Latte Trouble - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,41

(i.e., a double espresso and a vanilla latte made with skim milk and extra foam) Gardner shook his head and said, “I swear, C.C., you should wear that get-up for the Village Halloween parade.”

“Don’t laugh at your boss, Gardner, it’s demoralizing. Besides, don’t you think I’m just a little bit credible as a Jackie O type?”

He responded by laughing harder.

I raised an eyebrow. “You know, mister, you’re treading a very fine line. Maybe you should start restocking the cupboards—that should dampen your levity.”

But as he turned for the pantry, his chuckles failed to fade.

Matteo returned just then, still toweling his hair dry. “My shoes are ruined. Italian leather. I could strangle Lebreaux for that alone.” He dropped into one of the tall swivel chairs at the coffee bar.

Behind the espresso machine, I dumped the cake of used grounds and rinsed the portafilter, packed more of our freshly ground Mocha Java inside it, tamped it, clamped it, and began to draw two new shots. I poured each into a cream-colored demitasse, added a twist of lemon for my ex-husband, and a bit of sugar for myself.

After a fortifying hit of caffeine, I finally asked, “Matt, what was that fight all about exactly?”

“Fight?” Gardner asked, returning to the counter with an armload of cups, lids, and heat sleeves. “Did I hear the word ‘fight’?”

Matt made a sour face. “It was just a scuffle—”

“You were trading blows with the guy,” I pointed out. “And in front of your mother, too.”

Gardner lifted his eyebrows and gave Matt a closer look. “Really?”

“Yes,” I said. “Really.”

“Cool,” said Gardner, sounding impressed.

“No. Not cool,” I said.

Gardner shrugged and went to work restocking.

“But, Clare,” said Matt. “Lebreaux insulted my mother—”

“No,” I pointed out, “he insulted you.”

“You weren’t even there for most of it.”

“That’s why I asked you to enlighten me,” I said.

“Remember when Lebreaux was pushing my mother to franchise the Blend label? Well, after she shut him down and we exposed his little scheme to take over this coffeehouse, Eduardo apparently gave up coffee and went to Asia. He hooked up with a Chinese tea concern. Now he’s importing and marketing specialty teas in partnership with a very wealthy family in Thailand.”

I took another sip of my espresso. “Nothing wrong with that. Does he want to open tea shops?”

“More like kiosks within existing businesses—specifically upscale department stores and high-fashion boutiques. Sound familiar?”

Replace tea with coffee and it was the very concept Matt was proposing. “It’s a wonder you didn’t murder Lebreaux on the spot.”

“Instead, I was very mature about the whole thing. I mean, Tad could have warned me, but when I thought it over, I realized he’d included two magazines in tonight’s investment presentation like-up and two designer labels. Each had their own business plan and unique approach, and when he first scheduled the seminar, he actually thought Lebreaux and I had distinct enough products—tea versus coffee.”

“That’s crazy,” I replied. “You’re both going after the same real estate to set up shop.”

“Yeah, well, we weren’t at first. Lebreaux’s initial prospectus had mentioned nothing about kiosks. He was seeking investments for straightforward importing only—to supply existing tea shops and specialty gourmet food stores with his imported Asian teas. But one week ago, he changed his business plan to include ‘tea kiosks inside high-end department stores and clothing boutiques.’”

“One week ago!”

“Clare, obviously, he stole my idea and meant to go head-to-head with me. When he started to make a stink about making his presentation first, he was told we’d go on alphabetically. That’s when he blew his top. Made threats. Accused me of stealing his idea, which I suspect was his plan all along—to discredit me in public. That’s when I had a few words for him—words, I swear, only words—and his hired thug dragged me out onto the deck…”

I sighed. “I believe you, Matt. Lebreaux is an expensively dressed snake. And his bodyguard was the one who got physical first, so I doubt he’ll try to file any charges.”

“His man wouldn’t cooperate anyway. The guy was tough, but he couldn’t swim to save his life.” Matt shook his head. “I ended up keeping him afloat until the crew dragged us aboard again.”

“You’re kidding.”

“He actually thanked me before we got ashore.”

I smiled. “Well, at least someone in this place avoided prosecution this week.” My remark began as a joke, but it reminded both of us of Tucker’s plight and brought us down again.

“Doesn’t matter,” he replied. “I saw Mother’s face before I went overboard, so maybe it’s for the