Criminal Confections

by Colette London

  Ten seconds later, my call connected with the office of my appointed financial advisor (and trustee of my uncle’s will), Travis Turner. Travis’s deep, raspy “hello” traveled over the line. He sounded like a supersmart Barry White—like a man who could (and did) make derivatives and stock sales sound hot.

  That’s why I called Travis so often, of course. It wasn’t because I was fascinated with the intricacies of economics. Travis didn’t know it, but I liked his voice. I liked its masculine pitch, its timbre, its shiver-inducing huskiness. I’d never met him in person. At this point, Travis could never measure up to his voice, anyway. But for him, I made an exception to my texts-are-efficient rule and actually dialed the phone.

  “So, Travis . . . what are you wearing right now?”

  “Hayden. Aren’t you supposed to be at the Lemaître retreat?” He sounded as though he might be consulting an up-to-the-nanosecond atomic clock. “It starts in five minutes.”

  Damn his perspicacity. It was really inconvenient.

  As much as I yearned for Travis to help me kill time with a little sexy-sounding banter, he clearly wasn’t up for it.

  “I wanted to talk to you first. You know, to check in.”

  “Right.” In my imagination, he started a timer labeled BILLABLE HOURS, then picked up a pen. “Go ahead. I’m ready.”

  “Don’t you want to tell me what you’re wearing?”

  “You go first.” There it was—a hint of playfulness.

  I lived for that. It made me feel I was winning every time I coaxed Travis into teasing me. “I’m wearing my fancy shoes.”

  “And? What else?”

  I was tempted to say, Nothing else. Just shoes.

  But Travis didn’t sound in the mood for innuendo. Just for an instant, I wondered if something was troubling him. But then I remembered that was just him. Travis was responsible. Settled. Excellent with numbers and domesticity. He was also—at twenty-seven—younger than me and simultaneously more authoritative.

  That realization nudged me into getting serious for a second.

  “What else?” I echoed, musingly glancing down at myself. “A respectable dress. I might not mind being fashionably late to the retreat, but I want to make a good impression. I have absorbed one or two cultural mores in my life, you know.”

  “I know.” Travis paused, polite and efficient. “So . . . you’ve checked in to Maison Lemaître, then? Let’s have the details.”

  Dutifully, I gave him Jimmy’s taxicab medallion number and driver ID (in case of lost items or a misplaced receipt), then reported my hotel room number and expected length of stay, along with a rough itinerary. It was our regular routine. As a solo female traveler, I liked knowing someone else knew where I was.

  Especially someone reliable, trustworthy, and hyper-intelligent. Someone like Travis. If you had to have a keeper, he was the kind to have. But I’d rather have heard him talk than me. I’d rather have heard more of his bedroom voice.

  “So,” I went on, still gazing out the window at the chocolatiering crowd milling around on the verdant grounds. “About that question I asked before. What are you wearing?”

  Travis laughed. I liked the sound of that, too.

  It was really too bad we’d probably never meet. Travis was (inexplicably to me) phobic about air travel. He couldn’t even drop off friends at the airport without getting antsy. Whereas I . . . Well, you already know all about my footloose ways.

  Sadly, Travis and I are fundamentally incompatible.

  “Are you wearing . . . a kilt?” I guessed. “A loincloth? A—”

  “I’m wearing a sandwich board,” Travis interrupted before I could get too carried away. His seductive voice sounded amused, though. “It reads, STOP PROCRASTINATING, HAYDEN MUNDY MOORE.”

  “Mmm. Anything else underneath that sandwich board?”

  “Just take the hint, Hayden. Get to work, okay?”

  “Okay. But be careful. Sandwich boards chafe.”

  “Not if you wear them correctly.”

  “Leave it to you to know the correct way to do everything.”

  “That’s right. I do.” Travis’s deep voice made it sound as if he were right in my hotel room with me. “Don’t you forget it.”

  But just at that moment, I could scarcely concentrate on what Travis was saying . . . even as (I swear) his voice gave me goose bumps on my goose bumps. Because just at that moment, I glanced down at Maison Lemaître’s lush lawn, saw a familiar-looking fortyish redhead in a skirt suit and Bluetooth headset handing out colorful Lemaître-brand T-shirts to the retreat attendees, and realized I had just been offered a get-out-of-jail-free card.

  The woman in the corporate kit and headgear was Nina Wheeler, Christian Lemaître’s right-hand gal and the company’s PR exec. I recognized her. The T-shirts she’d handed out came in conspicuously matching colors, three shirts per shade, to what appeared to be teams of players. It didn’t take a genius to notice that pattern. If the recently unfurled banner snapping in the breeze was any indication of what was to come, I knew what was next, too. Specifically, a 100 PERCENT CHOCOLATE SCAVENGER HUNT.

  Because that’s what the banner said.

  I was quick with details like that.

  I was relieved, too. Spouting niceties about current events while making knowledgeable comments about Napa Valley Pinot Noir wasn’t my scene. But an icebreaker game was right up my alley. I wouldn’t even have to stand still! Scurrying around to find chocolate scavenger hunt items suited my monkey mind perfectly.

  Besides, I liked winning almost as much as I liked listening to Travis talk. Being humble was not my strong suit. Not when it came to things I did well. Like chocolate.

  “I never forget a thing, Travis,” I told him truthfully. “Especially when it comes to you. Talk to you later!”

  Then I signed off on our call, heaved a regretful sigh for Travis’s refusal to indulge me with sexy talk, and grabbed my bag. Within moments, I’d eschewed the hotel’s molasses-slow elevators and was headed downstairs the old-fashioned way (via the chilly, deserted-but-efficient staircase), ready to show the San Francisco chocolate world a thing or two about Hayden Mundy Moore . . . and what she could accomplish when it came to being the world’s first (and only) chocolate whisperer.

  I even made house calls. For the right chunk of cacao and a nice referral, of course. A girl had to have standards.

  And maybe, today, she had to have the right color of T-shirt, too. When it came to that, time was wasting.

  For the sake of scoring a good team, I decided to run.

  Chapter 2

  By the time I’d practically skidded to a stop downstairs (my fancy flats left me surprisingly spry), things were hopping.

  The resort’s driveway was packed with cars and taxis and gleaming SUVs. The guests who’d driven (or been driven) in them impatiently awaited bellmen or valet service or both. The valets ran to and fro clutching keys and wearing anxious expressions.

  The fragrance of fine chocolate wafted over everything, of course. I couldn’t tell if it emanated from Maison Lemaître’s Michelin-starred restaurant or its expansive spa or both. I made a note to double-check the spa treatments that were included in the retreat, then gauged my best path across the driveway.

  Crossing was like playing a real-time game of Frogger (albeit an upscale version), but it was nothing compared with crossing streets in Paris. I made it alive to the hotel grounds where the gauzy tents and chocolate VIPs were. There, the scent of chocolate was weaker, but the mingled fragrances of Merlot and mown grass were stronger. So was the breeze. Ruffled by its force, men shucked their suit jackets and tugged on T-shirts atop their dress shirts and ties; women shrugged and giggled and wiggled their way into their T-shirts, preserving their modesty by layering them over their dresses or shirts or lightweight, ideal-for-northern-California short-sleeve sweaters.

  At least most of them did, I noticed. One woman, standing near a tent featuring Lemaître Chocolates press releases and promoti
onal items, simply turned her back to the crowd, shimmied out of her white-sequin-spangled cashmere T-shirt, and handed it to an older, white-haired man waiting nearby. Then, clad only in her pristine white skirt and jeweled sandals, the woman pulled on an orange Lemaître-logo T-shirt. When she turned to model it, I saw that she was a pretty, olive-skinned woman about my age, with expertly applied makeup, dark hair, and a lot of élan.

  Wow. I wanted a woman like that on my team. She had audacity. She wasn’t afraid to go for broke, either, no matter what it took. While everyone else was gawking at her immodest (and braless) way of changing clothes, I grabbed a yellow T-shirt from a box near Nina Wheeler’s elbow. I zeroed in on a woman standing nearby with her back to me, then nudged her.

  “Trade you?” I offered, keeping my gaze fixed on my prize—her orange T-shirt—while simultaneously offering her my yellow one in trade. “You don’t seem up for a striptease today.”

  “I’m not! Take it.” All but shoving her orange shirt at me, the woman completed the swap quickly—as though she was afraid I might change my mind. In an irked and preoccupied tone, she grumbled, “I should have known Isabel Lemaître would make a scene. She doesn’t usually attend the retreat.”

  “That’s Isabel Lemaître? Bernard Lemaître’s wife?”

  A general murmur of assent met my question. Apparently, there was no such thing as a private conversation at a company retreat.

  That was understandable, though. The world of chocolate was a small one, really. Everyone knew Bernard Lemaître. More than a hundred years ago, his family had founded one of the most successful chocolate companies in the world. Bernard had brought that company to new heights. He’d turned it into a San Francisco institution as familiar as cable cars, Lombard Street, and Pier 39. He’d partnered with a local television kids’ show, making children of all ages love Lemaître Chocolates—and love him. He was an icon unto himself. When I’d accepted the consultancy at Lemaître, I’d hoped to meet Bernard. Christian had insisted his uncle Bernard was “too busy” to drop into the office regularly.

  It seemed apparent to me that Bernard was “too busy” with his dishy-looking younger wife. Even now, as I held my newly won logo T-shirt, I glimpsed my team’s other two members canoodling. Isabel Lemaître gave her husband a kiss, then stroked his orange-T-shirt-covered chest in a very possessive and lusty fashion. For all her ardor, anyone would have sworn that Bernard had six-pack abs and shoulders of steel under that T-shirt. In reality, he had the body you’d expect of a sixty-two-year-old man who’d made a fortune in cocoa butter, sugar, and cream.

  They were both sweet, really. Rumor had it that Bernard Lemaître had been forced out of the company (for all intents and purposes, at least) by his nephew, Christian. But from the looks of things today, Bernard seemed pretty content in “retirement.”

  I guessed that’s what happened when a die-hard bachelor like Bernard discovered the joys of wedded bliss and qualifying for AARP membership at the same time. Isabel was his first wife.

  “Wait a minute,” someone blurted beside me. “Hayden?”

  I was donning my orange T-shirt, getting ready to join what I felt sure would be the winning team, so I didn’t answer at first. I couldn’t do much besides yank, hoping to see who my questioner was. I was blinded by orange. It was, however, the best quality “gimme” T-shirt I’d ever encountered. Mmm. Soft.

  “Hayden?” came the voice again. “Ohmigod. It is you!”

  I felt a hand grab my arm. I inhaled harshly, then froze. All my muscles tensed, reacting instinctively to the contact.

  This is not an emergency, I reminded myself. Although I’d had a few helpful self-defense lessons over the years from well-meaning Italians and Spaniards and once (memorably) a Frenchman, this situation didn’t call for an eye gouge or a knee crack.

  I gave a hard tug, and my questioner’s face came into view. It was Adrienne Dowling, Lemaître’s head chocolatier and one of the most talented people I’d ever met while on a consulting job.

  While I’d been undercover troubleshooting for Lemaître Chocolates, Adrienne and I had gotten to know one another fairly well. We’d shared lunches, after-hours drinks, and a giddy appreciation for cute 49ers football players. We’d also shared a similarly scrupulous approach to recipe development.

  I liked Adrienne. I admired her. I knew she was forty-six, but with her blue eyes, curly blond hair, and petite frame, she looked more like a fragile teenager—a teenager dressed in her mother’s frumpy business wear, admittedly, but still a teenager. I wondered if Adrienne knew how openhearted she always appeared.

  I also wondered if she was the only person attending the retreat without a plus-one. (Well, except for me, so far, but that was temporary.) Everyone else had brought spouses or dates to the annual event, just as Christian had told me they would.

  I thanked my lucky stars Danny had agreed to join me.

  “Adrienne!” I yelled back, laughing at my own goofy self-defense impulses. I hugged her, embarrassed to have been so preoccupied earlier. “I’m sorry. I was so focused on getting a team orange T-shirt that I didn’t even recognize you.”

  “That’s all right. It happens, especially to me.” With cheerful, self-deprecating charm, Adrienne waved off my apology. “I’d rather have this yellow T-shirt, anyway.”

  She aimed a meaningful look at Isabel and Bernard, who were now holding hands and trading pet names for one another. It was endearing, like I said. But it was probably awkward for Adrienne to see Lemaître’s founder under such intimate circumstances. No wonder she’d been so keen to switch T-shirts with me.

  As a decidedly unmarried woman (remind me to tell you about my three ex-fiancés sometime), I felt more comfortable with Adrienne myself . . . even if I couldn’t quite tear away my gaze from Isabel Lemaître. Her laughter was engaging. Her free-spirited attitude toward wardrobe changes reminded me of the European countries I’d lived in, where nudity was featured without fanfare in everything from movies to cereal advertisements.

  It was . . . liberating. And natural. And so, it seemed, was Isabel. Which made me curious about her. I turned to Adrienne.

  “You said Isabel doesn’t usually attend the retreat?”

  “Never,” Adrienne said emphatically, swerving her gaze away from a good-looking man with black curly hair wearing a yellow T-shirt that matched hers. Hmm. Maybe there was another reason Adrienne wanted to be on Team Yellow. “Isabel has always said Lemaître is too ‘stodgy’ for her trendy tastes. But now that Bernard has been all but ousted from the company, Isabel won’t stay away. It’s downright perverse.” Adrienne frowned. “I’ll never understand that woman. I don’t want to, either!”

  I’d have sworn that mild-mannered Adrienne actually muttered a swearword aimed at her erstwhile boss’s wife. But at that instant, Nina Wheeler charged up—with a cell phone in each hand and her Bluetooth headset crackling static—and interrupted us.

  “You two! Get with your color-coded groups, please!” Nina said. “We’re about to start. We’re already three minutes late!”

  Her wild-eyed demeanor surprised me. Usually, Nina was the epitome of self-assurance. Evidently, being in charge of the Lemaître retreat was a stressful event. Nina and I had met during my consultancy, too. We hadn’t spent much time together, though—and the double take Nina gave me as she looked up from her pair of cell phones showed her surprise at seeing me there.

  “Hayden Mundy Moore? What are you doing here?” She frowned. “I thought your consultancy at Lemaître was finished.”

  “Almost. Just a few loose ends left to tie up.” Like a thorough multipage report, I remembered guiltily. “Don’t worry. I’m not a gate-crasher. Christian invited me.” Hoping to calm Nina’s obviously frazzled nerves, I smiled and added, “He’s probably already included me in the seating plan for the welcome reception and . . . everything else, too. I won’t be any trouble.”

  Nina’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll see about that.” Shoving her dual phones in her suit poc
kets, she consulted a clipboard hanging from a bungee clip around her neck. Then she spoke into her headset. “Yes, that’s Hayden Mundy Moore. Verify, please.”

  As I listened to Nina spell out my last name—which tended to confuse people, especially in alphabetical-order situations, due to its nonhyphenated nature—to the person on the other end of the line, I traded a concerned glance with Adrienne. My chocolatier friend only shrugged and raised her palms in a “what can you do?” gesture. Evidently, this wasn’t unusual for Nina.

  The redheaded PR rep got off the phone, scribbled my name on her clipboarded list, then looked up. Tensely. “Well? What are you two waiting for? Get with your groups, will you?”

  Then she stalked off, muttering and shaking her head.

  “Yikes.” I frowned after her. “Poor Nina.”

  “We’d better do what she says,” Adrienne said. “I only have a few minutes to spare, anyway. I’m supposed to be in the hotel kitchen, working on my contribution to the welcome reception.”

  Before I could ask Adrienne what her contribution would be—undoubtedly, something creamy, dark, chocolaty, and scrumptious that I would need to gobble up for “testing purposes”—Mr. Black-Haired Yellow T-shirt strode up. Impatiently, he gestured at Adrienne. “I think that’s our cue. Shall we get started?”

  “Of course!” Adrienne accepted his hand. “Right away.”

  The two of them crossed the lawn to join the third member of their team—a nondescript-looking cacao bean supplier—for the scavenger hunt. I hoped Adrienne and Mr. Yellow T-shirt hit it off. Stranger things had happened. After all, Adrienne deserved a fun, confidence-boosting fling. If he was flying solo, too . . . well, maybe they’d connect. Sometimes industry events like this one were hotbeds of intrigue, gossip, and secret alliances.

  Under those circumstances, hookups weren’t unthinkable.

  Except for me. Because I was teamed up with the king and queen of chocolate: Bernard and Isabel Lemaître. Hauling in a deep breath, I plastered on my brightest smile and headed off to start winning my first-ever chocolate scavenger hunt.