August 4th, 2026
Home | Log in!
Welcome to FreshFiction

Are you a reader
or an author?

Help us personalize your experience. Choose your role below.
You can always change this later using the switcher button.

or

You can switch anytime using the floating button.

Limited Time Fresh Fiction Access

Exclusive Marketing Opportunities for Authors

Curious about how Fresh Access helps authors gain more visibility and connect with active readers?

Discover premium promotional opportunities, enhanced exposure, and author-focused services designed to help your books stand out.

Read More →
📚 New Books This Week 📰 Latest News 🎪 Reader Games

Fresh Fiction for August Is Here

Cowboys, castles, and shiftersβ€”this month has it all.

Slideshow image


slideshow image
Hotter than a Tuscan summer.


slideshow image
Some promises cost you the one you love.


slideshow image
Only she can pull him back from the darkness.


slideshow image
One golden retriever knows this is love.


slideshow image
Trust is the fiercest transformation of all.


slideshow image
From Himalayan stargazing to the London Blitzβ€”one love endures.

BILLIONAIRE BLEND

Billionaire Blend, December 2013
Coffeehouse Mystery #13
by Cleo Coyle

Berkley
Featuring: Clare Cosi; Eric Thorner; Mike Quinn
401 pages
ISBN: 0425252914
EAN: 9780425252918
Kindle: B009VMCDV2
Hardcover / e-Book
Add to Wish List

Purchase

"The Thirteenth in the Series Fails to Live Up to Previous Book's Sparkle"

Fresh Fiction Review

BILLIONAIRE BLEND
Cleo Coyle

Reviewed by Diana Troldahl
Posted April 6, 2014

Mystery Cozy

In the thirteenth installment of the Coffeehouse Mystery series coffeehouse manager Clare Cosi becomes embroiled in the attempted murder of a billionaire causing concern to both her ex husband and current squeeze.

I'll cut to the chase. Although I greatly enjoyed earlier books in this series, I did not enjoy BILLIONAIRE BLEND. After pondering this for a good period of time, I came to the conclusion Clare's involvement in this particular mystery seems a bit stretched. She has little to no emotional connection to the victim, he is merely a customer at the time of the bombing. She pokes her nose into the investigation long before she is asked to, because her coffeehouse is badly damaged in the explosion. I could perceive the authors' attempts to make this reason enough for her to throw herself in harm's way, but the way the scenes played out it felt more as if she was simply being an arrogant and nosy citizen, without any concern that her actions would impede the work of the investigators.

I also found the first 24 chapters a bit meandering, with side trails into Claire's relationships with the men in her life as well as with her daughter. For staunch fans of the series, this may be of interest, but to someone primarily concerned with enjoying a cozy mystery it did little more than bog down the story.

It is rare for me to be harsh in a review. What I think I found most disappointing is that in previous books, Cleo Coyle managed to pull off a terrific balance between the private life of Clare and the investigations she pursues, with realistic and understandable reasons for her involvement. Perhaps it is just my skewed perception, but with BILLIONAIRE BLEND, she missed the mark. I don't say the book is not worth reading, there are worse choices you could make, but, for me, it failed to meet my expectations.

Learn more about BILLIONAIRE BLEND

SUMMARY

Landmark coffeehouse manager Clare Cosi has served her share of New York's rich and famous, but even she is surprised by her explosive introduction to a mysterious Internet billionaire... When a car bomb nearly kills the charming young tech whiz Eric Thorner, Clare comes to his aid and receives a priceless thank you. Not only does the billionaire buy her a barista's dream espresso machine, he hires her for an extraordinary project: creating the world's most expensive coffee blend. The police arrest Eric's alleged attacker, yet death continues to surround the unlucky mogul, leading Clare to question whether the lethal events are premeditated or merely freak accidents. Clare's boyfriend, NYPD detective Mike Quinn, has a theory of his own--one Clare refuses to believe. Meanwhile, Eric jets Clare around the world on a head-spinning search for the very best coffee, and Clare gets to know his world--a mesmerizing circle of money with rivalries that could easily have turned deadly. But is this mysterious young CEO truly marked for termination? Or is he the one making a killing?

EXCERPT

Chapter 1 "Guess where I am? You canÒ€ℒt imagine..." Pressing the phone to my ear, I waited for Mike Quinn's gravelly voice to ride a cellular wave up the Eastern Seaboard. "Given the choice," he said, "I'd rather imagine..." That shouldn't have surprised me. After all, Michael Ryan Francis Quinn was a decorated narcotics detective, and if there was one thing the NYPD looked for when recruiting from their uniformed force, it was imaginationÒ€”that and Ò€œinquisitiveness, insight, and an eye for detail." (According to Quinn, the New York brass referred to these as "the four I's," although I had pointed out the last one started with an E.) For the past six months, Quinn had been working in Washington, DC, where a U.S. attorney had drafted him for a special assignment. He wasnÒ€ℒt permitted to tell me much about his Justice Department job, although I did deduce his Federal Triangle desk phone had caller ID because he always answered my rings with a husky hello reserved only for me. Just the sound of his voice relieved the tension I'd been feeling about the night ahead. Of course, I didn't have a clue what was really ahead. If I had, I might have gone straight home and pulled the covers over my eyes. In a short space of time, I'd be bribing a bomb squad lieutenant, cracking a mathematician's seventeen-digit passcode, and conjuring culinary ideas for a billionaires' potluck. That I could handle. But battling a giant octopus; raiding a forbidden coffee plantation; defusing a nitro-packed knapsack; stopping a Slayer (while working with one); and fixing my daughter's love life? I think even 007 would have flinched. At this point in my story, however, my life was manageable, even pretty nice. I was sitting on hand-rubbed leather in a private limo, and a good cop was purring in my ear. "Let's see now..." Quinn continued. "I'm imagining you in your duplex above the coffeehouse. You just stepped out of the shower, and I'm holding your robe. IÒ€ℒve got a nice blaze going in the bedroom, the champagneÒ€ℒs poured, and I'm about toÒ€”" "Mike!" "Yes?" I glanced at the glass partition separating me from the male chauffeur. It wasn't raised all the way. Okay, phone sex in front of an audience (even an audience of one) might have been acceptable for your average world-weary urbaniteÒ€”and, yes, after living in the Big, Bad Apple for years, I was weary enough for any middle-aged single mom. But I was still my nonnaÒ€ℒs granddaughter. (Not that my dear daughter would agree. I could just hear her now: "That's why my generation does sexting, Mom! Type it out and it's totally private!" Right, honey. And nobody shares stored data in cyberspace.) "I'm not at home," I explained to Quinn. "I'm on my way to dinner. You'll never guess whereÒ€”" "You better just tell me, Clare. I have a conference call in twenty." The "boyfriend voice" was gone, the warmth chilling into a tone I knew far too wellÒ€”stoic, emotionless cop. I should have replied with something generally reassuring, like: "I miss you" (which I did); "I wish you were here" (ditto); or even... "On your next visit, I'm baking you up a Triple-Chocolate Italian Cheesecake like the one you inhaled on New YearÒ€ℒs Eve" (which I planned to). But I didn't say any of those things. My excitement level was so high that I simply blurted the newsÒ€” "I'm riding in a chauffeured limo, on my way to dinner at the Source Club!" The silence stretched on so long I was sure our connection was lost. "Mike?" "You're pulling my leg." "I'm not pulling anything." I couldn't blame the man for doubting my words. Even I had trouble believing it. The Source Club was one of the most élite enclaves in Manhattan. With my anemic bank account, I was lucky to get into Sam's Club, let alone a zillionaires club. "So what's the story? Did your former motherΓ’β‚¬β€˜inΓ’β‚¬β€˜law give up and sell the Village Blend to a national chain?" "Bite your tongue." "You inherited a fortune from a lost relative?" He grunted. "Maybe IÒ€ℒd better get you to the altar alreadyÒ€”in handcuffs, if necessary." "It's nothing like that, and IÒ€ℒd rather you kept those handcuffs on your belt, if you don't mind. The last time you used them on me, I needed an ice pack." "Are you fishing for another apology, or another bunch of flowers?" "Neither...although I did love the daffodils and white tulips." "I'm glad," he said. And I was, too, because the warm tone was back, and on that blustery evening in late January, I needed all the warmth I could get. Outside, frosty flurries were beginning to fall, and the inviting lights of my coffeehouse were no longer in sight; neither were the cozy pubs and intimate bistros of Greenwich Village. The golden glow of the historic district had been replaced with the silver glare of downtown skyscrapers. "You would love the limo he sent for me, Mike. It's an antique Rolls-RoyceÒ€”or is it a Bentley?" "A Bentley is a Rolls, and who is he?" "It's so British, like something the late Princess Diana would have ridden around in, but heÒ€ℒs modernized the inside with all these gadgetsÒ€”" "I repeat, who is he? And how did you end up in his limousine?" "ThatÒ€ℒs kind of a long story." "Give me the short version." "You know part of it already. Remember that poor guy I helped out the other day?" "The billionaire? I wouldn't call him poor, Clare." "You know what I mean. This special dinner is his way of saying thanks." Suddenly I was listening to a whole new dead zone. The cellular waves kept rolling up from DC, but Quinn's voice wasn't riding them. "Maybe you'd better give me the long version," he finally said. "And start at the beginning." "I thought you had a conference call in twenty?" "The Los Angeles District Attorney can wait." UhΓ’β‚¬β€˜oh. "It's completely innocent, Mike. Why do you think I'm telling you?" "Go on." "You remember, don't you? This all started with a coffee drink order." "A coffee drink order?" "Actually, more like two dozen coffee drink ordersÒ€¦"

Videos

BOOK SERIES

Coffeehouse Mystery

On What Grounds
ON WHAT GROUNDS
#1.0 β€’ September 2003
Through The Grinder
THROUGH THE GRINDER
#2.0 β€’ October 2004
Latte Trouble
LATTE TROUBLE
#3.0 β€’ August 2005
Murder Most Frothy
MURDER MOST FROTHY
#4.0 β€’ August 2006
Decaffeinated Corpse
DECAFFEINATED CORPSE
#5.0 β€’ July 2007
French Pressed
FRENCH PRESSED
#6.0 β€’ April 2008
Espresso Shot
ESPRESSO SHOT
#7.0 β€’ October 2008
Holiday Grind
HOLIDAY GRIND
#8.0 β€’ November 2009
Roast Mortem
ROAST MORTEM
#9.0 β€’ August 2010
Murder By Mocha
MURDER BY MOCHA
#10.0 β€’ August 2011
A Brew To A Kill
A BREW TO A KILL
#11.0 β€’ August 2012
Holiday Buzz
HOLIDAY BUZZ
#12.0 β€’ December 2012
Billionaire Blend
BILLIONAIRE BLEND
#13.0 β€’ December 2013
Once Upon a Grind
ONCE UPON A GRIND
#14.0 β€’ December 2014
Dead to the Last Drop
DEAD TO THE LAST DROP
#15.0 β€’ December 2015
Dead Cold Brew
DEAD COLD BREW
#16.0 β€’ January 2017
Shot in the Dark
SHOT IN THE DARK
#17.0 β€’ April 2018
Brewed Awakening
BREWED AWAKENING
#18.0 β€’ December 2019
Honey Roasted
HONEY ROASTED
#19.0 β€’ February 2022
Bulletproof Barista
BULLETPROOF BARISTA
#20.0 β€’ November 2023
No Roast for the Weary
NO ROAST FOR THE WEARY
#21.0 β€’ April 2025
Eat, Drink, and Get Buried
EAT, DRINK, AND GET BURIED
#22.0 β€’ September 2026

 

 

 

© 2003-2026 off-the-edge.net  all rights reserved Privacy Policy