by Cleo Coyle
“I can’t turn an amateur into a barista overnight. The training process takes three months minimum!”
“Do your best. If the barista thing doesn’t work, make him your dishwasher, or have him mop the floor. I don’t care. But Franco has got to look like he belongs there. And not just sitting at a table. Franco goes wherever you go, on duty and off. He’s your shadow and your shield. Don’t make a move without him.”
“Come on, Quinn,” Matt complained again, “why the mook?”
“One reason, Allegro. To annoy you.”
“That’s it!” Matt jumped to his feet. “I’m going home.”
“You’re not going anywhere. Those smugglers are going to contact you. Not Clare. And not me. I don’t want you partying in the Hamptons or clubbing in Soho when the call comes down. I want you close and ready.”
“The three of us are going to the mattresses together?” Matt said. “Like in The Godfather?!”
“Look on the bright side,” I said, remembering those carnitas. “At least we have enough food.”
“Fine,” Matt said. “So where do I sleep?”
“There’s a bed in the guest room,” Quinn said. “But then, you already know that.”
THIRTY-SIX
WHEN Matt disappeared, silence fell. For a long and terrible minute, Quinn and I sat together, sharing nothing. Finally, I spoke.
“So… how was your trip?”
Mike gave me an unreadable stare. Then he rose from the table, loosened his tie, and uttered one word—
“Bedtime.”
Taking my hand, he led me upstairs.
The master bedroom was dark, save the murky gray light seeping through the half-closed curtains. Quinn didn’t bother turning on the lamp or turning back the covers, just collapsed into the four-poster, pulling me with him. I tucked into his arms, inhaled his strength.
“Thank you,” I whispered on the exhale.
“You can thank me when this nightmare’s over.”
“You got me out of that interrogation room, which was loads of fun, by the way. I’ll stick by my very big thank you, if you don’t mind.”
Shifting on the mattress, I rubbed my sore wrists and realized they weren’t the only casualties. My upper arms were bruised, too.
“Oh, man. What did they do to me?”
Mike examined the darkening welts, softly cursed. “After they cuffed you, your feet didn’t touch the floor, did they?”
“Not much. Everything happened so fast. My wrists were locked behind my back, they hoisted me by my upper arms and half carried, half dragged me all the way to the van in the parking lot. Why do they do that? Does it save time? Or just start the softening-up process for the interview?”
“Both.”
“Well, it sucks…”
His probing touches were tender, but they still hurt. “Ouch.”
“I’m sorry, Clare.” His voice remained clipped, careful, and a little bit chilly. The coldness upset me, but I had to hang in there. I had to wait…
Mike Quinn had been willing to wait for me. That’s why he’d given me the Claddagh ring instead of a diamond. He didn’t want to rush me, to scare me. He cared enough to put aside what he wanted. Now it was my turn to do that for him.
I cleared my throat. “So are you going to tell me how you accomplished what you did tonight?”
“It started with phone calls—lots of them.”
“That’s an explanation?”
“For now.”
“At least tell me one thing.”
“What?”
“Who in the world is God?”
Mike paused. “That’s an existential question, Cosi. I don’t think I’m qualified to answer.”
“You’re being cute?”
“I’ll tell you soon. Not tonight.”
“Technically, it’s morning.” I gestured to the window where the sun was transmuting our bedroom light from desolate gray to the palest of yellows. The dawn was staking its ancient claim, warming the night-shrouded earth, cooking away the dark.
“How about you answer me a question,” Quinn said.
“If it’s about Matteo, I promise you that he spent the night in the guest room. I was going to mention it during our conversation, but—
“Did you miss me? That’s my question.”
I looked into his eyes. Yes, I missed you, I wanted to say. And I’m still missing you…
All night, Quinn’s gaze had been glassy as a frigid arctic pond. Silently, I moved my hand to his cheek, now rough with stubble, and held it there. Before my eyes, the ice began to thaw. In the privacy of our room, Mike’s frozen mask finally melted away and he came back to me…
“Ask me again,” I whispered.
His eyes were shimmering now, warm blue pools in the golden light. “Did you miss me, Clare?”
My answer wasn’t in words.
THIRTY-SEVEN
“OOOH…Figaro! Figaro! Figaro!”
I rubbed my eyes. The late morning sun was strong through the partially closed drapes. My bedside clock informed me it was 11:52 AM, and my ears told me Matt was in the shower.
“Oooh… la-la-la! La-la-la! La-la-laaaaa!”
My head was aching, my arms black-and-blue, my wrists raw, and when I rolled over, I ran smack into a wall of naked muscle. For a moment, I thought I was dreaming again. But no, this time Mike Quinn really was here—and he was pissed.
“Ah, che bel vivere, che bel piacere!”
“Is that your asshole ex-husband caterwauling?”
“Yes,” I said with a yawn. “He’s singing Rossini, and I think it’s a message for us…”
“For us?” Mike groused. “What’s the message?”
“The aria he’s singing is from Barber of Seville,” I informed him. “The barber part’s for me. The opera’s libretto is for you…”
“I don’t speak Italian.”
“Pronto a far tutto!” Matt crooned. “La notte e il giorno! Vita più nobile, no, non si da!”
“Ready to do everything,” I translated. “Night and day. A more noble life is not to be had.”
“That’s his message for me?” said Mike.
“I’m fairly sure he’s being sarcastic.”
“Aaaah… Figaro! Figaro! Figaro! A te fortuna non mancherà!”
“Ah, Figaro,” I translated. “You’ll never lack for luck.”
Mike groaned, and I knew exactly what he was thinking: This is going to be one long week.
With a resigned sigh, I spooned in closer and rested my cheek against his broad back. He felt sturdy and warm and good—but then Mike was good, and good for me in so many ways…So why was that awful moment from last night’s interrogation still bothering me?
“You don’t really love the guy, do you?… Is that the point of that sappy ‘friendship ring’ instead of a real diamond? Does Mike have cold feet, or is it you, Clare?”
It was me. I knew that. But my reluctance to accept a diamond from Mike had nothing to do with not loving him. I loved the man with all my heart.
Then why haven’t I said yes to more with him?
The answer wasn’t simple. Though I didn’t doubt Mike’s love, I did doubt something… mainly the future—and all the things that might happen between us, painful things that could lead to the decline of our relationship, things I’d experienced with Matt and had no desire to relive. How can I risk another commitment before God, when there’s a chance it could all fall to pieces?
Softly, a different voice seemed to answer…
“In times like these, Clare, failing to take a risk is the biggest risk of all…”
The words were Madame’s, advising me on the difficulties of running a business. But love was a difficult business, too, and as I lay in bed next to Mike, I began to wonder: Is playing it safe with him creating another kind of risk? Could delaying our union lead to the end of it?
The very idea caused me far more pain than the purple welts on my arms.
Almost of its own accord,
one of those arms now curled around Mike’s long, powerful form. Needing to be closer, I pressed my lips against his neck, brushed my fingers lower, and heard his thrilling intake of breath. Thirty seconds later, he was rolling to face me.
We’d made some very sweet love before drifting off earlier, and I hadn’t bothered to get up for a nightshirt, which meant the only stitch currently covering my curves belonged to a thin section of bedsheet.
Utterly naked, I looked into Mike’s eyes and silently promised: When this whole thing is over, I’m going to tell you how I feel. I may be worried, doubtful, even a little bit scared, but I don’t want to risk losing you. Not after you’ve risked everything for me…
In the hazy light of the half-closed curtains, Mike gazed at my secret smile and slowly his expression changed from pleasantly aroused to intensely ravenous.
“Oooh… la-la-la, la-la-la, la-la-laaaaa!”
It was enough to render us both deaf—at least, for the next twenty minutes.
“YEAH, Sully, find Franco. This is his assignment for the foreseeable future. We can brief him later about our meeting at 1PP… No, not 24/7. He’s with Clare only when I’m not, and he’s got to appear as a barista… uh-huh. Just get him here. One hour. I’ll fill in the blanks…”
“Shower’s free,” I called, returning to the master bedroom in my terrycloth robe. (Mike had one, too. It usually hung on the bathroom door. Now it appeared to be missing.)
With a nod to me, Mike wound up his call with Sullivan, his right-hand man on the OD squad—although, technically, it wasn’t a squad. It was a special NYPD task force with a more official-sounding moniker.
A few years back, an epidemic of deaths from prescription drug overdoses alarmed the mayor’s office. The police commissioner was asked to find a solution. The OD squad was it. Mike got tapped to take it over and remade it completely, bringing in his own people, aggressively pursuing leads, and shaping it into one of the most effective teams in the NYPD.
A few of Mike’s cases carried high profiles, so I wasn’t all that surprised he’d caught the attention (if not admiration) of VIPs in the U.S. Justice Department. I hadn’t enjoyed Mike’s time away, but I had to admit, I was grateful they’d brought him to Washington when they did. Who knew whether last night’s phone calls would have had the same impact without that trip?
“So,” I said, “are you calling God this morning, too?”
Mike smiled. “It’s Sunday. God’s busy.”
“I talk to him all the time, you know? Especially on Sunday. So if there’s anything else you need?”
He pulled me over, touched my cheek. “I need you to be careful.”
“Well, if shots ring out again, I certainly plan to duck.”
Mike was no longer smiling. “I need to tell you something, Clare. A secret.”
“Oh?”
“Last night in the kitchen with Allegro, I lied. Your life is not in danger. If I thought it really was, I’d be bundling you off to some safe house in Tennessee.”
“Well, could you make it Memphis? I hear they have good coffee in Memphis.”
“Listen to me. It’s important. If these dealers wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be standing here now.”
“What about the hit-and-run?”
Mike shook his head. “Murderers for hire are paid to get the job done. If some assassin planned to run you over and failed, he would have remedied his mistake the next morning, before the drug lord found out. And I guarantee he would have used a more reliable method than a van with no muffler.”
“What about the gunshots?”
“Those weren’t meant for you.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because drug dealers assassinate at close range, almost without exception. And there are other reasons. I talked at length with Sergeant Ortiz. You were standing in front of a large truck yesterday. If an assassin was aiming for you, our CSU would have picked up bullets or fragments in or around that truck. Yet they found nothing. To top that off, witnesses said they heard shots coming from behind the truck while the balloons popped were in front of it.”
“That was my impression, too. The sound of the shots didn’t match their supposed trajectory. So what was it?”
“Maybe a coincidence. Maybe stray shots from the projects at the exact time the balloons popped for some other reason.”
“You told me when it comes to investigating cases, there are no coincidences.”
“I did. And maybe there really was something deliberate behind yesterday’s incident. Whatever it was, it was not an attempt on your life. But, listen, here’s where the secret comes in: I want Allegro to think your life is in danger. If he does, he’ll stick around. And it’s vital that he doesn’t flake out on me or disappear on the squad. He has to continue to cooperate or we’ll lose any chance we have of getting a lead on the dealers on this end. The ones who were supposed to pick up and distribute that new Brazilian crack.”
“Okay, I get it. I’m not a sitting duck a l’orange, after all. So what’s Franco for then? Show?”
“Franco’s there to back you up if the dealers approach you. Despite what I said last night, I think it’s highly likely they will want to talk with you, Clare.”
“Talk with me! Me? Why on earth?”
“If this drug lord wanted you dead, you would be. The only reason you aren’t is the same reason those DEA agents tried to break you last night—you’re a way to get to me. This new crack involves new people, brand-new networks. That’s why they were hot to set up Allegro. They’re going to want their own corrupt cops in their pockets, too, which makes you the opposite of a target. It makes you an asset.”
“But I’m your asset.”
“They don’t know that… and Franco’s there so you won’t be afraid or wonder what to say and do. We’ll go over all of it. I’ve seen you in action, sweetheart. You like to take down bad guys, just like me. In fact, you’re the main reason I was able to sell my story to Justice Department brass.”
“Me again?”
“It’s all on the record. You were instrumental in the case that caught their attention.”
“You mean when I helped you take down that creep’s Internet pharmacy?”
Mike nodded. “You weren’t just our primary witness then, Cosi. You’re the primary reason Allegro is not on his way to a federal penitentiary now.”
I closed my eyes. “This is a lot to digest, Mike. I need coffee. Bad.”
He pulled me close, pressed his lips to my forehead. “I’ll see you downstairs.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
“CLARE, I have a problem…”
I was taking two-dozen Oatmeal Cookie Muffins out of the oven when Matt marched into the kitchen wrapped in Quinn’s missing bathrobe. (Mystery solved.)
“My thing doesn’t work anymore!”
“Your what?” Geez, was Tanya rougher on him than I thought?
“My smart phone! Those fascists at the DEA must have fouled it up.”
“Matt, don’t you remember? You bounced ‘your thing’ off the ceiling in Bree’s BMW. You broke it yourself when we were evading those drug dealers.”
“What’s that about dealers?”
Now Quinn was sauntering in, freshly showered, his short light brown hair still damp. He’d donned slate gray slacks, a white dress shirt, and a silver-blue tie that brought out the cobalt of his irises. What drew my attention, however, were the items on his belt. I recognized the usual signs of his profession—a gold shield and a pair of handcuffs. But I noticed a few other things, too, an extra magazine of ammo, OC spray (aka pepper spray), and a pouch for a multifunctional tool, which I knew included a serious-looking knife. The man was packing for war, which didn’t exactly cheer me.
“You saw the dealers following you?” Quinn asked, hanging his shoulder holster off the back of a kitchen chair.
“They were,” I said, “until Matt made some clever moves and shook them.”
“What make of car?” Quinn asked.
>
“Chevy Impala,” Matt said. “Late model. Black.”
Quinn’s lips quirked. “Seventy percent of federal law enforcement drives late model Chevy Impalas, black.”
“You mean I shook the DEA?”
“Not for long, apparently.” Quinn touched my shoulder, kissed my head. “Something smells wonderful.”