by Nancy Warren
She pulled his shirt over his head, removed his bad boy biker boots that gave her a thrill just to put her hands on them, dragged his jeans and shorts down his legs, and then his socks, so he was wearing nothing but a dangerously hot expression and a gold medallion.
She pushed him back onto the bed and with a grin, he fell on the fluffy blue duvet. She climbed on top of him and began to tease him, running her lips down his hot skin, until she reached his cock. When she took him into her mouth he groaned and muttered something in Spanish that sounded as though he was a very happy man.
She played with him, letting him know exactly who was in charge, and he seemed happy to let her take over, only going so far as to unhook her bra and remove it so he could toy with her breasts.
When she felt he’d built up a good head of steam, she slipped off her panties and, reaching for her night table, pulled a condom out of the drawer. She took care of putting it on and she knew from his groan that she’d brought him closer to the edge than either of them wanted. But he was satisfyingly hot and hard when she climbed on top of him and took him inside her body.
And when she started to move on him, she found that she was a lot closer to the edge than she’d realized. His eyes mesmerized her as they darkened to black as his passion built. Her own heat was crazy, as were her movements. She was following some primal rhythm that was like a crazy drumbeat they both heard. His hands were on her breasts, her hips, restlessly playing with her hair, and the gold medallion was tossing around on his heaving chest.
She grabbed his hands, wanted more connection, and stretched out so his arms reached out behind him and she was low enough to kiss him, to let her breasts dance against his chest. They were linked everywhere and the final intimacy sent her over the edge, flying. He swallowed her cries into his mouth, just as she swallowed his.
It was close to morning before they got around to eating the Chinese food. She padded to the kitchen and brought the bag, paper towels, and a bottle of sparkling water back with her.
Rafe was sitting against the bunched pillows, grinning at her when she returned. “Nothing I like better than breakfast in bed.”
“Are you sure you took down this name correctly?” Chloe asked, walking into Stephanie’s office.
The younger woman took back the pink message slip and studied it. Stephanie was so revoltingly blissed out that Chloe almost missed the banging of the file drawers. “Brittany Somers. Yeah. That’s the name she gave.”
Chloe took back that little paper and began to laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“Can you keep a secret?”
“Shouldn’t you have asked me that during our job interview?”
Stephanie had a sly sense of humor that was coming out more the longer she worked with Chloe and was so obviously appreciated. “Good point. All right, I’ll take that as a yes.”
Besides, Chloe was dying to share this delightful bit of news with someone who would enjoy it. As much as she loved Nicky, her Londoner friend wouldn’t appreciate the irony.
“Brittany is Matthew’s girlfriend.”
Stephanie’s reaction was everything she’d imagined it would be. Her jaw dropped and her eyes bugged wide. “Matthew next door?”
“Yep.”
“Oh my God. What are you going to do?”
Chloe folded the paper into a perfect pink square and ran her fingers absently along the fold. “I don’t quite know. This requires delicacy, tact—or does it?”
A shoulder shrug was the only response from her assistant. Unfortunately, the shrug revealed a full-on hickey that only reminded Chloe that Stephanie was getting earth-shattering sex and she hadn’t seen any in far too long.
“Tell you what. Phone Brittany back. Tell her that someone will meet her at—pick a coffee shop somewhere central, will you? Book a time and tell her I’ll meet her there.”
“But she’s been to your house. Your name is on those cards.”
“I have a feeling neither Matthew nor I ever mentioned my last name to her.”
“So, you think she’s hiring you to help her break up with Matthew?”
“Seems like a good bet.”
“Oh, my God. When you warned me that drama follows you around, I thought you were being, well, dramatic.”
Chloe all but waltzed back into her office. Well, well, well. She’d been wrong after all. Matthew’s reinjuring himself didn’t seem to have rekindled that romance after all. She wondered why.
Chloe was woman enough to enjoy the frisson of excitement that danced through her body at the thought of Matthew finding himself single one day soon. She couldn’t have designed a better outcome. Now she wouldn’t need to worry about Brittany getting hurt.
The next day at four p.m. precisely, she walked into the coffee shop Stephanie had suggested. It was a charming place full of Italian pottery and a real Barista machine gurgling and steaming. Tony Bennett crooned from the sound system. “Hi y’all,” the young girl at the counter said. “Just sit anywheres.” Chloe smiled at her. This was Tuscany, Texan style.
A quick survey of the place showed that Brittany was already here, seated at a table in the far corner of the room. Presumably she’d already spotted Chloe, since she had her head down and was pretending to search for something in her bag.
Chloe ordered two lattes and then strolled over to Brittany and said hello.
Brittany’s head jerked up. She was flushed and as she greeted Chloe with a flustered, “Oh, my gosh! Chloe. What are you doing here?” her gaze flashed to the door.
Deciding to put the poor woman out of her misery, Chloe said, “I’m meeting you.”
“But that’s—”
Chloe passed over the pink message slip. Brittany read it, but didn’t seem able to say anything. Her color deepened and she scratched at her neck as though she were developing hives. “You’re that Chloe? But you said you were a private detective.”
“I try to keep my real business confidential.”
Fortunately, the coffees arrived at that moment. In the time it took for the Texan barista to set the cups down and make sprightly chit-chat about the weather, Brittany pulled herself together. When the server was out of earshot, she leaned forward. “You are The Breakup Artist?”
There was a note of awe as well as shock in her tone, and Chloe enjoyed a moment of pride. “Yes, I am.”
“Oh, this is terrible,” Brittany said, dropping her head into her hands, so that blond curls spilled over.
“Why is it so terrible?”
“Because Matthew’s your friend, and I feel like a horrible person. Now you’ll always know that I was so desperate to get out of the relationship that I hired someone to make it happen.”
Chloe smiled gently. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think you two are at all suited.”
“You don’t?” Brittany looked genuinely surprised. “But everyone says we’re perfect for each other.”
“Well, in my expert opinion, everyone is wrong.”
“I tried so hard.”
“I know.” It was obvious that Brittany needed to unburden herself and Chloe was perfectly willing to let her. “Did something happen?”
“It was the dishcloths,” she said miserably.
“Dishcloths? You mean those things one uses to wash the dishes?” Chloe barely gave them a thought and couldn’t imagine breaking her heart over anything so mundane.
“Yeah. Matt threw them out the window.”
“Them? How many did he throw?”
“All six.”
“That sounds perfectly deranged. Why would he throw six dishcloths out of a window?”
“Because they had ducks on them. He said there was no way he was going to wash dishes with a damn fowl.”
In her fairly short tenure as a matchbreaker, Chloe had heard stories of theft, adultery, jealousy, meanness, and stupidity, but this was the first relationship she could think of that had hit the skids over a humble dishcloth. “I’m so sorry.”
> “So was I,” Brittany exclaimed. “I mean, I didn’t want to bring in dishcloths he didn’t like. So I told him I was sorry.”
She should have bought half a dozen doormats, Chloe thought, so she’d have some company. “You apologized? Chloe, Matt was totally unreasonable. He was the one who destroyed a gift you’d given him. He was the one who should have apologized.”
Brittany’s eyes narrowed. “Has Matthew already told you about this?”
“About the flying ducks? Of course not.”
“Well, that is just plain weird, because that’s almost exactly what he said. I think he ended up madder at me for saying I was sorry than for buying the wrong dishcloths.”
She understood exactly how he felt. “What happened then?”
“I went home. And then you know what I did?”
“I’m guessing you baked carrot cake.”
Brittany looked as though Chloe had performed a complicated magic trick. “I thought about carrot cake, but I was out of cream cheese for the frosting. So I made blueberry muffins instead. It’s like you can read minds or something.” She sipped her coffee. “I put them in a basket and was all ready to drive them over to Matthew’s the next morning, so we could have a talk. But you know what I did?”
“Picked strawberries so you could make jam?”
The earnest blond curls trembled as she shook her head. “I ate three muffins. All by myself. I drank my coffee and I ate those muffins. I thought, Matthew Tanner, you do not deserve my home baking. And you do not deserve me. And then I wrapped up the rest of them and took them to school. I gave them to my students.”
“Good for you.” Backbone sometimes had to be built slowly. One muffin at a time.
“The thing is, Matthew’s a good man. I don’t want to hurt him, not while his leg’s still sore. I want you to break up for me. Your secretary told me your rates and I’ve got a check all made out.” She reached down for her bag and Chloe stopped her with a hand on her wrist.
“Brittany, you need to end things with Matthew yourself.”
“But I don’t want to hurt him.”
“People always get hurt. In my experience—” Chloe smiled ruefully. “—and I’ve got a lot, the pain is lessened when you have a frank talk.”
“I wouldn’t know what to say. And if he begs me not to leave him, you know I won’t have the guts to resist.”
“Darling, a man who throws your ducky dishcloths out the window is not a man happy in love.”
“You mean he…?”
“I’m not in his confidence, obviously, but it doesn’t take a genius to guess that both of you are having cold feet.”
“But why hasn’t he said anything to me?”
“Perhaps because he doesn’t want to hurt you any more than you want to hurt him.”
“Oh, this is just such an awful mess.” She stared down at the table for a long moment. Chloe sipped her latte, which was excellent—she’d have to buy some beans while she was here—and waited.
After a while, her companion shook her head. “I can’t do it. I know I’m pathetic, but I can’t do it. Please, you’ve got to help me.”
“Well, here are my top breakup techniques for someone you don’t want to hurt,” she said brusquely. “First, you invite Matthew out for a meal and I am the one who meets him and tells him you no longer want to see him.”
The other woman’s lip curled. “People hire you to do that?”
“You’d be surprised how many. It’s time efficient and they salve their consciences knowing I provide a whole day’s support to the former love. Ice cream, strip clubs, crying jags, whatever they want or need, I provide.”
“Well, I am not interested in that option.”
“I also have more creative packages. For instance, the fake relative dinner, where you take him home to meet your family. I then hire actors. You can have the Hillbilly Special, the Mental Deficiency Runs in the Family, The Crooks R Us, and one of my favorites, what I call the Hit Family, where everyone in the family separately hits up your date for a loan.”
“That’s terrible.”
Chloe shrugged. “You could start acting strangely and leave incriminating evidence that you’re having an affair, you can tell him you’ve joined a cult, that you’ve decided to become a nun. The options are limited only by your imagination and budget.”
“I’m not that cruel.”
“I also do custom-made breakups. Why don’t you tell me how you want it done?”
A beat passed. Two women at the next table were discussing riding lessons for their daughters. The barista machine hissed at regular intervals, indicating the place was getting busier. “I don’t know. I thought there’d be an easy way and I wouldn’t have to get involved.”
“That’s not what you really want. He’s a decent man. He deserves honesty.”
“What would you do in my place?”
“Tie the dishcloths together and strangle him with them, but that’s me.”
A gurgle of laughter shook her companion. “Matthew should be with someone like you. Someone as crazy as he is.” She realized what she’d said and her eyes widened. “Not that I’m saying you’re crazy.”
“Don’t give it a thought. You wouldn’t be the first. I do have a suggestion. Why don’t I help you write a letter?” She’d purposely gone through all the approaches she knew Brittany would never take so that this simple, straightforward method would hold appeal.
“You mean like a Dear John letter?”
“Exactly.”
“And I mail it to him?”
“You could. I prefer the idea of dropping it off in person. I could have my secretary do it, or you could do it yourself.”
Brittany seemed to like the letter idea. “I could bake him something nice and put that in a basket with the letter, so he’d have something pleasant to remember me by.”
“I think that’s an excellent idea.”
“Okay.” She nodded. “Okay. Let’s write him a letter.”
Chloe pulled out a note pad.
“You mean here? Now?”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. It seems like I should give it a lot of thought.”
“Trust me, the longer you agonize over these things, the more difficult they become. You do truly want to break up with Matthew, don’t you?”
She bit her lip, and nodded.
“All right. Let’s get started.”
“Can you write it? I’ll copy it out neatly when we’re done.”
“If you prefer.”
Brittany thought for a while and Chloe waited patiently, the gold fountain pen Daddy had sent her to celebrate her first month in business poised. “Dear Matthew,” Brittany said at last.
Chloe obediently wrote that down.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about this, and I can’t go on.” She stopped. “Oh, shoot. That sounds so dramatic. I don’t want him to think I’m about ready to kill myself. Scratch that out.”
Chloe did.
“Where are we?”
“Dear Matthew.”
“Right. Dear Matthew, I am so sorry, but I don’t think I can see you anymore.”
“Excellent beginning,” Chloe said, writing it down.
“I don’t know what to put next.”
“What about, You’re a wonderful man, but not the right man for me. I hope we can always be friends.”
“Okay. I like that. It’s good. Then what?”
“Sincerely, Brittany.”
“But that’s so short. You don’t think I should put anything about the duck dishcloths in there?”
“Emphatically no. This is simple, clear, and to the point. Matthew seems like a man who would appreciate few words in a letter like this.”
“I guess you’re right. But what if he writes back?”
“One step at a time.”
“Okay. Thanks. You’re a good friend.”
Chloe passed over the pad of paper and the pen. Brittany copied the letter, dated and sign
ed it, and then addressed the envelope Chloe also had with her.
“Did you know I was going to write a letter?”
“No, not really. I’ve learned to carry a few supplies. Saves time and trouble.”
“I feel so bad about Matthew. I want him to be happy. Do you maybe know anyone who would be good for him?”
“I don’t make matches, I’m afraid. Only break them.”
“Isn’t that kind of negative?”
“Not at all. I think it’s much better to end something cleanly than to let it drag on until the misery compounds.”
Brittany nodded, looking as though a weight had been lifted. “You know, I think you’re right. It’s funny, but we met not too long after he was wounded and I thought he was so brave and strong about all of that. Getting hurt, and leaving the force?” White teeth gnawed a full and pretty lower lip. “This time, it was like he didn’t want me helping him. And I didn’t really care for the way he treated me.”
She pulled out the check and tried to give it to Chloe, who shook her head again. “I like you, Brittany, and I like Matthew too. I honestly think this is the right thing for both of you.” She smiled. “Be happy.”
Brittany lifted that letter as though it were the blade of a guillotine. But she nodded.
They hugged and Brittany headed out the door, her Dear Matthew letter clutched in her hand, while Chloe went to purchase some of the lovely Italian coffee beans.
“In fact,” she said, “give me two pounds. I am celebrating.”
Chapter 23
Matthew sat at his dining table looking over house plans for a renovation project a buddy had asked him to do. He’d never considered doing anybody’s renovations but his own, but he had to admit, there was something satisfying about the idea of fixing up this godawful mess of a rabbit warren and turning it back into the decent home it had once been.
His bad leg was propped on a chair, but he was off the painkillers and pretty much back to normal, or as normal as his leg would ever be.
When the doorbell rang, he got up from the dining table, frowning.
