

“We’ll see,” I said.

“You were stunning tonight, you know,” he said, moving toward me.

“Stop it.”

“No really. You were really brave. And you looked stunning, too, by the way, but you already knew that.”

The espresso water was boiling and the moment had come for the water to be forced up through the grounds and into the top of the pot. This was my favorite moment, when the entire kitchen was about to become saturated with an intoxicating aroma.

Matt moved in close and his liquid brown eyes seemed to drink me in. I had returned the expensive rosebud- jeweled necklace to Madame in her suite, but I was still wearing the off-the-shoulder Valentino gown. My neck and shoulders felt very exposed, very vulnerable, and his hands slowly lifted to touch that part of me.

His fingers were strong and rough but surprisingly gentle as he slowly and sweetly massaged my tense muscles. The slightly coarse skin of his fingers tickled…it had been a long time since he’d touched me like this, his dark gaze holding fast.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispered, then his head dipped down and his lips brushed mine.

I closed my eyes, wanting him, not wanting him…he pulled me into his arms. The earthy mix of steaming espresso and the sweet warmth of male cologne sent my head spinning. He brought his hand to the back of my head, opened his mouth, insisted we deepen the kiss.

Oh, yes…the man could kiss. There was never any debate about that. Tender and aggressive at the very same time. Relaxing yet inflaming.

I let go, wrapped my arms around his broad shoulders, held on, and kissed back. He tasted as good as I remembered, the chocolate and Kaluha still lingering on his tongue.

The aroma of coffee completely enveloped us now as the heated water shot up through the grounds and settled in the top of the pot as finished espresso.

“It’s ready,” I murmured, pulling away.

“Let it boil,” said Matt, capturing my lips again.

Given my happy position in Matt’s arms, not to mention my level of almost-forgotten arousal, I didn’t have it in me to protest. Sure, my logical, pragmatic self knew this was really, really stupid. But I wasn’t listening to that self at this moment.

“Let’s go upstairs,” whispered Matt.

I nodded.

He reached over and turned off the burner, took my hand, and led me through the living room. Maybe, if the phone hadn’t rung, things would have turned out differently that evening. But the phone did ring.

“Let it go,” said Matt.

“It could be Joy,” I said, and he nodded, picking it up himself.

“Hello?” he said. He listened for a minute, then his face fell. His eyes met mine. “It’s Dr. Foo,” he said. “Anabelle didn’t make it, Clare. She just died.”

Twenty-Seven

“Good night, Tucker,” I said an hour later. “Go home and get some sleep. The Sunday morning shift is a busy one.”

“No way, Sugar,” Tucker replied. “You went to the ball, now it’s this Cinderella’s turn to par-tee.”

With a wave, Tucker disappeared into the night.

I locked the front door and made myself one last espresso shot. I was so tired, I actually left the grounds in the portafilter, telling myself I’d clean it properly and take the last bag of garbage out in the morning. This was a real breach for me, but hey, I was the boss and it had been one rough night.

I stirred a bit of sugar into the demitasse cup, drank it down, then headed up the stairs to the small office on the second floor, the day’s receipts tucked under my arm. I switched on the halogen lamp above my desk, then stepped up to the small black safe set in the stone wall. The safe had a brass dial, handle, and trim and had served as the sole vault for the Blend’s valuables for over one hundred years.

On the right side of the safe hung a sepia-tinted photograph of a man with dark, intense eyes and a rakish mustache—a turn-of-the-century portrait of the Allegro family patriarch, Antonio Vespasian Allegro.

On the left side of the safe hung a glass display case that held a worn, stained, century-old ledger book that was said to contain the secret Allegro family coffee recipes—painstakingly recorded by the hand of Antonio Vespasian and entrusted to succeeding generations of Allegros.

I paused, staring intently at the photograph of Matteo’s great grandfather. I recognized the strong chin, the hint of arrogance, and the undeniable intelligence in the man’s eyes—they belonged to Matteo, too.

In many ways, marrying into the Allegro family was akin to entering a secret society, like the Freemasons, the Illuminati—or the Mafia. Secrets, secrets, and more secrets…about the family business, the specialty beans, the roasting process, the one-of-a-kind blends.

Short of taking a blood-oath of omerta, I was beginning to suspect I was in for life.