The Chocolate Touch

by Laura Florand

  And there are many more reader recommendations on our website discussion! This is just a start. Which leaves me with many more chocolates to try—and I hope you, too. If you find something good, please let me know! Readers can contact me at laura@lauraflorand.com, or through Facebook (www.facebook.com/LauraFlorandAuthor) or my website (www.lauraflorand.com).

  Laura Florand’s Amour et Chocolat series continues with The Chocolate Heart, coming this December. Read on for a taste . . .

  She walked in, blond, small, tanned, smelling of monoï, the tiare-infused coconut oil of the islands. Luc recognized the scent because he smelled and tasted everything that passed through his hands, good or bad.

  It wasn’t a policy he usually applied to people, but . . . She looked like someone a man wouldn’t mind tasting, certainly. A sun goddess you might pick up off a beach, on a tropical escape, feel the sand sticking to her skin when you made love to her, shake it out of the sheets in the morning with a smile on your face.

  Or so he imagined. He had never escaped to a tropical island, not ever once, but his ability to imagine—and realize—impossible things was world-famous.

  She looked tired, around-the-world-in-eighty-days tired, with a pinch around her eyes that went beyond jet lag. But when she looked up and met his eyes, she pulled out a smile so bright, it was several minutes before Luc realized she had no idea who he was. She hadn’t recognized him. She had just seen the symbol of the hotel under his name on his shirt and thrown him the same bright smile she would have given anyone.

  So right from the start there was a problem. A conflict, within him, perhaps. Luc knew, with certainty, that she had arrived on the edge of nerves and exhaustion. That she needed tolerance and compassion.

  Yet he couldn’t quite forgive her for that split second when he had fallen for that bright smile, and it hadn’t been for him.

  She had probably thought he was the bellboy.

  That was one hot bellboy, Summer noticed. Standing near the polished mahogany reception desk, framed by marble columns, light glimmering on his face from a gold chandelier. Welcome, Madame, to your mausoleum. Although doubtless he thought this place was a gorgeous palace.

  Black-haired, probably about thirty, the man curled like a whip around her attention and yanked it to him.

  How? She hadn’t slept more than ten hours in the past four days, some of which she had spent hanging sick over the side of a cargo ship. How could he wake her up enough to notice him? Even if he was gorgeous—a sculpted, precise elegance, with a perfect, coiled tension in him. Tall and lean and lovely and watching her.

  Maybe someone at the hotel had checked out her dating history, figured out her type, and placed him there to keep her distracted and malleable.

  How thoughtful of them.

  She smiled at him because she was almost never too far gone to smile at someone as if he were special. The gift cost her nothing, certainly not any iota of herself, so why be stingy with it?

  The bellboy or whatever he was, stood perfectly still, a hotel logo embroidered on his stylish white shirt, with an open collar and up-to-the-minute cut. For a moment, the power of his presence forced every detail on her: a honed, startlingly handsome face, the copper tone of his skin, the black hair, the black eyes that fixed on her as if he had just spotted water in a desert.

  “Monsieur.” She put a hand on his wrist, smiling up at him, and a little flick ran up that matte skin. Great. She definitely needed a man who was putty in her hands right now; she didn’t have the strength for anyone who could resist her. “Could you show me to my room please?”

  Tricky, for a bronze statue to stiffen further, but he managed it. Maybe not such putty after all. Wow, his eyes were so . . . intense. Greed kicked through her, a desire to grab that intensity and wallow in it. Mine, mine, all mine. God, she must be out-of-her-mind tired.

  “I think you have me mistaken for someone else,” Gorgeous said with distinct hauteur. He kept cutting his way through every blurring of her brain, the one clear thing in her fatigue. He looked like a Greek god. A real Greek god, not those heavy-lipped marble things. Born out of Chaos, hardened by fire, ready to go fight some Titans.

  “I’m Summer Corey,” she retorted firmly. Top that, Greek god. “Come on. Here.” She dove into her purse and came up with a handful of fifty-euro bills, fresh from the airport distributor, and lowered her voice as she pressed them into his palm. “Just get me to my room before anyone else realizes I’m here, okay? I need a nap.”

  “A nap.”

  Preferably in a hammock on the beach, but she wasn’t going to get that. She was going to get some opulent bed that gave her hives. “I promise I won’t let you get fired for sneaking me in.”

  Black eyebrows went up. “I promise you I won’t be fired.”

  Oh, for God’s sake, couldn’t he take extravagant tips for discreet favors to rich clients gracefully? He was working at the top hotel in Paris, for crying out loud. Maybe she was going about this the wrong way. “I am Summer Corey.” As in, the person who could do the firing, so stop arguing and get moving.

  “Congratulations.” He left his hand open so that the bills scattered over his feet. “I’m Luc Leroi.”

  If she had had one iota more energy, she might have gasped and genuflected, just to subvert his arrogant tone. Le Roi, the King. She hadn’t forgotten any European princes her mom was trying to set her up with, had she? No one came to mind. “So what are you king of?” she asked him with a little grin, which she was pretty proud of. Not everyone could pull out friendly grins for indiscreet bellboys when she felt ready for her own funeral.

  His lips parted as if he had taken one to the gut, and his eyes went obsidian.

  “Here,” he said finally, with an edge to his voice. “Welcome to my kingdom, Summer Corey.”

  That couldn’t be right. According to her father, this was her kingdom now. Her parents had always had trouble telling the difference between their daughter’s fairy-tale kingdom and her own personal hell.

  She curled her hand around his arm and leaned into him confidingly. He took a soft, sudden breath as her body got so close to his. “Here’s some advice. When the owner of ‘your kingdom’ asks to be discreetly shown to her room, it’s probably a good idea to help her out, if you want to keep your throne. No matter who you think you are.”

  His eyes glinted. “That’s thoughtful of you. The advice. Can I return the favor?”

  Hard arms swept her up against his chest, an iron grip shocking through her. He moved so fast, it took her brain a few seconds to catch up and realize he had just saved her from this cold marble hall. And longer still to remind her that she was probably supposed to be alarmed and not overwhelmed with relief.

  “If you think your daddy buying a hotel makes you queen of it, you might want to do some research on your new subjects before you come sweeping into your new queendom. Thierry, Mademoiselle’s key.”

  A young man gaping at them from behind the mahogany desk blinked at the crisp command, fumbled, and finally slipped a card into the two fingers Luc released from her body in order to take it.

  Black eyes glittered down at her. “And you might want to know a little bit more about a man before you ask him to escort you to your room.”

  Her captor strode into the nearest elevator and dipped her enough to press a button without loosening his grip.

  Summer stared up into night-black eyes as the doors shut them in. Never get caught with a strange man by yourself in an elevator.

  Especially if that strange man had literally grabbed you up off the floor and hauled you into it.

  Oh, what the hell. It was better than being clawed to shreds by rage and loneliness and anxiety. She laid her head down on his shoulder and went with it.

  His fingers spasmed into her, a tiny, quickly controlled pressure. His chest moved in a long breath under her cheek.

  A strong shoulder. She curled her face into it, concentrating on the male strength and delicious scent of him. Such a
strange, complex mixture of scents, whispers, and promises of the entire world. Her eyes closed, tension draining out of her body.

  His fingers flexed into her again, gentler, longer.

  Good. He wasn’t going to drop her. That was about all she needed to know at this point. She snuggled her face against his muscles, her mouth curving faintly as she drifted toward sleep.

  The elevator’s stop and his long, smooth stride as he left it nudged her awake again. Why was he walking so fast? Was he really carrying her off?

  Her heart beat harder, adrenaline trying to break through her fatigue. She told her adrenaline to shut up. She liked this, plunging into erotic danger just where she had thought to be buried in deadly, merciless elegance. Kidnapped by a gorgeous stranger, you couldn’t ask for a better distraction than that . . .

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2013 Laura Florand

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to include the following copyrighted material:

  “Je suis comme je suis” et “Cet amour” from Paroles by Jacques Prévert © Editions Gallimard, Paris, 1949.

  KENSINGTON and the k logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-0-7582-8632-1

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7582-8633-8

  ISBN-10: 0-7582-8633-3