Beyond the couch, a small dining area emptied into the hall entry. The centered antique bowlegged table surrounded by four uniquely mismatched chairs boasted an artful autumn arrangement of rust and gold leaves. Had he ever just missed her strolling in Golden Gate Park? Would he have noticed the cinnamon-haired pixie among the falling autumn leaves?
He continued down the hall into the kitchen, passing the closed bedroom door. His mother had insisted he learn how to use a can opener, manual and electric, and how to make a decent pot of coffee, saying that with those skills he would never starve to death.
Sam looked around and, even with his limited culinary acumen, he knew this kitchen belonged to someone who truly enjoyed cooking. Whitewashed cabinets with light lime walls and shades of green accents—his mother would call them accents—that looked like they had a purpose other than dust catching.
Well-used copper pots hung on a wall rack. White tile floors gleamed under a tall butcher-block table, and two whitewashed wood barstools stood at attention next to it. Pasta-filled glass containers lined one counter, bookended by a block of gourmet kitchen knives. A blender and a matching mixer with a silver bowl sat on the counter next to the Braun four-cup coffeemaker.
He picked up the green ceramic canister, opened it, and smelled the aroma. Mmm. The woman knew coffee. And thank God she had a coffee machine he knew how to use. He put in the filter and ladled out the coffee.
Then the insidious sounds of a running shower washed through the wall. Sam’s imagination went into hyperdrive. The hand that was measuring coffee into the white paper filter began to tremble, threatening to scatter grounds across the tile counter.
His fiery-haired Titania would be dropping her oversize sweater and tugging off leggings. What did a fairy queen wear under such a disguise? Bits of lace? Smooth satin? Nothing at all? Bebe in nothing but her own silken skin. Now there was an image on which to dwell…
Coffee. Make the coffee.
Dammit to hell. He hadn’t liked seventeen when he’d been seventeen. It had seemed to him like an interminable time when he’d had a constant hard-on and there wasn’t a thought that crossed his mind that didn’t involve sex. Planning it, getting it, having it. Serial sex was the only thing that mattered in a seventeen-year-old male mind. Fortunately seventeen had passed, and sanity had returned. And now here it was again.
Not that he hadn’t enjoyed women all these years in between. He had. He’d dated regularly, when it didn’t interfere with his work schedule. He’d even forced himself to be more diligent in his efforts to find a suitable wife in the past few months. He hadn’t counted on a return of his adolescent libido when he’d come face-to-face with Tinkerbell. He felt in imminent danger of beating on his chest and grunting, “Mine! Mine!”
Bebe didn’t seem like a woman who’d respond favorably to the caveman approach. He’d be overwhelming enough in physical size alone, rather like an Irish wolfhound panting after a teacup poodle. He needed to back off and stay cool, but knowing and doing were two very different things.
“Did you find everything you need?” Bebe stood in the doorway. She’d changed into a clingy pumpkin-colored long-sleeved knit top worn with a narrow mid-calf dark brown skirt. Soft suede boots disappeared up under the skirt. No more mystery about the curves hidden by the big sweater. They were right where they needed to be.
“Yes, I have—I did,” he said. The husky timbre of his voice sounded like a growl even to his own ears. He cleared his throat with a cough. “Coffee’s ready.”
“The cups are in the cupboard above.” She stepped forward and reached for the cabinet door. Sam reached at the same time, their fingers meeting on the handle. Their eyes met.
“Let me,” he said. Please, let me.
“Okay.”
He was really beginning to like the sound of that word from her lips. His body leaned closer to her, like a magnet searching north. He took an involuntary breath. Peaches mixed with vanilla infused his senses. Did she use peach-scented shampoo and vanilla bath soap or vice versa? Her red ringlets were still damp from the shower, beckoning his touch.
“Sam?”
“Hmm?” He leaned closer, her lips came closer, that plush lower lip the only thing in the world he could think about…
“Cups? Coffee?”
Cold water. “What? Yes, cups.” He opened the cabinet and brought down two mugs, forcing himself to concentrate on pouring the coffee.
“Do you think we should call Felix again?” She accepted the mug he filled and sipped the aromatic brew.
“No. He’ll call the minute he has any information.” Sam picked up his own mug and hung on with both hands. “Try not to worry. This shouldn’t take long to straighten out, and then you’ll have everything back to normal.”
Watching her now, he didn’t think his own life would ever be normal again, but that would be a serious improvement over the gray-flannel life he currently lived. He wanted her bright colors, sweet scents, and heart-stopping smiles in his world. He wanted her undivided attention. That meant finding the jerk who’d shuffled her shipments, wrecked her scheduling, and threatened to put her out of business. It meant putting a stop to him. And it needed to happen immediately.
“Are you ready to go?” he asked.
“Yes. I’ll just get a jacket.”
He watched her backtrack to her bedroom, watched the sway of her hips in the snug skirt. Maybe if she wore an Eskimo parka with a fur hood he could get through the rest of the day.
What were his chances? Pitiful.
Chapter Seven
Two hours later Sam was hip-deep in candy wrappers and gold boxes. Waterston’s packing room seemed the safest place for him, even if Bebe thought he looked a bit like Gulliver trying to look inconspicuous when he landed in Lilliput, but she had to give him credit for trying.
She refused to feel guilty.
She’d offered him the use of her office if he needed to take care of business calls. She’d tried to convince him she could handle things now that the vanilla was on its way.
She’d tried. The man was like hot taffy—he smelled great and he stuck like glue.
When he’d refused to be an idle bystander, she’d given him a job she’d thought would keep him out of trouble. He’d been delegated the job of placing the first layer of wrappers in the ten-pound boxes they’d be transporting to the benefit the following night. He didn’t look quite so intimidating with his jacket off and his shirtsleeves rolled up—that must be the good news.
The bad news was that he got more attractive the more clothes he discarded. When he’d taken his jacket off, shed his tie, tucked his cuff links in his pants pocket, and begun to roll up his shirtsleeves, every woman in the kitchen had been holding her breath. Even Greta, who’d turned seventy a week ago, had a distinctly lustful gleam in her eye. The Chippendale guys on their best night couldn’t have had a more attentive audience.
Bebe had made the executive decision to get him out of the kitchen and into wrapping before her staff decided to roll Sam in the chocolate, instead of the caramel nougat squares.
She couldn’t blame them. Broad, muscular shoulders flexed under the fine white cotton dress shirt that molded lovingly over an impressive chest. For a man who seemingly spent most of his time merging—let’s don’t go there—and raiding—there either—he had a rich tan. She’d noticed it on his forearms and in the vee opening when he’d unbuttoned his collar. It wasn’t a skier’s tan, more like someone who enjoyed the sun on their skin, on their whole body. My goodness, she was as bad as Greta. She hadn’t resorted to patting his butt as he passed the way her eldest employee had, but it was tempting.
“Bebe?” Sam’s voice snapped her to attention.
Had he noticed her staring? Her maman, descended from Luxembourg princes, would be mortified at her lapse in manners. But then Maman hadn’t seen Sam…yet.
“Yes.” She smiled her business 101 smile. “Problem?”
“No problem. I think I’ve got this down pa
t. You just had a wistful look on your face—I wondered if I could help.”
“Oh, mais non.” Smile brighter. “No, you’ve done more than I could ever have imagined. Really.”
The loading dock buzzer sounded, saving Bebe from further awkward explanations. She was sure Sam understood lust, but it was the first time she’d ever experienced firsthand the intensity of that particular emotion. And she didn’t know if she liked it.
Surely it was this intense because she was feeling vulnerable, stressed nearly to breaking, and Sam offered a strong hand. Who needed knightly armor and a white charger when you had Armani and a Jag? Funny, Bebe, very funny.
Just don’t get used to it.
Sam was not like Papa. Sam was a pirate, according to Mrs. T., used to taking over, making a profit, and moving on. That’s how a man got to be a Sam Sugarman—mover, shaker, number one on San Francisco’s list of top ten eligible bachelors. Sought after by society hostesses and hunted by debutantes citywide. Merging, raiding, riding off into the sunset, leaving a plethora of broken hearts strewn in his path. Plethora? Really, Bebe? Yes, really.
One had only to remember the number of recipients on his Waterston gift list to get a realistic look at the true Mr. Sugarman. Little Bebe Waterston had best tend to her bonbons and leave Sam to the barracudas, or one of those broken hearts would be hers.
…
The buzzer on the rear delivery door sounded midafternoon.
Angie reached the rear entrance first, and had just raised the rolling paneled door when Bebe and Sam arrived. A silver cargo van with Sugarman Transport scrawled on the side idled in the alley with the side door open. Wood crates stamped with the word “vanilla” in five languages were stacked three high in the rear.
A big man in a well-worn leather bomber jacket reached inside the van and hefted two of the containers. He swung around and aimed a deadly smile at Angie. “You must be Ms. Waterston,” he drawled in the same voice Bebe remembered.
“No. I’m Angie Cross, her assistant manager. But you must be Max. Please bring those this way.”
Bebe saw Max raise half a grin when Angie turned and started toward the storage room. He watched her walk. The half grin turned into a smile.
“Down, boy,” Sam ordered.
Bebe felt Sam come to a halt behind her. Close enough to be aware of his heat, but not touching. It was ever so tempting to take a step back. She resisted.
“You made good time,” he said.
“I always do.” Max shifted that lazy smile from Angie’s disappearing rear to Sam, and then to Bebe.
A heavy hand came to rest on her shoulder when he said, “This is Max Nolan, rescuer of your shanghaied vanilla. Max, Ms. Bebe Waterston.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” She took a step toward Max, but Sam’s hand held fast. “But please put those down.”
He stood there casually holding the two crates like they were filled with marshmallows instead of gallon jugs of vanilla.
“Just tell us where you want them stacked,” Sam said, stepping around her and heading for the van. “We’ll take care of it.”
“But you don’t have to—”
“Might as well tell us where you want these, ma’am,” Max said in a soft drawl. “I’ve never seen anyone stop him once he takes a notion.”
“You know, I’ve noticed that, too,” Bebe said as she watched Sam hoist two of the heavy crates out of the van.
“You’ve known him long?”
“About six hours, and I slept through two.”
Max let out a crack of laughter.
Bebe shot him a disgruntled glare. “This way, please.”
She led the way into the storage room where Angie was shifting supplies to make room for the vanilla.
“What’s so funny?” Sam asked when he came through the door behind them.
“Not a thing.” Bebe looked at Max, daring him to say a word.
Max set the crates where Angie indicated. “I’ll just go get a couple more of these.”
As Max left, Sam turned a questioning gaze toward Bebe. Bebe gave him an I-don’t-know-what-you-mean shrug and spoke to Angie. “We’ll need two gallons in the kitchen.”
“I’ll bring them in as soon as we’re unloaded,” Sam said, and he turned to go back for another two crates. “They’re too heavy for you ladies to lift.”
Angie stared at Bebe, her eyes squinted as though awaiting a blow. Bebe stared back.
“He didn’t really say that, did he?” she said behind clenched teeth.
“Surely not,” Angie said.
“Good. I’d hate to have to kill him just yet. We need his help.”
…
Sam motioned Max into Bebe’s office and closed the door. They’d been watching Bebe and her staff roll, dip, and dunk the confections for tomorrow night’s benefit and doing a fair amount of sampling in the process. He could have spent the rest of the day playing candy-man with his sweet temptress, but there still remained the matter of the bastard who was trying to wreck her business.
“What did you find out in Los Angeles?” Sam sat with great care in Bebe’s rickety old chair, remembering how she’d looked curled into it. He remembered the tears he’d brushed away and his promise to make things right. “Did you talk to the customs agent?”
“Yeah, a guy named Ralston. He said they got a tip from the local DEA, who said they were passing on information from the San Francisco bureau. I called an old pal who works in the bureau here and had him check it out.”
“Did he come up with anything?”
“Not much. It was an anonymous tip. They had to act on it because the guy gave them specific bills of lading and shipping schedules.”
“Did they check the shipment? Did they find any evidence the crates had been tampered with?”
“They checked several crates randomly. They even sample-tested the liquid. It’s vanilla—nothing added. Nothing.” Max leaned against the ancient file cabinet and shook his head. “All the seals and labels were intact. Ralston said it would have to have been contaminated at the manufacturer.” He reached for one of the truffles in the box on Bebe’s desk. “Customs declared it a nuisance call and released the shipment. ’Course having you vouch for Waterston’s sped things up considerably, but they intended to let it go.” Max popped the candy in his mouth.
“Thanks, buddy. I appreciate you handling it.”
Taking a moment to chew and swallow, Max held up a hand. “If you don’t mind my asking, my friend—how the hell did you get mixed up in this mess?”
With a straight face worthy of any boardroom showdown, Sam said, “She makes the best chocolates in the city.”
“Oh, yeah,” Max drawled. “I can see how that would have you sending a jet clear across the country to retrieve a few jugs of vanilla, not to mention rousting the entire Los Angeles legal staff to liberate that same vanilla. Customs didn’t know what hit them.” Max rubbed his chin. “No sir, I had no idea you were that fond of chocolate.”
“Stuff it.”
Max was never one to let go, and Sam knew he would push him as far as he could. Max never disappointed him.
“Well now,” he continued, “Miss Cross is tall, blond, gorgeous, and your chosen type, but she doesn’t seem to be the one you’re hovering over. Little Ms. Waterston is definitely not your type. So what’s a friend to think?”
“A friend can keep his thoughts to himself and his eyes off a certain redhead, if he knows what’s good for him,” Sam said, looking at Max with narrowed eyes.
“Ahhhh.” Max nodded. “Gotcha.”
…
Bebe knocked on her office door and stuck her head in. “Sorry to interrupt, but we need to move the van. Somebody needs to get through.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Max said. “I’m done here.”
Sam stood up from the chair behind her desk and did what he did so well—he issued another order. “Be sure to check with Mrs. T. She has a list of shipments we need picked up.”
“For the chocolates—right. I’ll handle it.” Max flashed Bebe his dangerous smile as he sauntered out of the office.
“Thanks for your help,” she said as he passed her.
“No sweat, Red. Watch out for wolves.”
Bebe watched the tall man cross the shipping floor and disappear out the delivery door. Thinking how he and Sam were two of a kind in more than just physical size, she didn’t even wonder how they’d become friends, but she would bet it was an interesting story.
Sam came to stand behind her. His big hand rested warmly on the nape of her neck.
“He’s a nice man—your friend Max.” The heat of his palm soothed her, settled her.
“A real prince, but don’t tell him I told you.” Sam flexed his hand, and she caught herself leaning back into his touch.
“So, how goes the candymaking?” he asked in his darkly masculine voice that resonated somewhere deliciously deep inside her. His strong hand massaged the back of her neck and the base of her skull. Bebe couldn’t resist closing her eyes, but she willed herself not to groan in pleasure. Her head rolled back, and his warm breath brushed against her cheek.
“Bebe.” His voice was a husky whisper.
“Hmmm?” His touch sent heat rushing through her, her skin quivered, and her knees threatened to liquefy. With her last grasp on reality, she opened her eyes. Sam eased her around to face him.
She gazed up into arctic gray-blue seas where emotions roiled and desire emerged the victor. She could no longer deny the need she saw in his eyes—it was surely mirrored in her own.
“I don’t want to rush you, baby.” His eyes focused on her mouth. “But I can’t not do this—” His mouth fused with hers.
Her lips pillowed his, instinctively opening to let him in. His mouth softened with her acceptance; his tongue caressed and coaxed response. He tasted of chocolate and coffee and Sam.
God help her, she wanted more.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and hung on.
Suddenly she felt herself lifted off her feet, and fear arced through her, banishing the heat. A chill as cold as the arctic color of Sam’s eyes roared through her. She jerked her head back with a gasp. Making a hard fist, she punched him in the shoulder with all her might. “Put me down!”
Bride by Chocolate (Death by Chocolate) Page 6
