Billionaire Blend

by Cleo Coyle

  “What?!” I couldn’t believe it. “You can’t be serious!”

  “Perhaps madam does not understand,” the waiter replied with a sniff. “The cup of coffee you have been served was prepared via the French press method from a single-origin bean harvested from a plantation in Brazil. The Ambrosia was sourced and roasted by the Village Blend, a landmark coffeehouse here in New York.”

  With a condescending smile, the waiter departed.

  I racked my memory, but could not recall ever selling the Source Club or Chef Harvey a consignment of the now-unavailable bean. Could Matt have done it without telling me?

  Gripping my cup with shaky hands, I drank again. Rolling the warm liquid around in my mouth, I searched in vain for the perfectly balanced brightness, the notes of berry, of shortbread, of cherry lambic—notes that sadly, never came.

  I swallowed, shuddering. I was horrified, mortified, and temporarily speechless as I set my cup aside.

  How can it be? This club of the rich and powerful has been completely duped. Someone’s passed off this dud of a bean as the Village Blend’s signature Ambrosia, which it decidedly is not! Not even close!

  “Clare?” Eric said, obviously sensing my distress.

  Scene or not, I could not let this situation stand. “Please call the waiter back.”

  “Another question, madam?”

  “No. Just a simple statement. I’ll say it loud and clear so you understand . . .” I placed my hands flat on the table and locked eyes with the haughty man. “This is not Ambrosia.”

  The waiter paled.

  Eric’s reaction was instant outrage (almost too instant). “Not Ambrosia?” he cried. “Are you sure, Clare?”

  “This is not Ambrosia,” I repeated, but a moment later, I was sorry I had.

  Eric rose to his feet, threw down his napkin, and spoke loudly enough to be heard in every corner of the glittering dining room.

  “This coffee is a fraud!”

  Oh, my God, what is he doing?

  “Management had better explain this insulting deception to everyone dining here tonight!” He eyed the waiter. “Get Grayson Braddock’s guest chef out here—at once!”

  Thirty-two

  ERIC’S public act of outrage ended with a gaggle of waiters stampeding our table, followed by the flame-haired firecracker known to America’s food TV aficionados as Chef Clarke Harvey.

  A Down Under version of a certain world-renowned British chef (minus the profanity), Chef Harvey speared us with steely gray eyes. Jaw outthrust, the chef placed his hands on his hips and frowned down at us.

  “’Ere now, mate, what seems to be the problem?”

  “The problem is the coffee,” Eric replied. “My guest tells me that what you are serving is definitely not Ambrosia.”

  Chef Harvey faced me. “You’re familiar with Ambrosia?”

  “Intimately,” I replied. “You see, I—”

  “This is Clare Cosi,” Eric interrupted, “manager and master roaster at the Village Blend.”

  In a world where chefs were suing importers for passing off inferior oils as extra virgin and billionaires were hiring private eyes to nail vintners for selling them fake vintages, my charge was serious business, and Harvey knew it.

  Without hesitation, the chef turned to the nearest waiter and snapped his fingers. “Take this coffee away and bring out a fresh service for three. You make damn sure it’s Ambrosia. I’ll press it myself.”

  The old coffee and cups were whisked away, and a pair of waiters set up a portable tray beside our table. The new coffee service appeared after a few uncomfortable minutes.

  We were an open show now. Everyone in the dining room was craning his or her neck to view the Source Club Coffee Showdown. Some of the people in the back were on their feet and moving closer for a better look.

  Grayson Braddock and his cronies, including Donny Chu, had fluttered over from their perch. Braddock glared at me until I felt goose bumps appear on my arms.

  Meanwhile Chef Harvey poured three cups and, without asking, pulled up a chair and sat between Eric and me.

  “Shall we try again?” he challenged.

  Again, Eric ignored his cup, his expression strained.

  I placed the cup to my nose and sniffed, swirled it a little, then sipped. I let the coffee wash over my tongue, breathing with an open mouth to aerate.

  Chef Harvey didn’t bother to test the aroma; he just gulped and swished the hot liquid around in his mouth, cheeks bulging.

  I finally swallowed and set my cup down. Chef Harvey spit his coffee back into the cup and frowned.

  “Ms. Cosi is right,” the chef declared. “This is not the coffee I sampled when I made the purchase. The vendor pulled a switcheroo before delivery. I humbly apologize to Mr. Braddock, and to everyone who’s dined here tonight. I shall amend the menu accordingly!”

  Chef Harvey rose and shook my hand. “I have sampled Ambrosia, though apparently that’s not what I bought for the club. In any case, I congratulate you on an amazing cup. I hope we meet again, Ms. Cosi, under cheerier circumstances.”

  The chef hurried back to his kitchen. Eric rose and faced a stunned Grayson Braddock.

  “Sorry about the carnival atmosphere, Braddock.” Thorner’s tech brat smirk was back. “This must be quite embarrassing for you, given that tonight’s menu was your baby.”

  Braddock’s reaction to his chef’s confession, Eric’s taunt, and the curious gaze of nearly every diner in the room was to spin 180 degrees in his wingtipped Guccis and stride away so fast that he left his associates to play catch-up.

  Eric held himself erect until the group was out of sight and the diners’ attention was back on their whimsical desserts; then he slumped back into his chair.

  “That felt so good,” he said with a relieved sigh.

  I frowned at the sudden pallor in his complexion—the change was alarmingly dramatic. “For someone who ‘feels good,’ Eric, you look terrible.”

  Dark circles had appeared under his eyes, but this was more than fatigue. His expression had gone rigid, as if he were in great pain. Now he leaned forward for a sip of water and winced. When he sat back again, he actually gasped and cursed.

  “What’s wrong?” I whispered.

  “It must be close to midnight. Anton warned me not to play Cinderella tonight.”

  I glanced at the vintage Cartier watch Madame had lent me. “It’s eleven forty-five.”

  “Damn. The painkiller wore off fifteen minutes ago—”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I’m saying it now. We’d better go, Clare, before I turn into a passed-out pumpkin.”

  “I’ll call the waiter to help you—”

  “No,” Eric said sharply and winced again. “I’m going to have to tough this out, I can’t show weakness.”

  “But you can hardly stand.”

  “Oh, I can stand . . .” He smiled weakly. “It’s the walking I’m not so sure about . . .”

  “Please, lean on me then.” I rose. “Put your arms around my waist. I’ll put my arm around you, too, and we’ll fool everyone.”

  Eric pressed against me, but managed to make the gesture look lusty, not wobbly. “Hey, I like this,” he whispered.

  But someone else didn’t. From her corner table, Eden Thorner-Gundersen glared glass splinters at me. This “business dinner” appeared to be ending as anything but. Great, now she’ll assume I was lying to her in the ladies’ lounge. Oh, well . . .

  “Should I call your car?” I asked Eric.

  “I’ve got it . . .” He brought his wrist to his lips and spoke into what looked like a large watch. “Bring the car, Anton.”

  “Rrrright away, Mr. Thorner,” a tiny voice replied with an impressive Castilian R roll.

  “I can’t believe you just did that,” I couldn’t help murmuring.

  “What?”

  “Are you old enough to get a Dick Tracy joke?”

  “Dick who?”

  “Oh,
never mind.”

  “Mr. Thorner . . .” another voice beckoned from the watch, this one with military crispness.

  “Yes, Walsh?”

  “We have a situation, sir.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll apprise you in the lobby, sir.”

  “Very good,” Thorner replied tightly, but I got the distinct impression it was anything but.

  Thirty-three

  WITH Eric clutching me, we crossed the dining room, sky bridge, and finally entered the grand lobby area. As we paused by the cloak room to wait for our wraps, an unsmiling, tall, lean African-American man in a dark suit greeted us.

  “Good evening, Mr. Thorner, madam . . .”

  “What’s the issue, Walsh?”

  “Paparazzi, sir, and Solar Flare.”

  Eric frowned. “You’ll get us through?”

  “Of course.”

  As Walsh turned to lead us to the grand oak doors, I felt myself tensing.

  “It’s midnight,” I whispered to Eric. “How could the paparazzi possibly know you were here?”

  “Remember all those smartphones in the River Room? Either someone there informed the press or Braddock tipped off his own reporters.”

  “And what exactly is Solar Flare?”

  “You’re about to find out.”

  *

  WHEN I’d first arrived this evening, the Source Club’s vaulted stone archway was lit so expertly it glowed golden, but I didn’t get a second chance to admire the architecture. The moment we stepped outside, I was blinded by the sudden glare of dozens of photo flashes exploding at once.

  With quiet authority, Eric’s bodyguard led us into what (at first) seemed to be a civil crowd. Like a linebacker, he used his shoulders to push a path through the bodies.

  I could see Eric’s antique Bentley on the street. But it seemed so far away, and impossible to reach with the human tide in front of it.

  Meanwhile, Walsh was doing a good job clearing a space on the sidewalk; we stayed behind him and kept moving forward. More cameras flashed, and I had to blink blue spots out of my eyes as we continued walking.

  Keeping my head low to avoid the glare of camera flashes, I heard a few angry voices begin to shout. More voices joined in until it became a chant—

  “Turn off. Tune out. Unplug!”

  We were maybe six feet from the limo, the chauffeur waiting with the door open, when I heard grunts and caught movement to our right. Like a human bulldozer, three burly men with arms interlinked surged forward. I thought for a second that Eric and I were going to be crushed, but they weren’t aiming at us. Their target was Walsh.

  With a collective roar, the trio slammed into the security man, and all four tumbled to the sidewalk in a tangled, chaotic bundle of flailing arms and legs.

  The security wall broken, the mob surged forward. Signs and placards came out, and I felt rough hands on me, heard Eric moan as we were jostled. Flashes exploded, turning night into day. Blindly I lashed out, pushing the flat of my hand into a hairy, bearded face. More people crowded us, but I continued to push the man back.

  Finally my eyes cleared and I discovered I had my hand in the elderly face of Village Blend regular and Madame’s old flame, Professor Nate Sumner from the New School! (Not that he noticed.)

  “Nate!” I cried. “What are you doing?!”

  With a quick brush of his arm, Nate knocked my hand aside and lunged at Eric, shouting, “Unplug!” and “Get real!” as loud and passionately as the rest of the pack.

  In the end, the biggest shock wasn’t the presence of Madame’s ex-boyfriend, or the naked aggressiveness of this political demonstration. What really rattled me were the identical wool caps Nate and the rest of the demonstrators wore.

  Each and every placard-waving member of this group had a red cap with white lettering that spelled Solar Flare.

  My mind flashed on the “looter” who’d come to the Village Blend the other night. The man had worn a red wool cap just like these. I’d even caught three letters on his cap: ARE . . . as in Flare!

  That’s when I absolutely knew. That looter was no looter. He’d been a member of this organization—one whose enraged members had swarmed us!

  Then all of a sudden, the crowd began to scatter. A wild man was now flailing among them. In the next moment, I realized the wild man was the same formerly quiet chauffeur who’d brought me here. Transformed into raw energy unleashed, he rushed the protestors.

  “Back off, all of jou!” the Spaniard shouted.

  Ducking, diving, kicking, and swinging his fists, the chauffeur effectively cleared the area around us without actually striking anyone.

  Some of the snapping paparazzi regrouped, but Eric’s manic chauffeur would have none of it.

  “No pictures! Stay away from my man, you stinking rrrrats!”

  As the driver continued to threaten the mob with karate chops (and Castilian R rolls), Walsh regained his footing and was joined by a second security man. As the two formed a barrier around us, the chauffeur helped Eric into the rear seat. I jumped in beside him, the door closed, and the driver gunned the engine.

  Protestors shouted, running after our limo, and a new chant began: “Analog, analog, analog!”

  Analog? What the—

  “Who are those people?” I cried as we sped away. “They made no sense! And they’re all wearing red wool caps!”

  “Red wool caps?” Eric blinked. “Did you get cracked in the head, Clare?”

  “I’m fine. But listen. This is important. Those nutjob protestors were wearing the same cap as a man who came to my coffeehouse the other night. He tried to break in, scanned the place with a flashlight, and scared the life out of me. From the way he acted, and the questions he asked, I got the feeling he was connected to the bombing. Maybe he was the bomber!”

  I took a breath. “Now people wearing the same caps attack you? It can’t be coincidence.”

  “Forget about Solar Flare,” Eric said as he sank into the soft leather. “Let the police handle it. I, for one, don’t want to think about those Luddites tonight.”

  Maybe Eric was willing to forget, but I wasn’t. First thing tomorrow, I would speak with Professor Nate Sumner. And after I got some answers, I was going to the police.

  “How is he?” the chauffeur asked, eyes on the road.

  Eric gave me a feeble thumbs-up, but I didn’t buy it.

  “He’s in pain,” I told the driver. “His eyes are dull, and he’s too weak to sit up. He should see a doctor.”

  Police cars roared past us, going in the opposite direction.

  “They’re heading for the Source Club, I think . . .”

  Sirens drowned out the rest of the chauffeur’s words.

  In the light from the passing police cars, I could see that Eric was sweating, so much that he didn’t protest as I loosened his coat and tie. That’s when I saw the bandages he’d kept hidden under his stiff collar, and that they were bright with fresh blood.

  “Anton, I want you to take Clare home,” Eric called.

  “For heaven’s sake, forget about me. You’re bleeding. You need medical attention. Let’s get you to a hospital.”

  “No hospital. I mean it.”

  “Then at least let me help you.”

  Eric sank deeper into his seat. “Okay, but no hospital. Take us home, Anton.”

  A moment later, I was wincing at the look of Eric’s bloody bandage when I caught him smiling up at me.

  “Looks like I’ll be keeping that promise,” he said.

  “What promise?”

  “I told you I’d show you my scars.”

  Thirty-four

  THE Bentley rolled into an underground garage beneath a spanking-new luxury apartment tower overlooking Central Park. Anton drove the limo through a second set of automatic security doors, into a paneled car park that contained several other luxury vehicles and a dark SUV with tinted windows.

  Thorner’s security detail pulled in with us and parked beside the sec
ond SUV, but neither bodyguard emerged from the vehicle.

  Thorner lifted his watch to his lips. “Walsh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’re good.”

  “Ring if you need us, sir. We’ll be here, on call.”

  “See you in the morning.”

  Anton pulled up beside a private elevator. Then he and I helped Eric out of the backseat. With Eric’s arms draped over our shoulders, we paused long enough for Anton to press his thumb against a glass sensor.

  “Anton Alonzo cleared for entry,” a robotic female voice declared.

  The doors opened, and we entered the compartment. The myriad reflections inside the mirror-lined elevator (coupled with more wine that I was used to) made my head spin.

  As we rapidly ascended to the thirty-fifth-floor penthouse, Eric wasn’t looking so good, either.

  “Almost there, boss,” Anton whispered reassuringly.

  When the doors opened, lights sprang to life in a thick-piled entryway. The same robotic voice greeted us.

  “Welcome home, Eric, Anton, and . . . guest.”

  “House, activate the master bedroom, please,” Anton replied. “Lights low, blinds drawn. Adjust the temperature to a constant 78 degrees Fahrenheit—”

  “House, turn on the fireplace, too,” Eric added, voice weak.

  “Affirmative,” the fembot replied.

  “And House, please double-filter and boil two quarts of water,” Anton added.

  “Immediately, sirs.”

  Eric was steadier now, but he gripped my hand as we moved through the expansive penthouse.

  The entranceway opened into a glass and chrome wet bar stocked with bottles of premium wine, liquors, and soft drinks. The ultramodern steel and glass motif continued in the spacious living room, where a freestanding staircase ascended to a second-floor gallery.

  Lights snapped on as we moved through each chamber, muted and recessed in the living room so as not to interfere with the view of Central Park. The vista was spectacular, of course, but I didn’t get more than a glimpse of shadowy parkland ringed by the city’s twinkling lights, before we entered another dark hallway.