Then Quinn leaned in and gave me another.

His lips were warm and loving as they brushed across mine. His mouth was sweet from the chocolate, his tongue tart from the alcohol, but after a few soft tastes of me, all gentleness fled. Quinn's kisses became deeper, his mouth downright hungry. Thrilled to keep pace with the man, I hooked my arms around his neck and worked myself into his lap. We were locked together like that in the firelight for an entire transcendent minute before his cell went off.

On a groan of frustration, he pulled away. As he checked the Caller ID, I tried to pretend I wasn't catching my breath.

"Police business?" I finally whispered, unable to read his squinting gaze.

"I'll just be a minute."

His blue eyes had already gone cold.

"What is it?" he asked the caller, his long legs crossing briskly to the window. The shortness in his voice was barely perceptible, but its meaning was clear enough to me. Quinn wasn't just irritated by this interruption; he didn't think it necessary.

A substantial pause followed. As Quinn listened to the caller, he absently pushed back the window curtains, checked the street. Forever the cop Forever the cop, I thought.

"Oh, really?" he said at last. "Well, not me."

His tone was openly sharp now.

"That's not a good idea," he added. And finally, just before ending the call-"Stop. This is not not the time." the time."

Something was wrong, obviously obviously.

Quinn was almost always in control of his temper. But this unexpected call had really set him off. Even across the shadowy room, I could see the level of ire in his movements. He tugged off his shoulder holster and hooked it sharply over a chair. Then he smacked his badge, cuffs, and wallet onto the dresser. Finally, he came to me, roughly unbuttoning his dress shirt.

"Let me," I whispered, and he did.

As I gently removed the garment, my mind raced with the possibilities of who was calling and why. I asked him if he wanted to talk about it, but he waved me off.

"It's not important," he said, "and I'd prefer we get back to what is is."

Impatiently he pulled off the rest of his clothes; then he turned his attention to undressing me, first tugging off my worn football jersey, then slipping his hands over my hips to remove my last scrap of modesty. The second I was naked, he hauled me close.

I didn't know why Quinn's need for me was suddenly so acute, but I wasn't about to slow the man down. More than ever, I wanted sweet oblivion, and that's exactly what he gave me.

The flickering shadows of his fire rendered my bruises invisible. The heat of his kisses melted my bitterest fears. And when his body covered mine, he made every last thought in my head disappear.

SEVEN.

MORNING dawned again, cold and bright-only this time I wasn't dreaming. The rhythmic scraping of a snow shovel woke me, and I knew it was Tucker downstairs, clearing the sidewalk before he opened.

With last night's fire thoroughly burned out, the room felt slightly acrid and plenty chilly. I turned under the comforter to find Mike still in a deep sleep. Like any sane woman would, I kissed his bare shoulder and snuggled up to his big, warm body. Unfortunately for me, dreamland was over with one sound- Mrrrooow!

Feeling a light tread of paws up the bedcovers, I opened my eyes to white whiskers and a pink nose. A fur ball the color of a roasted arabica bean settled onto my chest and began loudly purring. I considered nudging away the little brown tabby, turning over to show her my back, but I didn't have the heart.

"Okay, Java, you win," I whispered on a yawn. "Let's get you some breakfast."

Rolling out of bed, I stifled a groan. The bruises along my side had been easy enough to forget about while Mike was making love to me. In the light of day, the pain wasn't so easy to ignore. The hot shower helped; so did the Advil with espresso chaser. Within a half hour of waking, I was feeling much better-and much worse.

My contentedly full kitty was watching pigeons on a wire out the back window, my man was happily catching zzz's in the bedroom upstairs, but I was far from serene. In the quiet stillness of the duplex's kitchen, sipping my second espresso of the day, I couldn't stop my mind from returning to that dingy alley down the street.

How did it all go down? I wondered. I wondered. Did the creep demand money from Alf first or just start shooting? How long did it take my friend to die there in the snow? Was that ugly gray Dumpster the last thing he saw on earth? Did the creep demand money from Alf first or just start shooting? How long did it take my friend to die there in the snow? Was that ugly gray Dumpster the last thing he saw on earth?

I felt myself beginning to shake again-but not from fear or cold or Mike's touches. This time what shook me was fury. I wanted to do something for for Alf, not just sit here and think about what the killer did to him- Alf, not just sit here and think about what the killer did to him- I suddenly stood up at the kitchen table.

I need to be busy.

Tucker was already downstairs in the shop. One of our new trainees was helping him open, and I was supposed to have the morning off. I considered getting dressed and going down to the coffeehouse anyway, but I didn't want to abandon my still-sleeping Mike.

I know. "I'll bake!" "I'll bake!"

Java's ears barely twitched at my announcement, which she deemed far less significant than her pigeon watching. Given my line of thinking a moment before, I figured the cat was right- Baking was a pathetic alternative to pursuing an active criminal investigation that could nail Alf's killer, but it would would keep me from climbing the walls this morning; and it was practical, too, because whatever new cookie, tart, or muffin I devised, I could ask my baker to re-create for the Blend's pastry case and sell it downstairs for a profit. keep me from climbing the walls this morning; and it was practical, too, because whatever new cookie, tart, or muffin I devised, I could ask my baker to re-create for the Blend's pastry case and sell it downstairs for a profit.

Cha-ching!

I cringed at the sudden memory of my dream-Alf's Santa's bells transforming into ringing cash registers. Then I remembered yesterday's holiday decorating blitz when we'd replaced the Blend's front door dinger with jingle bells.

Is that why I dreamed what I did? Every jingle of the door's bells signals a new Blend customer, doesn't it? And every customer is another chance for my cash register to ring . . .

I closed my eyes. How can I use Alf's Fa-la-la-la Latte idea now that he's been murdered? I'll feel like a heartless mercenary. How can I use Alf's Fa-la-la-la Latte idea now that he's been murdered? I'll feel like a heartless mercenary.

Stop it, Clare! Stop thinking. Just bake!

I started pulling out the flour, sugar, butter, and the old wooden bread board that Nonna had brought with her from Italy. An hour later I was carrying a breakfast tray upstairs. On it was a French-pressed pot of Matt's annual shipment of Jamaica Blue Mountain and my modern twist to my grandmother's biscotti.

I replaced her traditional anise with vanilla and used roasted pistachios to give the cookie a delicate nutty flavor as well as a hint of green for the season. Dried cranberries added a cheerful shade of Christmas red while a decadent drizzle of white chocolate evoked icy-fresh winter snow. My secret ingredient, however, was ground cinnamon. The bright, bittersweet spice-once used in love potions by wealthy Romans-may have been an unconventional addition for biscotti, but it struck a surprisingly harmonious chord with the cookie's other flavorings while lacing the air with an evocative aroma for the holidays.

As I reentered the still-chilly bedroom, my spirits rose like a yeast panettone. Mike's being here for me felt like an early Christmas gift. At the very least, it was a wish fulfilled. Not so very long ago I'd daydreamed a scenario exactly like this: me serving the sandy-haired detective his morning coffee in this beautiful mahogany four-poster.

There'd been times I never thought it would happen, not that Mike hadn't been thoroughly miserable in his marriage. Between his wife's lying, cheating, and mood swings, the man had been living in the equivalent of an emotional war zone. For the sake of his two kids, however, he'd made every attempt to keep his marriage together. His wife was the one who'd ended things.

I'd never met Leila Quinn, and I often wondered what she'd been like when he first married her. I'd heard about the end of their marriage, of course, but I was curious how they'd originally met, what made him fall in love with the woman and decide to marry her.

Mike never told me. He didn't like talking about his ex or his past with her. And whenever the subject came up, he changed it. For now, I let him. When I'd first met the man, he'd been reduced to a shell-shocked zombie where relationships were concerned. The last thing I wanted to do at this stage of our fledgling bonding process was open barely scabbed-over wounds.

"Rise and shine, big guy," I sang in his ear.

Without opening his eyes, Mike smiled.

I set the tray on the nightstand. "Your coffee is here, and you can try my newest recipe with it: Red and Green Holiday Biscotti."

Mike's eyes were still closed, but his nostrils moved. "Mmmm, the house smells good," he murmured, "like my mom used to make it smell at Christmastime when I was a kid. You weren't actually cooking cooking this early, were you?" this early, were you?"

"You don't know the third tenet of the homemaker's credo?"

"Never heard of it."

"I bake, therefore I am."

Mike laughed. "What are the first two?"

"I clean, therefore I am; I grocery shop, therefore I am; and there are at least seven more." (During my Jersey days, when I was freelance writing to make ends meet, I'd listed them all in one of my old In the Kitchen with Clare columns.) "But my favorite is still baking."

"Lucky for me," he said, closing his fingers around my wrist, "because, as it happens, I'm still starving." Then Mike pulled me back under the bedcovers; and that's when I knew two things-it was absolutely brilliant planning on my part to pour the Blue Mountain into a thermal carafe (because we wouldn't be getting to it for a good half hour), and those wealthy Romans were right about the cinnamon.

A short time later, Quinn was back on the job and so was I. After tying on my Village Blend apron, I helped Tucker recharge our lunchtime crush of caffeine-deficient regulars, then relieved him and our trainee.

Dante and Gardner were scheduled for the evening shifts, and we were short-staffed at the moment, which meant the Blend was all mine for the next three hours.

Only a few cafe tables were occupied, and after I whipped out another dozen sporadic take-out orders, there were no customers left in line. This was usually my favorite time of day-the quiet afternoon between lunch and dinner, the calm before the after-work crowd stormed our doors. But I didn't like the calm. Not today. Not one bit. My deserted coffeehouse suddenly felt like a widow's empty kitchen, once boisterous with family laughter, now as silent as the viewing room of a funeral home.

Around two o'clock, a number of chatty tourists and chilled holiday shoppers passed right by the shop without even glancing in. I frowned, considering writing up that sidewalk chalkboard featuring our new Fa-la-la-la Lattes, but I thought of Alf again-how the whole Taste of Christmas thing had been his idea-and my heart just wasn't in it. So I swept the floor and wiped down our unoccupied tables.

Just before three, I felt myself tensing. Alf almost always stopped in at this time to "warm his mittens," as he put it, and I'd take a break with him, grab a latte, and sit by the fire. At one minute after the hour, the jingle bells rang. I glanced up, half expecting to see my Santa, and instead found Matt standing there.

I smiled.

He returned my smile, clomped his snowy hiking boots across the wood plank floor, and took a load off at my espresso bar. I was a little surprised to see him dressed like the old days (before fashionista Breanne's influence) in paint-stained jeans and a battered old parka. As he pulled off his coat and settled onto the bar stool, I took a moment to thank him for his help the previous night-and not just for coming to the crime scene.

I'd been so distraught after finding Alf that I didn't think I could tell my staff about the murder without breaking down. Matt had understood. While I'd gone up the back stairs to collapse in bed, he agreed to return to the tasting party, break the news to my baristas, and handle locking up.

"Tucker didn't say much about Alf's death this morning," I told Matt. "Just that it was too too depressing. How did everyone else take it?" depressing. How did everyone else take it?"

"They were upset, of course," he said. "But I didn't tell them right away. I let the tasting go on as planned-"

"You what what?" That decision stunned me.

"I broke the news near the end of the party. You wanted the tasting info, didn't you? Oh, that reminds me-"

He shifted on the bar stool and pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his back pocket. "Here are last night's reactions to the latte flavors. It went pretty well overall. There were only a few duds and a couple of suggestions for tweaking the recipes."

I ignored the folded paper. "I can't believe you let that tasting party go on! What were you thinking?! What about Vicki-"

"Vicki Glockner never showed, Clare. If she had, I would have told her about her father right away. Give me a little credit."

"Oh." I frowned, processing that. "Why didn't Vicki show? Do you think the police got to her first? Called her to give her the news?"

"I don't know."

"Didn't Esther try to reach her? Call her cell?"

"Yeah, sure, but she just got Vicki's voice mail, and-" Matt shrugged. "Esther wasn't about to inform her friend that her father was murdered on a recorded message."

I closed my eyes. "Of course not." My heart really went out to Vicki-especially after I saw the morning papers. The death of her dad wasn't just news. It was a tabloid bonanza.

Ho-Ho-Homicide, screamed one front page in red and green letters. Santa's Final Sleigh Ride Santa's Final Sleigh Ride, declared its rival. Randy Knox's scandal sheet wasn't about to miss the fun. The Grinch Who Plugged Santa Claus The Grinch Who Plugged Santa Claus was the lead story for the was the lead story for the New York Journal New York Journal, complete with the head of Dr. Seuss's Grinch Photo-shopped over the body of a gun-waving street punk.

All over the Five Boroughs, beleaguered parents now had to explain the news to distraught youngsters who'd heard on television that jolly old St. Nick would no longer be riding his sleigh-or pushing it, in Alf's case.

"Clare?"

I opened my eyes.

"You okay?" Matt asked.

I nodded.

"Espresso then," he said, "if you don't mind."

"No problem."

I was relieved to turn my attention to something so familiar, not to mention fundamental-the espresso being the basis for most Italian coffee drinks. After burring the beans, dosing the proper amount of grounds into the portafilter, and tamping them in for perfect distribution, I locked the handle into place and sent a small amount of hot water under high pressure through the puck. In less than thirty seconds, the water extracted the flavor from the freshly roasted beans, producing that quintessential full-bodied, aromatic liquor topped with crema crema-the term for that dark golden foam that defines a correctly drawn espresso shot.

After finishing the pull, I set the white porcelain cup on its saucer and slid Matt's shot across the blueberry marble counter.

Customers sometimes ask me if I ever grow tired of smelling coffee. I never do. Unlike perfume or incense, the caramel-sweet aroma of a perfectly pulled espresso is neither overbearing nor monotonous. To me, it's a living scent, rising and falling with the life of the cup. Intoxicating yet invigorating, it's like a song I never tire of hearing; the sight of an old friend stepping again and again through my front door . . .

"Getting back to last night," Matt said as he brought the demitasse to his lips. "Did your guard dog ever call you back? Or are you frosted at him for ignoring you?"

"Mike dropped by after work. And I'm not frosted frosted at him. There was a very good reason he didn't come to the crime scene." at him. There was a very good reason he didn't come to the crime scene."

"Another woman?"

Spare me. "No. As I recall, that was typically "No. As I recall, that was typically your your reason for not returning my calls. But only when we were married." reason for not returning my calls. But only when we were married."

Matt grunted. We'd run our wagon wheels over this road so often, the grooves reached the earth's mantle.

"And how's Breanne?" I asked after a long, awkward silence.

"Breanne is . . ." Matt looked into his cooling cup, where the exquisite crema crema was slowly beginning to dissipate. "The same as she ever was." was slowly beginning to dissipate. "The same as she ever was."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Matt shrugged. "You know how she gets."

"What exactly are you two fighting about?"