The Chocolate Touch

by Laura Florand

  “I don’t anymore. Mostly.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You’re that familiar with the way French riot police might handle a crowd or what’s likely to make that crowd degenerate into a riot?”

  She looked disgruntled. “I was just there for the dancing.”

  Now he did close his hand around her shoulders. He couldn’t help it. Somebody had to get a grip on her. “Don’t join in protests in strange countries where you don’t know how the government might react. Even for the dancing.” He started to release her, hesitated. “And don’t go to nightclubs by yourself, either. Go find the dance groups on the quays, if you’re looking for dancing.”

  Although he didn’t entirely like the thought of her being there on her own—hit on by all comers—either.

  Merde. This time he did manage to force himself to release her. Before he could start getting jealous of someone whose name he didn’t even know. Wouldn’t that be a chip off the old block. Les chiens ne font pas des chats. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  She hesitated, flushed a little, but held his eyes as she nodded.

  CHAPTER 5

  Jaime concentrated on not feeling guilty about Dominique Richard’s chocolates when she sat down across the table from Sylvain Marquis that evening. Her future brother-in-law, named by some as the best chocolatier in the world, would be outraged to learn she was frequenting Dominique Richard’s salon.

  So would the other man at the table, Philippe Lyonnais, come to think of it. And her sister Cade. Probably the only person who wouldn’t mind was Philippe’s fiancée Magalie, who might consider it good for the men to have their arrogance tweaked.

  They were sitting in Hugo Faure and Luc Leroi’s three-star restaurant in the Hôtel de Leucé, full of crystal and gold opulence and the kind of powerful people who could afford three-hundred-euro-per-person dinners. Of course, everyone at their table felt quite at home, or in Magalie’s case, at least pretended. Jaime had a feeling Magalie was good at pretending to feel at home. Massive bouquets of roses decorated the place today, creating the impression that people were dining in a forest whose canopy was red velvet roses.

  Sylvain Marquis sat at the head of the table, with her sister Cade on his right hand and Jaime on his left. “Indulge me,” he had told Jaime. “This way, I get to be surrounded by beautiful women”—he winked—“and keep as far away from Philippe as possible. Also, it will annoy him no end to find me at the head of the table when he gets here.” But what it also accomplished, gorgeous, gracious poet that he was, was to place Jaime, the only one without a partner, squarely in the middle of the gathering and not at its outer edge.

  Philippe Lyonnais, considered one of the world’s best pâtissiers, had clearly been dragged to this dinner by Magalie. Jaime supposed that if you were competitive enough to become one of the best chocolatiers-pâtissiers in the world, you were too competitive to form easy friendships with your rivals.

  She had a flashing vision of adding Dominique Richard to the mix and grinned involuntarily. Sylvain was a nice guy, who already had to bear being engaged to a Corey of Corey Chocolate, a mésalliance if ever there was one.

  He seemed to be dealing with it surprisingly well, though, as if in her annoyingly perfect sister he had caught a prize. Sylvain was the ultimate proof that Cade could land anything she set her mind to. Countries, even. Major world businesses as subsidiaries. Jaime had heard that landing Sylvain had involved breaking and entering. She had to admire that in her sister, that confidence, that ability to go after a dream. She had had it herself once, not so very long ago at all, but it was hard to sift through the ashes and remember what that confidence had felt like when it was alive and thriving.

  Cade was the more attractive of the two sisters, with an even-featured elegance and no freckles, but she wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous or anything, and Sylvain really was, in an intense, passionate, poet’s way. He seemed to think Cade was drop-dead gorgeous, though. It made a girl feel sad and lonely just to watch that glow in his eyes when he looked at her sister.

  Right now, Sylvain wasn’t looking at her. He was busy singing the praises of all the most fattening dishes on the menu, trying to get Jaime to order them. And when Sylvain went out of his way to convince a woman something was delicious, it was pretty hard to ignore.

  She thought about ordering the salad for her first course just to be provoking, since that was how she reacted to pressure. But she was pretty full of Dominique Richard’s chocolate, which seemed to just snuggle up cozy and warm in her tummy. So she did something even more provoking. She refused to order a first course at all and opted for the lightest main dish.

  Cade frowned anxiously, causing Sylvain to redouble his efforts with Jaime.

  “I’m full,” Jaime said. “I’ve been wandering around the city trying pastries all day.” That and going to the gym near her new temporary apartment were her main occupations.

  “Whose?” Sylvain and Philippe asked in the same indignant breath.

  Oops. “I just like to walk around. Visit the Louvre. Explore the different quarters. There are tempting boulangeries everywhere.”

  “Oh—boulangeries,” Sylvain said, partially mollified. He didn’t do bread. Jaime bit back a grin. Yep, if she could have her fantasy date here right now, Sylvain and he would be at each other’s throats all evening.

  “Are you sure you’re all right on your own?” Cade asked, setting Jaime’s back teeth. Did she look so helpless? She might be the younger sister, but she was the one who had spent the past few years in all the wildest, most challenging corners of the cacao world, reforming working conditions and changing people’s lives. Okay, right at the end there, she had been helpless and had the scars to prove it, but it wasn’t as if anyone else could have survived better.

  And she didn’t like having that moment of helplessness rubbed in her face. “I’m fine.” She had spent the first few weeks of physical therapy living in the spare bedroom in Sylvain’s apartment, the one Cade now shared with him, but even though Sylvain’s place was fairly large for Paris, it was still too small for Jaime to share with an anxious sister.

  She had rented her own little place by the week, up toward the northern corner of the Marais, near Dominique Richard’s salon. She would have been welcome to use the luxurious place her father had bought in the Sixth, when Cade had declared her intention of remaining in Paris. But Jaime had spent her summers all through college doing internships with professors in the far reaches of the world, and she had spent the three years after she graduated entirely on her own in those far reaches, continents away from her family. She liked that. Being far away from the Coreys and anything they could want of her. Maybe not quite as far as usual right this second, but . . . she needed her own place, a place she could curl up in, without any chance that someone else would turn the key in the lock and pop in unexpectedly.

  This apartment put her no more than a twenty-minute walk from Cade, but Cade got all hovering and anxious nevertheless. It drove Jaime nuts.

  “It’s a little wilder up near République, isn’t it?” Cade asked. “You’re careful, aren’t you?”

  Jaime gave her sister an ironic look, which was better than strangling her. For one thing, what Cade meant by “wilder” probably was just that the area north and east of République was considerably more working class and ethnically diverse than the Sixth, where Cade was. For another, Jaime was in the Marais, one of the most elite quarters in the city, even if she was only a couple of blocks from République. And finally, wilder than what? Madagascar? Côte d’Ivoire? Papua New Guinea? Cameroon, perhaps? Cade had no real clue what Jaime had been doing, did she?

  Cade flushed a little under Jaime’s look and set her jaw stubbornly. “I know it’s a romantic city, but it’s a city, nevertheless. Just make sure you pay attention. Don’t go wandering down empty streets in the middle of the night. Make sure no one’s within grabbing reach when you enter your code on the street late at night.” She shot an odd, sudden glance at Sylvai
n at that last and bit her lip. Sylvain, inexplicably, grinned.

  Jaime ground her teeth and focused on Philippe, sitting across from her, beside Magalie, who was so fashionable and sure of herself she made Jaime feel very freckled. She also wore such high heels that she always looked taller than Jaime, which was unfair, because Jaime was pretty sure she herself would be a couple inches taller if they ever got to meet on even footing. “So,” Jaime said brightly to Philippe, “I hear you are doing the, what do you call them, the pièces montées, for Cade’s wedding next month. I’m sure they’ll be stunning.”

  Philippe nodded his tawny head absently, clearly not finding any doubt in that and not remembering he should pretend to be modest. “We’ve got the expo next week first, though.” He nodded at Sylvain.

  Sylvain rolled his eyes. “If Richard doesn’t ruin it. I’m going to have the table right beside his again, I know it. We need a chocolatier whose last name starts with P.”

  Philippe shrugged. “He won’t do anything that would damage his work. Just ignore him when he tries to start a fight.”

  Jaime’s eyebrows went up. When he tried to start a fight? She remembered the moment when he’d looked ready to take on a whole mob. But—that was circumstantial, right? With her he had been so nice.

  “I wouldn’t put it past him to do something to destroy someone else’s work,” Sylvain said broodingly. “Trip someone carrying a chocolate sculpture, for example.”

  Philippe considered that, square chin on one hand. “He’s managed to restrain himself from doing it in the past,” he pointed out, not as if he felt it was any guarantee of future results.

  “I know. But you can feel the restraint.”

  “Look, don’t ask me to defend Dominique Richard.” For some reason, Philippe glanced at Magalie and away, his mouth hardening. “He’s an arrogant bastard. But you know, so are you, Sylvain.”

  “I am not a bastard,” Sylvain protested. “And I’m not arrogant, I’m just realistic. Richard is a bastard.”

  “C’est vrai,” Magalie suddenly intervened, her mouth curving in amusement. “Sylvain’s a sweetheart compared to Dom. That is, Sylvain, you just assume everyone will fall at your feet when you walk by, the same, ah, realistic way Philippe does.” She cast her fiancé a dark look. “But Dom—he knows he might have to bludgeon some people into bowing. He’s ready to do it.”

  Bludgeon. The word evoked an unfortunate visceral reaction in Jaime. But in her head, that hard face softened into boyishly grinning pleasure. Magalie didn’t mean bludgeon literally, she reminded herself.

  “Since when do you call him Dom?” Philippe asked Magalie sharply. “Are you getting to know him so well?”

  “He’s just being Dominique.” Magalie waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t let him get to you. That’s all he’s trying to do.”

  Philippe curled one hand around Magalie’s under the table, his face hard. Magalie leaned to whisper something in his ear. His mouth softened enough for one corner of it to curl up as he glanced down at her.

  Had Dominique Richard hit on Magalie? Jaime toyed with her fork. It figured. Magalie was intensely vivid and cute. There was just something about having the movie star flirt with someone she knew that made her . . . wistful.

  Still, what did she expect? Even though she wasn’t really attractive in the way Magalie and her sister were, she didn’t normally base all her worth on her looks. She had changed lives. Saved children. Found a break in the world and fixed it. She had been someone even a man like Dominique Richard could love, if he could get past the freckles. But right now . . . well, what did she have to offer him?

  Hey look, you know, I’m not gorgeous or anything, but I used to know how to fix the world, and now . . . I’m scared of it.

  She sighed and shoved the wistfulness away. If he hit on Magalie, he did; it wasn’t her business.

  And if his rivals thought he was a bastard, what did it matter? They probably thought that about each other and all their other rivals, too.

  She was quite sure plenty of her teenage movie star idols had been bastards when you got to know them. And like a teen idol, Dominique would probably be appalled that she might think something could develop between them. So she would just enjoy the crush for what it was.

  Bastard or not.

  CHAPTER 6

  “I can’t keep shaving every day,” Dom cursed the next morning, looking into the mirror above the sink outside the toilettes in the corner of the laboratoire. “It’s making my skin break out in a rash.” He ran his hand over the path of tiny red bumps around his jaw. He supposed a man with a rash looked less threatening than a man with a four-day growth of black scruff, but it couldn’t be sexy, could it?

  How long was this normal style of getting a woman interested in you supposed to take, anyway? He had built hopes yesterday, but then she had refused to use his first name and refused to give him her own, and he had known he had to pull back again or lose her. Then, later after the manif, he hadn’t dared, not so soon after letting her glimpse his true colors. He might have dipped himself in chocolate, but the fact was that no one who bit through his chocolate exterior would find a soft, sweet ganache inside. Even after years of therapy, he was ready to let fly with his fists at the first provocation. She hadn’t seemed to mind, but then she had just proven she had no sense about danger. He had minded for her.

  Merde, but this stuff was complicated. He kept trying to pretend she was chocolate because at least he understood that you could never rush chocolate, but since she persistently resembled a woman instead, it was hard for him to treat her like something he could stir with a spoon.

  Unfortunately.

  He sure would love to stir her with his “spoon,” he thought inappropriately, caught his own wicked grin in the mirror, and sighed. He was never going to learn to be a gentleman, was he? He wondered if she would let him make love to her for hours, though, absorbing him the way she did when she sat in his salon, the way she took his chocolates home and ate them all up in a night. She could eat him all up in a night.

  He was going to drive himself crazy thinking these things.

  “I’m not meant to shave this much,” he said, coming back into the kitchens, rubbing the back of his hand on his jaw.

  “That’s you, thin-skinned,” Célie said dryly, stretching her short body far out over the ganache she had just poured, in order to smooth it flat between two metal frames. She had started training under him when she was eighteen, escaped herself out of a bad situation. He had only been twenty-four back then, setting out on his own after six years training in other kitchens, none of which specialized in chocolate, an act of pure, stubborn insanity.

  “Such a sensitive man,” his caramellier Amand mocked, recovering a pot from one of the long sinks along the wall.

  “Famous for it, even,” Célie said.

  Great, his shaving issues were going to be the joke of the day.

  “Do you make sure to let the shaving cream sit for a couple of minutes before you shave?” Amand asked helpfully. “That makes all the difference.”

  Dom gave him an indignant look. His young caramellier had fine light brown hair and had to stop shaving for three days before you could even tell. What the hell did he know?

  “I have this really great cream I use on my legs afterward,” Célie volunteered. “Do you want me to bring you some to try?”

  He was probably the only maître chef in Paris who had employees who mouthed off to him this way. They followed his training to the minutest detail when it came to the production he was famous for, but they made up for it by being smart asses. As a rebel himself, he was lousy at imposing his will. His employees actually used tu with him. He could guarantee Sylvain’s and Philippe’s teams didn’t do that.

  “Just trying to be helpful,” Célie smirked, and smoothed the next frame of ganache.

  Putain. He hesitated beside Célie en route to the “hot” room, the cuisine, where the caramels, and baking, and cream-heating were done.
“Does it smell very feminine, your cream?” he asked awkwardly, sotto voce.

  Célie grinned. “Just like gardenias. That’s not a problem, is it?”

  Bordel de cul. He went to talk about the day’s work with his pastry team, all of whom had some advice on shaving. He wondered wistfully if he could fire Amand for passing it on so fast, but unfortunately, he liked the guy. Amand had been loyal to him from day one, had a hilarious sense of humor, and could work like a demon during the Christmas season. For that, Dom just had to put up with being the butt of his own staff’s jokes.

  Guillemette came up the stairs and lifted her eyebrows at him. Definitely he needed to give that girl a raise. She, at least, had been subtle.

  His heart pounding, he ran down the stairs.

  When he saw what was waiting for him at the bottom, he nearly ran right back up and fired Guillemette on the spot. Turned out, her eyebrow raising was way the hell too subtle.

  Jaime looked up right away at the sound of feet on the metal stairs. She followed all movements involuntarily these days, but never with that leap of hope in her heart.

  It reminded her of her freshman crush on a senior in high school. Finding excuses to linger with her friends places he might pass, giggling, imagining at night their great love story, not even jealous of his beautiful girlfriend because it was a crush and it was normal he wouldn’t be interested in a freshman. Other than her movie star crushes, it had been the funnest, safest interest in a man she had ever had.

  Dominique came down the stairs with the graceful speed of an athletic man who knew this territory so well he could have raced the twisting stairs blindfolded, not looking where his feet went, glancing . . . right toward her table.

  He smiled immediately when he saw her, and her heart started pounding. How could any man be so hot? That shaggy rebel black hair that needed a cut, the hard size of him, the way he moved. The intent almost-black eyes, the square smooth jaw, those big hands that made her body shiver with longing, as if they could lift her up like some baby chick, cupped warm in them and utterly secure. That rough, gentle voice of his, talking about flavors, until she wished she could become one of his.