smirked. “What does it enhance exactly?”
“Alicia Bower claims it’s an herbal aphrodisiac, but I still have no idea what’s in it, other than my coffee beans and Voss’s chocolate. She’s keeping everything else to herself.”
“Didn’t you mention she discovered the active ingredients in India?”
“Yes, but I have yet to try it, and frankly, I’m skeptical about its potency.”
“Well,” Mike said, arching an eyebrow, “I’m happy to be your lab rat. Got any around?”
“I hate to disappoint you, but although Alicia has been hyping this thing online for weeks, the launch party is the first place anyone’s going to try the stuff. She has me serving it up as a beverage, and to showcase its versatility as a flavoring agent, we’ll have samples of mocha candies and bite-size pastries.”
“Now you’re turning cookies and cakes into aphrodisiacs?”
“Not me. All I did was share my chocolate and mocha recipes from the Blend. Alicia gave them to her chocolatier to make—Voss, the same Brooklyn boutique we’ve started buying from.”
“I don’t know, Cosi . . . sounds like those infamous Alice B. Toklas brownies.”
“Don’t you go looking for collars on my turf, Detective. Nobody’s lacing anything with cannabis around here.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. In fact, Alicia claimed she was so happy with the results of my recipes combined with her product that she treated Madame and me to dinner last night so we could brainstorm more, which is exactly why my sketchbook is full of them.”
“Cannabis-free?”
“So far. And by the way, the original Alice B. Toklas recipe was for fudge, not brownies.”
“I hate fudge,” he said.
“You do not. Your mother told me she made cherry cordial fudge for you every Christmas.”
“Oh, chocolate fudge I’ll eat. What I can’t swallow is fudg
“Fudge factor?”
“Yeah. It’s what we law-enforcement types call a scam.”
“Oh God . . .” The single word deflated me. “I just hope this aphrodisiac claim of Alicia’s doesn’t turn out to be one.”
Mike paused, studied me. “You’re not kidding?”
“What I am is worried.”
“Why?”
“Alicia has been using my Village Blend beans, that’s why. As soon as her product launches, everyone’s going to know it. So if this Mocha Magic stuff tastes like
“Oh, sweetheart, no it’s not. Your customers know how high your standards are. That won’t change.”
“Bad reviews can do a lot of damage, Mike, especially if her magic powder lays a big, fat chocolate egg.”
“You’re not the owner of this place; your former mother-in-law is.”
“Madame may own this business, but she’s leaving it to me and her son to run—and one day we’ll leave it to our daughter. I’m also the master roaster here, not just the manager.” I paused, took a breath. “Sorry. I just loathe not being in control.”
“I know you do. It’s how you’re built. It’s also why your coffeehouse runs smoother than the purr of a pampered kitten.”
“That’s nice of you to say, but—”
“But worrying isn’t going to change anything, Cosi. You’re fully on board with this thing. If it goes bad, you’ll figure out the next step. You always do. In the meantime, try to trust the process.”
“What I’m trusting here is my employer. I have no choice. Madame is the one who signed the contract with Alicia—months ago, as it turns out, without consulting me or her son. She just roped us into this thing . . .”
Despite my continual, borderline belligerent questioning, Madame had provided very few answers, beyond the vague explanation that Alicia was a dear old friend to whom she owed a great deal. (An NYPD detective I could handle. My former mother-in-law was another matter. The octogenarian took stonewalling to a whole new level.)
“Well, Cosi, like I told you,” Mike said, reaching out and curling a lock of hair around my ear, “I’m ready to test the stuff when you are.”
I smiled. “You’ll get your chance. Tonight.”
“Why wait?”
I laughed, but Mike wasn’t kidding, and the veteran street cop had some tricky moves. In one fluid motion, he caught my wrist, pulled me flat, and rolled. Now I was pinned on the mattress, at his mercy for a long, slow, delicious kiss.
“Seems to me,” I murmured, “you don’t need an herbal stimulant.”
“Do you?” he whispered, slipping his fingers beneath my henley.
Before I could answer, his mouth was covering mine again, kissing me so deeply that when he undid the button on my jeans, I had all the resistance of self-saucing pudding cake.
About then is when my cell phone went off, abruptly ending our tucking-in time. I might have ignored the darn thing, but the
“Madame?” I answered.
“Clare, thank goodness you picked up. You must come at once.”
I glanced at Mike. “Come where? Your penthouse?”
“No, dear, you forget. After you left the restaurant last evening, I took a room here at Alicia’s hotel so I could enjoy breakfast with her this morning.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Just come to the Topaz, room 1015. I’ll explain when you get here. And tell
“Why not?”
“Honestly?” She lowered her voice. “It’s a matter of life and death.”
“If that’s the case, call 911!”
“There’s an issue.”
“An issue?”
“Yes, you see . . . the situation is extremely delicate.”
“But—”
“No buts. And no more arguing. Keep the
Two
Leaving Mike Quinn’s big, warm body felt about as right as pouring a fresh-pressed pot of Ethiopian Yirgacheffe down the drain. He felt the same but (being the amazing man that he is) let me go without a grilling. He even agreed to come downstairs to wait for Nancy Kelly to show.
Nancy was my newest barista, an apple-cheeked twenty-something from “all over,” as she put it, “upstate mostly”—rural was my guess since she was the only member of my staff who bragged she got up with the sun. (I wasn’t about to let my regulars down, so I rang her.)
With the Blend squared away, I hailed a taxi and rocketed north. My neighborhood’s sleepy lanes and ivy- covered bricks receded as Manhattan’s jungle of glass and steel grew. Soon we were rolling into the maze of
