She’s everything he’s not looking for in a wife…
When not-so-sweet sabotage strikes Bebe Waterston’s gourmet chocolate factory, things start looking hopeless. But she’s not a quitter. After sacrificing her personal life to prove she can run the family business, she’ll do anything to save it—including accepting help from an unlikely source: San Francisco’s high society “Prince Charming”.
Sam Sugarman’s on a mission to marry. And in Sam’s family, finding a wife follows a recipe that starts with a box of Waterston’s Chocolates. When the supply runs out right before Valentine’s Day, the savvy CFO steps in to solve the problem, and finds the cure for his sweet tooth in the spitfire redhead. But now his dilemma is two-fold: convince Bebe he isn’t the serial-dating playboy she believes him to be and keep her safe from the person menacing her and her business.
Thrown together as the danger escalates, the mismatched duo tangles in and out of the bedroom. With a benefit gala and the fast-approaching, day-of-love deadline, they’ll need more than the gold-foil delicacies destined for a bride by chocolate.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Discover more mystery and suspense titles from Entangled Ignite… Stop in the Name of Love
Alive at 5
All In
Maltipoos are Murder
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Alexis Lusonne Montgomery. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 109
Fort Collins, CO 80525
Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.
Ignite is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Marie Loggia-Kee
Cover design by Louisa Maggio
Cover art from iStock
ISBN 978-1-63375-420-1
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition January 2016
This book is dedicated to every person who ever said “You can do this…” and to OCCRWA for being a constant beacon in the writer’s storm.
Chapter One
“I am so screwed.” Shoving disheveled curls off her forehead, Bebe Waterston continued to watch the screen like a spectator at a car wreck.
The nightmare went on and on. She stuffed another chocolate dream truffle into her mouth and stared at the computer monitor. She tongued the milk chocolate delicacy, bit down hard, chewed, rolled again, and swallowed. Pulling up the next screen of shipping schedules, she watched the evolving chaos. A shudder scaled her spine, and bile seared her stomach. She reached for another truffle.
The only way things could get worse, she decided, was if the computer screen blew up in her face.
She popped the vanilla crème into her mouth. Suicide by chocolate could solve all her problems—and under these circumstances it could be considered appropriate—but she was neither a coward nor a quitter. She contemplated the half-eaten ten-pound box at her elbow. Not yet.
“Bebe?”
“In here.” She reached for another sweet.
Angie Cross poked her sleek blond head through the doorway. Her power-suited model’s body followed into Bebe’s bread box–sized office.
“How many of those have you had this morning?” Angie asked, pointing at the gold-foil box teetering on the desk’s edge.
Bebe picked up the box and placed it on the other side of the monitor, out of Angie’s reach.
“Not enough, but who’s counting?” She turned back to the monitor. “How can this be happening?” she demanded of her assistant and the universe in general. “Mon Dieu! Just look at this mess. I entered these orders myself, double-checked, and confirmed with the shipping companies. Fourteen days until Valentine’s Day and everything I ordered is headed somewhere else.”
Bebe tilted her ancient rolling chair away from the desk, banging her head on the wall as a result. She tucked one leg under her and squinted at the paper her assistant manager waved in her direction. She pushed her mop of ragged red curls off her forehead, again, and widened her eyes.
“Here’s adding insult to injury,” Angie said, leaning against the doorjamb, looking every bit the epitome of San Francisco’s fashion-forward workforce in her stiletto heels. “We have a new order from Mr. Sugarman. For a Miss Antonia Patterson and a Miss Julia Best. They’re new. I checked.”
“You’re surprised?” Bebe asked. “The man is a serial dater. No one on his list has ever received a second box, and you know he sends a minimum of one a week—sometimes two.”
Angie took a step forward and dropped the form into Bebe’s order-pending basket. “That’s true, but sooner or later he’s going to run out of suitable socialites.”
Bebe looked back toward the traitorous monitor.
“I hope it’s later. But,” she added, jabbing an index finger at the screen, “if we don’t get our shipment of vanilla today, that won’t be our problem because no one will be getting Waterston chocolates.” She swung her chair side to side, anticipating the metal-to-metal squeal. “Waterston Chocolatiers will be out of business.”
Angie made a face at the chair’s screech like she always did, but soldiered on. “So, what do we do now, boss?”
“About what? Which disaster are we addressing?”
“Sugarman.”
“We’ll call his office and let them know we won’t be able to fill the order.”
“Do you want me to make the call?” Angie lingered in the doorway. She looked like she’d had eight hours’ sleep and a recent shower. Bebe couldn’t even remember how that felt. She hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in two months, but she recognized the signs. She could really resent Angie if she had the energy.
Angie raised expectant brows.
“What?” Bebe asked.
“Sugarman?”
“Oh, no. Thanks, Angie. I’ll take care of it.”
“Okay. But this might be your big chance.”
“Chance for what?”
“To check out Sam Sugarman in person.”
“Are you nuts? One visit to his office was enough. Mrs. Trumble is not to be taken lightly.”
“But aren’t you curious? Why he never seems to send anyone a second box? It’s driving m
e crazy.”
“I don’t care why, as long as he keeps doing it.”
“You are no fun, Miss Waterston. However, I bow to your greater self-control.” She tapped her forehead in a mock salute. “Yell if you need me.” With a frown in the direction of the squeaking chair, Angie made her escape.
Yell? Scream would be more like it.
Bebe had been glaring at the monitor for hours; now she glared at the paper in the basket. The order for five-pound boxes of hand-dipped Waterston chocolates, to be delivered to yet another two women, leered back at her.
His requests were the least of her concerns. The Sugarmans might be their oldest and most valued clients, but the Sugarman Financial Corporation, listed in the Fortune 500 no less, was not in danger of crumbling if the CFO’s chocolate purchases went undelivered. On the other hand, if she didn’t straighten out this catastrophe, her family’s factory would be flat out of business, like a soufflé in a construction zone.
And it would all be her fault.
How would she explain to Papa that in the short time he’d been gone she’d managed to single-handedly put Waterston on the brink of bankruptcy?
Would Mr. Sam Sugarman, San Francisco’s own proclaimed Prince Charming, even notice when Waterston’s demise forced his secretary to substitute another’s candies for hers? Did he even know that Bebe had been the person sending cherub-embossed gold-foiled boxes of Waterston’s Love’s Luscious Chocolate Assortment to his romantic interests for the past two years?
Bebe flipped her Rolodex to Sugarman and reached for the phone. She was about to find out.
…
Sam glanced up from the contract research report he’d been reviewing when the intercom buzzed.
“What is it, Mrs. Trumble?”
“Waterston’s can’t deliver the chocolates you ordered for Miss Patterson this afternoon. Miss Waterston called to apologize. Seems there’s some delay in supplies.”
“How long a delay?” Sam frowned at the intercom. “Never mind. Find someone else, will you? Waterston’s can’t be the only gourmet candymakers in the city.”
“Perhaps you’d rather send Miss Patterson flowers instead of chocolates?”
“No. It has to be chocolates.” He intended to stick to his plan.
“Well, there is Finnerman’s Finest Chocolates. Certainly not Waterston’s caliber, but quite good, I hear.”
“Send them. Just make sure they get there before three this afternoon.”
“I’ll see to it.” Click.
He considered his upcoming evening with the stunning Miss Patterson. Tall, blond, and sleek as a racing greyhound. She was an assistant curator at the art museum, which had to mean she wasn’t just fluff. Perhaps he could make it through an entire evening without being bored to tears. Hope springs eternal, as the saying goes…
His mother couldn’t be the only tall, cool blonde with brains and heart. The women he’d dated so far usually had one or the other, but never both in the same package. Was he expecting too much? No. A man had to have standards.
Sam snapped the ticket envelope off the desk and stuck it in his breast pocket. Another night at the opera. He could survive. His plan was a good one. It had worked for his father. It would work for him.
When his father had explained the technique, it had sounded simple enough. A method passed down from his grandfather, and his great-grandfather before him, and peculiarly suited to the Sugarman men. Establish a goal, devise a method to obtain it, and proceed until the desired result is realized. It worked in business; it worked in wife-hunting.
Archaic, but effective.
Therefore, John Sugarman had pronounced, a gentleman sent chocolates, provided an orchid corsage upon arrival at his date’s home, escorted the lady to a romantic dinner and then to the opera. After the performance, a late-night brandy could lead to other things. By the end of one such evening, his father had known his mother was the one, and he’d married her a month later. An expeditious plan. Tried and found true.
Sam was used to making important business decisions. A person didn’t get to be CFO—no matter the family connections—without being an experienced judge of human character, and able to accurately weigh the pros and cons of any given situation without hesitation. On a daily basis he guided Sugarman Financial through buying, selling, and absorbing multimillion-dollar companies. So why the hell couldn’t he find the woman he wanted to marry and bear his heirs?
He needed a wife to produce the grandson his parents were expecting him to provide ASAP. He had a duty to his family; a wife and children were an important part of that obligation.
And, as his father was fond of pointing out since he’d hit thirty, he wasn’t getting any younger. Now that he was thirty-three, both parents took every opportunity to remark on time passing.
He could have ignored all the comments, but at some point, he’d realized he wanted it too—wife, kids, home, family—the Sugarman version of happily ever after.
So, he’d made a Herculean effort in the last six months. He’d surely dated half the women in San Francisco—at least the blond half—but he was batting zero and running out of marriageable candidates. His mother had washed her hands of trying to find him a suitable wife, accusing him of being too picky. He didn’t think he was being unreasonable in his expectations. He would know her when he met her, just as his father had known his mother was the one. Instantly.
Finnerman’s Chocolates would be the first step on the way to wedded bliss.
Sam resumed studying the research report.
…
Finnerman’s Finest Chocolates were returned.
In the middle of the afternoon wrap-up meeting, Mrs. Trumble ushered the Day-and-Nite deliveryman in a triple-starched uniform, into the conference room.
“Excuse me,” she said, the amusement in her voice subdued but very much there. “Mr. Dario says he’s required to return this delivery to you personally.”
Sam looked down the length of the thirty-foot solid oak conference table at the burly, bald messenger who was trying to make himself inconspicuous behind his intrepid assistant.
“What seems to be the problem, Mr. Dario?”
The deliveryman looked around at the mahogany-paneled walls, his gaze avoiding the curious stares of executives flanking the table. He nodded, then made a rush down the length of the room like a quarterback heading for a goal. He plunked a silver-foiled box on the table in front of Sam.
“I told the lady I couldn’t take ’em back,” he said, shaking his head, “but she insisted I bring ’em back to you and I said okay ’cuz she wasn’t takin’ ’em—no way, no how.”
“Is there something wrong with the candy?” Sam asked in his calmest voice.
“Miss Patterson—that’s the deliveree—she said it wasn’t the right box and you should stuff—well, I said I’d bring ’em back and she said to tell you she’d be washing her hair tonight. I gotta say, I never saw a woman get so piss—upset about getting a box of candy. No, sir.”
Sam stood and extended his hand. “Thank you. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
Danny shook his hand. “No problem, Mr. S.”
Glancing down the table, across the faces of his executive staff, their eyes now averted, focused on current report folders like the first sighting of the Dead Sea Scrolls, he saw that the only one openly amused was his sister, Glenna.
“Mrs. Trumble, please see that this gentleman is compensated for his trouble.”
“No worries,” Danny said. “We’re always glad to make your deliveries. Only next time I’d go with the usual, you know what I mean? Never had none of them gold ones tossed back.”
Leaving the silver foil box behind, Danny followed Mrs. Trumble from the room.
“Now,” Sam said, his hard glare putting a stop to smirks and questions, and the meeting back on track, “perhaps we can continue. Andrews, what’s happening with the Amalgamated bid?”
As the reports droned on, Sam eyed the silver box. What the hel
l was Antonia Patterson’s problem?
He glanced up into Glenna’s laughing eyes. She knew something. He could tell. His older sister had always enjoyed a good laugh at his expense, like the time he’d gone fishing in his mother’s koi pond, caught the biggest one, and his seven-year-old sister had encouraged her five-year-old brother to show his trophy to Mother. She had that same look now.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Excellent progress,” he announced when the last report had been discussed. “I think that about wraps it up. Have a good evening. Glenna, could I see you in my office?”
Sam stalked into his office, then turned to face his sister. “What’s so damn funny?”
Glenna, a tall, blond, elegant echo of their mother, doubled over with laughter, pointing at the silver foil box of Finnerman’s Finest Chocolates that he now gripped in one fist. She collapsed into the big leather chair sitting in front of Sam’s desk and continued to laugh and point.
“What!”
“Those aren’t Waterston’s,” she managed to utter between inelegant snorts.
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” he asked in a voice that sent underlings running for cover, but had no effect whatsoever on his sibling.
She waved one hand and held her stomach with the other.
“Tell me right now or you’re fired.” That made her laugh harder.
He decided to ignore her. He opened the box. Looked like perfectly good hand-dipped chocolates. He picked one and popped it into his mouth. Okay. Good. Chocolate. Not as good as the ones his mother always got, but not bad.
“You idiot,” she said. “Everyone knows you send Waterston’s to your dates. Waterston’s in a gold foil box. Everyone knows the plan. Chocolates delivered by messenger, orchid corsage, plush dinner, the opera, late-night drinks after—have I missed anything?”
“My God.”
“Did you think it was a secret? There’s not an unmarried woman I know between twenty-two and forty who isn’t geared up to be the next Mrs. Sugarman. The brunettes are just hoping you run out of blondes before you find her so they’ll have a chance. How did you think the arctic Miss Patterson would react when she got second best?” She reached for the box. “Give me a piece.”
Bride by Chocolate (Death by Chocolate) Page 1