by Teri Wilson
She managed to stop smirking long enough to sell four dark chocolate Cabernet Sauvignon truffles to a pair of tourists with fanny packs strapped to their waists. At least the wine-inspired truffles were moving. And they’d nearly sold out of the sea salt maple bacon chocolate hearts. Deep down, Juliet still harbored the tiniest bit of hope that her chocolate bacon hearts would win the coveted Best of Balloon Fest Award, an honor bestowed on the finest culinary or beverage item featured at the festival. This being the wine country, the prize was typically awarded to one of the many local wines on offer. Once an olive oil made from locally grown olives had taken the prize, though. So winning wouldn’t be completely without precedent.
She had a good feeling about the maple bacon hearts. Bacon was very trendy at the moment. Who didn’t love bacon? Besides vegetarians and, well, pigs.
Speaking of pigs...
“Is that George, the self-proclaimed prince of everything, over there talking to your lover?” Alegra had apparently forgone any attempt at subtlety and was staring blatantly at the Mezzanotte tent.
Juliet gave her a sharp nudge in the ribs. “Stop looking at them. Please. Just pretend they don’t exist, George in particular. And for the last time, I’m not sleeping with Leo.”
“Yes, you mentioned that. In fact, you’ve said it so many times that I don’t believe it for a minute. If you haven’t slept with him yet, it’s only because your dog’s suicide attempt threw a kink in things.” Alegra’s gaze darted again to the Mezzanotte tent. “I have to admit, though, I almost understand. He’s hot. Like, crazy hot. Why didn’t anyone tell me how gorgeous he is? He probably heats up that hot chocolate just by winking at it.”
“He actually does it the old-fashioned way and uses a saucepan.” Not that the winking wouldn’t work.
He looked awfully good in those chef’s whites he was wearing. Oh-so-proper and quite French, with Le Cordon Bleu stitched discreetly in blue embroidery in the region of his left pectoral muscle. Juliet had first caught sight of him as she’d been hauling her chocolates from the van to her setup, and her knees had gone nearly as soft as her strawberries. She’d always had a major addiction to the Food Network. And she might have developed a certain appreciation for men in culinary uniforms, but neither Jamie Oliver nor Alain Allegretti could hold a candle to Leo Mezzanotte in a crisply ironed chef coat.
“Wait. How do you know that?” Alegra said, frowning.
Juliet was probably frowning, too. Just what was George doing over there in the Mezzanotte tent? And why was he grinning his smarmy grin and shaking hands with Leo? “How do I know what?”
“How do you know that Leo makes his hot chocolate in a saucepan?” Alegra smiled at a few customers. They smiled back, looked closely at the strawberries and fled.
Juliet sighed. “I watched him make it.”
“He made it right there in front of you?”
“Pretty much, yes.” Juliet was barely aware she was even talking. She’d begun to have a very uneasy feeling about whatever was going on over there between George and Leo.
When Royal Gourmet had dropped the Arabellas, the one mitigating factor was the knowledge that George and his company would never join forces with the Mezzanottes. Not only had George said as much on numerous occasions, but he seemed to have developed a nasty sore spot where Leo was concerned after seeing Juliet dance with him the night of that woefully disappointing marriage proposal.
George had his pride. He had pride in spades. Juliet would have bet money he would never even consider a working relationship with the Mezzanottes. Not while Leo still went by that last name.
But there they were, shaking hands, giving Juliet a glimpse of Leo’s beautiful forearm where it emerged from the immaculate white sleeve of his chef coat.
She released a long, breathy sigh. So, now she was enchanted by the sight of a man’s forearm? Surely this was a new low.
“Would you pay attention? I’m trying to have a conversation with you.” Alegra planted herself directly in Juliet’s line of vision. “Geez, and you were getting after me for staring.”
“I’m sorry. Really. It won’t happen again. No more Leo Mezzanotte.”
No more Leo Mezzanotte.
Maybe if she repeated it to herself enough times, it would sink in. What was she doing even thinking about him, anyway? Wasn’t her poor dog still lying in the hospital, sleeping off the effects of a stomach full of chocolate and charcoal?
She was a horrible person. Animal Planet could do an entire television special about how horrible she was.
“If you saw Leo make his chocolat chaud, doesn’t that mean you know what he put in it?” Alegra blinked in hopeful expectation.
“Mostly. He used whole milk, cream, vanilla, brown sugar and bittersweet chocolate. Ten ounces, seventy percent grade.” She was fairly sure he hadn’t meant for her to know the specifics of the chocolate. But once Cocoa had eaten it all, any secrecy in that regard went out the window. “With a little playing around I might be able to figure out the rest.”
“I suggest you start playing. The sooner the better.” Alegra glared at George. Or maybe Leo. It was hard to tell because the two of them were still standing there chatting as if they were old friends. And now Leo’s creepy uncle Joe sidled up next to them, making the intimate little gathering even more worrisome.
Juliet’s stomach churned. “That could take a while. He said he used some sort of secret ingredient that makes it Parisian. I’ve never been to Paris. The closest I’ve come is the Eiffel Tower in Vegas.”
And that had been for a food convention with George. They’d been there a grand total of twenty-three hours. God, she needed a vacation. She’d had more than one chance in the past few years to go to Rome, but she’d never gone, choosing instead to put the family business ahead of everything. As usual.
Those days were over. And now the family business was wilting all around her, much like her strawberries.
“That’s what Google is for. I’ll help you. I’ll even go over there and buy some so I can taste it.” Alegra tapped away on her cell phone, no doubt commencing an internet search for secret French ingredients.
“Do you think it really matters?”
“Of course it matters. You know why Leo is talking to George, right? If no one else can make that chocolat chaud, every restaurant in Napa will want it. And it’s Royal Gourmet’s job to make sure they get it. I’ll bet Parisian hot chocolate will be on the menu at The French Laundry by tomorrow night.”
The French Laundry. As recently as last week, it had been the most beautifully plumed feather in Juliet’s cap. Oh, how times had changed. “It will never happen. George despises Leo.”
“Does his hatred for Leo outweigh his love of money?” Alegra directed a meaningful look at the Royal Gourmet limo parked at a pretentious angle across two spaces in the crowded parking lot.
Oh, God, she was right. That limousine and the ridiculous engraved champagne flutes in its rolling bar weren’t going to pay for themselves.
Maybe she was worrying too much. After all, she’d been on quite a roll with the whole paranoia thing lately. Yes, the chocolat chaud was astonishingly delicious. And Parisian. But that didn’t necessarily mean it would be a good fit for The French Laundry. Not everything they served was French. Their menu changed daily, and the chef prided himself on serving things that were new and exciting. Leo’s chocolat chaud was certainly special, but it was still simple hot chocolate. And it wasn’t as if it had won any awards
or anything.
But even as she tried her mightiest to convince herself that the Arabellas had nothing to worry about, Juliet spied Alfred Richardson, the head of Nuovo Winery, walking through the crowd, making his way toward the Mezzanottes’ elegant white tent. And in his hands he carried a gleaming silver loving cup, with lavish filigree handles and a shiny ornamental hot air balloon balancing on its lid.
The Best of Balloon Fest trophy.
* * *
The trophy was huge.
Leo’s first thought upon accepting it was that it must have weighed nearly as much as Juliet’s dog. As enormous as it was, it was nowhere near as big as the smile on Uncle Joe’s face.
“Excellent work, Leo.” He beamed. “Simply excellent.”
“Good job, bro.” Marco slapped Leo on the back. “Best of Balloon Fest. That’s quite an accomplishment. You know they usually award that prize to one of the Napa wines, right? And you just walked away with it by cooking up some hot chocolate. Gina is going to be ecstatic when she hears the news.”
Gina had been the Mezzanotte to draw the short straw earlier that morning. She was holding down the fort at the chocolate shop while Leo, his uncle and his brother-in-law manned the tent at the balloon festival. Leo had completely overhauled the plans for the tent, of course. If it had been up to Uncle Joe, the three of them would probably be surrounded by chocolate fountains right about now.
Leo nodded and accepted their praise, trying his damnedest to ignore the pounding in his head. If he hadn’t been operating on a mere two hours of sleep, he would have been concerned. He’d never had this much trouble battling jet lag before. But he supposed his headache and general feeling of lethargy had more to do with the fact that he’d been up nearly all night with Juliet and her chocolate-guzzling dog than a twelve-hour flight he’d endured a full week ago.
Either way, he would have gladly sold his soul for an Advil. Or three.
To be fair, it didn’t look as though selling his soul would be on the agenda anytime soon. At least according to one George Alcott III, who’d assured Leo that he could capitalize on the balloon fest victory and get chocolat chaud into some of the best restaurants in Napa. The numbers he’d batted around had been impressive enough to make the idea of doing business with Juliet’s ex somewhat palatable. And now he and Uncle Joe had their heads together at the other end of the Mezzanotte tent.
Leo had been annoyed when George had first shown up. Not jealous, of course. Just annoyed. Annoyed at the thought of him kissing Juliet. Touching her. Tasting her. Slipping the silky red straps of that bra off the smooth skin of her shoulders...
And doing all the other things that had been occupying an alarmingly large portion of Leo’s waking thoughts.
The chocolate rum cigar in his hand snapped in two.
Perhaps he was still slightly annoyed.
“Dude. A little tense?” Marco raised his eyebrows.
“I’m fine. Just a headache.” Leo popped half the broken cigar in his mouth. It melted on his tongue in a pool of sweet milk chocolate goodness, leaving behind the perfect amount of warmth from the rum. He always used the real thing instead of rum extract. There was just no substitute for the genuine article.
“Relax. Take five. Maybe go for that balloon ride you won.” Marco took over the task of unloading the last of the cigars. They were going nearly as quickly as the chocolat chaud.
Leo frowned and massaged his temples. “Balloon ride?”
“It’s part of the prize.” Marco nodded toward a green-and-purple hot air balloon decorated with the Nuovo Winery logo tethered in place at the entrance to the festival. “But don’t get any ideas. I was only kidding. If you disappeared for an hour right now, Uncle Joe would have a fit. You’re the big star. I’m sure he wants to parade you around in front of the press.”
Oh, joy.
Leo bent to pick up the half of the chocolate cigar that had landed in the grass and frowned at a colorful square of thick paper that blew past his foot. He grabbed it before it tumbled away.
“What is this?” he snapped, flashing it in front of Marco’s face.
Marco squinted at it. “Looks like a lottery ticket. Correction—a losing lottery ticket. So trash, basically.”
Leo ripped it down the middle, then tore the remaining pieces in half for good measure. “What’s it doing in our booth?”
Marco shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess someone dropped it. What is wrong with you? For someone who’s had such a successful day, you seem miserable.”
“I’m fine.” He wasn’t fine. He suspected George Alcott’s presence was exacerbating his headache. And finding the lottery ticket wasn’t helping matters. He knew he was being irrational. Like Marco said, it was trash. There were people everywhere. Anyone could have dropped it. Just because it had found its way into the Mezzanotte booth didn’t mean one of his family members had put it there. Odds were, they hadn’t.
Still. He didn’t like it. It brought back too many memories. Memories of his dad. Memories he’d just as soon forget, like the time Santa had left a roll of lottery tickets in his stocking instead of the comic books he’d so desperately wanted.
Who puts lottery tickets in a nine-year-old’s Christmas stocking? His dad. That’s who.
“For God’s sake, what is she doing here?” Marco’s gaze fixed on something over Leo’s shoulder. He suddenly looked every bit as sick as Leo felt.
Leo turned to see Alegra Arabella marching toward the Mezzanotte tent. He thought surely she was on her way somewhere else—anywhere else—but, no. She walked right up to him. Just the sight of her made the throbbing in his head increase tenfold.
She smiled sweetly at him. Too sweetly. “Hey there, Sparkle.”
Make that elevenfold.
Leo nodded. “Alegra.”
Marco simply stood there, apparently stunned into speechlessness by the fact that a Mezzanotte and an Arabella would have anything to say to one another.
Or maybe it was the Sparkle thing. Yeah, probably that.
“To what do I owe the honor?” Leo asked, glancing over her shoulder to check and see if she’d brought along law enforcement. Not a badge in sight. This encounter was already an improvement over their previous one.
She huffed out a sigh. “Since no one will shut up about your fancy-pants hot chocolate, I thought I should check it out.”
Marco managed to find his voice. “No. Absolutely not.”
“I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to him.” Alegra pointed at Leo.
With her middle finger.
Marco flipped her off right back, using both hands. Which officially made this the most ludicrous conversation Leo had been a part of since he’d been accused of attempted dog murder.
Leo shook his head. “How about we all try to act like grown-ups?”
Alegra slapped a five dollar bill on the table. “Look, I’m a paying customer. Give me the chocolat chaud. Now.”
“We don’t want your dirty Arabella money.” Marco pushed the bill back toward her.
Leo ignored his brother-in-law and poured her a helping from the last of the silver servers. “Here you go. On the house.”
Marco looked at him as if he’d sprouted two heads, which might have explained the headache. “What are you doing? You know she’s only trying to figure out the recipe.”
“She won’t.” Leo shrugged.
“Don’t be too sure about that.” Alegra peered into her chocolat chaud. She wouldn
’t find any answers there. Leo had heard of reading tea leaves, and even reading Turkish coffee. But never hot chocolate.
Marco’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know she won’t?”
A little faith would have been nice. “Because it’s a secret. She can’t.”
Alegra snorted. “Secret ingredient? Like what? A packet of instant cocoa?”
“Yes. The kind with mini-marshmallows,” Leo said, with the utmost sincerity.
“Whatever.” She pocketed her five dollar bill.
Good. Leo wasn’t about to take money from her. Not because it was dirty Arabella money, but because he’d noticed a distinct lack of customers at the Arabella booth over the course of the morning. He’d almost felt bad for them. Almost.
Juliet is not your girlfriend. She’s not your fiancée. She’s not your wife. Thank God. Her business is no concern of yours.
“Congratulations and all that, Sparkle. Enjoy it while it lasts, because it won’t for long.” Alegra managed to aim one last sneer in Marco’s direction before sauntering off.
The silence that hung in the air after she’d left lasted just long enough for Leo to think that maybe Marco was going to let the whole thing go.
That was a pipe dream of the highest order.
“Do you want to tell me why Alegra Arabella is calling you Sparkle?”
“Not really. No.”
Some things were just better left unsaid.
9
Leo should have known that Marco wouldn’t take no for an answer.
His brother-in-law glowered at Alegra’s retreating form and then directly at Leo. “Something’s going on, and you’d better tell me what it is. Because there are a few potential scenarios going through my head, none of them good.”
At some point, Leo was going to have to go toe-to-toe with him about what was family business and what wasn’t. Leo’s love life fell squarely into the latter category.
The look on Marco’s face was an unspoken ultimatum. If Leo didn’t explain himself soon, Marco was going to run to Gina and tattle on him. Then Gina would no doubt go straight to Uncle Joe, and the whole family would be breathing down his neck.
