His face burned. He dropped the traitorous silver box onto his sister’s lap. “You know Mother made me swear not to tell you that you were adopted,” he said in a serious voice.
Glenna sputtered and spit out the caramel she’d just put in her mouth. “Dammit, Sam.”
“Well, what am I going to do?”
“Send Waterston’s. What’s the big deal?”
Sam reached over and pushed the intercom button. “Could you come in here, please?”
The door opened on Mrs. Trumble dressed in her signature pink. She’d spiced it up today with the Irish lace collar he’d brought back on his last trip to Belfast. He’d make a note to pick up something similar when he went to Belgium next month.
“Did you happen to find out why Waterston’s couldn’t deliver my order today?”
Glenna did a poor job of stifling a giggle. Sam ignored her.
“I spoke to Miss Waterston, as I told you. Such a lovely girl.” She smiled, then frowned at him. “I’m so sorry you weren’t here when she came to visit.”
“Yes. A pity,” Sam agreed. His big sister snickered.
“Anyway,” Mrs. Trumble continued, “she didn’t really explain the particulars, just that they were having shipping difficulties, something about the computer, and they were unable to meet their commitments. She didn’t want to risk disappointing you. Very considerate, don’t you think?”
“It would have been a helluva lot more considerate if she’d delivered the damn chocolates. Shut up, Glenna.”
Mrs. Trumble raised an eyebrow at the ill-timed guffaw. Glenna straightened in her chair and tugged her skirt down to her knees. Sam admired the way she could do that. It never failed, that one eyebrow thing. Always worked on him, too, come to think of it. Now, when she turned to look at him with an expectant gleam in her eyes, Sam knew it’d be easier to solve the problem than resist.
“A computer problem?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Where is Waterston’s? What’s this woman’s name again?”
“I’ll make a note of it and leave it on your desk.”
“Fine. I’ll stop by there in the morning and see if there’s anything I can do to expedite matters. How serious can it be?”
“Quite right.” She smiled as though he’d aced a test. “I’m sure you’ll know just what to do. I’ll get the address for you.” Mrs. Trumble winked at Glenna on her way out the door.
Sam wondered, not for the first time, if all the women in his life knew something he didn’t.
Miss Waterston amounted to only a tiny glitch in his otherwise perfect plan, and he intended to deal with her before another candidate tossed chocolates in his face. He certainly wouldn’t let her computer screw things up now. His father had been happily married to his Norse goddess for nearly forty years, and Dad swore it was chocolate that had clenched her capture.
If Sam could do the same, he’d be a happy man like his father. And, like his father, he wouldn’t accept less.
Tomorrow he’d deal with the problem at Waterston. Hell, he’d buy Waterston’s whole factory if that’s what it took to put those people back on track. Then he’d resume his quest for the elusive future Mrs. Sugarman.
He popped another chocolate in his mouth. Second best would never do.
Chapter Two
Waterston Chocolatiers LTD. Scrolling across the glass-windowed front door, the gold-script lettering held its own in an understated way. Sam trailed his fingers across the words. Elegant and expensive, but worth the investment if his father was to be believed.
It was nine o’clock Thursday morning. Sam knocked on the door of Waterston Chocolatiers Ltd. prepared to deal with whatever held up delivery of his chocolates.
The small storefront occupied the corner of a two-story redbrick building in a fashionably aging section of the city. Narrow brick buildings, sandwiched around the block, housed clothing boutiques, coffee specialists, and shops selling collectibles of every sort. Eclectic but synergistic. There was a great deal of activity in the area, even at this time of day.
Whether these particular chocolates had been instrumental in bringing his parents together, he hadn’t asked, but his father never missed an opportunity to present a gold-cherub-embossed box of delicacies to his mother, and the sensual smiles they shared set a room ablaze.
Sam pushed the lighted buzzer button.
Inside the shop, no one was visible. Half walls of glossy oak surrounded gleaming hardwood floors. Cream brocade wallpaper reached to the ceiling’s ornate crown molding. Gold and glass cabinets sparsely stocked with gold foil boxes—boxes filled with chocolates?—punctuated the floor space.
Sam pressed the buzzer again and held it.
“Just a minute, I’m coming,” a svelte feminine voice called out.
A tall, slender blond woman in a tailored navy suit his sister would have envied came through swinging half doors at the far side of the largest glass counter. She smiled and shook her head. “We’re not open until ten o’clock.” She pointed toward the window where a clock sign pointed arms at ten and twelve.
“I came to see Miss Waterston. I’m Sam Sugarman. Is she here?”
The blonde’s eyes widened and she rushed to the door. She reached for the dead bolt, twisted, and opened the door, extending her hand.
“Come in.” She shook his hand, pulling him into the shop. “I’m Angie Cross, Miss Waterston’s assistant manager. Please have a seat. I’ll tell her you’re here.” Then, high heels clicking a sharp tattoo, she charged back through the half doors.
Sam looked around at the antique spindle-wood chairs and decided against sitting. Miss Waterston might cut him from her client list completely if he squashed one of her little teatime chairs.
Moments later, hearing voices, he turned to face the sound. The two half doors swung open.
Sam swallowed hard. Blinked twice.
“I’m Bebe Waterston.” The cinnamon-haired waif held out her hand, walking around the counter toward him. “What can I do for you, sir?”
Have my baby.
Sam blinked again, and his throat tightened. An exquisite tremor scaled his back, standing his nape hair on end. He looked down at the slender hand she held out to him. Compared to his, it was a perfect five-fingered, pink-nailed hand in miniature. He lifted his own, one that could easily grasp a basketball, and clasped hers. With any luck, he’d never have to let go.
Had his heart stopped? Could he breathe?
Here stood a changeling in place of the Nordic goddess he’d always thought he wanted.
Titania made mortal? Pixies and fairy-tale princesses were stuff of dreams, but never his dreams. Not in his plans…
The lack of oxygen to his brain threatened to become a problem. And still he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Gazing up at him through thick-fringed lashes, her whiskey-colored eyes were curious but not wary.
She looked down at the hand he’d captured, giving a tentative tug. He would have to let go. He shook her hand instead. “Please, call me Sam.”
“Sam.” The plump cherry mouth curved into a smile, creating the two most kissable dimples the good Lord ever put on a face.
He was drunk on the sight.
“Sam?” She gave another tug. He let her go. Temporarily.
“I came to see what the problem is—” he said, drawing his hand back, sliding it into his pants pocket, resisting the urge to reach for her again. “Concerning my orders. My assistant was worried. She thought I might be able to help. To ease her mind—Mrs. Trumble has taken quite a fancy to you, it seems—I said I’d drop by.” Did he sound like a complete fool, or what?
“I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience, but as I explained, we’re having delivery problems. Right now a shortage of vanilla is our biggest issue. It’s the reason we couldn’t deliver your particular request.”
“Vanilla?”
“Right.”
“I take it this isn’t your everyday, garden-variety supermarket i
tem?”
“No, it isn’t.”
She looked so serious. The determined tilt of her chin made him hesitate to ask, but maybe he could solve the problem and get on with the courtship, a much more important concern than chocolate or vanilla, now that he’d found her.
“This may seem simplistic, but couldn’t you just make me up a few boxes with ordinary vanilla? I won’t tell, and no one would be the wiser.”
“Mr. Sugarman!”
The look of horror on her face wouldn’t have been more heartfelt if he’d confessed to being Bluebeard’s brother—indeed, she might have felt some sympathy, but not for someone who would counterfeit ingredients. From her expression, there could be no greater blasphemy.
“Sorry. I forgot myself,” he said.
So much for shortcuts.
Sam reevaluated, taking a different tack. In business, his father had always valued Sam’s instincts. His father liked to say his son was like a shark, a calm, sure, emotionless predator—the bigger the crisis, the calmer Sam got—and it was time to take care of whatever problems were vexing his elfin princess. Then she could forget about food items and concentrate on him.
He looked into her eyes with as much sincerity as he could muster. “Exactly what seems to be holding up your order?”
“Look, I appreciate your offer to help, but I really don’t see how your knowing all the gory details could help either of us.”
Her sharp-edged tone let him know he was pushing her patience, but he had no intentions of budging until he had some kind of claim on her. “Let me be the judge of that. May I call you Bebe?”
“Of course. But—”
“No buts necessary.” Sam gave her his most endearing trust-me smile and gazed directly into her narrowing amber eyes. “Besides, what would Mrs. Trumble say if I came back without at least making an effort to help?”
She couldn’t be much over five feet. Five two, maybe? He topped her by more than a foot and outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds, but he could tell by the militant jut of her chin that she entertained thoughts of throwing him out.
While she hesitated, his attention was drawn to the hip-length cable-knit sweater she wore, in a color he’d heard his sister describe as raspberry. It skimmed hints of the curves underneath, but where it stopped at the top of well-shaped firm thighs it gave him sufficient hope the rest of her matched the promise of those legs. Surprisingly long legs for such a tiny thing. Snug raspberry leggings that disappeared into matching mini high-tops—shoes Magic Johnson could have used for key-chain ornaments—finished the look. She was a wonder. Sam was knocked out, down for the count, throwing in his towel. Stunned to his core by his own reaction.
She opened her mouth, obviously to utter another protest, but stopped when she heard Ms. Cross call out, “Bebe, I’ve got the port of Los Angles traffic manager on the line.”
“Excuse me. I have to take this call.” She spun on one raspberry-shod foot and dashed through the swinging doors.
There wasn’t another option. He followed.
The doors opened into a large kitchen where acres of stainless steel tabletop lay barren. Marble counters lined tile walls, the pristine white reflected in the stainless steel. Marble rolling pins, like soldiers at attention, hung waiting for candymakers to return. The smell of vanilla and chocolate hung heavy in the air like a drug.
Sam quickened his step when Bebe raced through another doorway. This room, filled with mountains of gold foil boxes, barrels of tinted cellophane wrap, stacks of molded box liners, and a rack of metallic gold ribbon, showed clearly the path each piece of candy followed as it made its way to fame as a Waterston chocolate.
The system was clear even though no one was about.
The candies were brought in, placed in shaped liners, liners then deposited in gold boxes, boxes cellophane sealed, ribboned, then stacked. Very efficient for such a small operation. He admired efficiency.
Bebe disappeared out a rear door, Sam hot on her pixie-quick heels. She scooted down a short hall and through a door on the left where Ms. Cross stood sentinel. “Line one,” she said, as Bebe dodged around her.
Sam eased past the assistant manager and into an office that wouldn’t have qualified as a broom closet in Sugarman Towers. Two tall file cabinets, an ancient oak desk sporting a state-of-the-art computer system, and a seen-better-days executive swivel chair, where Bebe now perched listening to the person on the phone, filled the minuscule space.
He squeezed his six-foot-two frame in behind her chair and leaned down so he could see the schedules scrolling down the monitor. Bebe watched the screen and “uh-huhed” to the person on the other end.
Sam leaned closer, trying to concentrate on the shifting shipping schedules and failing miserably.
God, she smelled like heaven.
A whiff of vanilla and a hint of spice wrapped in a floral bouquet drew him nearer. When Bebe tucked her cinnamon curls back in annoyance, there was a tender spot right behind her small shell-shaped ear that made Sam light-headed. The scent there would be an aphrodisiac if he could nuzzle just that one little bite—bit…
His nearness didn’t seem to alarm her, so he rested a hand on either side of her chair, enclosing her and making it possible to position his cheek a touch away from hers.
Paradise within reach.
Suddenly the flitting images on the computer screen began to take on meaning in his Bebe-soaked brain.
What the hell was going on here?
Bebe’s exclamation, “Oh my God. We’re ruined!” served to emphasize his question.
“Explain this,” he demanded, tapping the monitor.
“Hold on, Mr. Knorrson.” Bebe glared up at him through eyes a bit too shiny. “I did.” Her stubborn chin quivered. “Pay attention. Our white chocolate is on its way to San Frangelino, Brazil, the milk chocolate is going to San Marco, and the Lindt bitter is arriving within the hour at Watertown in San Bernardino. Your precious vanilla has been impounded by customs at the dock in San Pedro for suspected drug smuggling because of an anonymous tip. Now, is that enough for you, or would you like me to go on?”
“I do see a pattern here,” Sam said. “May I?” Taking the computer mouse from Bebe’s hand, he began to reverse the schedules.
“Did you think I imagined it?” She waved a fist at the computer. “It’s been like this for weeks. I’ve been handling it, managing to reship and correct orders, calling in favors from every European vendor I know.” A sound between a sob and a hiccup escaped. “But now it’s gone completely crazy!”
The near-tears quaver in her voice made things very simple. He would straighten out this mess, then find the son of a bitch responsible and make him pay for every tear.
“Hang up the phone. Tell the man you’ll get back to him.”
Chapter Three
The steel in Sam Sugarman’s voice got her attention. The stone-cold eyes he focused on her computer screen sent a shiver up her spine. Bebe did as he ordered. She hung up the phone.
Stunned at Sam’s audacity, and even more shocked at her own compliance, Bebe turned to stare at the man who’d invaded the store, her office, her computer and, even more devastating, her senses. Over six feet, built like a giant redwood, handsome as sin itself, and now seriously annoyed.
She’d been waiting for this particular call to find out if other items would be late, and she didn’t have time to deal with tall, dark and drop-dead-gorgeous right now.
What was he doing here?
Racing through the kitchen and shipping, down the hall to her office, she swore she’d felt his breath on the back of her neck.
He was so much better-looking in person than newspaper and magazine photos led her to believe. Was that possible?
And Prince Charming was a chocoholic?
Could her day get any worse?
“This is no virus,” he said in a voice sounding more like a snarl. “This is sabotage.”
She stared up at him. People must view tornadoes with the same
fascination. Or fear.
Sam pulled out a sliver-thin smartphone from his inside suit pocket, tapping on it while continuing to scroll through schedules on her monitor. “But I think we can fix this.” He issued orders that she obeyed like a mesmerist’s willing subject.
He tapped the monitor. “Print these shipping schedules out for me, and type in Waterston’s access codes so I can download—Felix, it’s Sam,” he said into the phone. “I’ve got a problem here at Waterston Chocolatiers. We’re going to need a bit of your expertise to straighten things out.” He tucked the phone to his shoulder while he tapped numbers on the keyboard. “You should be getting the information in a minute. Hold on.”
He nodded at Bebe to continue.
“Got it? Okay. As you can see, Miss Waterston is having some difficulties with her shipping schedules. Yes…right…someone is…I want to find out who’s responsible and I want to catch the bastard ASAP. Drop everything else. This is a priority. Do whatever you have to do. Let me know the minute you discover anything.”
He tapped another number on his phone.
“Mrs. T., good morning. Yes, I’m at Waterston’s. Yes, we’re handling the problem. Yes, I knew you’d approve. Yes, she is, just as you said. Yes, I’ll tell her—but first I need you to find Max. When you do, have him call my cell. Thanks.” He tapped the phone again, blanked the screen, and slid it back into his inside blazer pocket.
While he’d been talking, Sam had typed in what looked like signal codes and more access codes, and her computer was now spilling its guts to someone named Felix.
Schedules rolled past, along with orders, routings, reroutings. Bebe watched the whole debacle of the last two months scroll across the screen. The tightening in her throat was a sure indicator of tears about to burst forth.
Damn, what a mess. She’d worked so hard to avert disaster, and now she knew with absolute certainty, this wasn’t a run of bad luck, or her lack of computer savvy. Someone wanted to ruin her family’s business. Ruin Valentine’s Day.
“Valentine’s Day,” she cried. “That’s it, Sam. It’s less than two weeks away. It provides a major portion of Waterston’s yearly revenue. If we miss it, we really will be bankrupt.”
Bride by Chocolate (Death by Chocolate) Page 2
