by Cleo Coyle
“I can see that’s not all you accepted, from Bree.”
“Excuse me?”
I gestured to Matt’s designer eveningwear, the kind of clothing that cost more than I grossed in a week—more than Matteo grossed in a week, too, because I saw the books.
When we’d been married, Matt’s cocaine addiction had not only eaten through our savings, it had also evaporated his trust fund and left us in terrible debt. He was off the drug now. And he’d become a hard worker. But the Village Blend expansion was a financial risk, and we had a daughter to put through school. Neither one of us had money to burn. Not by a long shot. That was why Matt had refused to give up his rights to use the duplex above the Village Blend during his periodic layovers in New York.
His mother, Madame, still owned the Greenwich Village townhouse that contained both the century-old Village Blend coffeehouse at street level and the duplex apartment above it. When she’d convinced both of us to sign contracts to co-manage and one day co-own the Blend business and its townhouse, she’d neglected to let us know we were not partnering with her but with each other.
Now Matt and I were stuck. Unless one of us wanted out of the very lucrative deal, both of us had to learn to get along. So far, we’d been doing okay, attempting to remain civil business partners. And since staying a week or more in a Manhattan hotel every month, between his buying trips or other international business, was too much of an expense for Matt, we’d ended up occasional housemates again after a decade of separation.
In any event, that’s one of the reasons I knew for a fact that my ex-husband had a finite set of fine clothes, every piece of which I’d seen already.
“So I have a new suit?” he said defensively. “It was a gift.”
“From Bree?”
Matt’s sour expression answered my question. He looked away. “She has relationships with top designers, Clare,” he said quietly. “Because of her magazine. It’s no big deal, you know?”
“What I know is that it means something when a woman starts dressing a man.”
Matt stared at me, speechless for a moment, and I wanted to take the words back as soon as I’d blurted them. I had told myself that Breanne was just another thrilling new blend, Matt’s flavor of the month—even though she was far from his typical young, bubble-headed bimbo fare (and, yes, I did wonder if maybe that was what bothered me about Breanne more than anything). But it was patently none of my business what her relationship was with my ex-husband, and Matt had every right to tell me to go to hell. But he didn’t. He simply looked uncomfortable that I’d made the observation.
“Clare, I don’t…” he said haltingly. “Bree and I…it’s just a networking thing.” He shrugged, looked away. “She needs an escort that knows which fork to use, someone to open doors for her, hold her coat, give her, you know…”
“Don’t strain yourself searching for a euphemism. I know what it is you give her.”
“It’s not like that. We’re just casual friends.”
I was sure he was serving me baloney, but I bit my tongue, feeling stupid for having let our conversation get even this far. I had allowed myself to fall back into some cheated-on wife pattern when I was no longer his wife. It was embarrassing. And Matt was being more than patient with me.
I was about to apologize when a breeze blew up off the ocean, rustling the Japanese paper lanterns and making my teeth chatter. I hugged myself, shivering, and Matt shook his head. He slipped off the Helmut Lang evening jacket and draped it over my shoulders.
“Listen, Clare, changing the subject won’t get you out of hot water…although it’s obvious the water you just stepped out of was ice cold.” His eyebrow rose again, a little of the old playful Matt back in his expression. Then he actually smiled. “Anyway, I still want an explanation from you. But first I’m going to borrow Breanne’s car and drive you home.”
“Matt, that’s okay. You don’t have to—”
“I want to talk to David anyway, tell him how the installations on the West Coast are going. I tried to get to him tonight, but there were just too many people surrounding him. I just need to tell Bree where I’m going. Back in a minute.”
I couldn’t argue, mainly because I was too chilly.
I watched Matteo cross the patio, put a light touch on Breanne’s shoulder. She turned from her small circle of friends, smiling—a little forced I thought. They spoke for a moment. The smile disappeared. Her eyebrows rose into that HDTV forehead and she glanced in my direction.
I looked away, watching the rest of the party to pass the time. Matt was at my shoulder again before I knew it. He grabbed my elbow, not much gentler than the security man had a few minutes ago. I couldn’t stop myself from observing—
“It’s amazing what an uplifting effect Breanne has on you.”
“Come on, let’s go.”
“Was Bree cranky?”
“I’m cranky,” he growled, pressing me through the crowd. “Don’t go there.”
“Trouble in paradise?”
We entered the mansion’s crowded first floor, and I gawked at the decor. The Sandcastle was the most extravagant home I’d seen yet. Gothic in style, the place had been fashioned to resemble a medieval castle, complete with a single stone tower. Constructed of granite, glass, cast iron, and heavy wood, the mansion’s rooms (what I saw of them anyway) were huge.
Matteo led me through a split-level living room, the lower portion transformed into a dance floor complete with disco lights. Then we headed down a long hallway, lined with medieval-style tapestries, stunning reproductions of museum pieces. An anteroom held an actual suit of armor. Then there was another hall, this one lined with portraits of medieval knights, and finally we came to the mansion’s grand entranceway.
The foyer sat directly under the castle’s only tower. The area had a vaulted ceiling with graceful, carved stone arches that met at its center. The room was illuminated with tall iron braziers (actually gaslights behind glass, no open flames). Coats of armor hung on the bare stone walls.
A wide curving staircase descended from a second floor mezzanine constructed of carved oak, black with age. On the opposite side of the entranceway the huge front door was guarded by a mob of valets.
The door itself looked like something out of Ivanhoe, and I thought to myself that all this place needed was a portcullis, one of those iron gates that drops down from the ceiling. That, and a few actual knights with broadswords, of course.
Matteo approached a valet and handed the young man a parking chit. As we waited for Breanne’s car to be brought around, I heard a commotion from the mezzanine. Then a pleasant voice cried out.
“Don’t go, the party is just getting started!”
A handsome man hurried down the stairs. I recognized him immediately. Two women in maid’s uniforms followed right behind. One clutched a fluffy royal-blue robe, the other a pair of matching slippers. The man practically shoved Matteo aside to reach me, something he could easily do because he was as tall as Matteo, with shoulders looking as broad as Mike Quinn’s in his fine, buff-linen suit.
No older than thirty, olive complexioned, with a square jaw, a close shave, and neatly combed ebony hair, the host of the party regarded me through eyes of black onyx. For a long moment, he simply stared at me with an intensity that almost embarrassed me.
I self-consciously pulled Matt’s jacket closer around me, worried, not for the first time, how much was revealed by my damp clothes.
“Please,” he finally said. “You’re soaking wet, allow me…”
He took the floor-length robe from the maid and held it open.
“We really should go,” muttered Matt.
I slipped Matt’s jacket off my shoulders and handed it back to him. Then I stepped into the soft, warm folds of the thick, Egyptian cotton robe.
“That’s better, isn’t it? And now the slippers.” The man actually got down on one knee and placed the slippers on my bare feet.
“Th-thank you,” I stammered, flabb
ergasted. The last time anyone knelt down to put a pair of shoes on me I’d been around ten years old, getting fitted for First Communion patent leather.
“My name is Bom Felloes,” he said with his familiar British accent and a warm, open smile. “Welcome to my home.”
His name was no surprise, of course. I’d already recognized the man from his Gourmet Channel show, Elegant Dining. A very charismatic mix of British and Portuguese ancestry, Felloes obviously had become quite wealthy from his show, the chain of restaurants bearing his name, and whatever else he did on the side.
“My name is Clare. Clare Cosi,” I said.
“Yes, I know, my head of security told me. I do apologize for his manhandling you in any way. You’re not hurt are you, love?”
I suppressed a laugh. Now I knew why Bom was being so solicitous. He was probably terrified I was going to sue the pants off him! Not that Bom with his pants off would be an unattractive sight, I realized. Seeing the man up close and personal gave me a whole new perspective on his villainy.
Could anyone this charming really be a contract killer?
“Yes, I witnessed it. Your head of security was pretty rough with her—” Matt began to gruffly respond.
But I quickly interrupted him. “No worries, Mr. Felloes. I’m the one who’s sorry for crashing your party, and in such a state.”
“Why you look perfectly charming, even sopping wet!” he declared. “A waif from the sea. An adorable little Venus.”
“Yes, well…” I stumbled, embarrassed. “I did see your ice sculpture on the way in. I think she had a few less shreds of clothing on than me.”
Bom laughed, his dark, intense eyes sparkling. “So you’re my neighbor?”
“Yes, I’m staying with David. Something, uh…came up and I crossed the beach to find him. It was dark, you know? And I, uh…I was stupid…I walked too close to the water. A high wave caught me by surprise.”
Bom frowned. “Well, it’s a shame you missed David. He left a little while ago. His restaurant manager, Jacques Papas, arrived late, but he agreed to cut short his fun and drive David home. Alas, David claimed he wasn’t feeling well.”
Bom paused and then chuckled. “I hope it wasn’t the company.”
“I’m sure he had a fine time,” I politely replied.
“And I’m sure you know…we’ve had our business rivalries in the past. But I invited David here to bury the hatchet, as you Americans say. So tell me, how do you know David? Are you two…”
He let the words trail off in implication. “We’re just friends,” I replied, quickly straightening out any misconceptions. “I’m his barista manager for the summer at Cuppa J. I’m overseeing the coffee service, managing the beans, putting together the dessert pairings, that sort of thing.”
Bom’s face lit up with boyish excitement. “So you are the ‘coffee steward’ everyone’s talking about! Such a delight to meet you. Why the Hamptons are simply abuzz about Cuppa J this season. I confess that one of the reasons I invited David here tonight was to wheedle an invitation to sample his dessert parings for myself.”
“Please do…I’d love to know what you think of what we’re doing.”
Matteo cleared his throat. “The car is here.”
“Oh, no!” Bom exclaimed. He closed the distance between us, took my hand, folded it into his. “Please stay. I’m simply captivated by your charm and obvious experience, all wrapped in such a delightful little package.”
Matteo was practically rolling his eyes. I ignored him.
“I’m sorry, but I really have to go. Matt’s giving me a ride,” I told Bom. “But you’re very kind.”
“On the contrary, I’m very selfish.” He glanced at Matteo. “But I understand if you must leave.”
“We must,” said Matt, grabbing my elbow again and steering me toward the door. I felt like yanking it free but didn’t want to cause a scene.
“Oh,” I cried, stopping short. “Your robe and slippers.”
“Keep them,” Bom said with a wave of his hand. “Or better yet, return them later…when we can both chat—” he shot a pointed glance at Matt, “—privately.”
I nodded. “Goodnight, Mr. Felloes—”
“Bom, Clare. Please call me Bom.”
“Goodnight then…Bom.”
I barely had the words out before Matt was hustling me through the mansion’s huge front doors. I softly sighed as we stepped outside. Bom Felloes was successful, handsome, very wealthy, and apparently interested in me. I was crazy for keeping him on my suspect list. But I fully intended to.
Although I was flattered by his flirtation, I knew he still had a motive for hurting David. And, in the end, I knew wealthy, overly polished, perfect men ten years younger than me had never been my type anyway. (Honestly.) The rumpled, earthy, ironic toughs of the world were more my speed, men who’d been knocked around by life, who were somewhat rough around the edges. Mike Quinn and his crow’s feet came to mind. Even Matt—before Breanne had gotten hold of him.
Outside the night had cooled even more. Landscape lighting had turned the mansion’s castle-esque exterior and flowering grounds around it into a glowing wonderland.
Matt opened the door to Breanne’s sleek silver Mercedes convertible now waiting at the bottom of the steps. I climbed in, sank into the fawn-colored custom leather, and faced The Sandcastle again.
Bom Felloes was standing there. He noticed my glance, smiled, and waved, looking as dashing and polished as a British lord.
I offered a tiny wave in return, not sure what I should be cursing more—his continued presence on my suspect list or my complete inability to reengineer my taste in men.
FOURTEEN
WITHOUT a backward glance in Bom Felloes’s direction, Matt climbed behind the wheel.
“Buckle up,” he barked.
I barely got the strap over my shoulder when the engine under the silver Mercedes’ hood sprang to life, a high performance purr. The radio came on with the engine. The “Music of Love,” a sentimental ballad poured from the speakers. I actually liked the song, but Matt snapped it off with a sharp turn of his wrist, then shifted into first gear and stepped on the gas so hard the tires spun against the driveway’s paving stones.
The Mercedes lurched forward, slamming me back into my seat. Matt steered the car around the horse circle too fast. It fishtailed for a second, and I thought we were going to end up in a flowerbed.
“You weren’t very polite back there,” I pointed out.
Matt shook his head as we left the front gate and turned onto the road. “Guys like that…they’re a dime a dozen, Clare. I’ve met them all over the world. Wannabe aristocracy. You can’t trust him.”
“Who do you mean?”
“You know who I mean. Who does he think he is with that ‘let me put your slippers on’ act, Cinderella Man?”
“Wasn’t Cinderella Man that World Heavyweight Champion boxer? The one they made a movie about?”
“I meant Prince Charming, okay! But let me tell you, the charm turns into a pumpkin at midnight. And that British accent’s about as real as the potted plants in a used car salesman’s showroom. And what kind of name is that, anyway? Bomb? How can you trust a man named after a weapon of mass destruction!”
“It’s Bom, Matt. B-O-M, the Portuguese word for good, and I know you know that. That’s why his restaurants are called Good Felloes. And I know you know that too. You’re just being difficult. And please slow down!”
Matt frowned, sighed, then slumped a bit in his seat as if giving up. His foot finally eased on the gas pedal, and it occurred to me he was now feeling the way I had when I first ran into him and Breanne at the party—jealousy, then confusion and embarrassment about feeling that way when you weren’t supposed to anymore. Did all divorced couples feel that way? Possessive about a spouse they’d long since given up?
“So what were you doing at the party?” Matt asked, his voice calmer now, more reasonable.
“I told you. I was—”
>
“Looking for David, I heard what you said to Mr. Good bar. I just don’t buy it. In fact, what I really think is that you were looking for Mr. Right.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re a smart woman, Clare. Too smart. I think you cooked the whole wet tee-shirt arrival up to make an impression on the celebrity chef. Well, I guess you got what you wanted. The act worked. He’s interested.”
In a word, I was furious. “I was looking for David. Something came up. I had to find him. Do you really think I risked pneumonia just to meet that man?” I lightly shook my still-wet hair to make my point.
“Careful,” Matt irritably cautioned. “These leather seats were custom made for Bree.”
“Oh, were they?” I narrowed my eyes, then shook my wet head again, this time with the vigor of a just-washed poodle. Water droplets sprayed the interior of Breanne’s Mercedes. More than a few landed on Matteo’s Helmut Lang suit jacket.
Matt smirked. “How immature.”
“That’s rich, coming from you.”
Luckily, the trip to David’s estate was too short for the two of us to continue our sorry little war.
“Turn here,” I said, pointing.
As we swung into the driveway, the uniformed guard, who I’d met earlier, blocked our path.
“Who’s this?” Matt asked.
“David has added some security,” I said.
Matteo’s eyebrow lifted with curiosity, but he didn’t ask why.
I waved a greeting to the guard. “It’s only me,” I said as the young man approached, his flashlight moving from Matt’s face to mine.
“I didn’t know you left the grounds, Ms. Cosi.”
“I went for a walk…and, uh, got a little wet.”
The guard stared at Matt.
“This is Matteo Allegro,” I quickly explained. “He’s an associate of David’s. He’d like to pop in and say hello, update David on some business they have together. David has come home, right?”
The guard nodded. “Mr. Papas brought him back about an hour ago, ma’am. Dropped Mr. Mintzer off and drove away.”
“Good,” I replied, relieved I did not have to deal with David’s condescending and possibly dishonest restaurant manager. “We’ll just pop up to the house. Mr. Allegro won’t be long.”