the back of his neck. “You mind giving me a massage? My muscles are really stiff.”
“You really want the other shoe, don’t you?”
“What did I do now?”
“God, Matt, you haven’t acted like this much of a jerk since we were married. What’s happened to you anyway? Did a month of having your every whim fulfilled regress you back to a spoiled childhood?”
“My childhood was anything but spoiled, Clare, and why are you so bent out of shape? Because I walked in on your big good-bye scene with the flatfoot? Well, big deal! So what? He was leaving anyway!”
“He was supposed to come back. Now he’s not.”
“You’re better off. You can’t trust cops. Especially that one.”
“Oh, is that right? And who am I supposed to trust? You?”
“I’m not your problem. He is.”
“The problem is you, Matt. He won’t come back with you here.”
“Then he’s gay.”
“Mike Quinn is not gay.”
“Oh, yeah? Then why didn’t he just take you with him back to his place?”
“Because he’s not going back to his place. He’s going back on duty!” I threw up my hands. “I can’t expect you to understand. And I shouldn’t have to explain myself, either. We’re divorced, Matt. We share a daughter and a business; and because of Madame’s bizarre sense of humor—not to mention her delusion that one day we’re going to reconcile—we both have a legal right to use this apartment. But we’re never again sharing the matrimonial bed, and I’d like to find someone who will.”
“Oh? So now the flatfoot is more than a passing law enforcement fetish? He’s potential husband material? And this happened after a month of his not sleeping with you?”
I threw the second shoe.
“Hey!” Matt lifted his cast again, and it bounced off. Then he actually had the nerve to grin at me. “Looks like you’re out of ammo!”
“Arrrrrggggh!”
“Come on, Clare. Truce? How about we for call for pizza? Sal’s delivers all night.”
“I’d rather reload with a closet full of shoes!”
I wheeled and stormed out of the living room. My adrenaline had been pumping, and I had no interest in going to bed, but I had to get away from Matt. Unfortunately, he didn’t get the hint. Matt’s footsteps followed mine right up the duplex’s short staircase and into the master bedroom.
Madame had decorated this duplex years ago, when she’d lived here with Matt’s father. Not only had she filled the place with amazing antiques, she’d lined the walls—bedroom and marble bath included—with lovingly framed sketches, doodles, watercolors, and oils that had been created over the decades by artists who’d frequented the Village Blend, from Edward Hopper and Jackson Pollack to Andy Warhol and Jean-Michel Basquiat.
The four-poster bed of carved mahogany was one of my favorite pieces in the master bedroom, and it didn’t even completely dominate the space. Commanding just as much attention on the opposite wall was a carved hearth of ivory-colored marble. A century-old, gilt-edged French mirror hung above the fireplace, and a chandelier of pale rose Venetian glass hung from a fleur-de-lis medallion in the center of the ceiling.
The walls had been painted the same pale rose as the imported chandelier, while the door and window frames echoed the same shade of ivory as the marble fireplace and silk sheers covering the floor-to-ceiling casement windows.
It was a stunning room in a spectacular apartment, which was unbelievably convenient for me, since the Blend was just two flights down. And, until this evening, I hadn’t seriously considered giving up the use of it. Affordable apartments were scarce in Manhattan and rent-free, fully furnished duplexes in the West Village weren’t just unheard of, they were a fairy tale come true.
Unfortunately for me, this fairy tale came with a troll—one who seemed to take delight in popping up at the worst possible times. Matt’s constant world traveling usually kept him out of the picture. A few days a month, tops, he’d need to crash in the second bedroom. But since he’d broken his arm, Matt had grounded himself. That hadn’t been my problem until this minute.
“Come on, Clare,” Madame’s son cooed to me, “let’s not fight…There’s another reason I’m here, you know, not just Breanne’s horny housekeeper—”
“Get out of this bedroom!”
“Not until you hear me out.”
Matt took a step closer. I folded my arms and frowned, trying not to notice how well the troll happened to be put together tonight, with black wool slacks that were perfectly creased and pleated, a pale yellow cashmere sweater that was probably softer than kitten fur, and an Italian-made