The Chocolate Kiss

by Laura Florand

  Magalie filled a crystal carafe for the two women.

  “Oh.” Geneviève looked a little disappointed about the curse. “What’s wrong with you, anyway?” she asked after Magalie. In the small space, conversations could continue in normal tones even when someone was two rooms away. “You’re walking very funny.”

  “No, I’m not,” Magalie said, indignant. She was putting a lot of attention into not walking funny. Her butt hurt from running. Her calves hurt. Her thighs hurt. Maybe she should have paid attention to what the running websites had said about how fast she should be increasing her distances.

  “Yes, you are,” Philippe said, peeling the paper back from a crayon for his niece.

  Her insides stirred unsteadily at the fact that he had noticed. “You’re an expert on the way I walk now?” she said snippily.

  The oddest, ironic curl touched Philippe’s mouth. “As a matter of fact . . .” he murmured, looking at the tip of the crayon.

  A disturbing, destabilizing warmth grew in her. “Then watch carefully,” she told him. “There’s nothing funny about it.”

  Just before she turned away to prove it, his blue gaze rose suddenly from the crayon and caught her. For a second, she couldn’t move. His gaze was so hard and intense, like being pinned by a spear. “Certainly,” he breathed. “It’s the first invitation I’ve gotten from you. I can guarantee I won’t refuse it.”

  Now she did walk funnily when she strode away from him, conscious of those eyes on her butt like hands holding it, caressing every step she took. What was wrong with her to have said that? Never give a man carte blanche where staring at your butt was concerned.

  Especially not a man like Philippe Lyonnais. Knowing he was watching her walk made her whole body seem to soften and beg to offer him a lot more invitations.

  “Could I have your autograph, too?” another of the women, one of their clients, asked him in a breathy voice.

  Magalie picked up her spoon and stirred her chocolate with vengeful satisfaction: May whoever drinks this get what he deserves. Which just had to include a comeuppance.

  You couldn’t call that a curse, could you? And she could even serve it to both uncle and niece at the same time. That little girl could only deserve wonderful things, right? She hoped she didn’t get Océane sent to her room for not cleaning up her toys. And she hoped having that pot of chocolate under his nose cracked Philippe like one of his sugar sculptures.

  When she brought the tray out, Philippe had just finished signing his second pamphlet with a dull blue crayon and was politely responding to the women’s eager questions.

  Magalie slipped firmly between the two tables and slid the tray right under Philippe’s nose.

  Philippe stared down into the pitcher. From her angle, above his head, the chocolate’s warm darkness seemed infinite below the rim of the pot, as if one could wallow forever in its depths. He drew a long breath and then immediately, visibly regretted it. He actually brought a hand up before his mouth and nose, pseudo-casually, to defend his senses from the scent.

  “Just a little thank-you for Océane’s artwork.” Magalie smiled. “It’s on the house.”

  Philippe’s other hand tightened around his tepid water.

  “We’re coming to your place tomorrow!” one of the women at the other table promised him.

  “So where did it come from?” one of the threesome who had arrived last demanded of the two women and of Philippe. “That beautiful pastry? Do you have a shop near here? Mon chéri, what do you think? Maybe we should go there instead.”

  Magalie bent her head down, low, to Philippe, almost as if she was going to give bises on each of his cheeks in thanks. “I’m going to get you,” she hissed into his ear.

  Philippe’s hand flicked up fast, as only someone with minute control of his hands could move, catching the one lock of hair that must have slipped from her chignon, stopping her lift of her head with a jerk that stung her scalp. He locked her there, far too close. “No,” he breathed back, his teeth a snarl, his eyes molten blue. “I’m going to get you.”99

  He dropped his hand and let her go.

  Chapter 14

  Magalie stood in her ivory tower in fluffy socks, thinking about her efforts to turn egg whites into feet. The term feet annoyed her. Who would look at the ruffled bottom of a glossy smooth macaron shell and call it a foot? And what kind of person did it take to keep pursuing the perfection of such feet when it never, ever worked out right?

  Probably she should have gotten Philippe’s book on the subject. The beautiful, glossy Macarons had taunted her, face out, on the bookshelf over at Gibert Jeune. And she wasn’t getting very far with the only other book the store had had on the subject.

  But she would be burned at the stake before she bought his book. Or before she went down into the better-equipped kitchen of the shop and let her aunts see her trying this.

  She couldn’t get the macarons to work for anything. She whipped them. She folded the cocoa into them, and she tried to be careful. It was tedious, folding cocoa and almonds in. She placed them in their little circles drawn on parchment paper. She baked them exactly how the recipe said. And they came out flat as crêpes, stuck through the paper to the pan so that they shattered as she tried to get them out, and the pieces tasted dry and grainy.

  So the next morning, on her way back from aunt-invented errands, she stood scowling at Philippe’s famously perfect pieds in his shop, the little ruffled feet of his macaron shells, the way those shells rose up from the foot into such a perfect, smooth surface, not a hint of grain. Instead of her dull, dry, pale brown, his chocolate ones looked rich and inviting.

  And then there was the crown dessert he had offered her. And the tower. Luscious. Perfect. Taunting.

  “You’re welcome to come in,” a rough-purr voice said from behind her.

  She jumped and tried to disguise the startled move with a pivot on her high heel. Turning, she was already furious with him—for catching her out, for making treasures and putting them at the heart and center of his display windows every damn day, for startling her enough to give him the satisfaction of seeing it.

  He was so close to her, he blocked off any escape but the door into his shop. That avenue, by the angle of his body, he left open. He was so close that, as she turned, the edge of her jacket must have touched him.

  “Merci,” she said flatly. “Non.”

  “It would be my pleasure.” He was mocking her. She knew it. He thought himself some damn lion inviting a gazelle to dinner. Or a prince inviting in a bag lady, probably. “Je t’invite.”

  Her jaw jerked higher at the tu. How dare he? He held her eyes with that sharp, predatory smile, refusing to take it back at her frigid gaze. Which left her with . . . what? An overly intimate tu or continuing to use vous in the face of his tu, which his royal, arrogant bastard of a Highness would probably take as nothing less than his due.

  “I wouldn’t stoop,” she said clearly, her nostrils flaring in disdain.

  He looked past her shoulder, at the pure temptation sitting in his window. She had a sudden desperate fear that he could see the print from the tip of her nose on the glass, like a child’s. She held her chin up and refused absolutely to glance back at that concoction herself to double-check. His gaze returned to her and lingered over that chin. “Suit yourself,” he said, his voice smug and mocking but his blue eyes glittering with anger.

  She wanted to stride away, but she couldn’t get past him without either bumping against him, asking him to let her by, or stepping into his shop. Any of which she would be damned if she would do.

  So she folded her arms and tilted her chin at him like a weapon. And he stood there looking down at her. Until awareness of why she wasn’t moving began to penetrate his consciousness. He didn’t shift back a step in belated courtesy. Oh, no. The blue eyes swept up and down the length of her body twice, darkening, and when they came back to her face were met with pure scorn. She had been in Paris for five years now. She had be
en on the receiving end of more clothes-stripping, aggressive gazes than she could count.

  His eyes narrowed at her expression. The anger in them grew more intense, seething like the surface of a pot of chocolate just before it bubbled too hot and made an unsalvageable mess. He didn’t look down her body again. And he didn’t back up. He just stood there, blocking her, gazing into her face. His presence seemed to grow until it was pressing all around her, as if his will had become tangible and was trying to physically wring something out of her.

  He wasn’t touching her, and yet she could feel the press of him all over her skin. How did he do this to her? In his office at that first meeting, in her kitchen, every time he got close to her. How could he make her whole body burn? How could he make her feel both so strong, as if she could launch herself at him and fight with this man twice her size, and so strangely shaky, as if some secret, vital part of her might fail her during the fight?

  He stood there as if he could hold her there forever. By God, he had patience, this man who could stand and stir and stir and stir a simmering pot of sugar, facing the heat and the time until it was exactly perfect. This man who never, ever shortened a step or skipped it or took the easy way in his pastry making. Control. Patience. Intensity. Time. Control.

  She put her hands on her hips and was surprised when her elbows didn’t jab into him. He felt as if he was wrapped around her, as if she needed to fight him off with jutting elbows. “Do you think I’m a pot of caramel?”

  The anger in his eyes flickered in surprise, and he laughed suddenly. It wasn’t the big, ringing laugh that had greeted her the first time she had seen him, but it lit his whole face. A warm pleasure washed over her, stealing the strength from every joint in her body, while she scrambled to tell them they weren’t supposed to behave that way. That laugh scared her more than anything else about him ever had. Its effect on her.

  He grinned down at her, inviting her into his humor as if it was a warm embrace. “I was thinking of a meringue, but I’m glad you imagined caramel.”

  Meringue had to be whipped at high speed until every last grain of superfine sugar dissolved into the pure white and it was absolutely smooth and extraordinarily fluffy. It was part of why Magalie’s failed; she got impatient. A pot of caramel was much hotter, it boiled and seethed, a molten gold that had to be kept under the most perfect control of the caramellier because it was so very easy to mishandle and let burn. Damn it. She felt herself getting closer to that burning point right then, at what she had just revealed.

  His eyes were still laughing, still inviting her to come in out of this cold day and curl up in his warmth. The richness of their blue was incredible. The tawny hair seemed to pull in sunshine, promising that winter-cold fingertips might find it like treasure if they sank into its depths. “Do you think I’m a pot of chocolate?”

  She shook her head, hard. No, oh, no. Chocolate was easy; it was rich and reassuring, and it always cooperated with her.

  Disappointment flickered across his face. What had he been imagining?

  Being melted and stirred?

  Oh. Her whole body tried to rise toward him so that she desperately wished there was something behind her besides smooth glass, so that she could grab on and hold herself in place. “Chocolate does what I ask it to,” she said crisply, and she turned to finally walk past him.

  She kept her hands on her hips as she did it, elbows well out. Most men in nightclubs would give a little room to a woman keeping her elbows out, but Philippe just let hers connect with his ribs, let her arm fold back under the impact, her elbow slide across his midsection, her shoulder against his chest. He didn’t even flinch at the impact. Probably his jacket had absorbed it all.

  She shot him an annoyed glance, way up, from right in close to his body. He tilted his head down, his focus on her absolute. “You’ve never asked me to do anything, Magalie.”

  It was terrible, the power her name in his voice had over her. She understood now all those stories about giving away one’s true name. But that claim was so outrageous that she stopped there and half-turned, the side of her arm still mid-rub against his chest. “I asked you not to come to my shop!”

  “No, you didn’t. You tried to threaten me away. You’ve never asked me for anything, Magalie. For all you know, I’d give it to you.”

  And he walked away from her. Into his shop with a long, confident stride, the king sweeping into his throne room.

  She was still simmering—and trying furiously not to think of a master’s hand stirring a boiling pot of caramel—when she returned from Gibert Jeune’s with the fresh boxes of crayons and drawing paper Geneviève had sent her out for. How dare he try to get her to ask him for something? Never.

  As if she could . . . petition him.

  She had tried. She had tried to make herself ask when she first went to see him, to save her and her aunts’ place. But to walk into that beautiful royal kingdom of his and be a beggar. . . she just couldn’t.

  She scowled briefly at the customer sitting at one of the tables in the back room and then realized it was Claire-Lucy. “Ciao,” she said tersely. If Claire-Lucy didn’t remain loyal to Magalie, she didn’t see why she had to keep a space for the toyseller. Claire-Lucy had been spending a lot of her afternoon teas down at Lyonnais. Probably huddling shyly in a corner, hoping one of the cute chefs would notice her, which was the kind of thing that drove Magalie completely insane.

  Of course, it could be worse. Claire-Lucy could be going there because his desserts were so insanely delicious that once a woman tried them, she could never, ever say no to them again.

  “Hi,” Claire-Lucy said glumly. She was sipping some of Aunt Aja’s tea, which was brave of her. If she wasn’t careful, Aunt Aja might wish her gumption, and then she would be trying all kinds of things she didn’t dare now. And that would teach her for being such a traitor.

  “I like your vintage car display,” Magalie said dryly.

  “Nice thorns,” Claire-Lucy retorted.

  “I know.” Magalie felt a little smug.

  “What other toy do you think cute, busy men might like besides cars?”

  Magalie shrugged. “You, probably.”

  Claire-Lucy flushed and tried to smooth the frizz out of her hair.

  “Claire-Lucy, you aren’t seriously enjoying the idea of being someone’s toy, I hope.”

  Claire-Lucy sighed. “What are you doing for la Saint-Valentin ?”

  “Nothing,” Magalie said triumphantly. Another year over, and her walls were still intact. Was she good or what?

  “Me, neither,” Claire-Lucy said, drooping.

  “Well, good for you,” Magalie said. “You can come over here like last year. It’s a nice, supportive atmosphere for women who don’t want to be toys.”

  Claire-Lucy gave her an indignant look. “You know, I like toys, Magalie.”

  “Well, then, I give up,” Magalie lied, because she had never given up in her life. Instead, she went back into the kitchen and started warming chocolate.

  Aunt Aja, quietly painting rose petals with egg white, smiled at her. “Geneviève is downstairs in the cave, looking through some of our old chocolate molds.”

  “I mean, it would be kind of nice to be some man’s toy if I could be his pretty Barbie doll,” Claire-Lucy said wistfully when Magalie stepped back into the archway. If Aunt Geneviève heard that, she was going to rise up through the floor like an outraged goddess from the depths of hell. “Instead of which, they always think of me as some kind of Raggedy Ann.” She stroked her frizzing hair again.

  First of all, Magalie thought, they made hair products for that kind of thing, and second of all, she was not entirely sure rescuing idiotic princesses was the right business for her and her aunts. It seemed as if at some point they might just start grabbing heads and conking them together.

  She went back into the kitchen and gave her chocolate a stern look. You could try finding a man who can see straight, who goes after what he wants, who knows ho
w to appreciate a beautiful woman.

  Claire-Lucy finished her whole cup of that chocolate, draining the last drop, and sat there a moment thoughtfully. Then, still sunk in thought, she paid and left, heading down the street.

  As Magalie watched from the door, Claire-Lucy walked straight down the street, stopped in front of Lyonnais, ran her hand through her hair, straightened her shoulders, and walked in.

  Magalie ground her forehead against the display case, then yanked a big chocolate thorn off and started eating it.

  Maybe she had snuck him something after all, Philippe thought as he exchanged his fine leather jacket and cashmere sweater for an easily washable pastry jacket over a thin knit shirt. Maybe the drug was in the very air he’d breathed in that tea shop. Because he couldn’t think of anything but her. Of pulling out that ever-perfect clasp and seeing how long her hair was. And what those dark, smooth—shoulder-length?—locks would look like when he messed them up. When he threaded his hands into them and held her head still on his bed while he kissed her.

  While he took her, his brain flashed forward. And fractured into multiple fantasy paths at once, unable to decide between a vision in which she let him hold her still by her hair for his taking, and one in which she dragged her nails down his ribs to his butt, fighting him for control.

  “I’ll do the caramel,” he told Olivier. “I’m in the mood for it this morning.”

  To Olivier’s credit, he didn’t show his relief. Philippe brought his sugar far hotter than anyone else before he deglazed it with the best butter in France and added in the cream, and Olivier had slipped up and burned it more times than he had messed up any other recipe. He was beginning to consider it his curse, which was unfortunate, as they were going to need a good caramellier for this shop, to free more of Philippe’s time for creation and innovation.

  Given that he had been making perfect caramel since he was fourteen years old, it was probably a bad sign that this morning, Philippe brought his caramel too hot and burned it.