Read Online Holiday Grind by Cleo Coyle - Free Book Online Page A

Franco saw the whole thing and got the wrong impression—”
    “ I’m getting the wrong impression. And I’m completely lost. Start at the beginning.”
    I did. I ran down the entire evening, the crime scene, the footprints in the snow. “Sergeant Franco said, ‘Two and two is four.’ But the man must be using new math because there’s definitely more to the story. Alf went to that deserted street for a reason, and I believe he was climbing the fire escape in the courtyard for a reason, too.”
    “And you think those reasons will add up to why he was killed?”
    “I realize there’s plenty of circumstantial evidence to support Franco’s version of the events, but I think there’s more here to investigate.”
    Quinn went silent a moment. “Tell you what. I’ll keep an eye on how the case progresses. Who’s Franco’s partner?”
    I told him.
    “Good. I know Charlie Hong. He’s an easy guy to deal with, methodical, even-tempered—”
    “You mean as opposed to this Franco character?”
    Quinn avoided a direct reply. “I’ll have a chat with Charlie,” he simply said. “Find out when they pick up and charge that mugger who eluded capture.”
    “Thanks, Mike. Looks like I’m going to owe you one again.”
    His eyebrow arched suggestively. “Hold that thought.”
    I laughed. But he didn’t. His gaze was too busy moving over me; his callused fingers too interested in sliding up my bare thigh.
    I shivered— happily . For the first time tonight, my quaking had nothing to do with freezing cold weather, residual fear, or latent reaction to a bloody crime scene. Nevertheless, I stilled his hand.
    “You want something to eat first?” I whispered, knowing he’d just come off duty after a very long day. “Some fresh coffee?”
    I moved to get out of bed, but he stopped me.
    “Stay put, Cosi. For once, I made a treat for you.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    Quinn rose from the bed and crossed the room to an end table near the fireplace. As my gaze followed him, I found myself actually noticing the decorations I’d put up that morning: the evergreen wreath hanging over the hearth’s ivory-marbled mantel, the tiny white lights framing the French doors, the gold tinsel draped along the top of the antique gilt-framed mirror.
    The crackling fire had brought a glow to the room, and despite the chilling events of the evening, I felt my spirits rising again. Mike Quinn had built more than a fire in this room; he’d brought the warmth of the season back to me—along with a neatly folded brown bag.
    “I was sorry about missing your tasting party,” he explained, sitting back on the bed. “But I did take your challenge.”
    “What challenge?”
    He held up the brown bag. “Didn’t you ask your staff to figure out what Christmas tastes like?”
    “I did but I didn’t expect you to—”
    “Close your eyes.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “Close ’em, Cosi.”
    I did. Next I heard the brown bag rustling, then a plastic container popping open. The earthy smell of cocoa immediately hit my nostrils. A moment later, I felt Mike’s fingers slipping something cool and smooth between my lips. The morsel was round and fairly hard. I bit into it, hearing a gentle snap. The shell of rich chocolate burst open in my mouth, delivering a velvety taste of sugary fruit laced with the tart brightness of alcohol.
    “A cherry cordial!”
    “You like it?”
    I opened my eyes. The plastic container in Quinn’s hand was filled with a dozen chocolate-covered treats. The candy was far from perfect. Some of the pieces were lopsided, some dunked in too much chocolate, others too little. But the effort alone left me gobsmacked.
    “You actually made these?” I couldn’t believe it. The first time I’d baked corn bread in the man’s new apartment, he reacted to the oven timer as if it were an air raid siren. Quinn had skills—plenty of them; cooking just wasn’t one.
    He smiled. “My mom made cherry cordials every Christmas. She