Free Espresso Shot by Cleo Coyle Page A

Clare.”

    “Hi, Mike.”

    “Nice to hear from you, sweetheart . . .”

    I closed my eyes and smiled. Mike and I had been friends for well over a year before we’d become lovers. Now his deep voice felt as familiar and protective as my timeworn night-shirt.

    “Sorry I’m calling so late,” I said, “but I wanted to say good night . . .”

    I actually wanted to do more than that with Michael Ryan Francis Quinn, and I wanted it to start with kissing. Some men treated the act perfunctorily, as nothing more than a speedy prelude to other things. Not Mike. The man’s kisses were sweet and lazy and exploratory. When we were alone, he took his time.

    “You in bed?” he asked, his voice low.

    “Yes.”

    “Really?”

    “Really.”

    “So what are you wearing? Or not wearing?”

    Mike’s voice had slid down even further—to a provocative level of growl that seemed to touch parts of me right through the phone line. I swallowed, ready to reply, when I heard a strange man chuckling suggestively in the background.

    “Okay, Sullivan, just shut up and drive.” Mike’s voice was muffled, his hand obviously covering the phone. Then he was back. “Go ahead, sweetheart, I’m listening . . .”

    I rolled my eyes. “Mike, I’m not giving you phone sex if you’re still on duty.”

    “Not even a little dirty talk?”

    “No. And I can’t believe you’d suggest it with a colleague in the car.”

    “Sullivan’s not a colleague. He’s a pain in my neck, not to mention a lousy driver.”

    “Awwww . . .” Sullivan called, presumably from behind the wheel. “Love you, too, Lieutenant.”

    “Eyes on the road, Sully. One more fender bender, and I’m personally revoking your license. So . . .” His voice was now talking to me. “How was your night?”

    “Highly caffeinated.”

    Mike laughed. “I heard there was a shooting on Hudson. Did you know about that?”

    “Yes, as a matter of fact. I had a front-row seat for it.”

    “What?”

    “I was with the girl who was killed.”

    Mike swore. “Christ, Clare, why didn’t you call me sooner?!”

    “Things got too crazy around here. You have your own work, and Lori Soles and Sue Ellen Bass were assigned to the case. They were really helpful, too. But I’d still like to talk with you about it, if that’s all right?”

    “Of course,” Mike said. Then he fell silent a moment. “You okay? Do you want me to come over?”

    “I’m fine, and as far as you coming over . . . You do remember what we discussed last night, right?” I’d already warned him about Matt’s using the apartment’s guest room.

    “Yeah, I remember. Doesn’t mean I like it any better.”

    “Well, he’s only here until Saturday, and then he’s out of my living space for good. After the wedding ceremony, he’s officially handing me his key.”

    “Then I guess you and I better make sure that wedding takes place.”

    Mike’s tone had turned hard, but I couldn’t blame him. He had never trusted Matteo Allegro, and the feeling was mutual on Matt’s part. Since their first meeting involved guns, handcuffs, and an interrogation (in this very apartment, come to think of it), I couldn’t blame my ex-husband, either.

    The thing Mike Quinn really disliked, however, was my living situation. As the owner of this multimillion-dollar West Village town house, Madame had given both me and her son the legal right to use the duplex (rent free, thank you very much).

    The arrangement hadn’t mattered when Quinn and I were just friends, hanging out at the espresso bar, talking about his cases. Matt had used the guest room infrequently, no more than one week a month when he wasn’t traveling. But after Quinn’s wife left him and we started dating, things got complicated.

    Quinn refused to put up with my ex-husband barging in any time he liked, so I made the sane and logical decision to move out. Thankfully, Matt proposed marriage to Breanne and moved out first. Problem solved