Клео Коул - On What Grounds

“No.”

“You didn’t enter the coffeehouse at all?”

“No. I was exhausted. I came in through the alley, went up the back garden stairs to the duplex, and that’s it.”

“Do you know Anabelle Hart?”

Matt looked taken aback. I leaned forward.

“Anabelle Hart?” asked Matt. “What’s she got to do with—”

“Just tell me,” said Quinn.

“Of course I know her. She’s one of our baristas downstairs.”

“And?”

“And what? That’s it.”

Quinn seemed unsatisfied with Matt’s answer. Or the way he answered. He stared for a few silent moments. “You don’t have any sort of special relationship with her?”

“Christ. She’s my daughter’s age.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning she’s a child. She works downstairs. She works well. She has a boyfriend. That’s all I know. Why? What’s she been telling you?”

“No reason to have been angry with her?”

“What’s this about? Clare ?”

I was about to answer when Quinn spoke up—

“Miss Hart’s had an accident. A fall down the service staircase.”

Matt’s eyes met mine. “Clare? Is she all right?”

I shook my head. “It’s not good. She’s in intensive care.”

“Aw, no—”

“Mr. Allegro, you have a key to the duplex, correct?” asked Quinn, continuing to scribble in his rectangular notebook.

“That’s obvious.”

“And a key to the coffeehouse downstairs?”

“Yes, of course. I’m the Blend’s coffee buyer and the owner’s son.”

“We may have more questions for you, Mr. Allegro,” said Quinn. “Do you have any plans to leave the city in the next week?”

“No. I’ll be here for at least two.”

“And you’ll be living here—”

“No!” I blurted. “He’s not living here.”

Matt’s eyebrow rose. “We’ll see,” he mouthed. Then he rose and dug into his back pocket. “Here’s my card. Cell phone number’s on there.”

“Fine,” said Quinn. He held up the vial of white powder. “I’m going to have this tested.”

“Christ,” said Matt. “Why? I don’t plan on participating in any Olympic events in the next forty-eight hours, and that’s about the only institution I can think of that considers caffeine a prohibited substance.”

Matt was right. One of our customers, a former Olympic fencer and coffee lover, had nearly tested positive for more than 12 micrograms of caffeine per milliliter of urine. He’d drunk something like three cups of coffee before his event. Consuming just two more would have gotten him banned from the Games.

“I’m testing it purely for Ms. Cosi’s sake,” said Quinn. “I think she has a right to know whether or not her ex-husband is telling her the truth about kicking his addiction.”

Matt’s eyes found mine. “I am.”

A moment later Langley was pulling open the door to the back staircase and heading out. Quinn was about to follow when Matt called, “Detective—”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really sorry to hear about Anabelle. If there’s anything more I can do, let me know. I mean that.”

Quinn paused to study Matt’s face, then he nodded and, after a brief unreadable glance at me, the detective turned and left.

ON the other side of the door, two pairs of heavy-soled shoes clomped down the back steps with the conviction of people who knew exactly where they were going and why.

On our side of the door, it was another climate entirely.

Matt and I didn’t move.

We didn’t speak.

We didn’t breathe.

An arctic freeze had settled in to the extent that if we’d breathed, condensation clouds surely would have appeared.

The silence was so deafening the ringing phone felt like a World War II air-raid siren. I jumped and Matt shuddered. When it rang a second time, Matt moved toward the side table, where the cordless receiver sat nestled in its recharging unit.

But it was my apartment, I thought, and therefore my phone, so I moved, too. My hand grasped the receiver a millisecond before his.

What I hadn’t figured on was the collision.

In recent years, Matt may have shown signs of aging in the slight wrinkles around the edges of his eyes and the gray strands threading through his black hair. But his athletic body seemed to have aged very little—and our unexpected contact, unfortunately, proved it.

Receiver in hand, I glanced off his tanned torso, nearly taking a fall. But his arms were quick, wrapping around my waist in an automatic save that crushed my pillowy C-cups into the slab of granite he called a chest.

The phone rang again. I pushed the ON-OFF button then put it to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Hello—” I managed while attempting to wriggle free of the warm, naked flesh of my ex-husband’s chest. Much to my annoyance, Matt’s muscular arms held firm.

“Mom, what’s up? Your message sounded weird.”

“Everything’s okay, honey—”

I met Matt’s eyes. “It’s Joy,” I whispered, trying to ignore the fresh, clean smell of recently showered male skin.

“Who’s there?” my daughter asked at once.

“Your father.”

“He’s back! Oh, boy! Put him on, I want to say Hi !”

“Uh—yeah, okay—”

Reluctantly I offered up the cordless receiver. I felt one of Matt’s arms move off my waist to reach for it. The other arm, he kept firmly around me. I could back off now, I reasoned, but if I did that, I’d be too far away to hear Joy’s end of the conversation, and I wanted to eavesdrop.

“Hi, muffin,” said Matt.

“Hi, Daddy!”

Dawn broke in Matt’s face. A grin from coast to coast.

“When did you get in?”

“The wee hours.”

“Whatcha doin’ at Mom’s?”

One of Matt’s dark eyebrows arched suggestively as he stared down at me. “Getting into trouble.”

“Like—as usual!”

“Yeah, like that.”

“Mom invited me for dinner,” Joy said, “so I’ll be coming by tonight. Tell her, okay?”

“Okay,” said Matt.

“And you come, too, Daddy. Okay?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

Damn. I thought. This was not a good idea—

“And, Daddy, tell Mom I’m bringing a surprise, okay?”

“Sure. She’ll like that. I have a surprise for you, too.”

“Cool!” cried Joy. “But I’m late. Gotta get to my saucier class!”

“Bye, honey.”

“Bye, Daddy, see you tonight.”

He clicked off the phone, and I exhaled. After the morning’s events, I was glad, at least, to have finally heard Joy’s voice.

“She’s coming for dinner tonight.” His free arm returned to its earlier position, locking around my waist.

“I heard.”

“Then you know I’m invited, too.”

“Yes, but do you think that’s a good idea—”

“Of course,” said Matt, obviously ignoring my conflicted tone. “And she’s bringing a surprise—”

“Matt, I don’t think it’s a good idea—”

“Wonder what she’s making?”

“—for her to see you and I here together—”

“She wrote me that she’s having a hell of a time with the French sauces. Maybe it’s a new dessert. She loves baking.”

“I’m telling you, Matt, it’s not a good idea. Don’t you remember that time when she was thirteen and we spent the night together—and she thought—”

“You know what, Clare?”

“What?”

“I never kissed you hello.”

I felt his muscles moving, his lower body trying to establish a more significant press between us.

“We don’t kiss hello,” I told him, beginning to squirm again. “Not anymore.”