Dark Chocolate Murder

by Anisa Claire West

  Noticing how the children dispersed, Belinda stood up at the candy counter to address the odd stranger. Something in his demeanor made her shiver, although he was not outwardly intimidating. Built like a green bean, the man had no brawn on his bones, but he did possess a wild-eyed stare that Belinda found unnerving.

  “May I help you, Sir?” Belinda addressed the stranger in English in the hopes of maintaining control of the situation. French still made her feel far too vulnerable, and as the beady eyed, slack-jawed stranger stared at her, the last thing she wanted to feel was vulnerable.

  “Yes, I’m here to purchase a box of chocolates. I prefer dark chocolate. What would you recommend?” The man’s breath blew acridly across the room, and Belinda detected the stale odor of whiskey.

  Politely, she offered, “It depends on how dark you prefer your chocolate.”

  “The darkest possible,” the man replied in a gravelly voice, avoiding eye contact.

  “Well, then I would recommend my Fatally Sweet truffles. They’re made with more than 80% cacao and filled with passion fruit cordial.”

  “Bon. Get me a big box.”

  “How many would you like? A dozen? Two dozen?” Belinda queried, showing him some sample boxes.

  “Two dozen. And tie them up with a bow,” he ordered grimly.

  “Very well. Are these a gift? Perhaps for a special lady?” Belinda asked innocently, hoping to clear the air with innocuous small talk.

  The stranger smirked off into the distance but made no reply other than to demand, “Tie them with a red bow.”

  Hurriedly, Belinda arranged the chocolates and tied the bow around the box. “That will be 45 euros. And I apologize, but I only accept cash. My shop just opened recently and we’re not yet equipped to accept credit cards.”

  “I only pay in cash,” the man clipped, grabbing a wad of euros from a shabby faux leather wallet and shoving them at Belinda.

  “Thank you for your business. Have a good day.” She issued the standard thank-you and watched gratefully as the creepy customer left the shop.

  Once he was gone, she exhaled deeply, gesturing for the children to come back to the chocolate bar and finish their sodas. “Come on, kids, the chocolate ice cream is melting!”

  “That’s okay. I like it melty,” An angelic mahogany-haired girl piped up, swiveling onto a stool. “That man was scary!”

  “He was scary,” Belinda admitted. “But he’s gone now.”

  As the children slurped up their drinks, Belinda felt a chill course up her spine. The strained exchange with the dark cloaked man had left her feeling like she needed a shower. But as the smiles and laughter of children again lit up the room, she forgot all about him.

  *****

  In the evening, Belinda made her début appearance at Pierre’s restaurant. He had phoned her just an hour earlier to spontaneously invite her to a five course dinner. When he had picked her up at her shop at closing time, they had both been sorely tempted to engage in another lovemaking episode on the counter. But both marginally found the will to resist. Belinda had made a quick stop at home to change into an elegant crepe dress with---yikes---high heels.

  Now, as she strolled through the restaurant doors on Pierre’s arm, she felt like she was living someone else’s life. It was still unbelievable to her how much her life had changed in such a tiny crinkle of time. She remembered the last time she had been in a restaurant with a man before moving to Monaco: the laughable blind date back in Boston. For the life of her, she still couldn’t remember the toad’s name.

  Pierre smoothly introduced Belinda to the general manager, head chef, and other key players at his restaurant. Then, he escorted her to the most romantic booth in the place, directly facing a grand piano and cozy fireplace.

  “Your restaurant is lovely,” Belinda breathed as a busboy immediately filled her glass with ice water. “It has such a romantic atmosphere.” She looked around at the Impressionist paintings that adorned the walls.

  Pierre grinned. “This is the first night it’s felt romantic to me. Usually, it feels like hell on wheels!”

  Belinda laughed, accepting the leather-bound menu the waiter offered her and opening it. “Oh, these dishes all look sumptuous. Are you sure we should have five courses?”

  Pierre nodded fervently. “Yes, there are so many flavors to sample here. Why should we stick with just one? That would be like only making love on a bed when there are so many inspiring venues.” He winked mischievously at her.

  Belinda smiled wryly. “That’s a lot of pillow talk, Mr. Cédaire. We haven’t even had our appetizers yet.”

  “Looking at you in that dress is my appetizer,” Pierre said hungrily, and from the fierce look in his eyes, she knew he wasn’t exaggerating.

  The couple savored each of the dinner’s five courses, interspersing the meal with frequent spicy banter. Belinda did not keep track of how many glasses of wine she drank, but by the end of the evening, the sommelier had cracked open a second bottle for the pair.

  “Spend the night at my house,” Pierre implored, swallowing a spoonful of crème brûlée. “I’ll drive you to your shop in the morning.”

  Belinda stared into Pierre’s hazelnut eyes, feeling as though she were living a dream. She tingled with joy imagining how it would feel to wake up in Pierre’s solicitous embrace. His house in the French countryside was the perfect escape from her busy work days in Monaco. She sighed sweetly, finishing the last drop of her wine before answering him.

  “Yes, I will spend the night at your house. That sounds perfect.”

  Perfect. Everything was perfect, Belinda thought on a wave of exhilaration as Pierre weaved his fingers through hers and they strolled out into the night.

  Chapter Ten

  They hadn’t even made it to the door of Pierre’s house when passions again flamed out of control. Fumbling in his pocket with one hand for keys, Pierre roamed his other hand over the voluptuous side curve of Belinda’s body.

  “I can’t find the key!” He gritted in frustration.

  Belinda couldn’t hide her flattered amusement and grinned provocatively at him. “Should I help you find the key?” Boldly, she slid her hand into Pierre’s front pocket and searched for the key. He tensed the moment her hand made contact with his body. “Hmm, it’s not there. Maybe I should check the back pocket.” Still grinning, she reached around to find Pierre’s tight, muscular rear. But no pocket.

  Now it was Pierre who was grinning as she asked, “Why didn’t you tell me you don’t have a back pocket?”

  “And stop you from touching me? Why in the world would I do that?” Pierre mocked.

  “Well, I don’t think we need to find your keys right now anyway. The night is mild and…you don’t have any conservative neighbors, do you?” She asked boldly.

  Pierre laughed huskily and led her into the backyard. The yard was shaded with a bounty of horse chestnut and eucalyptus trees. Urgently, he motioned for her to recline on a bed of grass. “No one will see us back here,” he assured her.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Belinda whispered, pressing herself full-length against Pierre. “I’m not feeling shy tonight.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Pierre chuckled. “Take off your dress. I want to watch you.”

  Belinda rose from the grassy knoll and locked eyes with Pierre. Trying to stay classy and not evoke the movements of a stripper, Belinda slowly unzipped her dress. The subtle noise of her zipper reverberated in the quiet sanctuary of Pierre’s backyard. Slinking out of the dress, Belinda kept her black stockings and high heels on.

  Pierre watched through heavy-lidded, smoldering eyes as she peeled off her bra and panties. Standing nude in the moonlight, Belinda reminded him of a fertility goddess, the very epitome of femininity and softness. The trees blew a breeze through her loose ginger hair and her hazel eyes appeared as emeralds in the shadows of the night.

  “You really are a living Venus,” he muttered, clearly incensed beyond the point of patience after he
r seductive strip tease.

  Ordinarily, Belinda would have blushed, but tonight she felt too confident to act like a shrinking violet. She wondered if her newfound assertiveness stemmed from all the wine, but she didn’t think so. It was the chemistry between her and Pierre that was inebriating. Fine French wine complemented their fiery connection but did not cause it. The fact that Pierre had invited her to stay the night and she knew she would be waking up in his arms made her even more self-assured.

  Walking directly into Pierre’s arms, Belinda opened her mouth and caressed Pierre’s lips with her own. She pulled back once, twice, and a third time, not allowing their lips to make full contact. After the third time, Pierre growled and lunged forward, capturing her lips for a firm, potent kiss that revealed how excited she had made him.

  She didn’t feel the lattice of twigs and branches as he lay her onto the grass. All she felt were his hands and lips and the gale wafting through the trees. Positioning himself between her thighs, Pierre surprised her by pausing at her feminine core and exploring brazenly with his mouth. Sighing dreamily, Belinda eagerly provided access for him to engage in this most intimate act, feeling every inch the goddess he had compared her to.

  Pierre’s heightened arousal demanded that he join with Belinda, and soon he was pushing inside of her. They lay side by side, one of her silk stocking-covered legs slung over his torso as her fingers twisted through his hair. As Pierre plundered her body, she felt him reach a much deeper, hidden part of her. And she also felt herself readily abandon it to him, welcoming him inside her soul as ardently as she accepted him into her body. The stars winked at them in the dark purple sky, and Belinda kept her eyes wide open as she reached ecstasy in tandem with Pierre.

  Long minutes later, Belinda stirred, a chill rising to the surface of her skin and creating a sheet of goose bumps. Attentively, Pierre held her closer and said gently, “We should go inside now. The air is getting too cold.”

  Lazily, they stood up, neither making an attempt to put on clothes. Belinda simply wrapped her dress around her like a towel after a shower. Tiptoeing alongside Pierre, she looked around, wondering if any neighbors had just witnessed their interlude. But the houses were far apart on Pierre’s block, and the night was starkly silent except for the sound of their footsteps.

  Inside the house, Belinda yawned contentedly as she walked up to Pierre’s bedroom. The two flopped onto the bed as Pierre pulled the blankets tightly around them. Wrapped inside his embrace, Belinda fell asleep listening to the symphony of his breathing and heartbeat.

  *****

  Sunlight dazzled the room and awoke Belinda from a restful sleep. Instinctively, she shielded her eyes from the imposing light, feeling like Sleeping Beauty waking up after a hundred years. Quickly, Belinda realized that something was amiss, as the warmth of Pierre’s body was absent from the bed. Forcing her eyes open, she cocked her head up, looking around the room for her lover. Troubled, Belinda shot out of bed and walked to the top of the staircase. From the kitchen downstairs, she could discern the rich intonations of Pierre’s voice. A second, smaller voice could be heard as well. As a childish giggle erupted, Belinda realized that Marc was downstairs with his father. But Marc hadn’t been here last night, had he?

  Belinda began to descend the stairs until, mortified, she realized she was nude except for the pair of stockings that she hadn’t bothered to take off last night. Dashing back into the bedroom, Belinda sought a suitable cover-up. None of her personal effects were here, and she would have to go downstairs without applying any makeup or even running a brush through her hair. But she had to find something to wear in front of her lover’s son. Pierre’s shirts would probably trail to her knees, but that still wasn’t modest enough with his four year old boy in the house.

  Opening Pierre’s closet, she found a gigantic white flannel bathrobe. The massive garment made her look like a polar bear, but it would have to do. Marching downstairs, Belinda craned her neck to hear the conversation between father and son.

  “Papa, can we put ice cream on the waffles?” Marc implored.

  “No! You’ve had more than enough ice cream lately,” Pierre said firmly. “We’ll have our waffles with butter and cinnamon, and an egg on top. Doesn’t that sound yummy?”

  “Not as yummy as ice cream!” Marc retorted.

  Belinda stood at the doorway of the kitchen, suddenly uncomfortable about entering the room. Pierre and Marc were having a lighthearted exchange, but somehow she felt like an intruder. That uneasy feeling vanished a moment later when Marc spotted her in the doorway and beamed.

  “Papa, it’s the pretty lady! Does she live here now?”

  Pierre turned and favored Belinda with an intimate smile. “No, Marc. The pretty lady is visiting today. She’s having breakfast with us.”

  Rushing over to Belinda, he gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek and whispered in her ear, “Nathalie dropped Marc off early this morning. You were sleeping so soundly that you didn’t hear the doorbell ring!”

  “Oh, yes, I did sleep very well,” she said luxuriously.

  “Papa, where are her arms?!” Marc cried in alarm from across the room.

  Belinda looked down at the sagging bathrobe, noting that her arms were completely obscured by the material. Horrified that she had frightened the child, she rolled the sleeves up to her shoulders and soothed, “My arms are right here, sweetheart! I’m borrowing your Papa’s bathrobe and it’s too big on me, so my arms were hiding!”

  Relieved, the little boy returned his attention to breakfast, lifting the lid of the waffle maker and sticking his finger in. Pierre shook his head and scolded, “Marc, be patient! The waffles aren’t ready yet. Close the lid.” Turning to Belinda, he offered, “Would you like a double espresso?”

  “You made espresso this morning?” She asked, pleasantly surprised. It seemed so chic and European, the total opposite of the bland coffee she used to filter through her cheap one-cup machine back in Boston.

  “I make espresso every morning,” he clarified. “I can’t function without it. All these years of late night hours as a chef and now a restaurant owner…let’s just say I’m not a morning person.”

  Belinda took a closer look at Pierre. He had subtle dark circles under his eyes that she hadn’t noticed before. His face was slightly weathered from living in the dry, sunny climate of southern France, but his features were still magnificently handsome. And his hard physique defied logic, even defied gravity. He was certainly in better shape than most men in their twenties, Belinda thought with admiration.

  “I’ll take you up on that double espresso,” she said graciously.

  “Not me! I want apple juice!” Marc interjected, his little hand moving over the lid of the waffle maker again.

  “Marc! Put your hand down right now!” Pierre hollered.

  The little boy scowled but obeyed his father’s orders. A few minutes later, the trio sat down to breakfast at the round table in the center of the kitchen. Belinda allowed Pierre to serve her, delighted that he seemed to take pleasure in the task. Gallantly, he placed a heaping plate of cinnamon-brushed waffles in front of her and served her another tiny cup of double espresso. As Marc munched away and slurped his apple juice, Belinda felt like she was observing an idyllic scene from a Norman Rockwell painting. But she wasn’t an observer; she was really there, eating breakfast with a man she had fallen madly in love with and his darling little son. Sipping her espresso, she reached across the table and lightly rubbed Pierre’s forearm, communicating with that gesture how truly happy she was at that moment.

  Chapter Eleven

  The old man held the door open with his foot, pushing his way inside the house as his arms overflowed with gifts. In his wrinkled hands, he held a bounty of romantic gifts: a dozen long stem red roses, chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne, gold jewelry box, and an assortment of truffles from Belinda’s Chocolate Boutique. When he reached the living room where his wife was unwinding by the fireplace with a mug of tea,
he unburdened himself of the packages.