The Chocolate Kiss

CHAPTER 23



Magalie stalked through his kitchen, in pursuit. Philippe, caught off guard while correcting some apprentice’s touch on a Taj Mahal of sweets, looked up, and his eyes flared. Bright, vivid. Hungry and supremely triumphant all at once.

He probably thought she was about to throw herself at him, wrap her legs around his hips, and kiss him for all to see.

“Those . . . those dogs.” She could barely speak. “After the poodle ate that—that perfidy of yours, she—she . . . What do you think you’re playing at? You obscene bastard.”

“You gave my Coeur to a dog?” Philippe’s voice built until the last word was a roar that knocked down a fantastical castle of spun sugar, macarons, and rose petals three counters away. His apprentice flinched, the ganache spurting out of his pastry bag in a jagged blob.

Philippe reached out and grabbed her, too hard, by the upper arm. He had never grabbed a woman like that, in pure fury, in his life, and when she nearly hauled off and hit him, her hand coming up, he shook his head, shook himself, and gentled his hold. She didn’t hit him. Which he rather regretted. He didn’t give a damn if she beat him at this point, as long as she took out something physical on him.

“Let’s take this somewhere else,” he growled between his teeth. He had a reputation for not exploding in his laboratoire, at least not with anything other than laughter. Or, fine, an occasional, “Non, non, non, non, non!” if an apprentice insisted on doing something carelessly again.

He swept her into his tiny office. She let him. She grinned savagely, as if he were inviting her to caged combat.

“What did you do while you were making it?” She turned on him as he shoved the door closed behind her, her shoulder rubbing under his arm. He took a hard breath and kept his arm right where it was, caging her. If she didn’t mind him looming over her, caging her, he sure as hell didn’t mind doing the looming. She was feral, dangerous. Any minute now, she would leap at him. Please. “Did you imagine me crumbling at your feet, begging, with every drop you put into it?”

His hand clenched against the door behind her. His voice went rough, as if she’d dragged it raw. “I imagined”—he brought his other arm up, both locked now on either side of her head—“superfine sugar spilling like dust over your bare shoulders. I made the shell of the macaron silk, such perfect, glossy silk, like the silk I rubbed over your skin last night.”

The flame of a blush ran over her face.

“I imagined you turning just exactly that shade of rose.” His eyes swept her face, and his pupils dilated further at what he saw. His voice got rougher still. “I didn’t get the color dark enough.”

Her hands flinched to cover her cheeks. She forced them down. She was probably battling that blush with everything in her. And failing.

“I imagined closing my teeth so gently around that raspberry, in the middle of that silky pinkness, that I didn’t even break the surface of it.”

Her nipples peaked; he could see them through her silk top. So she knew what he was talking about. And she liked it.

“I imagined touching it with my tongue. Still just texture. Still so careful that I didn’t even have a taste of its tart, sweet juice. And then I imagined sucking it into my mouth . . .”

Magalie’s head fell back against the door, her lips parted. Her anger seemed to be fleeing, melting. Like the flimsy excuse it had been in the first place. But his anger wasn’t.

“The rose petal was because even I couldn’t make from sugar something soft enough for your skin.”

Her eyes were so dilated, so hungry. He hoped hunger for his touch ran over her everywhere, the way hunger for hers did him. He hoped she was starving.

“And what’s inside it”—his face was so close, his lips were almost brushing hers when he spoke—“you’ll never find out, because you fed it to a putain de chien.”

He shoved himself away from her and walked out.