Read Online Dead to the Last Drop by Cleo Coyle - Free Book Online

his unshaven cheeks looked even darker in the gloom. But that true-blue gaze was alive and bright as it focused on me.
    He’d been gone for a week and his presence tonight was, like our relationship, something of a miracle. After all I’d been through, and all my tortured thoughts, part of me was thrilled to see him—but another part was still agitated by the events of the night, and a little annoyed he hadn’t warned me of his change in plans.
    “I was expecting you tomorrow. What happened?”
    “I missed you.” His worn expression cracked a sheepish smile. “So I took a late flight out of LA and came straight here from Reagan.”
    He jerked his head toward a Pullman behind him, leaning against thefront wall. “Unfortunately, I left my keys to Scarlett’s mansion back at my apartment—where I was about to go, until I saw you roll up in a Metro DC cruiser. I thought I’d duck out of sight, surprise you.”
    “Congratulations, you did.”
    “So why the police escort? Did they release you on your own recognizance?”
    “Something like that . . .” Turning quickly, I busied myself with unlocking the front door.
    “Clare? What happened?”
    “Nothing. A little trouble at the coffeehouse.”
    “What kind of trouble?”
    “A drunk broke in and collapsed, but the paramedics took care of him.”
    “Why were you there so late?”
    The front door opened onto a long hallway, and I busied myself with hanging up our coats. “Are you tired?” I called from the closet. “Because I’m wide awake.”
    “I slept on the plane—and you’re evading a direct question.”
    “You know, I could use a midnight snack. How about you? Are you hungry?”
    Quinn caught my arm. “Cosi, what have you been up to?”
    “Look, some things at the coffeehouse are broken. Tonight I was trying to fix them.”
    “That’s pretty vague.”
    “I know. But I don’t want to rehash it right now, okay?”
    He studied me. “Okay. And the answer is I’m starving .”
    “At last, something I can fix. Come on . . .”

S eventeen
    I led Mike down the hall, through a pair of white columns, and into the elegantly furnished double parlor. The space was magnificent, with high ceilings, two fireplaces, and a display of eclectic souvenirs from the owner’s world travels.
    In fact, evidence of the former ambassador’s extraordinary life was scattered all over her five stories, six bedrooms, seven baths, finished basement, and whimsical checkerboard patio. At the moment, however, I was leading Quinn beyond her double parlor and through a small connecting den. This led to a formal dining room, and finally—
    “The kitchen!” I announced, flipping on the lights.
    “Is that an echo?” Mike put a hand to his ear.
    “I know. It’s a cavern . . .”
    Mrs. Bittmore-Black’s gourmet kitchen was also a cook’s dream, decked out with a built-in Sub-Zero, a professional double gas range, and miles of countertop.
    Mike didn’t care. “I prefer your cozy kitchen back in New York.”
    “Me too. But you have to remember, this wasn’t a family kitchen. Mrs. B. used it for catering her Washington parties, which, according to Madame, were legendary . . .”
    As I went to the fridge, Quinn moved with me.
    “So, what are we having?” he asked, snaking his arms around me.
    “Well, since I was expecting you tomorrow, I already made a succulent prime rib roast . . .”
    Quinn made yummy noises in my ear, a ticklish delight as I pulled out the tray of beautifully cooked beef. Unfortunately—
    “Houston, we’ve got a problem. No bread. Your premature homecoming came before I had a chance to shop.”
    “No problem,” he murmured, “just give me a fork.”
    Back in New York, I would have used split tortas for the sandwiches. The Latino population had made them popular in the city and the chewy little flatbreads made amazing French dips. Here in Georgetown, baguettes were easier to find, and I was going to buy fresh-baked loaves—but