Billionaire Blend

by Cleo Coyle

“But how will you serve the Village Blend’s signature drinks?”

  “Our coffee truck is garaged in Matt’s warehouse for the winter, but we can take it out . . .” I was so excited I jumped up and began to pace. “We can park it at the curb and use the truck’s espresso machine to bring our entire menu back to life.”

  I paused. “What do you think?”

  “What do I think?”

  Once again I held my breath, watching Madame’s blue violet gaze grow wide then tearful. “I think you truly are the daughter I never had!”

  Madame opened her arms, and I happily stepped into them. Then we hugged each other tight. But not for long—

  BA-BOOM!

  The violent noise wasn’t a bomb, but it may as well have been, because we both nearly jumped out of our shoes.

  What was that?!

  We whipped around to face the shattered French doors, where the noise had come from. Then—

  BAM!

  In the flickering firelight, we watched one of the long plywood planks covering the broken glass violently shudder then fall away. With a hollow BONK, it fell to the coffeehouse floor.

  The black rectangle that appeared looked like a postal slot to the abyss.

  Madame and I stared at it in dead silence. We sensed movement beyond the darkness. Suddenly the bright beam of a flashlight appeared and slowly began moving around the shop.

  “It’s a looter,” Madame whispered.

  I froze for a moment, but Madame was already moving toward the counter.

  “Call the police, dear,” she calmly advised. “I’ll get the baseball bat.”

  Twenty

  DESPITE Madame’s instructions, I didn’t phone the police.

  Yes, the minor vandalism scared us, but what if this “looter” was simply a curious Village Blend customer? Before I put some poor patron in handcuffs, I had to be sure there was truly a threat.

  “Who are you?” I called. “Who’s there?!”

  The flashlight beam stopped moving for a second. Then it zigzagged wildly around the wood-plank floor until it found my feet, then my torso, and finally—my eyes!

  Blinded, I raised my hand. “This shop is occupied!”

  “I can see that . . .” The voice sounded male, not young, maybe middle-aged? And somewhat hoarse.

  “So what do you want?” I demanded.

  Dead silence and then—

  “Were you there?”

  “I’m right here! Don’t tell me you can’t see me. Your flashlight is burning my retinas!”

  “Were you there when the bomb went off?” The man sounded irritated, as if I should have understood him the first time.

  By now, Madame was by my side, bat on her shoulder like Mickey Mantle. “Say the word and I’ll take a swing,” she whispered.

  “Not yet,” I whispered back.

  “Did you see it?!” the man pressed, his voice quiet but emotional. “The bomb?”

  “Yes, I saw the bomb go off. Why do you want to know?”

  “Then you saw her?”

  Her? I took a step closer and saw dark eyes, dark hair, and a red knit cap. “Who?”

  “Don’t play games with me!” The man’s sudden roar rattled me—and Madame.

  “I’ll have you know we’ve called the police!” she cried. (Okay, we hadn’t, but he didn’t know that.)

  The flashlight beam vanished. I ran to the open slot in the boarded-up French door, saw the back of a man, and heard his heavy footsteps moving away, down the sidewalk.

  As the man passed under a working streetlight, I took a quick mental snapshot. He wore construction-like, tan work boots, dark blue denims, and a light gray parka. The parka was bulky so it was hard to tell what his build was like. His height appeared several inches less than Mike Quinn but taller than most New York men (about my ex-husband’s height of six feet). His hair was probably short because the bright red knit cap covered it completely. There was something written on the cap in white lettering—ARE was all I could make out.

  “Give me that bat!” I grabbed the weapon and took off.

  “Where are you going?!” Madame demanded.

  “After him! That man was no looter . . .”

  I sprinted to the front door, but it began opening before I got there. Holy cow! How had he doubled back so fast?! Planting my feet, I lifted the bat high and cursed my decision to delay the police. Madame was like a mother to me, and I’d do anything to protect her.

  As the door swung toward me, I cocked the bat back, ready to swing it forward when—

  “A little early for spring training, isn’t it?” (The voice was male, but it wasn’t the stranger’s.) Standing on our doorstep in black jeans and a battered leather bomber was Matteo Allegro, my ex-husband.

  “Get out of my way!” Off and running again, I lunged for the sidewalk as Madame called—

  “Stop her, son!”

  Unfortunately, this was one time Matt listened to his mother.

  Twenty-one

  “FOR heaven’s sake, Matt, let me go!”

  “Forget it.”

  “That man is getting away!”

  I tried to break away, but Matt’s grip on my waistband rivaled the one on his bank account.

  “You don’t even know why you’re stopping me!” I cried, squirming. “Be reasonable!”

  “Be reasonable?!” He tightened his hold. “You’re running out into a freezing-cold January night, swinging a baseball bat after some ‘man’—and I’m the one who needs to be reasonable?”

  With a grunt, I finally twisted with enough force to dislodge his hand. Freedom! Unfortunately, Matt’s other hand had already snaked around my torso. Before I could get away, his muscular arm jerked me back against his hard chest. I wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Listen to me,” I snapped, “I’m not going to assault him or even try to stop him. I only want to talk to him!”

  “Him who?” Out of patience, Matt addressed his mother. “Will you translate crazy, please?”

  “Some awful looter tried to break in . . .” she explained. “I told Clare to call the police, but she wanted to speak with the man for some reason.”

  “Not for some reason! For a very specific reason. The guy was emotional—and his questions were bizarre. I think he may have been the bomber!”

  Matt let out a groan. Then he wrapped his other arm around me, lifted me off my feet, and swung me back into the shop. When he finally released me, there was nowhere to go. He shut the door firmly, leaned against it, and crossed his arms.

  I threw up my hands. “You’re being ridiculous, autocratic, tyrannical—”

  “I’m fine with that—as long as the mother of my daughter is safe.”

  “You’re not my husband anymore.”

  “No, but I’m your business partner, and your friend. And it’s your turn to act reasonable. That man, whoever he was, is long gone by now.”

  “I should at least tell the NYPD Bomb Squad.” I pulled out my cell phone.

  Matt grabbed it. “Tell them what? That some poor slob got tipsy, got curious, and when you caught him in the act, decided to pull your chain?”

  “Arsonists are famous for watching their fires. Criminals often return to the scene of the crime. Even if he’s not the bomber, I think he may know something, and—”

  “And it’s not your job to solve this crime. It’s the NYPD’s job, and the police don’t need your help.”

  I should have bit my tongue. Instead, I blurted the truth. “They already did!”

  “What?” Matt frowned as he studied my face. “Oh no. I know that look!” He turned to his mother. “What are you two up to?”

  “I’m not entirely sure.” Madame arched a curious eyebrow at me. “What are we up to, my dear?”

  “Over the weekend, Mike Quinn introduced me to the head of the squad, that’s all. I had some pertinent information, which he was happy to get. He told me to contact him with any leads. This might be one—”

  “Well, it’s not,” Matt cu
t in.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Come on, Clare, think it through. By now, the police certainly have some person of interest under surveillance. If it’s this looter guy of yours, there’s probably a tail on him already. Tell me you can live with that.”

  I folded my arms.

  Matt sighed. “Please.”

  “Okay . . .” I took a calming breath. “Like you said, he’s gone by now . . .” But he’ll probably be back, I silently added, and that’s when I’ll talk to him.

  KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!

  This time it was Matt who jumped. Bracing himself for a fight, he pulled open the door. Otto’s driver tipped his cap—

  “Good evening, sir, I’m here to pick up Madame Dubois.”

  “I’ll be right there!” she called. “Otto’s hosting nightcaps at his gallery,” she explained as she gathered her things. “It’s an intimate gathering of international buyers. I’d invite you both, but . . . I believe you two have things to discuss.”

  On the word discuss, she sent Matt a meaningful look. Then she pecked his cheek, waved at me, and headed out the door.

  Twenty-two

  “SO?” I asked, holding out my hand.

  “So?” Matt echoed, slapping my mobile phone back into it.

  “What exactly are we supposed to ‘discuss’?”

  “Got anything to eat?” Matt said, ignoring my question.

  “I have some extra Chinese takeout,” I said and offered to reheat it.

  “You didn’t cook something special for the flatfoot?”

  “Mike ate every bite—but I did bake up a storm for his kids and his squad meeting. Your mother ate the last of the biscotti.”

  “Damn.”

  “But I still have a few Chocolate-Bottom Banana Bars upstairs.”

  “Lovin’ from the oven . . .” He clapped his hands together and rubbed. “Now you’re talking!”

  Matt always did look forward to my home cooking. His new wife, Bree—disdainer-in-chief of Trend magazine—was many things, but a baker of banana bars wasn’t one of them.

  “Sit tight,” I said.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t.

  After climbing the stairs to my duplex apartment and venturing into the kitchen, I heard Matt’s familiar footsteps. Turning, I found my ex-husband leaning against the doorjamb, hands in the pockets of his tight black jeans.

  “What are you doing up here?”

  He shrugged, a bad-boy look on his black-bearded face.

  “Matt?”

  “It’s warmer up here.”

  “No, it’s not. Go back down to the shop.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you don’t live up here. Not anymore.”

  Matt’s slow-spreading smile was beyond smug.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “The reason you don’t want me up here,” he said. “It’s obvious: you don’t trust yourself around me.”

  “Oh, please!”

  He crossed his arms. “Prove it.”

  “You’re a child sometimes, you know that?” I expelled a frustrated breath. “Fine! Sit down, then.”

  “Not here. We’ll be more comfortable in the parlor. I’ll start a fire for you there . . .” He caught my eye as he peeled off his jacket. “Unless you’d like one in the bedroom.”

  “Don’t get cute or I’ll put you on the sidewalk—by way of a third-floor window.”

  “Just checking.”

  Ten minutes later, I was sitting by a roaring blaze again, this time on the rosewood-framed sofa in the duplex’s well-appointed salon.

  Matt’s mother had decorated the place herself, collecting and placing gorgeous pieces over many decades. The main room—with its carved rosewood and silk sofa and chairs, jewel-toned Persian prayer rug, cream-marble fireplace, and French doors opening to a narrow, wrought-iron balcony of flower boxes—felt more like something you’d find in a Paris arrondissement than a New York walk-up.

  As a girl who grew up in a Pennsylvania factory town, I continued to feel grateful and blessed for the privilege of sitting here amidst this Old World elegance, sipping my hot, fresh cup of Fireside Blend. Matt, who had grown up in a sophisticated world of beauty and culture only to become an extreme sports nut and cocaine addict, was acting as he usually did in his mother’s apartment—aloof to civilization.

  Barely chewing, he stuffed three of my Chocolate-Bottom Banana Bars into his mouth inside of two minutes.

  “Didn’t you have dinner?”

  “Many hours ago,” he garbled mid-chew and brushed crumbs from a black, cashmere V-neck just tight enough to show off his sculpted pecs. “Bree and I went to her favorite sushi bar before she hopped a flight to LA. But, I’m sorry to say . . . no matter what Bree treats me to, it seems I’m never completely satisfied . . .”

  He threw me a suggestive smile. I rolled my eyes.

  Matt and Bree had an open marriage, and when the cat was away, Matt loved to play. But there was no playing around here, which I’d made clear enough multiple times.

  “Enjoy the baked goods,” I told him, “because they are the only goodies you’ll get from me tonight.”

  Unfortunately, the thickest muscle in Matt’s body was in his head. All he did was smile wider.

  “Okay, talk already,” I demanded. “What did your mother want you to discuss with me?”

  “The artwork.” The swipe of a napkin wiped his smile, too, and his mood shifted. “I know it’s not a happy conversation, Clare, but you have to make the decision.”

  “What decision? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “What do you mean, ‘you don’t know’—” He stopped abruptly, studied my perplexed face, and cursed (in several languages). “She didn’t tell you!”

  “Tell me what?!”

  “I can’t believe she dumped this on me,” he muttered.

  “Matt, explain!”

  He closed his eyes and took a breath. “The insurance adjuster called Mother this afternoon. The news wasn’t good, Clare . . .”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Bad . . .”

  He went over the numbers with me, and my heart sank.

  “Our insurance company contacted Thorner’s insurers. They’re hiding behind their legal skirts. They refuse to pay a cent until the legal issues surrounding the case are resolved.”

  “You mean the bomber needs to be caught?”

  “And convicted. Then they can go after the guilty party in civil court to claim damages.”

  “But even if they arrested someone tonight, the trial wouldn’t come up for at least a year!”

  “I know. Our insurance company is prepared to cut us a check and wait for Thorner’s insurers to reimburse them, but it’s nowhere near what we need . . .”

  Because our coffeehouse was located in the Village historic district, exterior restoration would have to comply with strict codes. We’d need to hire construction companies with specific expertise, which meant repairs wouldn’t be cheap. The estimate was astronomical.

  “Mother refuses to mortgage the place or sell any of the furniture, but she is going to have a fire sale with her jewelry collection—”

  “So that’s why she only wore one piece tonight?”

  Matt nodded. “The rest is being appraised. In a few days, she’ll select which pieces to sell—”

  “That’s going to break her heart!”

  “And she wants you to number the pieces of artwork from the coffeehouse and the duplex. Give her a list of items you’re willing to part with, in descending order. Otto will appraise them and you can make the final decision.”

  “Decision on what?” I gawked in horror as it hit me. “On which ones to sell?”

  “Or auction, yes. We’ll only sell off what we have to until we reach the amount we need.”

  “But, Matt—it’s a hundred years of Village Blend history!”

  “I know.”

  “I can’t believe this is happening to us . . .”
<
br />   “Believe it.”

  I couldn’t sit still any longer. On my feet, I began to pace. “Your mother should be the one to choose which pieces.”

  “She wants you to do it, Clare.”

  “But she’s the one who has the most personal attachment to it all! Oh, Matt, imagine her memories!”

  “That’s why she wants you to do it. It’s too painful for her, and Mother said . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “What?” I whispered.

  Matt’s expression looked sadder than I’d seen it in a long time. “Mother said you’ll be the one living with the remaining artwork for the next thirty years, not her—and that’s why the choice should be yours.”

  His voice was even, but his eyes were damp. The words made me think of losing her, too, which made my own eyes well.

  “Aren’t you going to help me choose?” I asked, my voice barely there.

  “Clare . . . I’m no art expert. I spent most of my adult years traveling the globe. You’re the one who went to art school. You and my mother—that love was something you two shared from the beginning.” The firelight flickered, casting shadows of regret across Matt’s olive complexion. “It was always your thing, not mine . . .”

  He rose. “So you’ll let me know? Give me the list sometime tomorrow, then?”

  I moved to the door with him, swiped the moisture off my cheeks. His strong arms reached for me; I stepped back.

  “Sorry,” he said, slipping into his bomber. “Old habits die hard . . .”

  The words made something inside me lurch. More than anything, I wanted to fling my arms around the father of my daughter and cry my eyes out, but I held myself in shaky check.

  Matt would be happy to give me comfort with his hard body, and I would gladly take it—possibly too far. I’d never admit it, but he was right. Alone and hurting, seeing that tenderness in his liquid-brown gaze, feeling that desire to console me in his soft touch, I didn’t trust myself.

  “Good night, Matt,” I said stiffly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Chin up, okay?” He cleared his throat. “I’ll bring that generator from the warehouse, like you asked. We’ll set up the catering tent and you can start serving our customers again. That’s something to look forward to, isn’t it?”