Bride by Chocolate (Death by Chocolate)

by Alexis Lusonne Montgomery

  Waterston had special orders and long-standing annual orders to fill, not the least of which was Sam’s father’s request for a ten-pound box of mixed truffles to be hand-delivered promptly at eight on the morning of the fourteenth of February.

  When she’d visited Sam’s office, she’d had a hard time visualizing the stern-faced John Sugarman from the office portrait she’d seen presenting the sentimental gift to his wife each year, but the order was older than she was. This sabotage threatened the tradition. She couldn’t let that happen.

  She knew she was dangerously low on many imported ingredients and completely out of vanilla.

  “Without the impounded vanilla, I won’t be able to fill my Valentine orders.” She glanced at the calendar on the wall opposite her desk. “And the benefit is Saturday.”

  “What benefit?” Sam asked, still scrolling through information to transfer. “Where’s the documentation on the vanilla shipment?”

  “Here.” Bebe slid her fingers under Sam’s, confiscated the mouse, and split the screen to show him the order. “The Annual Chocolatiers Gala to support the Women’s Health Research Foundation. My mother was one of the founding members. It will break Maman’s heart if Waterston’s misses the event.”

  “My mother is on the current board of directors of the WHRF. She would not be pleased if Waterston’s missed the event, and believe me, we wouldn’t want that,” he said. “Don’t worry, baby, we’ll handle this.”

  Bebe looked up at him, comforted by the certainty in his voice.

  Did he say baby?

  “When’s the benefit? I know I have the invitation—I already wrote the donation check. Print that out.” He tapped the order on the screen.

  “It’s this Saturday.”

  The document rolled out of the printer. Bebe watched Sam punch in an address to email the same document to the missing Max. “Day after tomorrow?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The speed with which Sam manipulated the computer made her dizzy, and his nearness threatened her ability to take deep breaths. He seemed to surround her, not actually touching her, but she could feel him everywhere. The heat from his body soothed the chill in her heart. His strength warmed her.

  That made Sam a very dangerous man.

  No wonder women lined up in droves to date him.

  She hadn’t known him more than twenty minutes, and already she wanted to crawl onto his lap and let him handle everything.

  And anyone who knew her wouldn’t believe that for a single minute.

  Waterston chocolates were probably consolation gifts for the poor women who never got a second date.

  Sam’s phone buzzed, and the insistent sound startled her. Even his phone had an air of command. Answer or else. Sam pulled it out and put it to his ear.

  “Sugarman,” he said, and then smiled. “Stow it, Max. Where are you? What? Can’t hear you. Phoenix? Close enough. Yeah, cancel that. I need you to pick up a shipment in Los Angeles. Yes, right now. I faxed you the data. Call Adams. He’ll handle customs for you. Just a little misunderstanding. I want that shipment here this afternoon. Deliver it to Waterston’s, the address is on the documentation. Yeah, here or at the office. Keep in touch. Right. Safe flight, Max.” Sam pocketed the phone.

  “Who’s Max?”

  “The man who’s going to deliver your vanilla this afternoon.”

  …

  Sam thought the situation at Waterston’s was progressing nicely. He should have things back on track by tomorrow.

  Finding the bastard doing the hacking might take a bit more, but it would also give him a reason to stay close to Bebe.

  Whatever works.

  Bebe seemed calmer, he thought. She’d stopped trying to turn herself into a pretzel in that ridiculous chair. Some of her positions shouldn’t be anatomically possible, but all bets were off when you were her size.

  She sat still now, seemingly spellbound by the misguided shipments enumerated on the screen.

  “Bebe?”

  When she turned her wide-eyed gaze away from the monitor and lifted her face to his, his chest seized up. As he watched, her eyes filled with tears until one lone droplet pushed across her lower lashes and slid down her silken cheek. Unable to resist, he brushed the tear away with every bit of gentleness he possessed and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Don’t worry, baby. We’ll straighten this out.”

  God, he wanted to pick her up and cuddle her. Hold her. Protect her. But he watched her fight the tears, straighten her spine, and once more lift her chin. While it quivered, that stiff little chin told him not to push her too far, too fast.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s give Felix a chance to do his magic. Have you had breakfast? We can have something sent up to my office while Felix runs the data. You’ll need to be on hand in case he needs more information, or we need written authorization to retrieve missing shipments.”

  “You really think someone is doing this on purpose, don’t you?” Bebe asked, in a voice that told him she was hoping he’d say it was all a mistake.

  “I don’t think there’s any doubt. What we need to figure out is why. That will tell us who.”

  “I don’t know anyone who would do something like this. Do you think it’s just someone’s idea of a sick practical joke?”

  “Sorry, but I fail to see the humor in trying to ruin one of San Francisco’s most renowned chocolatiers.” His jaw hardened in anger, but he gentled his touch when he tucked an errant curl behind her ear. “Someone’s got an agenda and we’re going to put a stop to it.” He held out his hand. “Come on, angel. Let’s go.”

  Bebe took hold of his hand. It was a good sign. She trusted him to do what he’d promised. She closed her eyes and held on. Sam tugged. He would keep her safe and resolve the situation. The person responsible would suffer. Big time.

  “While we have breakfast,” he said, leading her out of her office. “We’ll see if we can expedite some of your other shipments, okay?”

  …

  In the face of Sam’s ever-so-reasonable request, and her own utter exhaustion due to months of fielding each new crisis, Bebe replied, “Yes. Thank you.”

  She’d run out of options.

  She needed help to save her family’s business.

  Only a fool would turn down what Sam offered.

  Strictly business. No monkey business. No broken heart business.

  She looked down at her hand clasped in Sam’s large, strong one, and then glanced up into his sincere gray-blue eyes and felt the bottom drop out her stomach. Oh, yes, strictly business. Chocolate at a fat farm stood a better chance.

  Sam ushered her out of the shop and into his Jaguar sedan parked curbside.

  Bebe waved to Angie, who hovered in the doorway, a sentinel at Waterston’s gate. She’d asked Angie to cover the store and notify her if anything new developed. The woman saluted, touching cell phone to forehead, a speculative smile on her face.

  Cell phones were a liberating luxury at any time, but priceless in an emergency. Bebe had hers clutched in her fist like a life preserver.

  …

  As Sam eased the car into morning traffic, Bebe laid her head back, and he heard her take a deep breath. He knew she just needed a moment to collect her thoughts, marshal her reserves, perhaps throw a much-needed tantrum, and then she’d be ready to handle this situation. Sam would bet money on it. His pixie was no pushover.

  Chapter Four

  Bebe relaxed into the leather seat, absorbing the feel and smell of the rich upholstery. Leather was a decidedly masculine scent, she thought, like the smell of the ocean on a brisk day or the woods after a thunderstorm. Manly. Like Sam.

  She took a moment to regroup, rolling her head so she could gaze at the man who’d waltzed in and taken over like his name was on the deed.

  Sam. He’d summed up the situation, decided what needed to be done, and without hesitation proceeded to do it.

  Ordinarily Bebe would have demanded he back off, but she’d used up her last
ounce of reserves, and for the time being, she appreciated his help, no matter what his reasons.

  She had no idea why anyone would hack into her computer for the express purpose of destroying her shipping manifests, and even less knowledge, as evidenced by the last two months, on how to stop the carnage. She’d be an idiot to refuse Sam’s help.

  Watching him now, driving through morning rush-hour traffic as though it didn’t exist, she couldn’t help but marvel at how in control he seemed. His capable hand guided the sedan like a seasoned ship captain in the sea of crazed commuters. With the other he tapped the dashboard computer. The Bluetooth came to life.

  “Hello, Sam,” said a voice she recognized.

  “Mrs. T., could you call The Deli and have breakfast for two sent up. We’ll be there in about ten minutes. And tell Felix we’ll be in my office when he has any information.”

  “I’ll take care of it. How is Bebe?”

  “She’s with me.” He glanced over, a smile softening his features. “She’s going to be just fine.”

  “Good. Coffee’s on.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. T.” A tap silenced the phone.

  Something gave a little lurch in the vicinity of her heart when she listened to the way he spoke to Mrs. Trumble. The deference, humor, and love toward the lady who called him “our Sam” was at odds with his rugged masculine exterior.

  But, she had to admit, as he ran roughshod over everyone, there was a certain twinkle in his eye that was endearing.

  Bebe remembered Mrs. Trumble’s words when she’d gazed adoringly at Sam’s family portraits. “Pirates, every one.” Looking at him now, she was forced to agree.

  If he’d been cloned, he couldn’t have looked more like his forefathers. Strong angular features enforced by a chiseled jaw gave way to piercing gray-blue eyes that could tear strips off steel or soften to break-your-heart tender. A bladed-nose with a manmade ridge midway lent his profile a certain distinction from his forebears, proving he hadn’t always spent his time in a marble tower. Thick, thick hair, the color of bittersweet chocolate, defied the close-cropped haircut, hugging his head in finger-tempting waves.

  Many of these images had been mirrored in the portraits she remembered from her single visit to Sugarman Towers. Resting her head on the soft leather seat, Bebe closed her eyes and thought back to the day, urged on by Angie and her own curiosity, she’d gone to keep her appointment with Mr. Sam Sugarman.

  The marble-faced skyscraper had stood like a gleaming white spire among the other architectural giants in San Francisco’s financial district. Thirty floors of glass and stone was a far cry from Waterston’s small factory housed in one of the city’s red brick antiques. Her intent to offer the man currently driving a volume discount surely had to be the mouse offering the lion a helping hand, but it was the only ruse she could think of to solve the mystery of the ordering glut.

  For several weeks prior to her visit, he’d been ordering three, sometimes four boxes of the most expensive assortment made by Waterston’s. Each box was delivered by special messenger on a different day and never to the same woman. It was driving her and Angie crazy.

  The Tower’s marble-and-oak foyer reinforced the exterior’s arrogance. Refusing to be intimidated by a building, she’d forged ahead.

  She’d been ushered to a private elevator by a security officer who’d keyed her trip to the thirtieth floor—no mistakes, no detours—where she’d exited into another oak-paneled foyer. This one boasted enormous oil-portraits of what looked like the same man in different period clothing.

  Each man stared down at her with the same disdain in his penetrating glacial gray-blue eyes. Square jaws set at a stern angle helped etch disapproval into each strong brow. Every face asked the same question: what business could she possibly have in these hallowed halls? She’d been ready to bolt when the lilting Irish brogue stopped her flight.

  “Hello, dear. May I help you?”

  She’d spun around and then couldn’t help but smile at the elderly woman who smiled back at her.

  About five feet tall in her sensible shoes, she could have passed for anyone’s fairy godmother, all dressed in shades of pink.

  “I’m Bebe Waterston. I have an appointment to see Mr. Sugarman.”

  “Oh, dear. I did try to catch you, Miss Waterston, but they said you’d left already. Our Sam’s been called away to Los Angeles. An emergency. He won’t be back until next Monday. I’m so sorry you were inconvenienced.” She came toward Bebe with both hands extended. “Please come in. I’m Mrs. Trumble, Sam’s executive administrator,” she said, taking Bebe’s hand in both of hers. “It’s just a new-fangled way of saying secretary, if you ask me. Perhaps I can be of some assistance and we can have a nice cup of tea while we talk.”

  Over a cup of perfectly brewed Earl Grey, Bebe explained her mission, and offering a volume discount, she inquired if the increased orders were likely to continue indefinitely.

  “Oh, no, dear. I’m afraid some young lady will snap him up any minute, and then chocolates will be a special occasion thing, just as they are for his mother and father. Our Sam’s a very eligible bachelor, quite sought after.” Mrs. Trumble sipped her tea and smiled. “But it’s time Sam settled down. He has responsibilities, obligations to the family. I’m sure you understand, carrying on with your family’s business as you are. Your parents must be very proud.” She passed Bebe a translucent porcelain plate of petite shortbread cookies. “Are you married, dear?”

  Bebe nearly choked on the cookie she’d put in her mouth, but managed to shake her head no.

  “Engaged?”

  She chewed and swallowed. “Uh, no.”

  “A steady beau, then?”

  “None.”

  “Do you like children?”

  Although the woman smiled like she’d grant your every wish, and hadn’t pulled out the thumbscrews yet, Bebe knew how the opening act at the Inquisition must have felt.

  “I love children.” She glanced at her watch, thinking how it would be a good time to make her getaway. The assistant had a speculative gleam in her eye that she wanted no part of. “I’ve so enjoyed our visit, but I really shouldn’t take any more of your time. Thank you so much for the tea.” She gathered her purse and rose. “I have just one more question, if you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all, dear. What is it?”

  “Who is the man in all the portraits in the hall?”

  “You mean men. They are all the Sugarman men since Josiah Sugarman himself. He came to California during the gold rush and discovered there were much better ways to make a fortune than digging in the dirt. Parting miners from their gold by providing the things they needed most proved more profitable. We do the same thing today, in one way or another.”

  She’d escorted Bebe down the row of portraits, naming each one and his contribution to the Sugarman dynasty. She smiled at each with the fondness of a doting grandmother. “These are all Josiah’s descendants. Pirates, every one.”

  “The resemblance is amazing,” Bebe couldn’t help blurting.

  “Oh, my, yes. The Sugarman men breed true. Our Sam is definitely a chip off the family block. His portrait will be added as soon as he provides the next heir apparent. It’s a tradition, you know.”

  “Really? Amazing.” Bebe bit her tongue before she said anything that would offend the sweet woman, who looked on the lot of these pirates like they were errant schoolboys. They looked like wolves to her; hungry wolves with an agenda that included devouring everything in their path. You didn’t get a thirty-story skyscraper in downtown San Francisco and membership in the Fortune 500 by being a cocker spaniel—wolves got the job done.

  “Well,” Bebe said, “I’m so sorry I missed meeting Mr. Sugarman.” Not. “Please tell him the discount is good until the wedding, and Waterston’s wishes him the best of luck in finding his bride.” Double not.

  “Thank you, dear.” Mrs. Trumble had that canary-catching smile again. Scary.

  Bebe had slipped into the
elevator like Red Riding Hood making good her escape from the wolf’s lair, and feeling lucky to have missed the current wolf in charge.

  And now here she sat…with the wolf.

  Fate, destiny, karma, or just plain lousy luck?

  Would he—could he—help, or was he another complication she didn’t have time to deal with?

  Bebe watched Sam maneuver through the crowded streets of the financial district in his sleek Jaguar. How had his great-great-ancestor looked on a horse when he rode San Francisco’s cobbled streets deciding how best to part miners from their gold?

  Pirate. Ship captain. Cowboy. Corporate raider. Didn’t matter how you dressed them, she decided, you had to be impressed.

  What had not been evident to her in the paintings was the sheer size of the Sugarman men, or was Sam an exception? She doubted that, however, since he resembled his forebears so exactly in every other way.

  Bebe, used to the fact that most people were bigger than her, rarely let it get in her way. But there was big and then there was big, in capital letters. Over six feet tall, with shoulders Atlas must have bequeathed him, Sam was a physically imposing structure—reminiscent of the redwoods, Mount Everest, or the profiles on Mount Rushmore—he had that kind of innate strength passed down through generations. Genetic tradition in the flesh.

  He wore a tailored suit of the finest gray worsted wool, understated, expensive yet conservative. Bebe admired his classic taste. He could easily have worn a sackcloth toga and looked gorgeous.

  But why did he have to be so big?

  She decided she’d best stop staring at Sam and remember he was only helping her because he had an urgent need for chocolates—she refused to pursue that line of thinking. She needed to make an effort to get a tighter grip on her own situation.

  When he glanced at her again, a quizzical arch to his brow, she decided she’d better broach the subject on which she needed to concentrate, and leave the questions of his anatomy and genetic tradition alone.

  “How are we going to find out who’s doing this?”