Decaffeinated Corpse by Cleo Coyle Page B

boutiques and trendy watering holes into the neighborhood of old school Italian restaurants and mirror-walled patisseries.

    “Which woman?”

    Madame saw me searching the crowded sidewalk and shook her head. “No, dear, not out there . . .”

    “Where?”

    “Right under your nose, that’s where!”

    “Right under my . . . ?”

    “Breanne Summour.”

    By this time, my reaction to the woman was an autonomic response. At the sound of her name, my grip on the steering wheel tightened.

    “What about her?” I asked levelly.

    “I know Matt’s been networking with her.”

    I laughed.

    “What’s so funny?” Madame sniffed. “That’s the word he used.”

    “Networking?”

    “Yes,” said Madame. “I’ve seen their photos together in the tony magazines—you know, those charity party mug shots? I’ve met her a few times, too, and Matt continually tells me it’s a casual thing, a collegial relationship.”

    “He’s sleeping with her.”

    “Well, yes, of course.”

    I sighed. “You know your son better than anyone.”

    “What I know, Clare, is that Matt doesn’t love this woman. Not even remotely.”

    I shrugged uneasily. “The caricoa strikes again. He’s made it perfectly clear he doesn’t need to love a woman to sleep with her.”

    “If all he was doing, or intended to do, was sleep with her, I wouldn’t be so worried.”

    “Worried?” My ears pricked up. Had Madame heard something suspicious about the woman, something that might be linked to what was happening with Ric? “What worries you?”

    “I think Matt may be getting serious about her.”

    “Oh, is that all . . .”

    I tried not to laugh. Matt and serious —when it came to women, anyway—just didn’t go together in the same sentence. To prove it, I considered telling her about the pass he’d just made at me the night before, but I held my tongue. Madame still entertained the ludicrous idea that I might one day remarry Matt. Why give her hope?

    “I saw them together yesterday,” Madame continued in a grave tone.

    “Uh-huh.”

    “They were at Tiffany, Clare. They were looking at rings.”

    “Rings?” I repeated. My brain seized up for a second, but then I thought it through. “Breanne’s quite the fashionista. She was probably just shopping for a new bauble—”

    “They were diamond engagement rings. I kid you not.” Good lord. I managed to keep my foot from jamming on the brakes, but only barely. “Did you ask Matt about it?”

    “No. I was with a friend and we were on our way out. But I tell you Matt and Breanne were very close together, very intimate.”

    “He is sleeping with her, Madame. I wouldn’t think standing cheek to cheek in a jewelry store would be an issue.”

    “I want you to find out what’s going on.”

    “Why?”

    “I told you. My son doesn’t love this woman. I can’t have him marrying her.”

    “He married me.”

    “You’re the only woman Matteo’s ever loved, Clare. Don’t you know that?”

    “Frankly, no. His behavior during our marriage was unforgivable—the women, the drugs—”

    “I can’t defend him, and you know I’ve never tried. But that was a long time ago. He’s been off the drugs for years now, he’s working very hard, has wonderful ambitions for our business, and—”

    “Please stop. We’ve hiked this hill already.”

    “But he still loves you. I know it. If he marries Breanne, there’ll be no chance for you two to reconcile.”

    “We’re not going to reconcile! I’ve told you before, we’re business partners now, but that’s all.”

    “True love shouldn’t be ignored, Clare.”

    I took a deep breath. As gently as I could, I said, “Madame, listen to me. I love you. And I know how much you loved Matt’s father. But Matt isn’t his father. And I’m not you.”

    Madame fell silent after that. She leaned back in her seat and gazed out at the slow-moving traffic.

    I could see by the crawling blocks that we were inching