Клео Коул - Espresso Shot

“When?” Matt demanded. “When did you do this?”

Breanne shrugged. “Maybe a month ago.”

I shook my head. The woman’s expression appeared to be all surprised innocence, but her action had been coldly calculated. She’d effectively notified every last woman in Matt’s little black PDA book that he was no longer available.

“Son of a—” He shook his head. “You invaded my privacy, went into my PDA without telling me. You contacted people from my past, with your own agenda, without even warning me. You humiliated me, Breanne. You, you—”

Breanne reached for her groom, but he pulled away.

“Get away from me,” he rasped.

“Matt, please—”

But he wasn’t listening. Before anyone could stop him, Matt stormed out.

“Please, someone, follow him,” Madame said with worried eyes.

Flanking Matt’s mother, Javier and Hector instantly nodded and chased after Matt. Koa Waipuna took off after them.

As soon as they were gone, all heads turned to Breanne. By the time she finished a swallow of her Pisco Sour, her calmly superior mask had slipped back over her stunned expression. But I’d gotten to know the woman well enough in these last few weeks to see the little cracks around her edges. Matt’s violent reaction to her brazen stunt had rocked her. Up to now, he’d been patient and accommodating. She was probably expecting him to roll over and accept this little prank without a peep. Clearly, she’d miscalculated.

On the one hand, I was appalled that Breanne had violated Matt’s privacy. But I had to admit I was pretty impressed with the move. It was shrewd, a way to keep Matt from straying—with all the old flames, at least. Her actions also made me wonder just how well Roman knew his best friend. Sure, Breanne gave lip service to being free of middle-class morals, but this little trick made it clear that she actually did care about fidelity—or at least sharing Matt with other women.

I felt myself smiling. If anything, this was a good sign. In my opinion, Breanne was starting to act like a wife.

For a good twenty minutes, the bride-to-be put on a good face for her luncheon guests, chatting with the Rayos, an Ecuadorean couple, before finally retreating to the ladies’ room.

I felt a touch of pity for the woman. After what just happened, I assumed she must be feeling terrible. I glanced at Madame, hoping the mother of the groom would take it upon herself to comfort her future daughter-in-law. But when I saw the expression on her face, I knew she wasn’t unhappy with the conflagration. Clearly, Madame continued to hold out hope that her son would say, “I don’t.”

But somebody should really check on Breanne...

When it was obvious that no one else was going to step up, I sighed, set my glass down, and followed Ms. Wonderful to the women’s room.

“Breanne?” I called. “Are you okay?”

There were three stalls in Machu Picchu’s ladies’ facility, only one of them appeared to be in use. Behind its closed door, I sensed movement then heard a muffled sound.

Was that a sob?

“Breanne, please answer me.”

No response, just more movement inside the stall.

With a sigh, I glanced around. The floor space in this restroom was bigger than some of my baristas’ studio apartments. The decor wasn’t half bad, either. An array of primitive masks continued the pseudo-Inca theme of the dining room. Andean wood flutes warbled from hidden speakers, and sweet-smelling incense burned in clay pots. Three sandstone sinks lined one mirrored wall. Three stalls stood opposite, their rustic wooden doors reaching almost to the terra-cotta floor.

I approached the only stall door that was closed and heard a choking gasp. “Breanne, are you crying ?”

I didn’t relish playing girlfriend to the grand bitch of Trend . But the woman did sound like she was suffering; and if anyone knew what it was like to choke on tears over Matteo Allegro, it was yours truly.

“Come on now, Bree. It’ll be all right. Come out and we’ll talk about it—”

But the fashion maven didn’t want to talk. Instead, one of her thousand-dollar double-strapped Fen pumps flew through the small space between the bottom of the stall door and the floor, narrowly missing my ankle.

Great! First she dismisses my detective work, now she’s throwing shoes at me. Forget this! I was about to turn and leave when the stall door rattled and cracked open.

“What? Did you change your mind? You want me to come in now?”

I cautiously pushed the door wider—and froze.

Matt’s fiancée was choking all right, but not on prewedding tears. A man was standing behind her in the stall. I couldn’t see his face or much else to define him. He wore a black ski mask, a long black coat, and his thick black gloves were literally squeezing the life out of Breanne’s slender white throat.

“Help!” I cried at the top of my lungs. “Heeeeelp!”

I could see Breanne’s French-tipped fingernails were digging into her attacker’s black gloves, but it was no use, the strangling grip was firm.

“Helpppp!”

My voice echoed hollowly in the tiled space, and I feared the remote bathroom was too far away from the loud party for anyone to hear. Bree’s eyelids were fluttering; her long, lithe limbs were going limp; she was losing consciousness!

I feared leaving her to get help so I lunged into the stall myself, pulled on the man’s gloved fingers, tried to break his merciless grip. It began to work, until the attacker’s body turned enough to kick out and slam me backward.

“Dammit!”

I landed on the floor, my whole side throbbing. The sloppy fall had dispersed the contents of Breanne’s handbag. Makeup, credit cards, a red leather wallet with hundreds of dollars falling out—my gaze quickly scanned the scattered items. Finally, I spied something useful: a small can of Mace.

Yes!

I grabbed the pepper spray, aimed the nozzle, and pressed the trigger. The burning stream struck the man point-blank in his ski mask. The attacker howled, and his gloved hands released Bree’s neck. I grabbed Matt’s half-conscious fiancée around her waist, yanked her backward with all my strength, and we tumbled together onto the floor.

Coughing, the man stumbled out after us. Breanne was thinner than I was, but she was also much taller, and I was trapped for a minute under her large, limp form. I squirmed, trying to turn my head, get a decent look at her attacker. I glimpsed brown pants and shoes under the long black coat. He wasn’t a giant, but he wasn’t small, either. From the floor, I had trouble estimating his height; and with the ski mask on his head and the gloves on his hands, I couldn’t even be sure of his race!

I only had a second to make an ID, and I couldn’t do it. Howling and clawing at his saturated mask, the man bolted for the exit. I heard the door swing shut, then an eerie silence.

With a groan of pain, I rolled over to check on Breanne. She was already sitting up and clutching at her long white neck, now bruised with angry red marks. Her necklace snapped off, the silver and turquoise tumbling from her throat like a dead serpent.

I faced Breanne, my heart still racing. “Are you okay?”

Breanne was gasping for air. “No,” she rasped. “Dizzy. Sick. Need a minute.”

“I’ll be back,” I said.

One of my wedge platform sandals was half off my foot. I quickly fixed it, ran out the door, and madly scanned the corridor. But no one was there. The ladies’ room was in the very back of the restaurant, beyond the kitchen entrance and even remote from the men’s room, which was off the building’s front bar. I noticed the fire exit door was hanging open, and I guessed the man had escaped through the back alley.