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 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 word of hers as well as his.
“What’s up?” Matt checked his wristwatch. “It’s after midnight.”
Laughter followed on the other end of the line. “Matteo, you’re getting old.”
“We’re the same age, Bree, and it’s Tuesday night.”
“Bishoujo is launching a new fragrance. Those Japanese designers really know how to party. The event’s still going strong at Nobu—”
“Sorry, I’m done in.”
“Oh, darling, so am I! You know I’m just teasing. How did that little tasting of yours go with Federico?”
“It...” Matt hesitated. “Fine... it went fine.”
“Good. He’s such a charmer, just like you.... So you’re obviously free now. That’s why I had my driver swing by to pick you up.”
“Pick me up?”
“We’re parked right downstairs, next to the Blend.”
“I’m not dressed—”
“Good.” Throaty laughter followed. “That’s the way I like you—”
Matt glanced at me, his face actually registering a flash of embarrassment. He turned away then, taking the wireless handset across the room. As he continued the conversation (which sounded to my ears more like an argument), I moved to the window, pulled back the sheers, and looked down into the street.
A black Town Car was parked beside the curb. A tall, blond woman was pacing back and forth, a cigarette in one hand, a cell phone in the other. The editor-in-chief of Trend magazine looked every inch the chic-meister. A stunning claret and black gown hugged her model-slender figure, a sleek sable wrap caressed one creamy shoulder, rubies dripped from her ears, and her upswept hair boasted an elaborate salon-designed tower that shouted labor-intensive do.
“Bree insists I come back with her,” Matt told me upon hanging up.
“Well...” I shrugged, folded my arms. “You have to admit, a king-size penthouse bed with five-hundred-dollar sheets is a lot more comfortable than a narrow antique sofa.”
“Yeah.”
There wasn’t much enthusiasm in my ex-husband’s tone. It sounded more like obligation, and I wondered what was going on in his head. For almost a year Matt had been squiring the woman to launch parties, political fundraisers, and charitable events. Their photos had been splashed in Gotham, Town and Country, and the Post’s “Page Six.” The publicity was a great boost to Matt’s profile as he expanded our business. Yet, over the summer, he’d told me that he and Breanne were just “casual,” and he had no intention of becoming enmeshed in her life.
As summer turned into fall, however, it seemed to me that Breanne was becoming increasingly manipulative and demanding. My ex-husband may have been using Bree for her connections, but she appeared to be exacting a price.
After hanging up, Matt went upstairs and returned with a small gym bag. He hadn’t bothered to pack a change of clothes, just underwear and toiletries. Obviously, he had no intention of staying very long at Breanne Summour’s penthouse.
“See you tomorrow, hon—” he began, then corrected himself as he pulled open the door. “Sorry. I meant Clare.”
“Matt?” I called.
“Yeah?” He turned, one hand still on the doorknob.
“Does Breanne know about Ric and his breakthrough?”
“Of course, she knows. I introduced them last week.”
“So you invited Bree to Friday’s launch tasting at the Beekman Hotel, right?”
“Her magazine is going to cover it. Trend is very influential. One article can have a tremendous impact.”