Bom’s face lit up with boyish excitement. “So you are the ‘coffee steward’ everyone’s talking about! Such a delight to meet you. Why the Hamptons are simply abuzz about Cuppa J this season. I confess that one of the reasons I invited David here tonight was to wheedle an invitation to sample his dessert parings for myself.”
“Please do…I’d love to know what you think of what we’re doing.”
Matteo cleared his throat. “The car is here.”
“Oh, no!” Bom exclaimed. He closed the distance between us, took my hand, folded it into his. “Please stay. I’m simply captivated by your charm and obvious experience, all wrapped in such a delightful little package.”
Matteo was practically rolling his eyes. I ignored him.
“I’m sorry, but I really have to go. Matt’s giving me a ride,” I told Bom. “But you’re very kind.”
“On the contrary, I’m very selfish.” He glanced at Matteo. “But I understand if you must leave.”
“We must,” said Matt, grabbing my elbow again and steering me toward the door. I felt like yanking it free but didn’t want to cause a scene.
“Oh,” I cried, stopping short. “Your robe and slippers.”
“Keep them,” Bom said with a wave of his hand. “Or better yet, return them later…when we can both chat—” he shot a pointed glance at Matt, “—privately.”
I nodded. “Goodnight, Mr. Felloes—”
“Bom, Clare. Please call me Bom.”
“Goodnight then…Bom.”
I barely had the words out before Matt was hustling me through the mansion’s huge front doors. I softly sighed as we stepped outside. Bom Felloes was successful, handsome, very wealthy, and apparently interested in me. I was crazy for keeping him on my suspect list. But I fully intended to.
Although I was flattered by his flirtation, I knew he still had a motive for hurting David. And, in the end, I knew wealthy, overly polished, perfect men ten years younger than me had never been my type anyway. (Honestly.) The rumpled, earthy, ironic toughs of the world were more my speed, men who’d been knocked around by life, who were somewhat rough around the edges. Mike Quinn and his crow’s feet came to mind. Even Matt—before Breanne had gotten hold of him.
Outside the night had cooled even more. Landscape lighting had turned the mansion’s castle-esque exterior and flowering grounds around it into a glowing wonderland.
Matt opened the door to Breanne’s sleek silver Mercedes convertible now waiting at the bottom of the steps. I climbed in, sank into the fawn-colored custom leather, and faced The Sandcastle again.
Bom Felloes was standing there. He noticed my glance, smiled, and waved, looking as dashing and polished as a British lord.
I offered a tiny wave in return, not sure what I should be cursing more—his continued presence on my suspect list or my complete inability to reengineer my taste in men.
Fourteen
Without a backward glance in Bom Felloes’s direction, Matt climbed behind the wheel.
“Buckle up,” he barked.
I barely got the strap over my shoulder when the engine under the silver Mercedes’ hood sprang to life, a high performance purr. The radio came on with the engine. The “Music of Love,” a sentimental ballad poured from the speakers. I actually liked the song, but Matt snapped it off with a sharp turn of his wrist, then shifted into first gear and stepped on the gas so hard the tires spun against the driveway’s paving stones.
The Mercedes lurched forward, slamming me back into my seat. Matt steered the car around the horse circle too fast. It fishtailed for a second, and I thought we were going to end up in a flowerbed.
“You weren’t very polite back there,” I pointed out.
Matt shook his head as we left the front gate and turned onto the road. “Guys like that…they’re a dime a dozen, Clare. I’ve met them all over the world. Wannabe aristocracy. You can’t trust him.”
“Who do you mean?”
“You know who I mean. Who does he think he is with that ‘let me put your slippers on’ act, Cinderella Man?”
“Wasn’t Cinderella Man that World Heavyweight Champion boxer? The one they made a movie about?”
“I meant Prince Charming, okay! But let me tell you, the charm turns into a pumpkin at midnight. And that British accent’s about as real as the potted plants in a used car salesman’s showroom. And what kind of name is that, anyway? Bomb? How can you trust a man named after a weapon of mass destruction!”
“It’s Bom, Matt. B-O-M, the Portuguese word for good, and I know you know that. That’s why his restaurants are called Good Felloes. And I know you know that too. You’re just being difficult. And please slow down!”
Matt frowned, sighed, then slumped a bit in his seat as if giving up. His foot finally eased on the gas pedal, and it occurred to me he was now feeling the way I had when I first ran into him and Breanne at the party—jealousy, then confusion and embarrassment about feeling that way when you weren’t supposed to anymore. Did all divorced couples feel that way? Possessive about a spouse they’d long since given up?
“So what were you doing at the party?” Matt asked, his voice calmer now, more reasonable.
“I told you. I was—”
“Looking for David, I heard what you said to Mr. Good bar. I just don’t buy it. In fact, what I really think is that you were looking for Mr. Right.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re a smart woman, Clare. Too smart. I think you cooked the whole wet tee-shirt arrival up to make an impression on the celebrity chef. Well, I guess you got what you wanted. The act worked. He’s interested.”
In a word, I was furious. “I was looking for David. Something came up. I had to find him. Do you really think I risked pneumonia just to meet that man?” I lightly shook my still-wet hair to make my point.
“Careful,” Matt irritably cautioned. “These leather seats were custom made for Bree.”
“Oh, were they?” I narrowed my eyes, then shook my wet head again, this time with the vigor of a just-washed poodle. Water droplets sprayed the interior of Breanne’s Mercedes. More than a few landed on Matteo’s Helmut Lang suit jacket.
Matt smirked. “How immature.”
“That’s rich, coming from you.”
Luckily, the trip to David’s estate was too short for the two of us to continue our sorry little war.
“Turn here,” I said, pointing.
As we swung into the driveway, the uniformed guard, who I’d met earlier, blocked our path.
“Who’s this?” Matt asked.
“David has added some security,” I said.
Matteo’s eyebrow lifted with curiosity, but he didn’t ask why.
I waved a greeting to the guard. “It’s only me,” I said as the young man approached, his flashlight moving from Matt’s face to mine.
“I didn’t know you left the grounds, Ms. Cosi.”
“I went for a walk…and, uh, got a little wet.”
The guard stared at Matt.
“This is Matteo Allegro,” I quickly explained. “He’s an associate of David’s. He’d like to pop in and say hello, update David on some business they have together. David has come home, right?”
The guard nodded. “Mr. Papas brought him back about an hour ago, ma’am. Dropped Mr. Mintzer off and drove away.”
“Good,” I replied, relieved I did not have to deal with David’s condescending and possibly dishonest restaurant manager. “We’ll just pop up to the house. Mr. Allegro won’t be long.”
The guard paused, clearly wondering whether he should allow the Mercedes entry. “Come on,” I coaxed. “I’ll vouch for Matt.”
Finally the man stepped aside and waved us forward.
Matt drove up and parked behind my Honda, which I’d left behind David’s little sports car. The guard followed us up to the house and let us in with a passkey. Inside the lights were dim, the foyer deserted. No one was in the living room, either.