The Bride Wore Chocolate (Sweet and Savory Romances)

by Shirley Jump

  “I don't need to. I'm not that kind of person.”

  “Oh, yeah? Then why were you crying into your margaritas about how boring your life was just three days ago?”

  “That was a momentary glitch. Nothing more.”

  “Okay. Fine.” He flipped up his menu again.

  “That's it?”

  “Yep. I believe you.” He didn't, but he didn't tell her that. He'd prove he was right instead. That would be much more fun. And if there was anything Michael loved, it was a challenge that seemed insurmountable.

  “Well... good.” Her menu wavered on its way back up in front of her face.

  For a second there, she'd almost turned the tables on him, but now he'd regained control of the situation. If he could just keep a leash on Johnny, this meal would work out well.

  A waiter appeared at their table. He took their order and left a moment later, retreating into the darkness like a ghost.

  Soft instrumental music started streaming through the speakers. Love songs. Candace quirked another brow at him and rolled her eyes.

  Damn Johnny. The man should have been the host at a brothel instead of at a restaurant. Just when Michael thought he had the upper hand, someone else screwed with his plans.

  “Has Ricardo come to take your order?” Johnny came over to their table, as if the mere thought of him made him materialize, like a cough in a hypochondriac.

  “Yes, thank you,” Candace said.

  “Good.” Johnny clapped his hands together and took a step back.

  Michael sighed, then bit back his relief when Johnny moved forward again. “I have to tell you, miss, that Mr. Vogler is such a wonderful man. Quite the catch, you know.”

  “Johnny, she doesn't need—”

  “He owns his own business, has a dog he loves, doesn't live with his mother”—Johnny ticked the reasons off on his fingers—”is always nice to the ladies, and never fails to leave a generous tip.”

  The waiter slipped in with their wine order, making himself invisible as he poured two glasses then retreated again, as if he didn't want to get stuck in the middle.

  Candace shook her head. “I'm sure Michael's great,” she told the maitre d’,”but I'm not dating him. This is just a ... a ... friendly lunch.”

  Johnny looked at Michael. Then at Candace. He raised one eyebrow, then the other. “Uh-huh.”

  “She's engaged to someone else,” Michael explained.

  Johnny's jaw dropped open. “And you bring her here? To your little dinner love nest? How could you?” The maitre d' tsk-tsked, his hands waving in wild indignation. He shook his head, his face dour. “And I thought you were such a good man.”

  “Johnny, I—”

  “I take it back,” he said to Candace, reaching down to touch her arm. “He's not such a good catch. If you ever want a man, you come see Johnny. I have a cousin who will treat you right. He owns his own hubcap store. He's a man with morals.” Then he was gone, huffing toward the front desk.

  Michael wondered if strangling Johnny would be considered self-defense.

  Candace sat back against the booth and crossed her arms over her chest. A smug smile teased at her lips. The ball had just been spiked into her half of the court. “Gee, it's nice to have friends who care so much, isn't it?”

  “Johnny is not a friend,” he muttered.

  Her smile became a full-fledged grin.

  “Where's our food?” Michael looked around the restaurant but no waiter appeared to bail him out of a very sticky situation.

  “It will come when it's ready.” Her voice held a high, delighted-to-have-caught-him pitch to it. “So, tell me. How many women have you brought here? Ten? Twenty? A thousand?”

  “It's not like that at all.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “I date... regularly, but I'm not a gigolo or anything.”

  She waved a hand at him. “Give me a ballpark. Just throw out a number.”

  He'd never been at a loss of words before with a woman. She'd not just put him—but also kept him—on his toes. “Numbers aren't important.”

  “Tell that to the Census Bureau.”

  He grinned. “Point taken. Either way, my past is not an issue because you aren't dating me, right? You're just here for a—what'd you call it?—a friendly lunch. And friends don't keep tallies on each other's dating history.”

  “True.” She picked up her wineglass and took a sip. “Then I don't care. Not one bit.”

  “Good.” He picked up his glass and gulped down the Chianti. The full-bodied wine settled in his stomach with a hefty flavoring of disappointment.

  When was the last time he'd been so bothered by a woman's refusal to engage with him in the dating dance? She was promised to someone else, he reminded himself.

  Again.

  But something... something had intrigued him about Candace Woodrow. And he had no intentions of letting her ride off into the sunset on the back of a mule with Bob Boring. Not without a teeny taste of what life could be like.

  “Your order, ma'am,” the waiter said, laying a plate teeming with stuffed manicotti before Candace. He turned and laid a plate of spinach ravioli before Michael, asked if they needed anything else, then disappeared. The waiter had yet to learn the Casa D'Antonio rule about interjecting personal opinions before the tip. Thank God.

  “This looks delicious,” Candace said. “I probably shouldn't have all these calories just before I go shopping for a dress, but—”

  “But you only live once. Indulge.”

  She inhaled the fragrance of the manicotti, her fork hovering over the plate. “Okay. You talked me into it.”

  Watching Candace eat was almost as erotic as watching her sleep. It was clear she loved food, especially Italian food, by the way she caressed it with her mouth before swallowing. He had to focus on not lunging across the table and taking her right there, among the manicotti and raviolis.

  Most of the other women he knew ate like wary birds, picking here and there at the meal, using their fork like a divining rod to find the least fattening ingredients. They rarely finished a plate of anything, even salad.

  He wondered if Cosmo had done some survey that said men found an appetite unsexy.

  If so, they were sure as hell wrong.

  He watched her cut a piece off a bulging manicotti, swirl it in the red sauce, then put it in her mouth, smiling with reverence when the cheese and pasta hit her palate. A tiny glob of ricotta clung to the corner of her mouth and before he could stop himself, Michael had leaned forward and wiped it off with his finger.

  Her eyes widened. “What are you doing?”

  He placed his finger against her lips. “You, ah, had a little cheese right there.”

  Instinctively, her tongue flicked out and caught the dab. He bit back a groan.

  “Is it gone?”

  “Yeah.” But he didn't move his hand. She took a breath and he felt his lungs expand to match hers. In. Out. As if they were breathing in tandem. The restaurant dropped away, the booth became a private island. The tension between them pulsed with unmet desire. If she tasted his finger again, he swore he'd have a bigger problem than Johnny to deal with in the tight confines of the booth. “You have amazing eyes.”

  Her cheeks flushed. “Rather ordinary, I think.”

  “Don't.” He shook his head. “Don't do that.”

  “What?”

  “Deflect the compliment. I'm telling you that you have amazing eyes. The kind that can take a man in and make him forget everything.” He drew his thumb along her jaw.

  “My ... my ... my manicotti's getting cold.” She dipped her head and attacked her plate in earnest.

  Michael's hand dropped away. The tension between them fizzled like a balloon that had sprung a leak. He cursed a few times under his breath and felt a whole lot better.

  The meal ended too soon and had Michael wishing he'd suggested something slower, like a fondue bar. He could just imagine her dipping all those little bits of fruit into the chocolat
e....

  “You're staring at me,” Candace said.

  “I was thinking how fun it would be to do fondue with you.”

  “Do fondue? As in on the food ... or on me?”

  “Whichever you prefer.”

  She swallowed. “I really like bananas in mine. Not body parts.”

  “Have you tried body parts?”

  “Uh, no. Not unless you count licking my fingers after I frost a cake.”

  “Then someday I'll have to show you what you're missing.”

  A long moment of silence ticked between them as she digested his words. Then she took in a quick breath and glanced at her watch. The escape route.

  “Oh gee, look at the time,” she said. “I need to shop for a dress. Barry and I are having dinner tonight with his mother.”

  “Why don't I come with you?”

  “Help me shop for my wedding dress? Are you crazy?”

  “Would you rather be asking the opinion of the little old lady who runs the shop and sees profit margins in her eyes? Or a man who knows what looks good on a woman?”

  “You have a point,” she allowed.

  “If you want your groom to keel over at the sight of you, then let me go with you.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “And you don't have an ulterior motive for this, right?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Liar.”

  He shrugged. “Polygraph me.”

  “I can tell you're lying.”

  “How's that?”

  “Your face. You get these dimples beside your smile when you lie. Like it's a joke only you know.”

  Damned if she wasn't right. He scrambled for another lie to cover the first one. “You're right. I do have an ulterior motive.”

  “I knew it.”

  “I have a client—a big-name client—that I'm trying to land. She's a wedding dress designer and it would really help me if I could get inside the mind of a bride, see what they think about during the selection process. I want to be the bride when I go into my meeting with the designer next week.”

  “Be the bride? Are you shopping for yourself, too?”

  “I don't think I'll go that far. It'll be more fun to study you.”

  Candace propped her chin in her hands and considered him. “I don't think you're being completely honest, but I don't know you well enough to tell how much of a liar you really are.” She paused, chewing on her bottom lip. He watched her teeth nip at the dark pink skin and wondered what it would feel like to have her lips under his own teeth. “Okay,” she said. “I'm going to drag you to every dress shop in town. You're going to regret signing on for this.”

  “Oh, I doubt that. Very, very much.”

  Crust:

  1-3/4 cups crushed chocolate cookie crumbs

  1/2 cup finely chopped peanuts

  1/3 cup sugar

  7 tablespoons butter, melted

  Cake:

  12 ounces semisweet chocolate chips

  1 cup heavy cream

  3 tablespoons Grand Marnier

  2/3 cup orange marmalade

  Liken the cookie crumbs to the crumble you've made of your well-planned-out life. Then mix them well with the butter, peanuts and sugar and press them into a nine-inch tart pan with a removable bottom. Bake the crust for fifteen minutes at 350 degrees and try not to regret anything you've done in the last few days. Bad for the digestion and all that.

  To keep your mind off things, heat the chocolate chips and cream in a saucepan on low heat. Imagine your problems dissolving into the melting chocolate. Stir until the whole mixture becomes smooth as a blank calendar. Add the Grand Marnier. Life's about to get much better. Let it cool for twenty minutes. Caution: drinking the leftover Grand Marnier can be a dangerous choice right now.

  Spread the marmalade over the crust. Pour on the chocolate mixture. Taste it with your finger. Yummy enough? Good.

  Let it refrigerate overnight. Can't stand to wait that long? Try freezing it for half an hour to get it icy cold fast. Then, when it's firmer than your resolve, remove the tart pan and eat as much as it takes to make you forget you ever made a bad decision in your life.

  Better yet, bake two cakes. One for yesterday's choices and one for tomorrow's.

  CHAPTER 10

  They had elected to take one car—his car. Candace regretted the decision before they left the parking lot. Regardless of whether it saved time, gas or money, the space inside the Lexus was altogether too enticing to be comfortable. The Bose stereo, the leather seats, the soft purr of the engine—it was like being inside of him.

  She shook her head and concentrated on the road. “You're going the wrong way. Denny's Discount Bridal is south, not north. You need to take a left—”

  “We're not going there.”

  “But I told you, it has the best bargains. And they're having a samples sale. I'm running out of time. I can't be choosy.”

  “If you're going to hunt for a wedding dress, then do it right.” He banged a right, traveled a few blocks, then took a left. A few blocks later they pulled up in front of a series of converted brownstones fashioned into boutiques. Each had been restored with precision, down to the last brick. Wrought-iron railings lined the granite staircases, planters centered by hanging globe lanterns dotted the sidewalks. Reverie Bridal Shop, located between a day spa and a men's clothing store, displayed its wares in the front window.

  It screamed expensive. Elegant. Out of Candace's league.

  “Oh, no. I'm not going in there. I can't even afford to walk in the door.”

  Michael shut off the engine. “A wedding's nothing more than a fantasy, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “Then let yourself live the fantasy. Try on a few gowns.” He grinned. “It's like test-driving the Mercedes before you buy the Honda.”

  Candace glanced at the pristine, elaborate gown that commanded the view in the window. Clearly designer. And clearly out of her price range. Barry would have a coronary if she spent that kind of money on a dress, especially when there were so many other more sensible options for her dollars. It was, after all, just a dress, as he'd said a hundred times before.

  “But what if I don't want the Honda after I drive the Benz?”

  “Carpe diem. Live for today and worry about tomorrow later.” He got out of his side of the car and came around to open her door.

  She shook her head. If she walked in that door, she'd find a dress she loved and before she knew it, she'd be hanging out in alleys and smoky bars, looking for a loan shark. Her Visa couldn't handle the weight of the longing already churning in her gut, just from a glimpse in that window. “I still think I should go to Denny's store. I really—”

  “I really think you should shut up now. And I mean that in the nicest way.” He put out his hand, took hers and tugged her out of the car. He didn't let go all the way up the granite steps and into the shop.

  The air-conditioned interior provided welcome relief from the June sun. Muted classical music drifted from the sound system. The carpets were thick, dark cranberry, the walls covered with cream silk. A huge chandelier lit the shop instead of fluorescent bulbs.

  Denny's Discount this was not.

  “Good afternoon. I'm Francesca.” A tall, thin woman approached them, her hand extended in a drooping society handshake. Her face had that tight, pinched look that came from too much Botox. A single gold brooch of wedding bells anchored the lapel of her emerald suit. “Welcome to Reverie Bridal.” She gave them a smile that barely moved. “Where every bride can look like a dream.”

  “We're here to look at bridal gowns,” Michael said.

  The woman clasped her hands together. “Delightful. And when's the happy event?”

  “In two weeks.” Candace smiled to soften the blow.

  To her credit, Francesca only blanched two shades. “We'll do our best to make the two of you happy. Even if the time frame is ... short.”

  “Oh, I'm not marrying—”

  Michael gave he
r hand a squeeze, cutting off her sentence. “We will be.” He smiled at her. “Very happy.”

  “Delightful. Well, shall we get started then?” Francesca turned and gave them a petite wave, signaling them to follow her into an adjoining room.

  “Why did you say that?” Candace whispered to Michael as they trailed behind Francesca's measured stride.

  “Do you want to explain this unusual arrangement?” He paused a beat. When she didn't answer, he went on. “Besides, I'm here on a sort of research mission, remember? I don't think Francesca would appreciate that.”

  Candace frowned. “She doesn't even look European.”

  He grinned. “But she looks delightful.”

  Candace reached over and gave him a jab in the arm with her free hand. If she'd been smart, she'd have let go of his other hand, but she hadn't even tried to pull away. Like she was enjoying the contact.

  Am not.

  Are, too.

  Holding hands was just part of the act, put on for shopping purposes.

  Yeah, right.

  It sounded a lot like the cow manure Grandma used to get the geraniums to bloom, too.

  Francesca paused in the center of a fitting room where gold molding bordered the silk-covered walls and a second, even more elaborate chandelier dominated the ceiling. A circular dais stood in front of a massive 270-degree mirror, also trimmed in gold.

  Candace didn't need to turn on E! to get a view of Elizabeth Taylor's dressing room. She'd just stepped into it.

  “What style of gown were you seeking?” Francesca asked.

  “Cheap” wouldn't be the kind of answer to give in a place like this. “Tasteful.”

  “Elegant,” Michael supplied. “Yet with a hint of allure.”

  “Careful, your day job is showing,” she said to him. “You're making my dress into a commercial.”

  “I know the exact gown.” Francesca turned, and with the homing instincts of a heat-seeking missile, zeroed in on one dress among the sea of white hanging against the wall. She grasped the pink satin hanger. “Close your eyes.”