The Chocolate Kiss

CHAPTER 10



One single customer, and she was a woebegone blonde with an elegant, feathered cut who sat by herself broodingly at the table under the medieval princess hat and the dusty and rather evil-looking carved owl. And, routinely, she would toss that feathered cut sexily as if, even though the shop was empty of everyone but a woman clearly not impressed by that kind of thing, she had to keep in practice.

“What do you think?” the woman asked Magalie suddenly, still gazing at the menu and its cryptic handwriting as if it was the enigma of life.

Which, given that Aunt Geneviève had written it, it was, but still. If she was really smart, she would be looking at the children’s drawings on the other side.

The woman feathered her hair again. “If we had a really good time, and, you know, that part was fantastic, really, the best I’ve ever had, and he hasn’t called since? It’s been a week.”

Magalie stalked back into the kitchen before she could start sounding like Aunt Geneviève and glared at the chocolate, thinking, as she stirred it, Quit selling yourself short, and if you want a damn man so much, at least find the right one for you. Go after the best.

The woman drank half of it down without any hesitation, which was surprising, considering how thick it was and how thin she was. Anyone would think she would be afraid of chocolate. And then she abruptly dabbed her mouth with the thin tissue so effectively that she looked quite elegant doing it, her lipstick intact and the tissue barely smudged, bought three chocolate witches, and headed off down the street. Magalie went to the door and watched as the blonde turned straight into Philippe’s salon.

She gasped with outrage. That’s not what I meant by going after the best at all.

She stomped back into the empty shop, stood there with her fists clenched for a moment, and then finally forced herself to decide that the place could use a really good cleaning.

Magalie was up on tiptoe on the top shelf of a ladder, dusting witches’ hats, when the silver bell rang for the third time.

“Une minute!” she called. The top hat in the stack wobbled under her duster, and she stretched higher, the uneven ladder bobbling. Something thumped on a table, and then two hands closed around her butt. The fingers curled around her hips, hard into the hollow of muscle and softness just past her pelvic bone, and the heels of the palms pressed deep into her bottom.

Magalie jerked her dusting arm wildly, the stack of hats went flying, and the hard hands plucked her right off the ladder.

She flew, out of her own control, and her feet hit the floor, making her furious. She did not like floundering in midair. Or anywhere.

Hats scattered all around them, one plopping down over her face. She pushed a broad black brim off her forehead and twisted to glare up at Philippe Lyonnais. His palms dragged against her with her movement, sending frissons of desire out from the contact, down toward her hips, up toward her breasts.

He glared right back at her. “Are you insane?” He filled the room again, his shoulders taking over and blocking everything else from sight. The streamer from the fallen medieval princess hat clung unnoticed to his shoulder. “Can’t you even think to take off your high-heeled boots before you climb up a ladder like that? And what were you doing on the top rung? There is no way those shelves up there would hold you if you had to grab them for balance.”

Magalie put her hands on her hips. “If you know how to dust better than I do, too, then by all means, feel free to show me your technique.” She handed him the duster. “It’s such a privilege to have so much superiority deign to invade my life.”

He gave her a long, cool look, then took the duster, righted and climbed the ladder, and began dusting the top shelf. He didn’t have to stand on the top rung, and he didn’t have to stretch.

Magalie stood beneath him, her lips parted in disbelief, staring up. His butt was just a few inches higher than her eye level, so she could see the taut curve of it under the hem of his leather coat. He propped one foot a rung higher than the other on the ladder, pulling the material of his jeans tight over the defined strength of a very fine set of fesses and thighs.

He was dusting her shelves.

Without comment or question, despite the annoyed compression at the edge of his mouth.

He was dusting. Philippe Lyonnais.

Why would he do that?

Certainly not because she had told him to. To show her how much better at it he was than she was? No man’s superiority complex went that far.

“Did you send that woman after me?” he asked abruptly. She had the sudden impression of a man simmering over more burners than one.

“What woman?” She scowled.

“The blonde who plastered herself all over me on my way out of the kitchens! She was carrying one of your bags. What did you do to her?”

Magalie’s teeth ground, until she thought she might go find that blonde and beat her over the head with a chocolate pot. Or, preferably, one of Aunt Aja’s cast-iron teapots. No wonder Mademoiselle Featherbrain’s life was so screwed up if she kept misinterpreting clear messages. “No. I barely knew her. I don’t see why I would punish her that way.”

He shot her the kind of glance that should have accompanied a stabbing dagger and finished the shelf, like a man who had speed-cleaned quite a lot in his life—which was probably true, given that he had grown up in professional kitchens. He extended an imperious hand.

She looked at it blankly. Did he expect her to put her hand in it? Her own hand flooded suddenly with warmth at the idea, tingling with a memory of those calluses. It was January. How could her hand feel so warm?

Did he have vertigo? Did he need a steadying hand down from the ladder? It was the lamest excuse she could possibly come up with to thrust her hungry hand into his, but she had actually started to when he gave his crisp command:

“Give me the hats, Magalie.”

She gaped at him. Had he just given her an order? In her own territory? And used tu? She was not his intimate, nor anyone with whom he had the right to be on even remotely familiar terms.

“I beg your pardon,” she said icily.

His left hand clenched around the edge of the shelf, and he turned his head and gave her a look as if he was about to leap right off the ladder on top of her.

On the other hand, maybe even she shouldn’t push a man who had just wielded a feather duster at her snippiest suggestion. She handed him the hats. Brooding over the fact that she was cooperating with him. Was that showing weakness?

He restored them to their positions on the shelves: almost exactly to their former positions on the shelves, as if he knew to the centimeter what those were, except here and there he would change the angle very slightly, the drape of the princess streamer a little, so that when he was done, the shelf looked even better. More fanciful and dangerous and mysterious and romantic. He did it in two seconds, automatically, without even realizing he was doing it. Probably the same way he did the finishing touches on all those beautiful concoctions in his shop.

Magalie studied his work, then sent a sidelong look up at him as he dropped from the ladder to stand beside her. He was disturbingly amazing. Why couldn’t she have been a princess?

Oh, no, how nauseating. She hadn’t just thought that, had she? As if she wished she could be good enough for him? Princesses were so . . . so helpless. They always needed their lives straightened out by Geneviève’s witches, or Magalie’s chocolate, or Aja’s tea.

And Magalie was better than enough. For anyone or anything.

“Don’t climb up that ladder in those shoes again,” he ordered her, aggressively. “Or in any of your other ten-centimeter heels. Do you own anything sensible?”

No. In her apartment upstairs, all by herself, she went around barefoot, or at this time of year in fuzzy socks, her toes curling happily. “Oh!” she said excitedly. “You’re an expert on how I should dress, too! How lucky for me!”

Philippe looked just briefly as if he would like to beat his head against the wall.

Good. She gave him a sweet, mean smile.

Immediately his focus changed, the desire to inflict pain turning outward. Carnivorous. As if, instead of hurting himself, he wanted to eat her up.

She leaned toward him, her ten-centimeter heels pressed firmly into the floor. Her heart was beating so hard. “Did you need help in some way?”

His head went up. Blue eyes flicked to the topmost, beautifully dusted shelf. “You’re welcome,” he said deliberately.

She took an outraged breath. “I did not need your help.”

She had no idea what went through his mind at that, but his gaze suddenly ran the whole length of her body, down and up, and then he shut his eyes hard. A burning shiver ran through her.

He turned his head away, his eyes still closed. She could see the taut line of his jaw. “I brought back the teapot.”

She followed the angle of his jaw to the heavy iron pot that must have been what had thumped on the table just before he caught her. Deep in her tummy, a whisper stirred: You know he thought you were going to fall. You know he thought he saved you.

I don’t care. She stamped on that whisper ruthlessly. He thinks one of his pastries is worth my life.

“Did you drink it?” she asked despite herself, the hostility in her tone giving way to real curiosity. Almost sympathy. He and she had one thing in common; they had both recently faced the dangerous challenge of Aja’s tea.

He finally opened his eyes, the blue very dark as he looked at her again. Why did vulnerability pervade her whole body just at one dark look from him, as if she would beg him to do anything he wanted to her? “It was a thoughtful gift,” he said noncommittally. “Please tell your aunt it was very much appreciated.”

He couldn’t have drunk it. Right? She searched his face. He couldn’t have shown more courage or courtesy than she had. Right?

“I brought a small token in thanks,” he added, and she saw near the pot on the table a frost-blue box with Lyonnais stamped across it.

She swallowed.

All her attention narrowed to that box. And to the large, elegant hand that moved into her vision and lifted the box up. Holding it toward her. There was a small fresh burn on one of his fingers, and something purple-red staining two of his cuticles.

She wet her lips.

She could feel his gaze beating down on her. He had certainly seen that flick of her tongue.

“It’s just something I’ve been playing with,” he said.

She cursed herself for the fact that she had to clear her throat. “I’ll give it to her.” Just don’t open the box.

The large, sure hand moved and pulled back the lid.

Oh.

Inside, an exquisite pâtisserie the size of her palm was covered with the green dust of pistachios as if it had been dipped entirely in them. Strawberry halves formed a crown on top of it, upright back to back in the center, so that they looked not only like the jewels of a crown but like . . . bare, naked hearts. Tucked into the tip of the strawberry crown, a golden flower trailed long tendril-petals over the red, revealed hearts.

Her body prickled all over. She wanted to reach into that box, pick up the pastry, and bring it to her mouth. Feel the crumbs of the pistachio against her lips. The smoothness of the strawberries, their tartness. And under it—what did the coating of pistachios hide? Cream or cake, flaky or smooth, or layer upon layer of surprises?

She found herself reaching out for support against the temptation. Her hand closed around leather and taut arm muscle. She jerked it away.

And looked up.

Philippe had somehow managed to grow even closer, more dominant. His blue eyes blazed with hungry triumph. His will seemed to wrap around her and force her toward the pastry.

She took a harsh breath, fighting for oxygen. For reason. “If you . . . come bearing gifts . . . for Aunt Aja, the least I can do is . . . offer you some hot chocolate.” There. That hadn’t come out with too many ragged pauses, had it?

She held his eyes.

His lips compressed with frustration. “Perhaps—some other time.” The rejected crown of a dessert stayed held up toward her. “I’ve had too much sugar already today. Professional hazard.”

In other words, her chocolate wasn’t good enough to take priority over his own desserts, but he thought she should fall all over herself to eat his. “Well.” It took everything she had in her to shrug and turn away. “I’m sure Aunt Aja will appreciate it.”

His arms tensed, and for a second she thought she was going to find the crown force-fed to her, but the door blew open, revealing Aja and Geneviève. Cold air swirled with chocolate-scented air, like a carousel spiral, teasing the nose with the alternation of crisp and melting.

Geneviève gave Philippe one look like Boadicea to the Romans, Aja gave him a cool Kali regard, and they both blew Magalie away from him and into the kitchen by pure force of personality.

“What is he doing in our place?” Geneviève asked in that low voice of hers that went so bass in its outrage, it probably carried through all the walls on the island and rubbed gently and finally into the uncomprehending ears of tourists on the tip of it. “The man who didn’t notice us? Who dismissed us? Is he here to beg forgiveness?”

Magalie picked up her spoon and tamped it down hard into the bottom of the current pot of chocolate. Even through the chocolate, its wood rang against the steel and copper. A drop spattered onto her knuckle, burning. “Not noticeably.”

“What are you stirring into it? Something that will make him beg forgiveness?” Geneviève suggested vengefully.

“Never use chocolate for vengeance, Gen,” Aja said serenely, although she didn’t look any more merciful for all that.“You know what we’ve talked about.”

“Knowing when to ask for forgiveness is a very important lesson,” Geneviève said righteously, still in that voice that could be heard through seven walls. “In fact, it could save him no end of trouble. Or you could wish humility on him like you tried before. He might need several doses before it takes, though.”

The kitchen suddenly grew stuffed beyond overflowing; there was not enough air. Magalie looked up at Philippe looming in the doorway. His gaze ran over her face, her shoulder, down the length of her arm, to her hand on the spoon and the pot of chocolate. His eyes were wary, hostile, enraptured all at once. “Humility?”

Magalie lifted her hand and gently sucked the hot drop of chocolate off her knuckle.

He took a breath and turned on his heel. She stared after him, outraged. But he didn’t turn around and come back. The silver bell chimed.

He had left? He had dug his hands into her butt and looked at her chocolate and walked out? Again?

“He just waltzes in and out however he pleases, doesn’t he?” Geneviève said. Magalie gave her a betrayed look. Was that just a thread of respect twining through her offended tone?

They all filed out of the kitchen and looked at the crown of a dessert left sitting in its open box on the table under the witches’ hats.

“It’s for you, Aunt Aja,” Magalie said very quietly, after a moment. “He wanted to thank you for the tea.”

“I doubt it,” Aja said. “You only open a present for the person it’s for.”