“Small? I told you that I lived in New York City for ten years! I’ve had my share of small apartments, believe me. This is quite spacious compared to some places in Manhattan. And as for cooking in here, I’m a chef, I’ll make it work.” Pierre winked at her.
Suddenly, Belinda felt foolish. She had just moved here and shouldn’t be ashamed of her modest living space. “Well, if you can whip up your magic in this kitchen, then you must be a blue ribbon chef!” She joked.
His deep laughter rang through the air, and she drank it in as though it were wine. Pierre had already made her feel more comfortable than she had in a man’s presence for a long time. The notion surprised her, though, as she finally noticed how gorgeous he looked. In her effort to scoot him away from her apartment, she hadn’t taken in his intoxicating appearance in her favorite attire: blue jeans and a tee-shirt. With impossibly narrow hips and broad shoulders to offset them, Pierre looked almost…edible. She bit her lip, trying not to stare at his masculine frame or the fetching sight of black stubble on his chiseled face.
From the top of the grocery bag, he snatched an apron that read ‘Kiss the Chef.’ “Don’t worry. You don’t have to kiss me now. But you should kiss me later. After all, the apron expects it,” Pierre drawled.
“The apron expects it?” Belinda asked ironically. “Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint the apron. I had a million of those Kiss the Chef aprons back home, you know.”
“And did you receive many kisses?” Pierre inquired brazenly, tying the apron around his strong torso.
“Maybe a few,” Belinda evaded, sorry she had mentioned it. She had often worn the apron when cooking for Daniel, and he had merely kissed her chastely on the cheek or not heeded the coquettish message at all. As she stood there watching the beautiful Frenchman unload the grocery bag, she wondered why she had wasted five whole years with her ex-husband. She should have divorced him after five months because their relationship certainly didn’t get any better as time marched on.
“Voyons, I got a baguette from the boulangerie next to your shop, and some extra virgin olive oil to dip it in. That’s for starters.” Pierre handed her the loaf of bread, which she set on a cutting board.
“Luckily, the one thing I do have is kitchen supplies. No bed, no sofa, but I picked up enough cookware to feed an army,” Belinda laughed, slicing up the bread.
“But I’m so glad it’s not an army. It’s just us two,” Pierre commented softly, placing a bottle of red wine on the counter and twisting it open with a corkscrew.
“I even have wine glasses!” She announced, suddenly glad they were in her apartment and not some loud, impersonal restaurant.
“Yes, you do have all the important things here,” he grinned, pouring their glasses half full.
“A toast to you, Belinda, and to much success for your business.” He raised his glass before adding, “And to many more nights spent in your company.”
Chapter Five
Belinda clinked her glass against his and sipped the heady wine, lush with its oak and blackberry undertones. As she drank the wine, hot color creeping into her cheeks, Pierre removed the rest of the groceries from the bag.
While he cooked, she admired every detail as though it were foreplay. As a baker, she had long eroticized food and wine, but she had never felt as stimulated as she did tonight. Slowly sipping the wine and not protesting when Pierre refilled her glass, she sank back against the kitchen counter, feeling pleasantly numb. Belinda knew she should put the wine down until they started eating, but she was enjoying the bliss of oblivion too much to stop.
She had experienced so many ‘firsts’ lately. A few months ago, she wouldn’t have believed there could be so many new experiences waiting around the corner. Here, on this quaint street in Monaco, in the heart of Western Europe, Belinda Rockland was experiencing yet another first: a man was cooking for her. Because no, quite frankly, Daniel’s charred toast and slimy eggs on Valentine’s Day didn’t count. Belinda shook her head, impatient with herself to stop comparing Pierre to her ex-husband.
Eyes glazing over from the effects of the wine, she watched Pierre sauté the butter, stir the sauce, and munch on the crusty bread as he worked. He was quiet as he cooked, but the silence between them was comfortable. Taking a sip of wine, he caught her eye and stared lingeringly at her face.
“Your eyes look like emeralds with the moon glowing outside the window,” Pierre remarked.
“They’re just hazel,” Belinda mumbled.
He smirked and rephrased his compliment, “Your eyes are beautiful, Belinda, whether you realize it or not.”
“Merci beaucoup,” she managed in a shy whisper.
When dinner was ready, they stayed in the kitchen and ate standing up. Pierre didn’t seem to mind the informal dining at all and spent more time gazing into her eyes. He was not only an attractive man, but also a very talented chef, and she savored every bite of his meal.
“So what made you leave New York City? The small apartments?” Belinda asked lightly.
Pierre frowned, setting down his glass of wine and inhaling deeply. “The apartments were fine. It was the relationships that were the problem. Well, one relationship actually. My ex-wife.” His expression transformed dramatically as he spoke the words.
“You’re divorced?”
“Yes, for a little over two years now. I have a four year old son. He lives with me,” Pierre said matter-of-factly.
“Oh how wonderful! What’s his name?” Belinda asked, her heart soaring at the mention of a child.
“Marc. He’s the love of my life.” The gleam returned to Pierre’s eyes as he spoke of his son.
Belinda smiled warmly, pleasantly surprised to hear this roguish man talk about his child as the love of his life. “That’s beautiful. But it must be difficult raising him on your own.”
“It is. But I have a sister in the area. Her name is Nathalie. She’s married with two young boys, so Marc has cousins to play with…and a babysitter I can trust.”
“Sounds like an ideal situation.”
“Far from it,” Pierre grimaced. “My ex-wife hardly has any contact with our son. She’s too caught up in her own life.”
“What do you mean?” She asked, returning his grimace at the mention of a neglectful mother.
“She’s in New York City still. Living the high life. She’s an actress on Broadway, and a very successful one. Juliette Fontaine. Have you heard of her?”
Yes, Belinda had heard of her, and she wasn’t impressed. Juliette Fontaine was a stunning blonde with the willowy body of a ballerina. She was also frequently splashed across the tabloids for her boozing escapades and casual affairs with Hollywood leading men. It seemed cosmically wrong for a woman like Juliette Fontaine to have so much success while starring in one of the longest running plays on Broadway.
“I have heard of her. So you mean it’s okay with her that you took Marc to live in Europe?” She asked in disbelief.
“Okay? It’s perfect for her selfish agenda. She doesn’t have to feel guilty for focusing her entire life on her acting career because her son is well taken care of.” Pierre’s features contorted in anger.
Belinda also felt a rush of anger pump into her blood. How could any woman forsake her own child? Didn’t his ex-wife know how some women longed to have children but couldn’t? Unable to control her stormy emotions on this sensitive subject, Belinda pressed, “I’m sorry, but she sounds like a terrible woman. I’m sure your son is a beautiful boy, and I couldn’t imagine any normal woman wanting to be away from him.”
“Thank you. He is a handsome little fellow,” Pierre beamed with paternal pride. “And, no, she’s not a normal woman. Now, please, let’s change the subject to something a little lighter…and sweeter.” He reverted to his teasing tones, and Belinda wanted to lap up his innuendo like a kitten with a saucer full of milk.
“Bonne idée,” Belinda murmured the French term for ‘good idea.’
“I love your accent.”
Pierre took a step closer to her as he spoke.
He loved her accent? Her Boston accent? Really? Belinda looked downward and grinned, thinking how she had never heard a more delectable accent than his French one. But she wouldn’t reveal that to him; she would let a man compliment her for once without complimenting him or saying something self-deprecating.
“Thanks. So, are you a…Monacan? I’m sorry, I don’t know the technical term for it.” Belinda blushed.
“Monégasque,” Pierre enunciated perfectly in that charming French accent.
“Monégasque,” Belinda repeated in her light but noticeable American accent.
“Très bien. But actually, I’m from the south of France. I just have my restaurant here. Thousands of French and Italian workers commute to Monaco each day, you know.”
“I never would have guessed that!” She confessed, laughing at herself.
Pierre gave a breathy chuckle and replied, “I’m glad I could teach you something new. Maybe you could do the same for me.”
Belinda’s blush deepened. This man made her feel decades younger, a fact which both excited and frightened her. “Well, you clearly don’t need any help with English,” she joked.
“That’s correct. But I’ve never made chocolate before. And I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. Teach me.”
Teach me. The words were a seductive command that Belinda was powerless to deny.
“An after-dark lesson? How scandalous!” Belinda flirted, not really knowing what she was doing. It had been too long since she had indulged in this kind of playfulness with a man. And she had never indulged in it with a man as devastating as Pierre.
Without further discussion, he took Belinda by the hand and led her from her apartment into the spring night. When they were outside, Pierre glanced at his watch. “Not just after dark. After midnight. Even more scandalous. Allons-y.”
“Oui, allons-y. Let’s go,” Belinda whispered dazedly, inwardly screaming at herself when she tripped on the sidewalk and nearly toppled over the curb.
Pierre’s massive hand gently lifted her upright, and Belinda’s blush reached a flaming shade. Damn it, she had just ruined the façade that she was actually capable of walking gracefully in high heels. Licking her lips self-consciously and tossing her amber waves over her shoulder, Belinda unknowingly enticed Pierre even more.
“Here we are,” Pierre whispered intimately, placing a hand on the small of Belinda’s back as she unlocked the door to the chocolate boutique.
“What kind of truffle would you like me to teach you how to make?” Belinda asked, flipping the lights on and heading to the refrigerator.
“Your most sinfully sweet one, of course.” Pierre winked and followed close behind her.
“That would be my Fatally Sweet truffle. The darkest chocolate your taste buds can imagine. More than 80% pure cacao. And an infusion of passion fruit in the center,” Belinda explained huskily, wobbling in her nervousness and wishing she could rip the high heel shoes off her feet and throw them out the window. “You start with the sugared strawberry purée. Then you mix in the passion fruit extract.” Belinda scooped up the strawberries and drizzled the extract into the mix. “Would you like to try?”
Immediately, Pierre placed his hand over Belinda’s and guided her to swirl the spoon in the fruit mêlée. Boldly, he cushioned his hard body against the softness of her generous curves.
“I’m not sure what kind of spoons we’re talking about right now,” Belinda whispered on a breathless note.
The man was spooning her standing up, and she couldn’t help but wonder what the intimate position would feel like…horizontally. Sensing the closeness was an artful move on Pierre’s part, she inched closer to the mixing bowl and broke the contact between them.
Without warning, Pierre dipped a finger into the fragrant mix and held it above Belinda’s mouth. She knew he was inviting her to lick the fruit off his finger. But she stood immobilized, the spoon dropping messily into the bowl and spraying strawberry juice in her eyes.
“Easy there,” Pierre chuckled. “Taste it.” He would not move his finger away from her mouth.
Unable to resist, she parted her lips and wrapped them around his finger, almost choking on the sweetness of the juice.
“Bon.” He laughed softly. “It’s like yesterday when I met you with that jelly all over your face.”
“Don’t remind me,” Belinda groaned, mortified. “I think I needed a bib.”
“Oh no, I like it---very much. I would like to see your whole body covered in these sweets,” he said daringly.
Belinda felt that he had crossed a line now, and she was not ready to traverse it with him. Stepping away from him and wiping her lips on her apron, she gave him a disapproving look. He stared back at her impudently.
“Is something wrong with a little flirtation between two people who are attracted to each other?” Pierre asked with feigned innocence.
“No, but it was more than a little flirtation, and you know it,” Belinda said frankly.
“Sorry.” He shrugged. “Now, don’t interrupt my baking lesson. Teach me how to put it all together.”
In that moment, Belinda did not know what came over her, but she impulsively twined her arms around Pierre’s neck and stood on her toes a breath away from his face. Instantly, Pierre swooped down to capture her lips in a sugary kiss laced with remnants of the wine they had sipped at dinner. He toyed playfully with the strings on her apron but did not untie them. Instead, he drew her lush curves into the plank of his torso and groaned as she melted submissively against him.
Her lips were juicy and pliant, and he took prime advantage of her sudden submission by initiating a foray into the sweeter recesses of her mouth. Belinda reciprocated the kiss with long-buried passion and an excitement she had not felt since before her marriage. Here, in her chocolaterie, deep inside a spring night on the French Riviera, Belinda experienced the most powerfully stimulating kiss of her life. She did not protest when Pierre lifted her and placed her effortlessly onto the messy counter.
Jars of sugar and bottles of vanilla extract crashed to the floor as Pierre aggressively slid on top of Belinda. She moaned with the incredible feeling, having all but forgotten how wonderful the weight of a strong man could feel on top of her. Returning Pierre’s aggression, Belinda shoved her hands into his wavy dark hair and took a nip at his upper lip.
“This is much better than my cooking classes in New York,” Pierre whispered into her ear before returning his mouth to fuse with hers.
As the kiss deepened, Belinda slipped into an altered state of consciousness, unable to think clearly. Reality was muddled as she allowed Pierre to feast on her mouth like a royal banquet. But in the back of her mind, a nagging thought stabbed at her. Tomorrow is a big day. Confused, Belinda pushed the thought aside and mindlessly experienced the kiss. But the thought persisted and became louder. Tomorrow is THE big day.
Chapter Six
Frantically, Belinda pulled away from Pierre and sat up straight on the counter. He looked at her in shock, wondering why she would sever such an intensely pleasurable experience.
“I’m sorry! Tomorrow is my grand opening! I forgot all about it! Oh, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Belinda shook her head in a panic, unnerved that this man could have such a potent effect on her that she would completely forget what she had been working months to achieve.
“Tomorrow or later today? It’s after midnight, remember?” Pierre inquired on a raspy note, still not fully in control of his desires.
Belinda covered her bruised lips with a trembling hand. “Today! My shop is scheduled for grand opening at noon! I have less than twelve hours to prepare everything. I don’t even think I can go to sleep tonight.”
Dark Chocolate Murder Page 6