“What—” Sam looked like someone struggling out of a trance. “Bebe?”
“Put. Me. Down. Nobody picks me up. If you have a problem bending over from your exalted height—tell me—I’ll get a ladder.” She gave him another right jab to the shoulder. “Or you could dig a ditch.”
Sam frowned as though presented with an unsolvable dilemma, but his grip didn’t lessen. Both his arms were wrapped tightly around her and his body was rigid—all of his body.
“Down.”
With a groan, he lessened his hold, and she slid to the floor. Every inch of him imprinted on every inch of her.
She stepped back, realizing with a shudder what she’d done. Sam stared at her, absentmindedly rubbing his shoulder where she’d socked him. Twice. He was looking at her like bananas Foster when the match hit the brandy—he liked the taste but wasn’t expecting to get burned.
She took another step back. She couldn’t help her fear, and she couldn’t help her angry response to that fear. She could, however, apologize.
“I’m sorry I hit you.” She looked around the office, too embarrassed to look Sam in the face. She silently thanked him for closing the door at some point so there were no witnesses to her neurotic behavior. “I shouldn’t have done it.”
“Why did you hit me?”
“You picked me up.”
“No one has ever picked you up?”
“Not since I was little.”
Sam’s expression as his gaze slid down her body led her to clarify her statement.
“Not since I was six.”
“What happened when you were six?”
“That’s a long story. It’s not important. We don’t have time to go into it now.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the desk. “I think it’s very important if it has me digging ditches or you climbing ladders. And believe me, we have all the time in the world.”
Chapter Eight
Friday evening, Bebe reminded herself once again to give Angie a raise, when she looked up to find Sam giving her another speculative glance. Angie’s timely knock on the office door the day before had given her an excuse to avoid a subject she didn’t like to confront, and one that she had no intention of discussing with Sam. Call her petty, but she didn’t want to be reminded of her own shortcomings—no pun intended, of course—and she’d avoided discussing the incident in her childhood.
In elementary school, being small and a girl had put her at the mercy of the bigger kids. One of the biggest boys had made it his mission to make her life miserable. At the end of recess one day, when it had been her turn to collect all the balls, he’d waited for their classmates to go inside. He’d twisted her arm and forced her to a block wall. He’d picked her up and shoved her onto a ledge halfway up. It probably wasn’t that high, but to her it was sick-to-her-stomach high and she knew if she fell she’d get hurt. She’d never been so high, not even when Papa carried her to bed. She clung to the ledge and the boy had walked away laughing. He’d told the teacher she’d gone to the bathroom. No one had come to find her for a very long time. She’d cried until there were no more tears, and then she’d hung on to the rough cement edge and waited. She hadn’t looked down for fear she’d fall off. When Maman came to pick her up, they’d found her huddled on the block-wall ledge. She hadn’t returned to that school. She’d been sent to a small private school for gifted children. She excelled, but the damage had been done—even her Papa could not pick her up without her screaming and fighting. As she’d gotten older, she’d managed to control her fear by not allowing anyone to put her in that position. Sam had caught her by surprise when he lifted her into his arms, and her reaction had been like being six years old again.
Pleading exhaustion when Sam drove her home, she’d managed to escape embarrassing explanations, even though she knew he wouldn’t give up. It wasn’t in his nature.
He qualified as a true hero…even if she hated playing the damsel in distress.
He’d shown up this afternoon ready to pitch in again and had really helped move things along. He’d hung up his exquisite navy blazer, rolled up crisp blue cotton shirtsleeves, and looked like a Ralph Lauren ad in pressed denims. Good grief.
He’d spent more time with Felix and her computer, checking vendors and system vulnerabilities.
And being gorgeous. Could it get worse?
“Okay, everyone, I think we’ve done it,” Bebe announced to those gathered in the main kitchen. “Angie has made the count and we have enough truffles to cover the chocolate gala and to fill the immediate outstanding orders.”
Applause and hoorahs filled the room. Staff from the shipping and packing areas pushed in to join the kitchen crew.
“Thank you all for your hard work. This has been an amazing amount to do in a day and a half, and I appreciate what you’ve done so much. We owe Mr. Sugarman a special thanks for expediting the delivery of the vanilla. Thanks, Sam.” Everyone applauded, and she’d swear Sam blushed. “I know Maman and Papa would be very grateful to everyone.” But with any luck at all, they’ll never know how thankful they should be.
Pleased smiles and relieved sighs went around the room.
“Tomorrow will be another hectic day, so let’s all get a good night’s rest, and be back here in the morning by eight.” Bebe motioned for her friend to step forward. “Angie will be directing the packing and coordinating the arrival at the St. Francis.”
“Access to the display area opens at noon Saturday, and not a minute before,” Angie informed the crew, “so that’s when we’ll be there to unload.”
“Once we’re set up,” Bebe continued, “we’ll take a break before the evening gets started. Is everyone clear on what’s happening tomorrow?”
There were nods and smiles from everyone.
“You take some pictures so we can see the booth and all,” Bertie demanded.
“Yeah,” Greta added. “And some of you and Angie all fancied up.”
Bebe glanced at Angie.
“I’ll take care of it,” Angie said.
“Anything else?” Bebe looked around the room at the people who’d come through for her yet again. Tired, happy faces. “Thank you again. Night, everyone,” she said, making eye contact with every person in the room so they knew they were included in that final thank-you. Her gaze came to a stop on Sam, whose intense look eased into a half smile that sent an electric shiver down her spine. Then the speculative look returned. She glanced away to give Angie further instructions. She read that look. Sam was a dog with a bone. Merde.
After everyone had left, she locked up for the night, securing doors and windows and padlocking storage units. Sam followed her, double-checking security.
…
“Everyone has to eat dinner,” he’d said. “We’ll have a little something, and then I’ll take you home.”
She didn’t even consider objecting. A hero deserved some consideration, and she hadn’t eaten anything but chocolate since coffee this morning. She was starving.
By seven, she sat in a booth at Chef Adolfo’s Aventine Italian Restaurant.
Now, facing Sam across the table, knees touching, she rearranged the silverware to give herself a moment to replay the last hour.
A little something to eat? Was he kidding?
Aventine was the brainchild of Adolfo Veronese, grandson of past San Francisco mayor Joe Alioto. The restaurant enjoyed the patronage of local politicos, and it took an act of the city council to get a reservation. Sam had ushered her through the restaurant’s front door and they’d been seated in minutes, with Sam exchanging pleasantries on a first-name basis with the maître d’ and waiters…on a Friday night?
Must be nice to be the prince…
Glancing around the stylish dining room, she admired the blue-cushioned dark wood booths and mirrored insets. The open kitchen to the rear of the room sent delicious aromas of spicy herbs and pungent garlic to torture empty stomachs. Bebe’s mouth watered, and she closed her eyes to get a
better sense of the fragrant dishes being prepared.
“When you asked if I liked Italian food, this wasn’t exactly what came to mind,” she said.
“Would you rather go somewhere else? I’ll tell them I have an emergency—”
“The only emergency you’ll have will be life-threatening if you try to take me out of here before I taste Chef Renzo’s Veronese fettuccine with portabella mushrooms and arugula. My cooking instructor raves about it.”
“Only because she’s never tasted the sea bass over spinach mashed potatoes.”
His smile could be dessert, she thought. It would definitely prove more deadly than Desaulniers’s Death by Chocolate seven-layer cake.
The waiter arrived to take their order.
“How would you like to start with the appetizer pizza, and then we’ll get two forks for everything else?” Sam asked. “You can taste anything you’d like.”
Bebe could only nod agreement, because watching his mouth set another kind of hunger swirling around in her belly, causing her to moisten her lips in anticipation of repeating the kiss they’d shared the day before. This time she wouldn’t punch him.
She’d tried to put their kiss out of her mind, but every time she looked at his mouth she remembered the warmth and the taste of him and the strength of his arms and how much she liked the feeling—until he’d picked her up and she’d punched him. Good grief, he must think she was a madwoman. How could she explain a childhood trauma that sounded absurd even to her? Better to stick to edible desserts—the 1,354 calories in a piece of Death by Chocolate could be worked off; Sam’s smile could become a permanent addiction.
When Sam had ordered appetizer, entrées, and the appropriate wine, the waiter cooed his approval and left. Sam’s next question had her wondering if the man read minds.
“Have you thought about what you’d like for dessert?”
The expression in his eyes made her think he knew exactly what she’d been thinking. She was tempted to kick him in the shin, but he already must have bruises from her punching him in the shoulder. Why did he bring out all these violent physical reactions? She flipped like an alternating current between wanting to jump his bones and wanting to pound him to a pulp. She didn’t consider herself emotionally high-strung, but there was just something about Sam.
A voice she knew all too well kept her from answering his question.
“Bebe? Bebe, I can’t believe you actually left the factory!”
She looked up into Freddy Finnerman’s pudgy face and shuddered, wondering what else could possibly go wrong. She’d thought she’d gotten a reprieve or at least a short respite.
Freddy was the world’s worst snitch—hadn’t he blamed her when they were six and he’d dropped the marbles in the chocolate rotary vat? And now, as fast as a computer’s keys could click, the news would reach Belgium that Bebe had a date. With Sam Sugarman. How would she explain their relationship to Papa without telling him about the trouble?
“Hello, Freddy. How are you?”
“Fine. Just fine.” Freddy looked expectantly at Sam, who’d stood for the introduction and now towered over him. He thrust his hand out. “Freddy Finnerman. Finnerman’s Finest Fancy Chocolates.”
“Sam Sugarman.” Sam shook his hand and sat down.
Freddy glanced at Bebe and then back to Sam. “Sugarman? Any relation to Sugarman Financial?”
“Family.”
“Well, we certainly know how that goes, don’t we, Bee? Our families—”
She hated him using that shortened version of her name. And he knew it.
“Excuse us, Freddy.” She cut him off. “But I think that’s our pizza—” Bebe nodded toward the waiter who’d appeared just in the nick of time to stop Freddy’s favorite recitation of how they had shared a playpen as infants and learned to roll bonbons together as toddlers.
Freddy stepped back to allow the server access to the table. “I’ll just let you get on with your dinner,” he said. “I should rejoin my party. It’s so nice to see you out and about, Bee. You’ve been looking a little harried lately—anything wrong?”
“No, no, everything’s fine.”
“Well, then—” He hesitated as though he wanted to say something more.
Sam rose and extended his hand once again. “Nice meeting you.” The handshake left the man no choice but to leave the table. Bebe sighed in relief.
“Old family friend?” Sam asked when he sat down and proceeded to dish out the crunchy-crust pizza.
“The world of fine chocolate is very small. Believe it or not, his parents are my godparents and mine are his. My papa helped his family get started when they immigrated from Belgium before either of us were born. Since his parents retired four years ago, Freddy’s in charge of the Finnerman factory.”
“So you spent a lot of time together growing up?”
“We attended the same private schools, and our parents are dear friends. He was unavoidable.”
“He seems a bit proprietary where you’re concerned.”
“He had visions of a chocolate dynasty.”
“Ah.” He nodded his head as though a puzzle had suddenly solved itself.
She didn’t want to discuss her childhood pal anymore. Her pizza was getting cold. She took a bite and luxuriated in the variety of pungent cheeses topping the crisp garlic-basted crust.
“How long have you been running Waterston’s?” Sam asked, scooping up his own piece, controlling the dripping cheese with his fork.
“Almost three years,” she said between bites. “Papa wanted to write another book, and Maman wanted to travel. They’re doing both while Papa gives seminars and lectures.” She looked up at Sam, anger overriding appetite. “And I’m not going to let some crazy person ruin their trip—”
“No one’s going to ruin the company. Your father won’t even know there was anything to worry about.” Sam pushed another piece of pizza onto her plate. “You said you trusted me. Did you mean it?”
She looked into his serious eyes and knew her trust in his ability to solve this business situation was not misplaced. But there were other considerations. Her heart, for one. His reputation, for another. He frowned at her evident hesitation. She gave him an answer she hoped he would accept. “I do trust you. I know you’ll help me find out who’s doing this.”
“Do I detect a ‘but’ at the end of that sentence?”
“No. I just—”
“Sam! Sam, darling!”
Bebe glanced up in time to watch an impossibly tall, cover-girl blonde glide across the room and drape herself over Sam’s shoulder before he even had time to rise. She did notice the closed eyes and the look of resignation that crossed his features just before he turned and smiled at the woman pressing air-kisses to his cheek.
As she perched on the edge of the booth seat, the woman’s left hand flexed long scarlet nails into Sam’s Armani wool jacket like a cat testing possession. When he looked up at her, she purred, “I just got back from Cannes. You should have come, darling. It was divine.”
“Some of us have to work for a living, Margot.” He reached up, patted her hand, and removed her nails from his shoulder.
“Oh, poo.” Her pouty lower lip glistened with matching scarlet gloss.
Bebe became utterly fascinated by the exchange. If this was the kind of woman Sam dated, she certainly needn’t worry herself about offending his sensibilities with a rejection. If this was the kind of woman he dated, he didn’t have any sensibilities to wound.
“Margot, let me introduce Bebe Waterston. Bebe, this is Margot Symington-Smythe.” And then he raised one eyebrow that only she could see and added, “An old family friend.”
Touché, Bebe thought, realizing she’d jumped to conclusions.
The intriguing woman waggled her scarlet claws in hello, while wrapping her other arm around Sam’s elbow. Normally, Bebe thought it polite for women to also extend their hands in greeting but decided she could be forgiven her reticence this time. A handshake with this p
articular female could prove dangerous.
“Nice to meet you,” she said and reached for her water glass instead. She took a sip. Giving Sam a bland smile, she sat back in her seat.
Margot looked back at Sam as though Bebe had just faded into the upholstery. “You know, darling, I just realized that the Chocolatiers Gala is tomorrow night. Why, I feel like I’ve just been gone forever, really.” She ran one red nail along his jaw. “Could you just be a sweetie, and pick me up about nine-ish? I’d be ever so grateful.”
Bebe resisted snorting in disgust and coughed into her napkin. Sam shot her a glare.
“I’m sorry,” he said, unwrapping her arm from his. “But I’m escorting Ms. Waterston to the gala. It’s business.”
“What business?” Margot demanded, clearly not used to being denied.
“Bebe owns Waterston’s chocolates. She’ll be presenting her new collection tomorrow evening.”
“Oh.” Margot’s perfect brow almost wrinkled in thought as she seemed to consider her options.
Sam took hold of her elbow and proceeded to help her rise from the booth. He rose with her. “Why don’t I escort you back to your table,” he said and led her away.
Freddy wasn’t so bad after all…as family friends went.
The waiter brought the wine Sam had ordered. Bebe assured him it was perfect, and he poured two glasses of the Beaulieu Vineyard merlot.
Moments later, she almost choked on that perfect wine when she looked up to see Sam approaching the table with yet another statuesque blonde. This one he clearly adored.
Bebe’s stomach took a nosedive. This woman must certainly be on the list of chocolate recipients—why hadn’t she gotten a second box? She watched them cross the room, arm in arm. They looked perfect together. Sam, so tall and darkly handsome, and her, though his opposite in coloring, almost his equal in height. Their heads were together, laughing, sharing a secret, and then both looked up to gaze directly at her. She set the wineglass on the table and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. She didn’t want to have pizza crumbs on her face when she met this potential Mrs. Sugarman.
Bride by Chocolate (Death by Chocolate) Page 7