“I’m glad I could help.”
Bebe pushed her hair back, running her fingers through the curls. “This is fantastic. But, mon Dieu, there’s so much to get done. I’d better call the shop and let Angie know. She’ll notify the crew. We’ll be able to get the benefit selections done in time, and your orders, of course.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“Mais non, Sam, your order comes first. You made it possible.”
Sam felt like a returning hero in a ticker tape parade. He straightened desk items, enjoying the slight French lilt to her speech.
While Bebe made her call, Mrs. Trumble came in, bused the dishes, and replenished the hot water in the teapot. As she went out the door, she shot Sam a very serious look. Now what did that mean? Hadn’t it been her idea to send him to help? Never mind. He went back to watching Bebe.
Sam was unaccustomed to his response to being near this diminutive sprite. Like he wanted to smile, needed to giggle. Like when he’d gotten the Schwinn racing bike when he turned ten and was finally tall enough for his feet to reach the ground. Like Scrooge on Christmas morning, when the world seemed brand-new, and everything he wanted was his for the taking.
He’d dated half the women in San Francisco and not one had inspired him to a third date. A few had warranted a second date to be absolutely sure, but none a third.
Now this cinnamon-haired pixie had been dropped in his lap like a box of chocolates.
And he didn’t intend to share.
Bebe tucked her cell phone into her bag and uncurled from the depths of the couch. She folded the cashmere throw in a neat square and hugged it to her.
“I’d better go, Sam.” She petted the blanket, and Sam watched her hand stroke the softness.
“I’ll take you.”
“You don’t have to.” She continued to stroke. The delicate yet sensuous movement of her hand mesmerized him.
“I think it’s best, considering.” Oh, yeah, considering he had no intention of letting her out of his sight anytime soon.
“I don’t want to impose—”
“This situation is far from over. We need to stay in focus until things are resolved. Until we find out who’s doing this and stop them—permanently.” Until I’m sure you are completely mine. “Are you ready to go?”
“I need to use the ladies’ room first.”
She set the blanket down on the couch, and Sam felt like he’d been released from a trance. He’d never look at that blanket in quite the same way again. He wondered if the blanket would smell like her now.
Sam realized she was looking at him expectantly.
“What? Oh, the restroom. Through that door and to the right.” Get a grip, buster. Before she realizes what your real agenda is all about. That was easier said than done, he thought, watching her hair shine and her shapely legs carry her into the next room.
…
Bebe went through the door and found herself in a fully equipped compact gym, complete with a well-worn punching bag. Everything a body would need to maintain the impressive physique Sam Sugarman strolled around in. She tried not to imagine him working out, muscles straining. Sweaty. Gleaming. Mon Dieu…
Did he ever go home? He had everything right here. A gym, a spa, and a twenty-four-hour deli. She decided not to look closer in case a king-size Murphy bed materialized from the wall. A workaholic who enjoyed all the comforts of home at the office would not be a good candidate for a serious relationship. Maybe that’s why he dated all those women, and never the same one twice to her knowledge. Not one had rated a second box of Waterston chocolates. Ever. She’d checked.
She found the bathroom and the cold water. Dousing her face helped clear the X-rated image of Sam working out. Looking in the mirror, she thought she might be better served drowning herself in the Jacuzzi in the corner.
Bebe finger-combed her hair, despairing at the results. She looked like a four-year-old just woken from a nap, cranky and creased. Her hair stuck out in all directions, her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes looked puffy. She didn’t need a mirror. She needed a bag over her head.
C’est la vie, as Papa would say. The vanilla was being delivered, she’d have the candies for the benefit, and Sam was on her side. A shower and a change of clothes would fix everything else.
After making the most of the luxurious facilities, she rejoined Sam. She couldn’t wait to get home and then to the shop. She had truffles to make, and Valentine’s Day was less than two weeks away. For the first time in over two months, things seemed to be under control. Did she dare take a deep breath?
Chapter Six
Sam followed Bebe’s directions, turning left on Chestnut, then a short right at Larkin, driving deeper into the heart of the Russian Hill area, toward her apartment.
“Right again at the corner.”
He made the turn onto a tree-dappled street where Victorian-style houses stood elbow to elbow like dowagers at an Easter parade. Decked out in rainbow hues, each one was a testament to the affectionate regard in which San Franciscans held their “Painted Ladies.” Each late-nineteenth-century structure showed meticulous restoration. The detailing in paint and color tones brought to mind the Fabergé eggs he’d seen on display at one of his mother’s museum events.
Looking down the street, he tried to imagine his own black-marble-and-stainless-steel high-rise security building muscled in among the three-story gingerbread manses. He couldn’t. He also couldn’t imagine calling one of these dollhouses home, but he could easily see why they would appeal to the pixie sitting beside him. He could negotiate—but only if it wasn’t pink.
“Which one?” he asked.
“The third one on the right. My landlady Gracie named it the ‘Very Berry.’ Isn’t it lovely?”
“Incredible.”
He pulled the sedan to the curb in front of a two-and-a-half-story structure, if one counted the attic, done in every berry color imaginable, edible or not.
Boysenberry siding, raspberry railings, strawberry gingerbread, loganberry window sashes, and holly berry for a bit of bright trim. Do you live in it or eat it? The whimsical house seemed to laugh with him, and charmed him. Perhaps blue wouldn’t be so bad…
As Sam got out and came around the car to open Bebe’s door, the flutter of a lace curtain in the front bay window caught his eye. He watched it settle into place and still.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“Someone’s watching us.”
“From almost every house on the block, I’m sure.” She smiled and reached for the hand Sam extended. “It’s the Victorian version of neighborhood watch—everyone knows everyone’s business.”
With her hand in his, he pulled her toward him. Staring into her big brown eyes, once again overwhelmed by the need to pick her up and crush her to his chest, Sam fought his impulse. The need to protect her warred with his need to stake a claim neither of them could refute. Accomplishing both would suit him perfectly.
“Bebe! Bebe!”
The shrill voice set Sam’s back teeth to grinding. Not only did they have a neighborhood watch, they had their own early-warning siren. He glanced up to see the siren, a plump pigeon in a purple print muumuu, waving aggressively from the porch.
“Good morning, Gracie.” Bebe looked past him, her smile widening.
“Don’t ‘good morning’ me. There’s nothing good about it. The cards are terrible. Come in—come in right now before you’re struck by lightning on my front stoop.”
Sam looked up at the cloudless sky and then back at Bebe.
Her smile turned to concern.
“Come on.” She clutched his hand, tugging him up the walkway. “Hurry.”
Bebe hadn’t mentioned that her landlady had mental problems, but she obviously intended to humor her. He followed her up the steep wooden steps covered by a cranberry carpet runner. When they stepped onto the porch, which sank back between the two turrets, they were tugged and shoved through the stained-glass-inset oak doors, like sheep herded by a b
order collie with an attitude.
As the landlady shooed them into the foyer and bolted the doors behind them, her silver hair spread in a crinkled fan around her shoulders, and bangles clinked in waves up her arms.
Gracie had both hands planted on ample hips when she faced them. She stared him straight in the eye. He felt like a germ-ridden bug under microscopic inspection, but he’d learned early in his corporate career to never flinch.
He stared back.
Since she didn’t immediately force him back out the door, he figured he’d passed the test. He had no idea why he felt so relieved, but he did.
“Excuse us just one moment, young man.” Gracie grabbed Bebe’s hand, dragging her into the open apartment door on the right of the foyer, and shut the door in his face. He heard the lock clunk into place.
Through the door, Bebe’s protest was drowned out by Gracie’s parrotlike tones. If she thought the barrier would prevent his hearing what she had to say, she needed to rethink it.
“The cards say an evil man—yes, a man—I’m sure a man—is working hard to do you harm. It’s very clear. Very. And then when I saw you get out of that car with that man—my goodness—my heart stopped. Really, dearest—”
“Gracie. Gracie!” Bebe’s voice rose above the bird screech. “It’s not Sam. He’s helping me. He would never hurt me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, absolutely. Whoever is actually causing the scheduling screwups must be the man you saw.”
A tight feeling across his chest made Sam flex his shoulders. He expected unconditional trust from his family, but Bebe barely knew him. Of course he would never hurt her, but how did she know that? Her instant defense on his behalf pleased him to the bone. Certain he’d find another silly grin on his face, he avoided the mirror over the umbrella rack and waited for Bebe to convince Gracie he was the good guy.
A minute later she pulled the door open. “Gracie, this is Sam Sugarman, and he’s going to help me straighten out my computer problem.” Bebe pushed Gracie toward him. “This is Gracie Halloran, my friend and my landlady, and she says you’re absolutely right. There is someone trying to ruin Valentine’s Day.”
“Oh dear,” the emotional woman burst out, grabbing the hand he’d extended and hugging it to her robust bosom. “I’m afraid I thought the worst when Bebe arrived with a stranger, but I can see by your aura, you couldn’t possibly be the man in the cards. Please forgive me?”
“Nothing to forgive. Did the cards tell you anything else we should look for?” Sam asked the question with a straight face and an open mind. He’d lived his entire life in San Francisco, where nothing seemed past the realm of the improbably possible. Hadn’t he just found his own pixie?
Gracie frowned, squinted, and then shook her head in the negative. “No. Just arguments with a big man concerning business. This man is very sneaky—a snake in the woodpile, if you get my meaning.” She patted his hand and released him, but not before turning his palm up to examine it.
“Gracie.” Bebe’s tone was a warning. “Let him go.”
Gracie dropped his hand, the picture of innocence. “Just checking.”
He chuckled. The Haight-Ashbury escapee cared about Bebe. Her efforts to protect Bebe endeared her to Sam as nothing else could. Any foibles she might have were okay with him. He looked at his palm. “I’d love to know what you see, but right now we have to meet a shipment of vanilla.”
“Oh yes,” Bebe said. “Sam rescued my vanilla from the customs people in Los Angeles. It’ll be here this afternoon. Truly miraculous.” She kissed Gracie on the cheek. “I came home to change. Gotta run. We’ll be at the factory. I’m going to teach Sam to make bonbons. This way,” she said, flitting up the staircase.
Sam remembered chasing butterflies in Golden Gate Park when his mother had done her photographic studies on local flora and fauna.
He remembered his long-handled net with longing.
And he remembered his feeling of determination to catch the prettiest butterfly in the park.
He had the same feeling now.
He took the steps after Bebe three at a time.
At the top of the stairs she doubled back along a narrow railed hallway to open a moss-green door. The foyer and stairwell were done in shades of moss and mint, carpeted in evergreen floral. Sam wondered if Bebe’s place would be equally colorful.
He lived in gray tones with slashes of chrome; the condo apartment had been that way when he moved in. Glenna had dumped five red postage-stamp pillows on his couch, declaring that his apartment looked like a fifties sitcom before the advent of color TV. His mother suggested he hire another decorator, but he didn’t have time to deal with that. He’d told her his wife would take care of it; she’d pointed out he didn’t have a wife.
He entered Bebe’s apartment with equal parts curiosity and trepidation, then realized he was reacting the same as if he’d entered his parents’ house or his grandmother’s. Warmed, comforted, at home. He looked around, trying to decide what made him respond that way.
“Come in. Ignore the mess,” she said. Bebe crossed the living room to straighten plump pillows on the bench seat in the half-moon alcove. She returned the open book lying there to a stack on the oval coffee table. Light flooded through the five narrow windows that curved around the turret alcove.
“What mess? This is nice.” He followed her through the door.
“Go home, buster,” chirped an avian voice.
Bebe laughed. She walked over to a birdcage nearly her height. Budgie Disneyland in a gold cage. The chubby yellow inmate continued his tirade. “Go home, buster. Beat it, buddy.” The small bird hopped to the side of the cage, as close as possible to where Bebe stood. “Tweety is a pretty boy. Tweety loves Bebe.”
“I love you, too, Tweety.”
“Go home, buster. Tweety loves Bebe.”
“Tweety, behave.” She turned back to Sam. “Papa taught him a few phrases. He’s very smart.”
The morning light through the tall narrow windows turned her hair into a shimmering halo and put a golden glow on her cheeks. She looked like an angel descended on streams of gold dust.
Papa should have taught the bird to say, “Touch her and die.”
“He’s cute.” Sam closed the apartment door and walked toward her. A toast-colored pillow-couch faced the coffee table where piles of well-thumbed volumes formed neat rows down the middle. He looked around the room and then back at Bebe; a funny little half smile graced her face.
“Is it what you expected?” she asked.
“Nothing is what we expect, is it?”
She looked serious for a moment, gazing at him intently. “No. I guess it isn’t. Would you like coffee?”
“I would. But why don’t I make it while you shower? Just point me toward the kitchen.”
Suddenly she looked shy, as if she’d just realized she was about to get naked with a strange man loose in her apartment. He watched, fascinated, while emotions raced across her face, shy, shocked, doubtful and then determined, as though she’d made up her mind about something important. Sam waited for the words.
“Okay.” As she crossed the room, she said, “The kitchen’s at the end of the hall. The coffee is in the green canister next to the coffeemaker. Cups are in the cabinet above. I’ll only be a few minutes.”
He mustered up his best trust-me smile. “No rush. We’ve got plenty of time.”
She paused at a door midway down the hall and glanced back at him as if trying to decide exactly what he meant by that. Then her smile widened and she disappeared into what he assumed was her bedroom. Someday soon she’d invite him in. His mouth watered.
“Go home, buster. Beat it, buddy.”
“Forget it, birdbrain. I’m here to stay.” Sam turned his back on the irate bird and took another moment to look around. He tried to take in every detail of the place Bebe called home. He wanted to know everything about her.
Why had this elfin creature sent him into a tailspin? She w
asn’t his type. Not blond. Not statuesque—she’d need a ladder to look him in the eye. What in the world had possessed him?
He studied the room, thinking perhaps it could answer his questions if he searched hard enough.
Caramel-colored walls bordered by cream-colored moldings gave the room warmth, while the big mushy pillows lounging around the window seat invited a dedicated reader to cuddle up with a book. A small electric heater sat under the sturdy plank coffee table to ward off a foggy chill. He imagined her snuggled up with one of those books on a wintry Sunday morning. And he could see himself opposite, reading the Sunday paper, playing footsie, sipping coffee… Playing footsie? Footsie? OMG, to quote Felix.
Sam looked closer at the volumes piled high: best sellers, mysteries, romances, recipe books, and current books on finance. Interesting. Many of these same books were on his bedside table, especially the ones discussing finance.
The far wall featured three framed diplomas: a UCSB bachelor’s in economics, an MBA at Stanford, and a certification of graduation from the Culinary Institute of America at Greystone, Saint Helena, California.
He could be in big trouble here. A fortuitous and timely insight, without a doubt.
He’d been taking over like a corporate buyout, but once Bebe got her feet under her and a good night’s sleep, she would likely resent his high-handed technique. He sure as hell would. Miss Waterston was no lightweight, her weight not withstanding.
Before that happened, and she tossed him out like a used candy wrapper, he needed to solidify his position in her life. Convince her she needed him for the long term.
Diplomas or not, she wasn’t like his mother or Glenna, who devoured corporate sharks for snacks. Bebe was sweet and much too delicate to survive in the cutthroat world of big business.
So from now on, she had him to watch out for her and Waterston Chocolatiers—he just needed her to accept the wisdom of that concept. Piece of cake—or candy. Sure.
Sam figured he’d better get the coffee made before she caught him snooping through her things and threw him out. He’d avoided that fate once today. He didn’t want to push his luck.
Bride by Chocolate (Death by Chocolate) Page 5
