Espresso Shot by Cleo Coyle Page A

expression intensifying for a moment into a look of almost physical pain. “I think Quinn’s right. I think you should do this, Clare. Will you? For me? As a wedding gift?”

    I couldn’t believe this was happening! “I’ll give it a day . But if I don’t turn up any leads, I’m off the case.”

    That seemed good enough for Matt. He thanked me. Then he actually extended his hand across the table. “Thanks, Quinn. You’re not so bad.”

    The detective shook Matt’s hand, declining to return the compliment. “Listen, Allegro,” he said instead, “can you give me a few minutes alone with Clare here? I’d like a word with her.”

    “Yeah, sure,” Matt said. “And I’ll bet I know which word.”

    “Matt!” I said.

    He rolled his eyes. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

    As my ex stood and walked away, Quinn unfolded his lanky frame from the metal chair and crossed the little interview room to shut the door.

    I rose, too, and stepped right up to him. “ Why did you set me up, Mike? I don’t appreciate—”

    His lips found mine before I could finish the sentence. Despite my complete and total annoyance with the man, my arms drifted north, circled his neck, and hung on. He backed me against the wall and got serious.

    God, the man liked to kiss. He took his time with his lips and tongue, let my taste and smell roll over his receptor cells like a sommelier who’d finally found the time to get down to his cellar and savor the rarest vintage in his collection.

    When we finally parted, he smiled down at me. There were stray locks of chestnut hair on my cheek. His fingers brushed them aside, curled them around my ear.

    “Tonight, sweetheart,” he said softly. “My place.”

    “No way. I’m not forgiving you for this.”

    “For what?” He knitted his brow, a shameful attempt to appear clueless.

    “Don’t even try to play innocent with me. You’re obviously pissed that Matteo’s moved back in with me for a few days. Hooking me up to investigate Breanne is your pathetic ploy to steer me clear of the man.”

    “You’re way too cynical, Cosi. You know that? I honestly think Allegro’s theory is worth checking out.”

    I might have believed him, if I hadn’t caught his fleeting half smile.

    “You owe me, Quinn.” I poked his hard shoulder. “Do you hear ?”

    “Yeah, I hear. And I’ll make it up to you. I promise . . . starting tonight .”

    I parted my lips to protest again, but once again Mike Quinn’s mouth was faster.

TEN

    THERE are things you do for people you don’t like because they’re attached to people you do like. Take a sarcastic sister-in-law who drives you nuts with her barely veiled insults. She’s never once thanked you for all the Christmas gifts you’ve sent her over the years, but you keep sending them because if you drop her off the family list, it’s the brother you love who’s going to get his ear chewed off about the slight.

    Breanne Summour was like that for me now. She was not my favorite person. But she was about to become Matteo’s wife, and since he cared whether she lived or died, I was stuck caring, too. I know that sounds appalling, but I found the woman barely tolerable on a charitable day.

    Still, I reminded myself, she did come through for Joy.

    Last fall, when my daughter was falsely accused of murder, Breanne had used her VIP connections to secure Joy a top criminal defense attorney. I had to give Bree credit for that. After all, Randall Knox had taken embarrassing public swipes at the woman for being connected to Matt. It must have been mortifying for her, yet she hung in there. I tried to keep that in mind as my ex began hustling me from West Tenth to Hudson.

    “Where are we going, Matt?”

    “Uptown. Bree’s having a final fitting of her wedding gown. I got hold of her on the cell while you were with Quinn.” Matt shot me a smirking glance. “What were you two discussing up there, by the way?”

    “Uh . . . the case . .