Dark Chocolate Murder
A Romantic Suspense Novel
Anisa Claire West
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and events depicted in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, either living or deceased, is purely coincidental.
Dedication
For WOMEN EVERYWHERE who have…
Broken Free,
Hunted an Improbable Dream,
Lived the Vagabond Life,
Flaunted their Natural Curves,
Incinerated the Rule Book,
Strutted to the Rhythm of their Own Heartbeat,
&
Dared to Fall in Love Again…
This book is for you.
Prologue
Monte Carlo, Monaco
Jingling slot machines mixed with the soft thud of chips rolling across a velvet covered table. Elegantly dressed gamblers waltzed through the casino with ubiquitous cigarettes and drinks in hand. Philippe Debauche was completely in his element. As the young man yanked the lever on the slot machine, he held his breath, pupils dilating as the pictures lined up to build his fortune. Triple sevens. Again. This was his lucky night.
“Une fois de plus!” He hissed with eyes glittering like the skyline of Monte Carlo. One more time.
Choking on a whiff of cigarette smoke, he fisted the handle and pulled. Closing his eyes, he listened avidly as the icons rang into alignment.
“Merde!” He swore in French, as a pair of cherries prevented him from achieving another round of triple sevens.
In a smoky cloud of frustration, Philippe rose from the stool and kicked the machine with his leather shoe. Angrily, he overturned his cup of chips on the carpeted floor and smirked to himself as a lady tripped over them.
Chugging on his glass of cognac, Philippe Debauche crept over to a roulette table. The dealer recognized him immediately and rolled his eyes. Everyone at the casino knew that Philippe drove in from France nearly every night of the week to gamble. The man clearly had an illness.
“Everything on Red 22,” Philippe instructed as the dealer blinked at him in disbelief.
Philippe had just placed his wallet and car keys on the table as a bet.
“Non, Monsieur. I can’t do that. Where are your chips?” The dealer chattered anxiously.
“No chips. I bet it all on Red 22. Tout.” Everything. Philippe insisted in a voice scratchy from a decade of excessive imbibing and smoking.
“Monsieur, your car? All the money in your wallet? Your credit cards?” The dealer questioned nervously.
The dealer shook his head sadly as the gambler stubbornly waited for the roulette wheel to spin. Philippe was a gambling addict who should know how implausible such a bet was. But perhaps all the cognac and cigarettes over the years had dulled his brain into miscalculating the statistics.
“Spin!” Philippe demanded impatiently as tuxedoed gentlemen shrugged their shoulders, expecting the impetuous young man to implode.
Without further ado, the dealer spun the wheel and watched as it landed on Black 18. Nonchalantly, he swept away the foolish gambler’s wallet and car keys. In horror, Philippe stumbled backwards and collapsed onto the casino floor as his glass of cognac drenched him.
*****
Two Hours Later
A French restaurant down the road…
The drunken man staggered into the restaurant and tumbled into a chair at a corner table. From a window in the kitchen, the restaurant owner watched with disapproving eyes. Tall, broad, and dark haired, Pierre Cédaire wore a mask of composure on hard but sensual features as he approached the drunkard at the table. Pierre had just opened his French restaurant last month, and he wouldn’t tolerate anyone soiling the elegant image he worked day and night to convey.
“Excusez-moi, Monsieur, how may I help you?” Pierre inquired tightly.
Through blood-shot eyes, Philippe looked up at the man as though he had just asked him to run through a hoop of fire. Pierre remained expressionless and calm as he awaited the man’s answer.
“Get me a d-d-drink,” Philippe slurred, gesturing to the rows of liquor bottles on the wall behind him.
“Monsieur, this is not a bar. This is a restaurant. We only serve liquor to those who are dining with us.” Pierre wrung his hands as he spoke, noticing the scandalized stares of customers.
“Cognac! And a double shot of bourbon!” Philippe shouted without a shred of self-awareness.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave. Please do so in a dignified manner and don’t make me physically remove you,” Pierre warned, ready to drag the skinny young fellow by his neck and dump him onto the concrete sidewalk.
“I don’t have any money to buy your stupid drinks anyway!” Philippe raved, trying to rise from the table, but falling down again and slumping in his seat.
Tentatively, a young waitress with a blond ponytail tapped Pierre on the shoulder, knowing her boss was in a volatile temperament. He whirled around to face her and gritted testily, “Yes?”
“Should I call the police, Monsieur?” The girl queried timidly.
Pierre thought for a moment. He was itching to punch the drunken fool square in the nose but knew he couldn’t do that. “Yes, please do. I don’t want this scene to escalate any further.”
The waitress immediately dialed the police on her cell phone. Philippe tried again to stand on his feet but could not. Beyond the point of humiliation, he gave into his drunken stupor and lay his head on the linen tablecloth.
“Don’t put your greasy head on my table!” Pierre exclaimed in a strained voice.
This man was really trying his patience past endurance. Disdainfully, Pierre memorized the features of the drunkard’s face: weak jawline, button nose, sparse facial hair, close-set eyes.
“What’s your name?” Pierre demanded.
“Philippe Debauche.” He lifted his head from the table to respond before laying it heavily down again.
“You’re a disgrace, Philippe,” Pierre sneered.
In the affluent, low-crime land of Monte Carlo, the police did not receive many phone calls. Within moments, two officers arrived on the scene to escort Philippe Debauche out of the restaurant.
“Merci, officers.” Pierre exhaled gratefully as the policemen removed a now kicking and screaming Philippe.
Pierre watched as the disgraced man was thrown into the back of a squad car to be hauled off to jail and incarcerated for public drunkenness. As the vehicle sped off into the glittering Monte Carlo night, Pierre felt an uneasy jolt in his gut. A wrenching instinct told him that would not be the last time he would lay eyes on Philippe Debauche.
Chapter One
Boston, Massachusetts
Not again. The copy machine could not be broken again on a Friday afternoon just one hour before quitting time. Frustrated, Belinda flipped open the lid and grabbed a sheet of mangled paper. Paper jam in Tray 2.
“What now? I just fixed it!” Belinda grated furiously.
As she was about to kick the machine with her suede boot, her boss sauntered into the copy room with a huge stack of papers in hand. “I hope you don’t have plans tonight. I’m going to need you to get these documents notarized before you go. And then you’re going to have to do some filing for me. I want everything perfect for Monday morning when the district manager arrives.” Jerry shoved the heap of papers at Belinda.
She regarded the fat, bald, past-middle age man with barely contained loathing. For the past five years, Belinda had worked as his administrative assistant and hated every minute of it. She tried to be diplomatic in her protest. “Jerry, I understand that you want everything ready for Monday. But I don’
t know where to get these papers notarized on a Friday after 4:00. Most bank lobbies are closed and…”
Jerry waved a hand in her face and cut in, “No arguments. Just do it. Your annual review is coming up, and I would advise you to be on your best behavior over the next few weeks,” he spoke to her in a patronizing tone that made her want to slam his shiny head into the glass of the copy machine. “Have a good weekend!” He added emptily before picking up his briefcase and heading towards the exit.
Belinda tried to control her temper. Looking at the clock on the wall, she knew she would have to stay at least another three hours to get everything done. “Oh, I hate this job! I hate it! And that rat Jerry…”
“Whoa, girl. Careful what you say. Jerry’s still in the building,” Lenore, Belinda’s favorite co-worker, advised as she passed by in the hallway.
“I thought Jerky, I mean Jerry, left,” Belinda whispered, pulling Lenore into the room.
“Not yet. I just saw him at the vending machine getting a snack,” Lenore giggled.
Gorgeous and sassy, Lenore was an African American woman in her late twenties whom Belinda had befriended. Belinda didn’t socialize with many of her co-workers, but she had found a kindred spirit in the always candid, always cool Lenore.
“A snack? Just what the porker needs.” Belinda rolled her eyes. “He just gave me a crapload of work to do. And I was supposed to have a date tonight.”
“Well, honey, I think you still do. Just tell your date that you’re running late. That’ll drive him crazy,” Lenore suggested wickedly.
“But that would be so rude. Tonight is our first date. And tonight is my first date since…” Belinda trailed off, embarrassed to complete the sentence.
Belinda’s divorce from her miserable ex-husband, Daniel, had been finalized a year ago, and she hadn’t had a date since. Her friends all urged her to try online dating, but she was too much of an incurable romantic for that. At 38, Belinda still believed in the heart-pounding, soul-sweating love that a man and woman could share. She dreamed of meeting a man in a natural setting, in a field of wildflowers or a cozy mountain resort, as silly as it sounded.
“Since your divorce?” Lenore finished for her, offering a sympathetic look through striking ebony eyes.
“Yup,” Belinda confirmed, looking down at the floor.
“That’s nothing to be embarrassed about. You’re selective! You’re classy and you have standards. You won’t date just anyone. Own it!”
“Thanks, Lenore. You’re a really good friend. Honestly, I’d rather be having dinner with you tonight! At least then I know there would be good conversation,” Belinda said wistfully, already itching to grab her cell phone and text a cancellation to her date.
Lenore read between the lines. “Are you saying this is a blind date?”
“Exactly.” Belinda ran a hand through her long, auburn hair and exhaled in a sigh. Her friends hadn’t been able to convince her to post her profile on the web, but they had finally wheedled her into going on a blind date. His name was Justin, he was 47 years old, and he was divorced. That was all she knew about him. Belinda shook her head thinking how her friends didn’t understand her at all. They wanted to fix her up with any divorced man, as though that commonality were enough to form a lifelong bond between two people. Compatibility was a much trickier matter than that, she knew too well.
“Well, just go with it girl! Have you seen his picture?”
“Nope,” Belinda gulped.
“Uh-oh. That can’t be good!” Lenore laughed huskily.
“That’s exactly what I was thinking. But, oh, what the hell? I’ll just go with it like you said. I’ll text him and tell him I’m running a little late. Listen, I gotta get back to my desk now and finish up this crap Jerry gave me. I’ll tell you all about my date on Monday.”
“Can’t wait! Try to enjoy yourself tonight, Belinda. You deserve it,” Lenore encouraged, flashing her a dazzling white smile.
Spontaneously, Belinda gave Lenore a little hug before marching down the hall with the hateful pile of papers in hand. When she got back to her cubicle, Belinda sent a quick text to Justin before digging into her mountain of paperwork.
*****
Frazzled, Belinda rushed into the restaurant, scanning the room for her blind date. Without an umbrella, she had raced around the rainy streets of Boston on the gloomy March evening, searching for a notary public to stamp the documents Jerry forced on her. After an hour in the rain, Belinda had shuffled back to the office to complete the filing and tie up other tedious loose ends before finally calling it a day.
She hadn’t even had a chance to go back to her apartment and change clothes. Now, feeling unsexy in her taupe raincoat and navy slacks with high collar sweater, Belinda searched in vain for her date, remembering that she didn’t have a clue what the man looked like. Wondering if he had stood her up, and half hoping that he had, Belinda walked over to the hostess station.
“Good evening, miss. I’m here to meet Mr. Justin----um,” Belinda stalled, realizing she didn’t know her date’s last name either. “I’m here to meet Justin,” she finished self-consciously.
With a slight smirk, the young hostess replied, “Yes, ma’am, there’s a Justin at Table 8. I’ll take you there.” She grabbed a menu and indicated for Belinda to follow.
All Belinda could hear in her head was the word ‘ma’am.’ She didn’t get ‘ma’amed’ very often, but when she did it made her blood boil. Belinda had spent years protecting her creamy skin from the sun (which wasn’t hard to do in Boston) and nurturing herself with natural beauty regimens. But Belinda quickly considered the source of the dreaded ‘ma’am.’ The hostess looked no more than 20 years old and would naturally think of any woman over the age of 30 as a ‘ma’am.’
“Here you go.” The hostess motioned to a completely gray haired man fiddling with his cell phone.
“Thank you,” Belinda whispered. “Hello, Justin? I’m Belinda.”
Distractedly, the man rose from his seat and shook her hand limply. “Hey, what’s up? I’m Justin. Sit down.” He immediately returned his attention to the cell phone, tapping the touch screen and smirking as a new message beeped in.
As she sat down across from her date, Belinda immediately knew there was no chemistry between them. It wasn’t because Justin’s face was weathered beyond his 47 years, or that his voice had an abrasive quality to it that felt like nails on a chalkboard. Rather, it was his rudeness in greeting her and how he seemed so enraptured with his cell phone.
“You’re older than I thought you’d be,” Justin remarked casually.
Belinda’s mouth dropped open at the tactless comment. What audacity! He was nearly a decade her senior and yet she was the old one? Suddenly, her cubicle at work seemed a very appealing place to be.
“Anyway, tell me about yourself,” Justin said mechanically, as though he were interviewing a job applicant.
Belinda didn’t feel inclined to tell the man anything about herself. This date was already a monumental waste of time. Why even bother with formalities? Mentally, she concocted ways to get even with her friends for fixing her up with such a creep.
“I’m listening,” he prompted in that prickly voice.
Inhaling deeply, Belinda shared the least personal detail about herself she could think of: her meaningless job. “Well, I work downtown as an administrative assistant. I’ve been at my office now for about five years.”
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