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that I was doing exactly what Matt had done during our ten year marriage.

    The one-night stands hadn’t meant anything, he’d claimed. They were just physical workouts, temporary warmth on lonely nights, substitutes—apparently—for me.

    Wasn’t I contemplating the same thing now, substituting one man for another? Did I really want to cavalierly sleep with an ex-husband who was very publicly involved with another woman?

    Wake up, Clare!

    I opened my eyes. “No . . .” I said. “I mean . . . yes , Matt, I’m sure you should sleep on the couch.”

    “But you thought of the other option, right?” Matt mellifluously pointed out, his hands continuing to rub. “It entered your mind.”

    The definition for mental health also entered my mind. It did not include walking down the same road and falling into the same hole, over and over again.

    I still vividly remembered the last time I’d fallen into the Matt hole. Yes, I’d climbed out quickly enough the next morning, but this time was going to be different. This time, I could actually avoid the hole altogether.

    “Matt, don’t.” I turned to meet his eyes, make it clear. “We’re partners in business now, but that’s all we are. I’m sure we shouldn’t be sharing the same bed, okay?”

    With a shrug, Matt removed his magic hands from my body. My still-aching muscles immediately cursed me as he turned back to the fireplace, which would definitely be providing him with more warmth than me tonight.

    “Let’s get back to Ric, okay?” I said.

    “What do you want to know?”

    Matt’s tone was even. Good. I quietly exhaled, infinitely relieved there wouldn’t be any residual hostility from my rejection. “I know you’ve known the man a long time, but . . .”

    “But what?”

    “Are you certain you can trust him?”

    “What do you mean?”

    “Well . . .” How do I put this? “Mike said a man who doesn’t want to report a crime is usually a criminal himself.”

    “Mike said.”

    I grimaced. One stupid back massage and my guard’s completely down.

    “You broke our deal!”

    “Calm down, Matt—”

    “You told him about the mugging!”

    Yep. He’s definitely over the romantic thing now. “Matt, listen. Mike Quinn already knew.”

    “Like hell.”

    “Tucker told him.”

    “Tucker!”

    “Don’t you remember? When Quinn came in and sat down at the coffee bar? We never warned Tucker not to say anything. He mentioned the mugging. So . . . since Quinn already knew all about it, I figured—”

    “You figured you’d discuss everything with him! What can I expect tomorrow morning, a forensics unit at our back door?”

    “Don’t get crazy. Quinn’s not saying a word. He couldn’t anyway. There’s no mugging if the victim refuses to go on the record that there was one. And I don’t know why Ric is so reluctant to ask the police for help. Obviously, someone means him harm—”

    “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Clare.”

    “Enlighten me then. You’re obviously keeping me in the dark about something, what is it? Tell me, Matt.”

    “Why? So you can call up the flatfoot to discuss it?”

    I might have come up with a decent retort at that moment, but the phone rang. Matt and I had become so used to getting calls on our cells that the land line’s ringing on the end table startled us both into dead silence.

    A beat later, we both reached for it, but I was closer.

    “Hello?” I said.

    “Hello?” Female.

    “Yes?” I said.

    “I’m looking for Matt.”

    The superior attitude (and not bothering to waste any time greeting me) would have told me who she was, even if I hadn’t recognized her slightly nasal voice—no doubt the result of looking down her long, thin nose at nearly everything for decades.

    I held out the receiver. “It’s Breanne.”

    Matt could have stepped away with the wireless handset, but he didn’t bother. He just stood in front of me, close enough for me to hear every