“It’s true. I am scared,” Matt confessed. “If you could have seen the way that SUV came right for Breanne on the sidewalk…” He shook his head and grimaced, his expression intensifying for a moment into a look of almost physical pain. “I think Quinn’s right. I think you should do this, Clare. Will you? For me? As a wedding gift?”

I couldn’t believe this was happening! “I’ll give it a day. But if I don’t turn up any leads, I’m off the case.”

That seemed good enough for Matt. He thanked me. Then he actually extended his hand across the table. “Thanks, Quinn. You’re not so bad.”

The detective shook Matt’s hand, declining to return the compliment. “Listen, Allegro,” he said instead, “can you give me a few minutes alone with Clare here? I’d like a word with her.”

“Yeah, sure,” Matt said. “And I’ll bet I know which word.”

“Matt!” I said.

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

As my ex stood and walked away, Quinn unfolded his lanky frame from the metal chair and crossed the little interview room to shut the door.

I rose, too, and stepped right up to him. “Why did you set me up, Mike? I don’t appreciate-”

His lips found mine before I could finish the sentence. Despite my complete and total annoyance with the man, my arms drifted north, circled his neck, and hung on. He backed me against the wall and got serious.

God, the man liked to kiss. He took his time with his lips and tongue, let my taste and smell roll over his receptor cells like a sommelier who’d finally found the time to get down to his cellar and savor the rarest vintage in his collection.

When we finally parted, he smiled down at me. There were stray locks of chestnut hair on my cheek. His fingers brushed them aside, curled them around my ear.

“Tonight, sweetheart,” he said softly. “My place.”

“No way. I’m not forgiving you for this.”

“For what?” He knitted his brow, a shameful attempt to appear clueless.

“Don’t even try to play innocent with me. You’re obviously pissed that Matteo’s moved back in with me for a few days. Hooking me up to investigate Breanne is your pathetic ploy to steer me clear of the man.”

“You’re way too cynical, Cosi. You know that? I honestly think Allegro’s theory is worth checking out.”

I might have believed him, if I hadn’t caught his fleeting half smile.

“You owe me, Quinn.” I poked his hard shoulder. “Do you hear?”

“Yeah, I hear. And I’ll make it up to you. I promise… starting tonight.”

I parted my lips to protest again, but once again Mike Quinn’s mouth was faster.

TEN

THERE are things you do for people you don’t like because they’re attached to people you do like. Take a sarcastic sister-in-law who drives you nuts with her barely veiled insults. She’s never once thanked you for all the Christmas gifts you’ve sent her over the years, but you keep sending them because if you drop her off the family list, it’s the brother you love who’s going to get his ear chewed off about the slight.

Breanne Summour was like that for me now. She was not my favorite person. But she was about to become Matteo’s wife, and since he cared whether she lived or died, I was stuck caring, too. I know that sounds appalling, but I found the woman barely tolerable on a charitable day.

Still, I reminded myself, she did come through for Joy.

Last fall, when my daughter was falsely accused of murder, Breanne had used her VIP connections to secure Joy a top criminal defense attorney. I had to give Bree credit for that. After all, Randall Knox had taken embarrassing public swipes at the woman for being connected to Matt. It must have been mortifying for her, yet she hung in there. I tried to keep that in mind as my ex began hustling me from West Tenth to Hudson.

“Where are we going, Matt?”

“Uptown. Bree’s having a final fitting of her wedding gown. I got hold of her on the cell while you were with Quinn.” Matt shot me a smirking glance. “What were you two discussing up there, by the way?”

“Uh… the case…”

“Then why do you smell like the guy’s cheap drugstore aftershave?”

“Mind your own business.”

“I am,” Matt said, as we racewalked the tree-lined street. “You and Quinn are my business now that you’re going to help me figure out who wants to kill Breanne.”

“I wouldn’t count on Quinn this week. Not unless Breanne ODs on painkillers.”

“What are you talking about?!”

I told Matt about the OD Squad that Quinn was supervising.

“Well, then, Sherlock, I guess it’s up to you to figure this out.”

We reached the corner, and Matt stepped off the curb to look for a cab. Hudson Street was one-way uptown, and the traffic was sporadic. The April breeze was mild, and the sun felt warm on my cheeks, which was lucky, because I’d failed to foresee this private investigation gig, and I hadn’t worn a jacket.

At the moment, I was dressed for espresso bar work in hip-hugging Old Navy blue jeans, low-heeled boots, and a long-sleeved cream-colored jersey. I really liked the jersey ($26 at the Gap). It was super-soft cotton blended with clingy spandex; and the line of tiny cocoa buttons that marched all the way down the V-neck highlighted a somewhat sexy hint of cleavage-which, now that I think about it, was probably what provoked Mike Quinn’s cop stare in the first place, not to mention the “word” we had in private.

There was nothing wrong with my outfit per se. It was cute, casual, certainly presentable, but it wasn’t close to appropriate for a Fifth Avenue house of haute couture, where the least expensive item was probably a small imported silk print scarf retailing for $295. I shifted my weight from one scuffed boot to the other, anticipating the crap I was probably going to get from Breanne.

“Listen, Matt, don’t push me with this investigation. Like I told you in the precinct, I’ll give it a day. If I don’t find anything suspicious, you’ll have to open that tight fist of yours and hire a professional. True, you might have to give up that overpriced French cologne you’ve been wearing lately, but I’m sure Quinn will tell you which drugstore you can get his aftershave.”

“Very funny,” Matt said, craning his neck down the street for a glimpse of a yellow cab. “And, by the way, it’s not a matter of money, Clare. It’s a matter of motivation. You saw that girl gunned down in the street last night. Don’t you want to help catch who killed her?”

I closed my eyes. “Of course.”

“Then stop qualifying your involvement.”

Matt raised his hand to signal an approaching cab, but the driver whizzed by us. He already had a fare.

“Okay…” I said with a surrendering exhale. “I’ll stop bellyaching. But you can’t bug out on me with the Blend this week. Double-check the schedule with the baristas and make sure our orders are coming in for the wedding on Saturday. We’ll need the extra milk and half-and-half.”

“I will.”

“I’m going to roast the single-origin green beans myself. I brought in Janelle Babcock to handle all of the pastry and cookies, but we need to start roasting the extra house blend for the espresso drinks. You can get started on that-”

“Okay, Clare. Don’t worry. Once I explain things to Breanne, I’m coming right back down here.”

“Fine.”

As I took a breath, it occurred to me that my priorities probably were a little skewed. In the end, showing off the Village Blend’s catering abilities at a Metropolitan Museum of Art reception would be all for naught if the bride got whacked before the wedding day.

“Taxi!” Matt whistled, at last scoring us an empty cab.

The driver swung to our side of the street. But as I began to open the back door, I heard a woman’s voice urgently calling, “Matteo! Matteo Allegro!”