Free Through the Grinder by Cleo Coyle Page B

“I’ve met your daughter already—around the little circle here. Joy Allegro. I didn’t consider your having different last names, but then, you’re divorced, so I assume Cosi’s your maiden name? Anyway, she’s quite attractive. Very bubbly. Energetic. I can see the resemblance.”
    I frowned and changed the subject. “And how are you coming with the lingerie model fundraiser for vegans?”
    My caustic tone didn’t seem to phase him. His smile just broadened. “Younger women threaten you, do they?”
    Not for the first time, I pictured pointing the espresso machine’s steam nozzle at his face—with the valve opened full throttle.
    “Listen, buddy, I’m not the one visiting Renu Spa every weekend to ward off the wrinkles.”
    “Clare, I know what women like you need,” he said lowly. “And it’s not a shot of caffeine.”
    “No?”
    “No. It’s a good, potent shot of sex.” He leaned forward, toward my crossed legs, and with the tip of his finger, drew a little circle on my stocking-covered knee. “How about it? You and me…let’s hook up tonight.”
    A shudder of revulsion ran through me, and I pushed his hand away.
    “I’m not your type, Brooks.”
    He laughed. “To tell you the truth, the young ones aren’t always as energetic as your daughter. Out of bed, and a lot of times in, too. And I’m betting a mature woman like you makes things interesting…between the sheets.”
    The man was dancing around his intentions, but I’d swear he was actually contemplating getting me and my daughter into bed with him at the same time.
    If looks could kill, I gave him one that would at least send him to St. Vincent’s ER. “Brooks, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m being less than receptive.”
    “Where there’s sparks, there’s fire.” He moved farther forward, and before I could stop him, his fingers were on my knee again and moving up my thigh.
    Bing! Saved by the kitchen timer.
    “Hands to yourself,” I hissed, shoving him away a second time. “Move along. I mean it.”
    Man, what a creep, I thought with a shudder. Only Brooks Newman could turn Nan’s innocent little playgroup into a play grope .
    “All right, gentlemen,” Nan called. “Let’s move to your next potential Ms. Right!”
    Still agitated, I flipped the Hello Kitty notepad to a fresh pink page. “More like Ms. Right Now,” I muttered.
    “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Now.”
    I looked up to find the next Power Meet participant, a fortyish man with chiseled features and a thick head of brown hair. His caramel-colored eyes looked curious and slightly amused by my comment. He held out his hand and smiled.
    I shook it. A warm, firm shake.
    “I’m Bruce,” he said. “In case you can’t read the ‘Hello, My Name is’ tag covering half my chest here.”
    My turn to smile. “I’m Clare.”
    I politely looked him over. A gorgeous suede jacket hung handsomely off broad shoulders. Beneath the jacket was a white, open-collared button-down that tapered into worn jeans.
    “I’ve seen you here before,” he said. “But downstairs.”
    He sat down and leaned back, crossing a workbooted foot over a jean-clad knee. He seemed totally relaxed. “Comfortable in his own skin,” was how Madame would put it in one of her favorite French phrases. In her view, too many urban Americans—“over-educated, over-stressed, over-anxious urban Americans” as she put it—too often weren’t.
    I looked at Bruce again. He did seem slightly familiar. “You’re one of our customers?”
    “I come in when I can. You have the best cappuccinos in the city.”
    Oh, I like this guy, I thought. But not for Joy. Too old for Joy. I relaxed with that thought, knowing I wouldn’t have to grill him with my “Screening for Psychos” list of questions.
    “Thanks,” I said. “Are you from New York?”
    “Originally, I’m from San Francisco.”
    “That’s a real coffee town.”
    He nodded, his caramel-colored eyes brightening. “Absolutely. You