Bride by Chocolate (Death by Chocolate)

by Alexis Lusonne Montgomery

  The man turned at Sam’s touch, a questioning smile on his face. Then he glanced down at her and paled.

  “Are you all right, mon petit chou?” He slapped his hand to his chest. “Did I step on you? Are you trying to give me a heart attack, Bebe?”

  “Non, non, Jean-Paul, I’m fine. C’est vrai. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.”

  Jean-Paul Huegenot, an internationally known food critic who wrote for many of the gourmet cuisine magazines, was a devoted fan of her father’s creations, a steady consumer of Waterston chocolates, a close family friend, and her own “adopted uncle.”

  He eyed her, his thick eyebrows nearly meeting midfrown. “C’est la vérité, ma petite? Your toes, they are bonne?”

  “Oui, je suis bonne.” Behind her, Sam’s chest moved when he chuckled. She was tempted to step back on his toes and see how he liked it. “Jean-Paul, I’d like you to meet my friend Sam Sugarman,” she said instead. “He’s helping us tonight, since Papa is away.” She patted the hand Sam had not removed from her waist. When Jean-Paul extended his in greeting, Sam had no choice but to let go and shake it. “Come to the display, Jean-Paul,” she said, stepping around him. “I have something I’ve saved just for you.”

  “Oui, je viens.”

  “Bebe, wait,” Sam said.

  But she didn’t wait. It wasn’t his life’s work to rescue her, and it may not seem like it, but she could take care of herself. After all, she was doing such a great job, wasn’t she?

  The crowd had begun to thin out in the Colonial Ballroom. Many of the chocolatiers were finally able to make the rounds themselves, to visit and taste one another’s latest creations.

  Freddy stood in front of the Waterston display talking to Angie. Angie had planted herself between Freddy and the satin-covered table like a goalie defending the net. Sharp hand gestures and serious faces warned her they were in a heated discussion about something. And not for the first time, Bebe thought. Angie made no secret of the fact that she didn’t care for Freddy. They seemed to enjoy baiting each other whenever the opportunity presented.

  She’d better break it up before they came to blows. She really didn’t need a scene tonight. She had a headache, a heartache, and she wanted to kiss Sam senseless…

  How much worse could things get? Oh yeah, remember the cyberspace creep who’s out to ruin Waterston’s?

  “What’s that all about?” Sam asked.

  “Nothing important, I’m sure.”

  Angie saw Bebe first. She stopped talking abruptly and flapped her hand in Freddy’s face as though shooing him away. They both smiled when they turned to await her approach. Bebe intended to admonish both of them for their inappropriate behavior, but the arrival of Margot and her two clones had her considering some inappropriate behavior of her own.

  Didn’t you just ask how things could get worse? Never ask that question. You always get an answer, and here’s proof.

  As she passed out suicide truffles and wondered what would happen next, she thought she was like the girl in a horror movie who goes down into the basement when the lights have just flickered off and the whole audience is screaming, “Don’t go in the basement!”

  Doing a fair imitation of the last giant redwood, Sam had planted himself next to her. Margot, determined to introduce both her friends to Sam in an obvious effort to matchmake the next Mrs. Sugarman, pushed the blonde in ghastly green forward.

  Sam placed both hands on Bebe’s shoulders, pressed against her back, and said, “I’m delighted to meet you. Have you tried the Grand Marnier truffles?”

  Bebe stepped sideways, down hard on his shoe. He flinched, and she smiled sweetly. “We’re out of those. Sorry.”

  At that moment, Glenna strolled up. She admired the lime-green dress without even cracking a smile, and then reminded Sam and Bebe they were expected to sit at the Sugarman table.

  “I’m so sorry, Margot,” Glenna said. “We didn’t know you were back in town. We only booked enough seats for family.” She grinned. “Come along, little brother. You, too, Bebe. Mother is expecting you.”

  “Mon Dieu! Such a crush!” Jean-Paul arrived, huffing and breathless. “Where is my treat, ma petite?”

  Angie retrieved a small gold foil box from underneath the back table and placed it in his reaching hands. Everyone waited with unconcealed anticipation while Jean-Paul pulled the lid off the box, pushed back the tissue and peered inside. He inhaled grandly, then ahhhhhed his approval.

  “Merci beaucoup, mon petit chou. When I see your papa in Paris next week, I will thank him.” He closed the box with great deliberation, then looked around at the expectant faces. “Non,” he said. “I have no desire to share with any of you—” He stopped when his eyes lit on Glenna.

  Dressed in a slinky midnight-blue gown, which intensified the blue of her eyes, she looked like a Nordic queen. And then she smiled.

  “Well, perhaps—” Jean-Paul said, mountain to mush with one look.

  Glenna moved to tuck an arm through the crook of Jean-Paul’s elbow where he held the box against his chest.

  “I’m Glenna Sugarman,” she purred. “Have you met my mother? She’s in charge of this event. I’m sure we can make room for you at our table. I know she’d love to meet you. I’ve read all your articles.”

  Glenna led Jean-Paul away, and, from the grin on his face, when she relieved him of his chocolates he wouldn’t make a peep of protest. The seductress glanced back and winked.

  Feeling like she’d been dropped into a Fellini movie, Bebe reached over and took hold of Sam’s hand. His fingers wrapped around hers. Now grounded, she took a breath.

  Freddy had a pinched look on his face. “What was in the box, Bee?”

  “A new recipe Papa sent me. He wanted Jean-Paul’s opinion.”

  “What was—” Freddy began.

  Sam’s tightened grip on her shoulder got her attention.

  “Have you met Margot?” he asked. “I’m sure she’d enjoy those chocolate balls you were handing out earlier. Do you have any left?”

  “Half a pyramid—”

  “We’ll all come by to taste one on the way into the presentations,” Sam said. “You go ahead. Bebe and I will catch up.”

  Taking the hint, Angie encouraged the move to Freddy’s silver extravaganza by leading the way. Bebe turned to face Sam, ready to rest her head on his chest again and listen to the steady beat of his heart. This was turning into the ball from bedlam.

  He wrapped his arms around her as though he knew what she needed was a hug. It felt so good…

  “Son of a bitch,” Sam growled. “Do you believe that?”

  She lifted her head and stared up at his stormy expression. She twisted around to see what had caused his reaction. “What is it?”

  “Freddy just lifted three different truffles off the end tray and stuffed them in his pocket. He thought no one was looking. Is that how he gets his new ideas? By stealing them from you?”

  “Probably.” She turned back into his embrace. “It won’t matter. He never gets it right because he’s too cheap to use the same quality ingredients. And he must leave something out because they never taste the same.”

  “What if he had a list of the right ingredients from a look at your supply schedules?”

  “I suppose that would help, but Papa always adds a little something unexpected to his concoctions. It would be hard to re-create them without the exact recipe.”

  “And who has those recipes?”

  “I do.”

  “And where do you keep them, or do I really want to know?”

  “They’re perfectly safe.”

  “A safe-deposit box at the bank?”

  “No.”

  “A wall safe in the factory office?”

  “No.”

  “Bebe?” His annoyed tone implied a definite loss of humor.

  “Tweety is guarding them.”

  “What?”

  Bebe rubbed her ear and looked up into Sam’s outraged fa
ce.

  “They’re safe. Don’t worry. And don’t yell in my ear.”

  He closed his eyes. She could almost hear him counting to ten.

  “How can a bird be guarding the recipes to Waterston chocolates?” he asked through gritted teeth.

  Bebe rubbed her hand in circles on his chest. He really was upset. “Do you remember the antique cage he lives in?”

  Sam opened his eyes and glowered down at her, then began to shake his head. “Do not tell me you papered the bird’s cage with those recipes—”

  “Of course not. They’re in a little black book in the fake bottom of his cage. Perfectly safe.” She patted his cheek. “And you’re the only person who isn’t a Waterston who knows.”

  The scowl eased into a tender smile. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  And then, as ill-advised as she knew it was, she stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

  Sam really was the best kisser.

  She could lose her mind, all sense of propriety, and her reputation right here at the ball, if she didn’t put some distance between herself and Mr. Sugarman. Ever so slowly she pulled back—easing her body away from his was like peeling cellophane off warm caramel—until only their lips and hands still touched. “We’d better go. Everyone has left. The presentations will be starting,” she whispered on an exhale.

  “Do we have to?” Sam groaned, sliding his hands from her waist to her hips and back again.

  The heat from his touch and the strength of his big hands undermined her resolve. She could so easily give in to this temptation. Then, in her mind’s eye, the horrific image of standing at the end of a very long line of tall blondes had her once again pushing out of his embrace. “Come on. Your mother is expecting us.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Sam sat next to Bebe at the reserved table with his family and a rather glazed-looking Jean-Paul. The food critic hadn’t taken his eyes off Glenna, who hadn’t taken her eyes off the gold box Jean-Paul had foolishly placed between their place settings. His sister glanced over at him, and a wicked smile eased across her lips.

  God save him from determined women.

  Then he turned his attention to his pixie princess and decided he didn’t want to be saved.

  After dinner, the announcements were made for the chocolatiers who’d won the competition for best new chocolate candy creations. When Bebe’s father’s name was read as the first-place winner, a loud burst of applause filled the room. Bebe rose and walked forward to accept the award.

  Sam glanced around at the tables where he knew the other nominees had been seated to see if anyone looked disgruntled, or if anyone left in a huff. No one seemed overly annoyed, or surprised either, considering Waterston had won this honor the previous five years, as long as there’d been a competition.

  Even Freddy Finnerman, surrounded by Margot and her blond buddies, was applauding and smiling. His silver-wrapped bonbons had received an honorable mention and he’d seemed to take it with good grace. Maybe Bebe was right about him, maybe he was harmless, but Sam intended to withhold judgment until he got the financial statement back on Finnerman’s. If everything looked on the up-and-up, he’d call off his dogs.

  His attention was inexorably drawn to the spotlighted stage. Bebe looked gorgeous. The bright lights made her curls glow like a halo of spun red-gold. He couldn’t help but be proud of the grace and composure she displayed accepting the award, giving a short thank-you, and explaining her parents’ absence due to a lecture series abroad. When she came back to the table with the small gold statuette of Quetzalcoatl, the god credited with bringing chocolate to the Aztecs, she walked straight into his arms. God, she felt so right.

  He restrained himself with a congratulatory peck on the cheek, but in seating her, managed to pull her chair much closer to his own.

  When he glanced around the table, he could have kicked himself for his obvious lack of subtlety. Jean-Paul had finally taken notice of something other than Glenna—he frowned at Sam like a suspicious Dutch uncle. Sam’s father had a pleased, that’s-my-boy grin on his face, and his mother looked as if she were already calculating the number of guests she could corral into Saints Peter and Paul Church for the christening.

  An odd shiver slid down his spine. He needed to convince Bebe to give him a chance before someone in his family, or that idiot hacker, complicated things. He needed just a little more time to straighten out the scheduling fiasco, and then he could concentrate on the courtship.

  But right now, he needed to get her out of here. He had his own agenda for the rest of the evening. And it didn’t include family members.

  Patience dwindling, he sat through the rest of the presentations. His arm resting on the back of Bebe’s chair, his hand caressing her shoulder, feeling her body heat through the soft velvet fabric of her dress, both soothed and excited him in equal measure. Anticipation was the ultimate aphrodisiac.

  Marcel Desaulniers’s keynote speech was entertaining. Sam relished the idea of taking Bebe to the chef’s Trellis Restaurant in Williamsburg, Virginia, to taste the famous Death by Chocolate cake, even though the chef admitted each single slice contained 1,354 calories. There were lots of ways to burn off those calories, and he could be creative where Bebe was concerned. Licking chocolate icing off various body parts held definite appeal…

  When the applause cooled on the final speech of the evening, his mother patted Bebe’s hand.

  “Congratulations, dear,” she said. “You must be so proud of your father. I’m looking forward to meeting your parents. You must let me know when they return so we can plan a little welcome-home dinner.”

  Subtle, Mother. Very subtle. Like a brick. Sam wanted to grab Bebe and run for the nearest exit.

  “I’m sure they’d enjoy meeting you, as well,” Bebe smiled, looking a bit surprised. “They should be back sometime before Christmas.”

  “We’ll look forward to it, then. We always have a wonderful Christmas Eve gathering at the house—”

  His mother was in full matchmaking mode.

  He had to do something quick before she asked Bebe what flatware pattern she preferred.

  “I think Angie is looking for you,” he said, leaning in toward her. “I’m sure I saw her go past the door for the second time. Should we see if she needs help?”

  Checking her watch, Bebe stood and looked toward the door.

  “We may need to start breaking down the display.” She placed a restraining hand on Sam’s shoulder. “You don’t need to help, though. You’ve done so much already. Stay here with your family and enjoy the music.”

  His mother gave him a nod and her look. “He wouldn’t think of letting you pack all that equipment by yourself. You kids run along. Call me tomorrow and I’ll let you know how much money we made.”

  The band struck up a golden oldie, and Sam’s father took his wife’s hand. “Come on, sweetheart. They’re playing our song.”

  His mother frowned, then gazed up at his father, a look of concern marring her perfect features. “Darling, that isn’t our song,” she said, as though he’d lost his senses.

  “It will be, once you dance with me.” His father pulled her to her feet and kissed her, then winked at Sam. “See you tomorrow, son. Good night, Bebe.”

  His parents made a striking couple whirling onto the dance floor. Sam’s heart swelled with the love he felt for them and the awe they inspired with their devotion to each other. He’d watched them in love with each other his whole life. He wanted the same kind of relationship. And deep inside, the moment he’d first laid eyes on her, he knew Bebe was the one woman who could give him that fulfillment.

  He’d been looking for exterior packaging—a tall, blond goddess, like his mother—when looks had nothing to do with what really mattered. A tiny red-haired pixie contained more woman than he could ever have imagined. She had courage, a deep strength, and resilience in the face of unrelenting harassment. He admired her.

  “Come on. Let’s go load everything and I’ll
take you home,” he said, still amazed that the wrong box of chocolates could have changed the entire course of his life.

  Bebe, watching his parents twirl around the dance floor, sighed. “Oh,” she said. “Aren’t they wonderful? They look like Fred and Ginger.”

  “Don’t tell my dad. His hero’s always been John Wayne.”

  …

  By the time Bebe packed the last gold tray into its box, she could hear them calling the final dance. Around the room, most of the other vendors had gathered sets and leftovers, and were making arrangements to vacate the Colonial Ballroom.

  Only Freddy’s precarious-looking pyramid stood untouched, evidently deserted by the silver lamé–clad assistants. Should she send Angie to notify him of his staff’s desertion? Better to stay out of it. He always got so annoyed when she offered help of any kind. She didn’t want any more hassles this evening.

  But if she saw one more woman salivating over Sam, she was going to scream and let scandal be damned.

  Blondes. They’d hovered. They’d fluttered. They’d devoured every last piece of chocolate, right down to the bittersweet sprinkles. If they’d been moths, Sam’s luxurious wool tux would have been a thing of the past.

  He had seemed to have difficulty remembering their names, but they had no qualms about reminding him. Bebe recognized at least a dozen names from what she and Angie termed the infamous “One-Box-Wonder List.”

  The list of women to whom Sam had sent chocolates brought to mind Mrs. Trumble’s statement about him doing his duty and marrying soon.

  She refused to imagine Sam married to any of the women she’d met this evening—she didn’t want to imagine it—but they were circling like vultures, and one was bound to swoop him up sooner or later. If she weren’t in so much trouble, she’d sit down and have a serious talk with him about the kind of women he seemed determined to date.

  She glanced up from her musings in time to see Sam rolling the dolly in through an employee entrance, followed by one of the security men. He appeared totally at ease, as though hefting boxes in an Armani tux was something not worth mentioning. It needed to be done; he did it. How could she fault him for doing what she took pride in doing herself?