“You suspect already, don’t you?”
He glanced away, stared into the fire, and silently sipped his own coffee.
“Mike?”
“You have to be the one to tell me, Cosi, because I’m not working right now.”
That’s when it hit me. My ex-husband had been right. Mike already knew.
I let my voice trail off, waiting for Quinn to jump in, admit what he thought, and just make the accusation already. But he refused, just sat there in silence waiting for me to make the decision.
“Finish your sentence,” he finally said. “What does Matt think?”
“He thinks Mocha Magic has something in it that’s a lot more powerful than herbs and spices. He thinks I should have it tested, and we were hoping you’d help us with that.”
“Clare . . .” Mike rubbed the back of his neck. At last, he met my eyes. “Are you
“Look, I’d rather have you tell me there’s an illegal narcotic in our product than we find out through class action lawsuits or a lawyer from the FDA.”
“All right, then. I’ll have it tested, let you know.”
“Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for helping me.”
“You’re welcome.”
I put my arms around his neck. “And thank you for trusting me.”
It was hard to believe, given Mike’s commitment to his work, but the man’s inner Odysseus was actually ready to look the other way, let me break the law if that’s what I wanted. But it wasn’t what I wanted, and I was glad we got that straight between us.
I began to pull away, but Mike held my arms in place. Then his big hands moved to splay across my back, urging my heart closer to his. I shut my eyes, inhaled the citrus aftershave of his freshly shaved cheek, the earthy aroma of his leather holster, the faint scent of java on his breath . . .
He put his lips to my ear. “Are we done working now, Cosi?”
“Yes,” I replied, a thrill going through me as his lips found mine.
At first, Mike’s kisses were light and teasing, tasting of cookies and coffee, but soon they deepened, their sweetness darkening into something much sultrier. When his hands left my back, I felt momentarily bereft, mourning the loss of that satisfying contrast of soft breasts against hard chest. Then I realized why he’d put the space between us: he was undoing my buttons.
“Mike,” I whispered, “the dirty dishes . . .”
“What about them?” he rasped, slipping his hand inside my blouse. With one sure flick, he unhooked the front clasp of my bra. I inhaled sharply as his rough palm cupped a heavy breast; then his callused fingers found ways to make me sigh and moan and forget how to say the words
For a moment, I recalled our young guests, Joy and Franco, locked together on this same sofa. I nearly laughed as I realized that being a hostess has its advantages.
“Want to finish our coffee upstairs?” I managed to whisper between heavenly gasps.
“Absolutely . . .”
Twenty-Nine
The sound of an ambulance siren woke me from a light sleep. A soft glow lit the master bedroom. The fireplace had burned down to cinders, but a small lamp next to the four-poster was still burning. I glanced at my alarm clock—3:45 AM. Beside me, Mike was breathing in the steady rhythms of deep sleep, his arms curled possessively around me.
Mike’s lovemaking tonight had been languorous and dreamy; his touches tender; his words caring; and the way he drank in my less than perfect curves made me feel as desired as Titian’s Venus.
I kissed his head when we finished, told him to get some rest. Then I cracked a book along with the front window, determined to listen for Franco’s car pulling up, my daughter coming safely home.
Nice plan. But Mike’s sweet, regular exhales soon lulled me into oblivion. Now I was worried. Had Joy come home or was she still out clubbing? Had Franco heeded Mike’s warning to stay on our side of the Hudson?
I’d already thrown on my oversized T-shirt, now I tied a bathrobe around me and shoved my feet into slippers. Down the hall, I quietly pushed open the guest-room door.
Joy was tucked cozily under the bedcovers. A rush of relief washed over me when I saw her long, dark hair spilled over the white pillow, a little smile on her angel face.
I smiled, too, recalling my sleeping beauty at sixteen, at twelve, at six, at two, and just born.
As I headed for the kitchen, a flash of pink caught my eye. A small paper gift bag sat on an end table in the dimly lit living room, right next to the sofa where Joy had thrown her red jacket.
Looking at that glossy little bag, I felt my heart stop. Slowly, I walked toward it, dreading what I’d discover inside.
I peeked inside. “What the . . . ?”
“Clare . . . what are you doing?”
I turned. Mike had trailed me. He’d thrown on a pair of sweatpants. His sandy hair had boyish cowlicks; his powerful chest and arms were bare. My body’s reaction to a half-naked Quinn was practically autonomic. I ignored it (or tried to) and held up what I’d found.
“Is that women’s lingerie?”
“Baby-doll pajamas—a gift to Joy from Franco.”
“How do you know?”
“They’re Hello Kitty pj’s.”
He scratched his head. “Isn’t that a little girl thing?”
“It was Joy’s thing when she was a little girl. Franco knows it.” I sighed and put the pajamas back in the little pink bag. “This is major.”
“How do you figure?”
“Mike, this isn’t a bustier or a thong—something a young woman would wear with a lover. It’s the kind of cutesy thing a girl would sleep in when she’s alone.”
“So?”
“So don’t you get the message? Franco wants Joy to wear these when she’s back in Paris. He wants her to remember him when she goes to bed every night.”
“That’s kind of sweet. Don’t you think?”
“Matt can’t know about this.”
“What? The pajamas?”
“No! That they’re in love!”
“In love?”
“Didn’t you notice how they acted at dinner? How they finished each other sentences?”
“Now that you mention it. I did. And the salt thing . . .”
“Oh God, the salt . . .”
When Franco had reached for the saltshaker, Joy laid her delicate hand on his big arm. Like a magic wand, her light touch was all it took to paralyze him.
“Remember what I told you?” she said quietly. He instantly put the shaker down again, tasted his food, and whispered, “You’re right. Doesn’t need it.”
One end of Mike’s mouth quirked up. “Yeah, Franco is into Joy. That’s clear.”
I wrung my hands. “Don’t you think it will pass with him? I mean . . . when Joy’s away, back in Paris. He has a roving eye, right?”
