Read Online Billionaire Blend (A Coffeehouse Mystery) by Cleo Coyle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cleo Coyle
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a boss, I know how important it is to keep good employees. This
bonus
you’re being promised with no time frame is only part of the plan.”
“There’s a plan?”
“Of course! Open your eyes, Mike: If your life here in New York gets disrupted often enough, your boss knows you won’t have a life to come back to. Your only alternative will be to stay in DC.”
The room fell silent after that. Mike simply sat, studying me. Finally, I threw up my hands. “Don’t you have anything to say?!”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
He leaned forward, dropped his voice. “I think you’re overwrought.”
“Overwrought?!”
“Anyone who’s been through what you have in the past eighteen hours would be a little emotional, even a little paranoid, and—”
“And so what? It doesn’t make me wrong.”
“Listen, sweetheart, it’s like I said. Nothing is definite yet. Time will tell. And right now time is telling me to give this a rest, literally. Let’s go back to bed.”
He rose from his chair. I sunk into mine.
“You go. I can’t sleep.”
“Why not? What good will it do you to sit here stewing in the dark?”
“None—but that’s not the reason I’m staying awake.” (I hated to admit this, mostly because it bolstered the man’s “overwrought” argument, but—) “When I close my eyes, I’m in that airport again.”
“What airport?”
I filled Mike in on the delightful climax of my nightmare: the exploding jet with my daughter inside, the terminal’s window shattering, glass shards raining down, and the pain in my back that was all too real.
In the flickering light of the votives, Mike pulled me out of the chair, pressed earnest kisses to my forehead, my cheeks, my lips—all while taking care not to press the wounds in my back (which reminded me, all over again, why I wanted to stay with this man forever).
“Let’s not fight anymore, okay?” he whispered.
“Sounds good to me—although this making-up stuff might be worth it.”
He smiled and touched my cheek. I hooked my arms around his neck and began to kiss him back, but as I closed my eyes, there it was again—
Tick, tick, tick . . .
“Oh, that stupid clock!”
“What clock?” Mike glanced around the kitchen.
“In my dream, before the bomb went off, a giant clock was ticking backward. I can’t stop hearing it, but it makes no sense!”
“Dreams never make sense. They’re mind puzzles with scattered pieces. What else do you remember?”
“There was an Air France steward. He pointed out the clock and told me that I missed Joy’s plane. So I failed to stop the bomb because I was early.”
Mike made a face. “You mean late?”
“No, early.”
“How can you miss a plane because you’re early?”
“I told you, it makes no sense.”
“Come on,” he said, gently guiding me toward the kitchen door, “you need to rest—”
I dragged him back. “What else is early?”
“I don’t know. It’s early now.” Mike pointed to the window. “Very . . .”
Outside, the world was cold and dark, a predawn January. I shivered at the black glass.
“In my dream, the airport steward looked like Eric Thorner, did I tell you that?”
Mike frowned. “That must mean something.”
I thought so, too—I also thought Mike was right about dreams being mind puzzles. I stared at the black, cataloging the pieces of my dream:
A bomb going off
A backward-ticking clock
Eric Thorner saying I was early
Scolding me for missing something . . .
I broke them down even more:
Bomb
.
Clock
.
Eric
.
Early. Me missing something . . .
Suddenly, I felt my jaw slackening. “Oh my God . . .”
“What is it?”
I wasn’t missing it now:
“Eric Thorner was early!”
T welve
F IFTEEN minutes later, we were dressed and on the street. “Are you sure your friend is on duty?” I asked Mike, lips quivering from a full-body shiver. “It
is
the middle of a dark and frigid night.”
Okay, it was closer to 4:45 AM —but it was darn cold.
My
bonus
you’re being promised with no time frame is only part of the plan.”
“There’s a plan?”
“Of course! Open your eyes, Mike: If your life here in New York gets disrupted often enough, your boss knows you won’t have a life to come back to. Your only alternative will be to stay in DC.”
The room fell silent after that. Mike simply sat, studying me. Finally, I threw up my hands. “Don’t you have anything to say?!”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
He leaned forward, dropped his voice. “I think you’re overwrought.”
“Overwrought?!”
“Anyone who’s been through what you have in the past eighteen hours would be a little emotional, even a little paranoid, and—”
“And so what? It doesn’t make me wrong.”
“Listen, sweetheart, it’s like I said. Nothing is definite yet. Time will tell. And right now time is telling me to give this a rest, literally. Let’s go back to bed.”
He rose from his chair. I sunk into mine.
“You go. I can’t sleep.”
“Why not? What good will it do you to sit here stewing in the dark?”
“None—but that’s not the reason I’m staying awake.” (I hated to admit this, mostly because it bolstered the man’s “overwrought” argument, but—) “When I close my eyes, I’m in that airport again.”
“What airport?”
I filled Mike in on the delightful climax of my nightmare: the exploding jet with my daughter inside, the terminal’s window shattering, glass shards raining down, and the pain in my back that was all too real.
In the flickering light of the votives, Mike pulled me out of the chair, pressed earnest kisses to my forehead, my cheeks, my lips—all while taking care not to press the wounds in my back (which reminded me, all over again, why I wanted to stay with this man forever).
“Let’s not fight anymore, okay?” he whispered.
“Sounds good to me—although this making-up stuff might be worth it.”
He smiled and touched my cheek. I hooked my arms around his neck and began to kiss him back, but as I closed my eyes, there it was again—
Tick, tick, tick . . .
“Oh, that stupid clock!”
“What clock?” Mike glanced around the kitchen.
“In my dream, before the bomb went off, a giant clock was ticking backward. I can’t stop hearing it, but it makes no sense!”
“Dreams never make sense. They’re mind puzzles with scattered pieces. What else do you remember?”
“There was an Air France steward. He pointed out the clock and told me that I missed Joy’s plane. So I failed to stop the bomb because I was early.”
Mike made a face. “You mean late?”
“No, early.”
“How can you miss a plane because you’re early?”
“I told you, it makes no sense.”
“Come on,” he said, gently guiding me toward the kitchen door, “you need to rest—”
I dragged him back. “What else is early?”
“I don’t know. It’s early now.” Mike pointed to the window. “Very . . .”
Outside, the world was cold and dark, a predawn January. I shivered at the black glass.
“In my dream, the airport steward looked like Eric Thorner, did I tell you that?”
Mike frowned. “That must mean something.”
I thought so, too—I also thought Mike was right about dreams being mind puzzles. I stared at the black, cataloging the pieces of my dream:
A bomb going off
A backward-ticking clock
Eric Thorner saying I was early
Scolding me for missing something . . .
I broke them down even more:
Bomb
.
Clock
.
Eric
.
Early. Me missing something . . .
Suddenly, I felt my jaw slackening. “Oh my God . . .”
“What is it?”
I wasn’t missing it now:
“Eric Thorner was early!”
T welve
F IFTEEN minutes later, we were dressed and on the street. “Are you sure your friend is on duty?” I asked Mike, lips quivering from a full-body shiver. “It
is
the middle of a dark and frigid night.”
Okay, it was closer to 4:45 AM —but it was darn cold.
My
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