“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. Oh yes . . .
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 dirty dishes.
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. The years... They went by so slowly and so fast. Feeling tears well, I turned to descend the steps.
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. Oh, please, I prayed, for Matteo’s sake, please don’t let me find an empty ring box in here!
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?”
Mike shrugged. “Up to now, Franco’s had nothing but hit-and-run bedmates. Joy’s the first young women he’s maintained a friendship with.”
“That’s what Joy told me when I asked: ‘Franco is just a friend.’ Well, I didn’t want to admit this, but when she asked about us getting married, I wondered whether she was thinking about that question for herself. But she’s way too young to consider it—and Matt would strangle Franco before he’d let his little girl walk down an aisle with him.”
“Let’s table the discussion on your ex-husband, okay? I want to talk about something else. Something important—at least to me.”
“You mean those cold-case files? The ones that involve the Village Blend and Matt’s mother? Did you read them yet?”
“No. I’m still waiting on archived files.”
“Then what do you want to talk about?”
“Joy’s question—the one you don’t want to talk about.”
“You want some hot cocoa? Because I do . . .”
“Clare . . .”
I led Mike into the kitchen and stopped in shock. I’d expected to find a sink overflowing with dirty dishes, pans, and cutlery. But the place was spotless, not even a crusted fork sat in the sink.
“It’s all cleaned up,” I whispered.
“Must have been a good fairy,” Mike said, behind me.
“A fairy named Joy.”
Grateful, happy, proud (and still worried she was in for massive heartbreak with Franco), I reached for a saucepan and put some whole milk on the burner to warm.
“Okay,” I said, pulling out the squeeze bottle of dark chocolate syrup I’d made from Voss’s bittersweet. “What do you want to talk about?”
Mike sat down, ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. “Clare, answer me straight, okay? Why do you have reservations about making a commitment?”
“That’s not a fair way to characterize it.”