The Chocolate Kiss

CHAPTER 35



She fumbled under the pot for the keys without looking at her Aunt Aja, she got the deadbolt open, and she slammed the door shut behind her and turned the lock until it wouldn’t turn anymore. And then she crumpled down onto the floor, her arms wrapped around her head, and she sobbed.

I can’t do this. I can’t do this.. He’ll take this hole out of me I’ll never be able to fill.

She rocked herself on the hard floor, her sobs coming in a low keen because her chest hurt too much for real sound.

I can’t be that little girl in the lavender field again. I can’t. Trying to play. Trying to be okay.

I can barely be the person I am here. Pretending with her stupid chocolate, pretending people needed her, that she was someone another person’s world would bend for. No one even needed the shop, let alone her little role in it. Everyone had flocked to Philippe’s as soon as it opened without a second thought for her. Her aunts didn’t even need the shop. It was just some toy for them; it didn’t even matter if it earned money.

And chocolate. God, anyone could make hot chocolate. They could teach the first teenager off the street to make chocolate, if they even really needed an extra person. It wasn’t as if she was Sylvain Marquis or Philippe himself, the people no one could emulate. Someone no one could do without.

Except her. She could do without anyone. She could do without Philippe. That was how she had made her life.

Or had she made her life so that she kept trying to suck passing strangers into her orbit with her stupid chocolate, because she didn’t really have anyone?

She scrambled up suddenly, her hand closing over the new lock, a lock that could keep everyone out. How ironic. Philippe had made her door into something even he couldn’t get through.

Unless she let him in.

She backed away from it to huddle on her bed, but she could see his shop from there if she lifted her head, and so she sank back onto the floor again.

I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. He’s just too big. What will be left of me, when he—we—move on?

There was a careful knock on the door. “Magalie?” Aunt Aja called.

“I just want to be alone, all right?” Magalie yelled. “Is that so terrible? I just want to be alone!”

And then she buried her face in her knees and sobbed again.

Outside, a murmur from Aunt Aja, and then Geneviève’s voice that, like Philippe, penetrated anything. “Leave her alone. A woman should be left alone if she wants to be left alone.”

Footsteps on the stairs, and then they were gone.

And Magalie sobbed. And raged. She had no idea she had so much rage in her, she who had always handled everything. Rage for the little girl staring over her mother’s shoulder in panic to see her daddy get so far away. Rage for the eight-year-old, hovering tentatively on the edge of a group of people who had once been her friends but who now barely remembered her. Rage for the fifteen-year-old and the clumsy, painful use she had allowed of her body just so she might have a chance at a place. Ready to give up her entire youth so that, like her mother, she would have one person who always was with her, one person who always needed her . . . until that child in her turn grew up and walked away and never needed anyone again.

Tried not to need anyone again.

Failed. Utterly. Miserably.

That was Philippe’s fault, too, that rage. She had been doing just fine until his jaw had tightened so hard with anger when she told him about that fifteen-year-old, until his thirty-year-old’s perspective on her painful first affair had made her realize that she, too, had an older perspective on it these days and writhed in horror and compassion and . . . rage. When she hadn’t even thought about it, in years. Well, not really. She had been doing just fine. And that bad first affair had kept her out of all kinds of trouble ever since, when a man would hit on her, and a memory would flash, and she would wrinkle her nose and banish him from the beautiful integrity of the life she had constructed for herself, the life that finally did not reshape itself for anyone.

She buried her face and cried again, at the thought of her perfect, beautiful life in this perfect, beautiful, one-person-size apartment, on this perfect little island. Only when feathers stuck to her wet face and hands did she realize that she was clutching her pillow to her, and that she had battered it beyond recognition.

Which made her cry again, because . . . it was a strong, sturdy, expensive pillow, and she wondered what other strengths she might have just battered beyond recognition. She wondered what else she might have just broken.

She wiped her face slowly, which rubbed bits of down into her eyelashes, so that she finally had to step into the shower to get all the feathers off.

When she got out, she came face-to-face with herself in the mirror and stopped, studying the stranger who was trying to force her way into her life.

She drew a deep breath, lifted her chin, and settled her shoulders back, trying for Philippe’s arrogance. I’m Philippe Lyonnais, she mouthed in that tone, as if all the world should bow.

No, wrong words. I’m Magalie Chaudron. There. No, that sounded ludicrous. No one was going to bow to her. Even Philippe, who had done one heck of a lot of things to her at this point, had yet to kneel at her feet.

She frowned at herself. And then her shoulders slowly shifted back and down again, and her chin came up. A natural gesture, this time. Settling back into herself. She didn’t need Philippe’s arrogance; she had her own. She didn’t need to make the same mark on the world that he did. Or even to make the same mark on him that he did on her. She needed to make her own mark.

No. She said that as if she hadn’t yet made one. But she had made her mark on him. The man was clearly crazy about her. I mean, come on, Magalie. Even you can see that.

The thought filled her the way she had always imagined her chocolate filling other people, warmth from the inside, swelling up until it heated all of her.

You can see it, if you want to see it. If you take off those cowardice glasses.

The same way she could see just how the aunts smiled at her, or tried to nudge her onto the roads they thought would do her good, the way they always made enough dinner for her, too, and checked on her when she disappeared into her room. The same way she could see that their old customers had drifted back to them so soon. Philippe had jostled this street when he had forced his way into it, but although routines had widened to include him, people still found themselves nestling into La Maison des Sorcières, needing her. Liking her.

There was nothing wrong with the way she was right now. She just needed to be herself, that was all. The person she had always wanted to be. The person she had been since she packed her bags and moved here to Paris with her aunts and decided her place was here.

Well, there was nothing wrong with the way she was, except one thing.

She needed to be herself. But that didn’t mean she needed to be tiny.





Clenching the key she’d used to gain access to the apartment, Magalie tiptoed triumphantly and with a great deal of trepidation across Philippe’s big living area, gently illuminated by lights outside. She paused near the couch long enough to strip down to her very sexy underwear, because she understood the value of being dressed just right for the occasion—and this occasion might require she make up for a few things. Like telling him to stay the hell out of her life. She tried for the first time to imagine what that would have felt like if he had said it to her, and she almost got physically sick. It was like being battered in the midsection.

So yes, she might have to make up for some things. She took a deep breath and slipped into the gorgeous cave of his bedroom, right up to his bed, and then stopped. The covers were flat. Which made her heart, already beating too fast with a sense of its own daring, pound into overdrive. Because if he wasn’t in his bed, there was a very big predator loose somewhere in the dark, and she had just invaded his territory. Nearly naked.

Then she heard the shower. Damn. She looked at the sash in her hand with a great deal of regret. She was never going to manage to tie him up to make sure he listened to her if he was awake.

She slipped in through the bathroom door. Oh, now, what a beautiful view that was. Philippe stood naked, all that long, powerful body gleaming with water, one arm braced high against the shower stall, his weight slumped onto it, the shower beating down on his curved back and head.

He looked . . . tired. He looked as if he had been standing under that shower for a long time.

He looked almost . . . defeated.

Magalie’s heart began to beat even faster, hurting her. She didn’t want him to admit defeat. It didn’t suit him. And there was only one subject on which he could be ready to admit defeat right now.

She took a deep breath and narrowed her eyes, trying to will herself into him, trying to make him feel her. Philippe did this kind of thing all the time. Just let his presence fill the room, and—

His head came up and turned.

She held up her key. “Surprise.”

Defeat vanished from his posture in an instant. Replaced by . . . anger. Hard and tight.

He shut off the shower and jerked a towel off the heated rack, burying his face in it as the first thing he dried. Apparently it was a lot more important to him to cover his face than the rest of his naked body, gleaming big and hard, the water curling over him in all kinds of places a woman would want to touch.

She reached out, to follow a drop curling over the tight abs.

He caught her hand and pulled it away from him. The towel lowered, and blue eyes locked with hers. “You know what, Magalie? For once, I’m really not in the mood.”

That hurt. Her chest tightened with anxiety, and her fingers clutched the key. “You said I . . . you said you wouldn’t take this away.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t promise to never get mad in my whole, entire life. I’ll sleep on the f*cking couch.”

He strode out, still drying himself with hard jerks of the towel.

Magalie followed him into the living room, oddly melted by the combination of big, angry body and what he had just said. His whole, entire life. “I just snuck into your apartment without your permission, but I get the bed?”

That seemed to make him even madder. His fist tightened on the towel, and he turned on her suddenly. “It’s not without my permission, Magalie, or haven’t you noticed that you’re holding a key? What, do you think I pass those out to every woman I cross in the street? But right this second, I do not want you in my space.” She flinched—all through her. “So go get into my bed and leave me alone.”

Something warm flickered after the flinch, caressing the wound. She tilted her head. “You don’t want me in your space, so go get into your bed?”

“Damn it, Magalie.” Philippe clenched the towel and then threw it hard to the floor, turning his back to her. Which left him standing there completely naked and utterly gorgeous. The city lights falling through his broad windows turned his whole muscled body silver-gold. “I’m sorry,” she said low.

His head came up a little at that, but then bent again, under too much hurt or too much anger, all those muscles too taut. “I don’t want to talk right now, Magalie.”

She stood there feeling helpless, exiled. Horrible. Staring at his back. There was the lean, tight lower torso and buttocks of a man who was always on his feet, always in motion, carrying, bending, crouching, always in a tight control that called on all his core muscles constantly. But then there were the larger muscles, particularly noticeable in his shoulders and arms.

“Why do you go to the gym?” she asked suddenly, hoping just to keep him talking.

For a second, she thought he wouldn’t answer, but princely manners prevailed. His voice was short, though, cold. “I spend all day in intense concentration. The mindless exertion makes for a good . . . stabilizer.” One shoulder shrugged, rippling those muscles. He added in a slightly more open voice, “It just feels really good.”

It had never occurred to her what a buildup of tension there must be in his muscles over a day. “You know, you really might like it if I walked all over you,” she murmured, touching a hand to the taut muscles of his upper back. She imagined laying him out flat on his stomach at the end of a long day, curling her toes into his naked back, massaging him with her weight.

He said nothing. She guessed he would love it but wasn’t going to admit it under the current circumstances.

She drew her thumbnail down his spine, from his nape all the way to the curve of his butt, just one grazing trace. He flinched, started to arch, and then forced himself to stand stiffly, not allowing himself to flex into the touch. But those large arm muscles tensed, drawing her gaze down the length of them to the tight fists by his naked thighs.

“No,” he said flatly.

She went on tiptoe and tried to kiss the nape of his neck, the way he did to her. With him standing so straight and unbending, she had to grab his shoulders and pull herself up. She might need to work on her arm strength, she thought wryly, if she was going to play gymnastics with him. She held herself up there until her arms started to tremble, running her mouth and teeth and cheek over his nape, the way he did to her. She didn’t think she could get quite the same results. Her cheek was too soft. She couldn’t reproduce the completely shattering effect of the scrape of his jaw.

It seemed to do something, though, because his head bowed to it, his shoulders pulling at her hands with each heavy breath.

She sank down finally, her arms sliding down toward his waist, her breasts and belly dragging against his back. Such smooth, smooth skin there, compared to the curling hairs across his chest.

“Your back feels like silk,” she whispered. It was like being let into a secret of him, or of masculinity: calluses on his hands from whisks and weights, hair on his chest and arms and legs and jaw, but his back was as smooth as a baby’s.

All the muscles in that back were taut. Little shivers ran over his skin.

“You take more than you give, don’t you?” he said bitterly.

That hurt. Did he think she was still playing power games, trying to prove she could overcome him with desire? “I think it’s like making love when you’re a virgin,” she said ruefully. “You’re . . . bigger than I’m quite ready for.”

His stomach muscles contracted under her arms. One of his hands came up and curled around hers.

She pressed her lips against his back and let him feel her smile. “In more ways than one,” she added mischievously.

He dropped his hand back to his side. Ouch. Apparently, no joking allowed.

“You said it before. It takes me a while to warm up to . . . things,” she said.

She rested her cheek against those taut back muscles, slipping her hands lower around his waist, where she could reach all the way around. “This is perfect,” she murmured. “Being right here.”

He didn’t answer, very stubborn in his wounded feelings, but his head turned. She couldn’t see it, just felt the muscles shift under her cheek. Well, after a lifetime of making a place for herself, over and over, surely she could reaffirm her own space here. Make him turn to her and welcome her back into it.

“Isn’t it funny that it would be so perfect? I thought you were coming into my life to tear it all to pieces. Destroy my tower like a spoiled kid knocking down someone else’s blocks, just because you needed a few for your castle.”

“Where this idea that I’m spoiled comes from—”

She stroked her hand down to his sex and curled her hand around him to shut him up. He knocked her hand away. Still stubborn, then.

“And that’s kind of what you did, you know,” she said. “You’re very self—single-minded. You go after what you want, and tough luck for anyone else.”

He tried to shrug her off and move away. Her arms tightened on him so that his first step pulled her with him. He stopped. His breaths ran deep through his abdomen, pressing against her arms.

She slipped around him, letting her arms slide, still clasped, until she was leaning now against his chest, his arousal pressing into her belly. “This is perfect, too,” she said wonderingly.

She knew his head was bent to her because of the breath on her hair.

“So here I am, torn apart. I really didn’t want to be torn apart. I liked who I was.”

“You liked your tower,” he murmured, his voice almost an apology. “Do you really think I broke it? I just wanted to make room for me inside.”

She nodded slowly, unsurely, her cheek sliding against the hairs on his chest. “Well, I could probably repair it. But . . . I like it here.”

“In the Marais? In Paris? Off your island?”

She tilted her head back until her eyes could meet his, her face still snuggled against his chest. “Here. Right here.”

The meaning flared through him, softening him like chocolate against skin. His arms slid around her. “Right here?” She loved the way his voice vibrated in his chest and tickled her ear.

“I’m really quite strong. I can defend my tower.”

A puff of breath against her hair. “No kidding.”

“I can fight you off.”

“Now that, I wouldn’t be so sure of.”

“But I think you might deserve me.”

His arms tightened around her. “Why I am the one who always gets called arrogant in this couple . . .” he complained to the empty room, but without much heat.

Couple. Her arms flexed around him. “Sometimes I even think you might still be there when you walk out of the room. That you might not be . . . made of sugar.”

He picked up one of her hands and began to draw it over his muscles, so hard and defined and resilient, stroking her palm over his chest, his biceps. “Now, what gave you a clue about that?”

She gave a little laugh against his chest, her head tilting down so that her gaze could slide secretly, under the fall of her hair, down his body. He was so aroused. If they could make peace, he would slide into her and . . . “You’re what melts sugar,” she said wryly. “A blowtorch.”

“No. I’m what controls the blowtorch. You’re just confused because I’m so hot.”

Her mind did that little flip it sometimes did between the French and English uses of a word. Hot for you, he meant. Deeply sexually excited.

He gave her that little grin of his. “If only you were a little more like sugar yourself, I could do anything I wanted to you.”

Her body, hot, crystalline, spun out under his hands, formed however he wanted it... “You do make me feel like sugar sometimes.”

His penis leaped against her belly at that. His hands slid down to curve around her hips and bottom. He pulled her against him snugly. “Being here is my plan, Magalie. Did you think I told you I loved you as a way to get you out of your tower, and damn the consequences?”

She hesitated. Not really, but . . . “People do.”

“That’s probably why I took you to meet my family, too. My four-year-old niece. My pregnant sister. My parents. People like that.”

She stroked his abdomen. It contracted under her touch. “I don’t say I love you, not for any reason whatsoever. I used to, when I was a kid, with Maman and Dad, to make them feel better. But I stopped when I was a teenager.”

His fingers tensed against her buttocks, pressing into muscles sore from yesterday’s run. “Is that a warning?”

“In a way.” She stepped back from him, so that she could look straight into his face. “I do love you. It’s hard for me to say. I’m still trying to figure out how to be myself and give me away, too. I do love you, though. You break my heart.” Broke its shell wide open.

It was hard. But it felt like casting off an old, outdated carapace, something that had been pinching her far too small. She felt huge. She realized suddenly how he could dominate a room with his presence. He wasn’t holding any of himself in. He controlled his emotions, but they were all out there, fully extended.

It was hard. But—she liked it. That sense of stretching herself out. It wasn’t quite the same as latching onto him desperately, after all. Not done like this. It was as if the very center of her got even stronger. He had said it himself: it made him feel ten times bigger.

It was hard. But the look on his face, the way his hands went out to her, made it all worth it.