Read Online Decaffeinated Corpse by Cleo Coyle - Free Book Online
Authors: Cleo Coyle
Tags: Fiction, General, detective, Suspense, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Mystery, Mystery Fiction, Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, Fiction - Mystery, Mystery & Detective - General, Mystery And Suspense Fiction, Coffeehouses, Cosi; Clare (Fictitious character), Fashion, Restaurants - Employees
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have.”
Matt moved to one of the windows, pushed back the sheers. Peering past the flower boxes, he surveyed the shadowy street. “Ric notified the Marriott before we left for the ER—”
“So that’s why you lent him your cell phone?”
Matt nodded. “Tomorrow I’m going with him to his hotel. I’m checking him out of that midtown location and bringing him downtown, closer to us.”
“Where exactly?”
“There are a few hotels I used to use regularly before I moved in here. I’ll find out who has vacancies and check him in under my name.”
“Who’s after him, Matt?”
“I don’t know.”
Matt stalked to the fireplace, grabbed a poker, and adjusted the crackling log. The night was cold, the stairwell downright chilly. I was glad he’d warmed the living room with the modest blaze.
“Not a clue? Come on?”
“Ric’s still pretending this is nothing serious, but he admitted to me in the ER waiting room that he felt as if someone’s been following him.”
“Has he seen anyone? Man, woman, old, young, large, small—”
“Just footsteps behind him, sometimes he’ll catch a shadow. He’s actually been in the city about three weeks, but it wasn’t until this past week that he started receiving a number of strange calls at his hotel.”
I sat up straighter. “What kind of calls? Someone with a mechanical voice again?”
“No. Whoever was calling just hung up when Ric answered.”
“So someone’s been watching him? Waiting for a chance to strike?”
“That’s what I think. Even though he still claims tonight was a random mugging, he’s agreed to stay here, as a precaution. He’s had a pretty rough night. I think he’s already asleep.”
“In your bed?”
“Yes, of course.”
I tensed. “And where were you planning to sleep?”
A year ago, Matt had thought that because we were sharing the same apartment, we would also, when the whim struck us, be sharing the same bed.
“I’ll be sleeping here, Clare, on the couch.”
“Oh . . . okay.” My relief must have been more than a little obvious because Matt’s brow knitted.
“What did you think I was going to say?”
“Nothing.”
He studied me a moment. “I see . . . you thought I was going to suggest—”
“Forget it.”
I set down the nearly empty bowl of stew, rubbed the back of my neck. The stress of the last five hours—from those bottomless-cup law students to Mike Quinn’s downright torturous flirtation—had tightened my muscles into hard, angry knots. It was almost unbearable and I closed my eyes, dreaming of that jasmine bath I was too tired to draw.
Matt stepped closer. “You look tense.”
“I am.”
He moved behind me, settling his hands on my shoulders. “Are you sure you didn’t want me to suggest some other sleeping arrangements?”
His voice had gone low and soft, his mood switching from edgy to seductive with the smoothness of a veteran Formula One driver shifting gears on a high-performance sports car. The effect wasn’t aggressive or sleazy. With Matt, it never was. His seductions were always tender and sincere, which is why he always got to me.
He began a slow, expert kneading. I closed my eyes and my tight muscles seemed to sigh. They wanted more, even if I didn’t—not from Matt anyway. It was Detective Quinn I wanted. The flirting wasn’t enough anymore. Now that Mike was separated, I wanted him to cross that invisible fence we’d both been dancing on for over a year.
As my mind recalled Mike’s intense blue gaze, his caring touches, my body became more pliant beneath my ex-husband’s hands. I released a soft moan and shifted, leaning forward to give him more access. Matt was familiar and convenient, his warmth a tempting offering on this cold October night.
His hands moved lower, down my spine. Gently, he pulled up my shirt, reached beneath it to caress my lower back. But as my ex continued to make my tendons sing, it slowly occurred to me
Matt moved to one of the windows, pushed back the sheers. Peering past the flower boxes, he surveyed the shadowy street. “Ric notified the Marriott before we left for the ER—”
“So that’s why you lent him your cell phone?”
Matt nodded. “Tomorrow I’m going with him to his hotel. I’m checking him out of that midtown location and bringing him downtown, closer to us.”
“Where exactly?”
“There are a few hotels I used to use regularly before I moved in here. I’ll find out who has vacancies and check him in under my name.”
“Who’s after him, Matt?”
“I don’t know.”
Matt stalked to the fireplace, grabbed a poker, and adjusted the crackling log. The night was cold, the stairwell downright chilly. I was glad he’d warmed the living room with the modest blaze.
“Not a clue? Come on?”
“Ric’s still pretending this is nothing serious, but he admitted to me in the ER waiting room that he felt as if someone’s been following him.”
“Has he seen anyone? Man, woman, old, young, large, small—”
“Just footsteps behind him, sometimes he’ll catch a shadow. He’s actually been in the city about three weeks, but it wasn’t until this past week that he started receiving a number of strange calls at his hotel.”
I sat up straighter. “What kind of calls? Someone with a mechanical voice again?”
“No. Whoever was calling just hung up when Ric answered.”
“So someone’s been watching him? Waiting for a chance to strike?”
“That’s what I think. Even though he still claims tonight was a random mugging, he’s agreed to stay here, as a precaution. He’s had a pretty rough night. I think he’s already asleep.”
“In your bed?”
“Yes, of course.”
I tensed. “And where were you planning to sleep?”
A year ago, Matt had thought that because we were sharing the same apartment, we would also, when the whim struck us, be sharing the same bed.
“I’ll be sleeping here, Clare, on the couch.”
“Oh . . . okay.” My relief must have been more than a little obvious because Matt’s brow knitted.
“What did you think I was going to say?”
“Nothing.”
He studied me a moment. “I see . . . you thought I was going to suggest—”
“Forget it.”
I set down the nearly empty bowl of stew, rubbed the back of my neck. The stress of the last five hours—from those bottomless-cup law students to Mike Quinn’s downright torturous flirtation—had tightened my muscles into hard, angry knots. It was almost unbearable and I closed my eyes, dreaming of that jasmine bath I was too tired to draw.
Matt stepped closer. “You look tense.”
“I am.”
He moved behind me, settling his hands on my shoulders. “Are you sure you didn’t want me to suggest some other sleeping arrangements?”
His voice had gone low and soft, his mood switching from edgy to seductive with the smoothness of a veteran Formula One driver shifting gears on a high-performance sports car. The effect wasn’t aggressive or sleazy. With Matt, it never was. His seductions were always tender and sincere, which is why he always got to me.
He began a slow, expert kneading. I closed my eyes and my tight muscles seemed to sigh. They wanted more, even if I didn’t—not from Matt anyway. It was Detective Quinn I wanted. The flirting wasn’t enough anymore. Now that Mike was separated, I wanted him to cross that invisible fence we’d both been dancing on for over a year.
As my mind recalled Mike’s intense blue gaze, his caring touches, my body became more pliant beneath my ex-husband’s hands. I released a soft moan and shifted, leaning forward to give him more access. Matt was familiar and convenient, his warmth a tempting offering on this cold October night.
His hands moved lower, down my spine. Gently, he pulled up my shirt, reached beneath it to caress my lower back. But as my ex continued to make my tendons sing, it slowly occurred to me
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