“It’s very good candy.”
“Granted, it’s the best. But he didn’t take any candy, not even samples. And if we figure the thief is looking for the book of recipes, it still doesn’t make any sense to me.” Sam took a big sip of coffee and tried to put his questions into words that wouldn’t sound condescending. “I know we’ve been over this before, but there has to be more to it than you’ve told me. Any good chemist could analyze ingredients, even the exact proportions, from purchased samples. So why risk a prison sentence?”
“Making candy isn’t that easy. The way it’s made is equally important, and the resources for the ingredients are critical. Papa developed his own methods of tempering—”
“What does that mean?”
“Tempering? It’s how chocolate is heated and melted to a specific consistency. And then he melds flavors that are unique to Waterston’s. That’s why he wins top awards all over the world. Everyone guards recipes, especially the new ones, but it’s the way we make our candy that defines Waterston’s.”
“And this process is detailed in your little black book?”
“The ingredients, resources, temperatures, required cooling time, and method of combining are listed for each candy we make.”
“Who knows about the book?”
“Besides me, only my parents and Greta.”
“Greta is the blue-haired lady who pats my butt every time I walk past her?”
“Can’t blame her. You’ve got an irresistible butt.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Bebe’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I’m responsible for procuring the appropriate supplies. Greta knows all the ingredients combined in each recipe. She’s been with us since before I was born. No one else has a reason to even see the book. I give Greta a handwritten copy, which she commits to memory and then destroys. I’ve seen her do it. She’s more of a fanatic on secrecy than Papa.”
“So you two are the only ones who know about the book?”
Bebe glared at him as if she were a victim of the Inquisition and he the grand inquisitor. He reminded himself her safety was at stake and plowed on.
“What about Angie? Does she know?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Angie is my best friend. She certainly didn’t need to break into the factory. She has a key.”
“Breaking in could be a cover-up. If there’s enough money involved, anyone can be tempted.” He took another sip of the coffee and reconsidered. “The two biggest motives for any crime are revenge and greed. And since I can’t imagine you doing anything to piss someone off to that extent, it leaves greed as the most likely motive.”
“Well,” she said, raising one eyebrow and daring him to argue, “it’s no one employed at Waterston’s.”
“Okay, we’ll let that go for now. But if it’s the recipes they’re after, how much money are we talking about if someone were to get hold of the book?”
“Potentially millions if they could duplicate the process. It’s a special method of blending at varying temperatures that makes the chocolate smoother and the flavor more intense—it’s all very technical—but it’s this process that makes Waterston’s candy special. The recipes without the process wouldn’t do anyone much good.”
“So it’s the process that’s valuable?”
“Only if you could do it on a very large scale. Papa has had offers from major candy manufacturers, but he’s always refused.”
“Why?”
“He says the quality would suffer no matter how much they tried to guarantee the results.”
“Do you remember who approached him?”
She shook her head. “The last time someone came, I was away at school. I just remember Maman saying Papa was really annoyed because they wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“It might be worthwhile to ask him who he talked to.”
“Oh, no.” Her shaking her head caused curls to bounce, threatening to fly loose from the clip she’d used to moor them atop her head. “He’d want to know why I wanted to know, and then I’d have to tell him, and then he’d insist they get on the next plane home, and their whole tour would be ruined, and I’d feel awful if that happened—”
“Okay. Okay. It was just a thought.” He set his mug on the coffee table and patted the couch.
“Think of something else,” she said, moving to the couch, intending to sit next to him.
As she sank to the seat, he wrapped an arm around her waist and took the mug from her hand, coaxing her into the shelter of his arm and pressing her to his chest.
“Now that you mention it, I do have something better in mind.”
“Does it involve being late to work and having to make the bed again?”
“Didn’t I say you were brilliant?”
…
Glenna and Jean-Paul arrived that evening shortly after Sam had escorted Bebe back to his condo from the factory, and then returned to the office for a meeting with a group of international investors that couldn’t be rescheduled. He’d insisted she bolt the doors and not leave the premises without him.
For now, his concern gave her a certain sense of security, but in the long run it would drive her to mayhem. Being petite, small even, didn’t mean defenseless. She might have to give Sam a hands-on demonstration when all this was over—for his own peace of mind, of course.
Sam’s sister had swept in wearing a clingy ice-blue knit dress and navy suede knee-high boots, carrying an exotic bouquet full of tiger lilies, sweet-smelling freesia, stargazers, and Queen Anne’s lace. She presented the flowers to Bebe, saying, “There, these should help.”
Jean-Paul had brought a bottle of BV chardonnay in a silk carry bag and wandered off to “take in the view.”
Glenna followed her into the kitchen when she went to look for a vase. It was awkward acting as hostess in Sam’s home; after all, they didn’t have that kind of relationship, but his sister seemed to assume they were a couple.
“When I told Jean-Paul what happened at the factory, he insisted on coming with me to make sure you were okay,” Glenna said, systematically searching the top shelves in the cupboards. “He’s so thoughtful. He says he’s known your family for years.”
“For as long as I can remember, he’s come to visit whenever he’s in the States.” Bebe opened each lower cupboard and peered inside, wishing she were wearing something a little more chic than her skinny jeans, boots, and a bulky cable-knit sweater. “He and my papa are great friends. They almost went into business once, but then things didn’t work out. Papa always makes something special just for Jean-Paul, and then Jean-Paul tries to figure out the ingredients. Did you get any of the samples from the other night?”
“Half of a half. He said he needed the other half for research.” Glenna’s laughter sparkled, and her eyes danced with mischief. “Now I know why he was so protective. It was delicious.”
There was a definite pause. Bebe heard Glenna take a deep breath.
“So how’s it working out—staying with Sam, I mean?” Glenna continued to open and close upper cabinet doors.
What should she say? To Sam’s sister? Mon Dieu.
“It’s fine.” Bebe finally found a tall cut-crystal vase tucked under the sink among the cleaning supplies. “I hate to impose on him.” Turning the vase under the tap water to rinse and fill it, she cringed seeing the conspicuous Waterford logo engraved on the base. Only a man would lump it in with the bleach, cleanser, and dishwasher detergent. “But he insists my staying anywhere else would put others in danger.”
“It’s annoying how often he’s right, but in this case, you shouldn’t take any chances.” Glenna settled on a counter stool and crossed mile-long legs. “Besides, while you’re here, you could work on putting some color into all this gray. There’s only so much six little red pillows can accomplish.” Glenna’s wink was calculated to put her at ease, and it worked.
“I doubt he’d appreciate a woman rearranging his domain.”
“He’s ne
ver had a woman live here, so we won’t know until you try it.”
That statement intrigued Bebe, but she decided she needed to add a disclaimer. “I’m only here because Sam feels I need protection until the person harassing my business is found and stopped.”
“And if you bought that, I’ve got the deed to the Golden Gate Bridge. I’ll let you have it cheap.” Glenna laughed.
Her words and the mischief in her smile had a hot blush rushing to the roots of Bebe’s hair.
Was it so obvious how she felt about Sam?
What had Sam said to his sister? She wasn’t about to ask. Time to change the subject.
“I’m glad you liked the truffle Jean-Paul shared with you. It’s one of Papa’s new recipes.”
“Well, if that’s what the hacker is after, I can see why. Wow. I was ready to mug Jean-Paul for the pieces left in his little gold box. If he weren’t so big, I would have. I even tried seducing him, but the man was stalwart in his determination to hang on to those samples.”
Bebe smiled, imagining her huge adopted uncle fending off advances from Sam’s beautiful sister over chocolate.
“There,” Glenna said, “that’s much better. You were looking much too serious when we arrived. Trust Sam. Even if he is my baby brother, with the exception of my father, he’s the most capable man I know. He’ll straighten out this mess, and you can take that to the bank.”
A movement in the doorway caused them both to turn.
“A man could perish from the thirst. Do you need assistance, mademoiselles?”
Glenna grinned at Jean-Paul and then stepped into his bearlike hug. “Non. We ‘mademoiselles’ can manage the cork in a wine bottle just fine.”
“But only if we find the corkscrew.” Bebe returned to opening drawers.
“Ahh. Mon Dieu. I will surely expire.”
…
Bebe poured the cooked angel-hair noodles into the colander, steam billowing from the pot. She’d decided to make pasta with sautéed tomatoes, artichoke hearts, mushrooms, and pine nuts for dinner, and then thought she’d best serve grilled chicken as well. Sam would need something substantial after such a long workday…
Had she completely lost her mind?
Indulging in domestic delusions about Sam constituted a slippery slope straight to wedding bells and ivory engraved invitations with gilt-embossed angels if she didn’t get a grip on her imagination immediately. Besides, none of that seemed to be on Sam’s serial dating agenda, because surely with all the women he had dated, and she knew the list by heart, he would have met at least one who qualified, rated, or deserved a second date.
But with his dating history as she knew it, it was obvious he didn’t intend to slide, glide, or leap into marriage anytime soon—no matter what Mrs. Trumble thought—and she’d better keep that foremost in her mind.
Rats. Rats. Rats. Why did she have to fall for San Francisco’s most notorious bachelor? And why did that bachelor have a thing for Waterston’s no-other-would-do chocolates?
The chicken and sautéed vegetables smelled delicious. Sam would appreciate a good home-cooked meal, and since she was a guest, the least she could do to repay his kindness was fix the man dinner. Yes, that made perfect sense. It had nothing to do with domestic designs on Sam. Maman would approve.
Perfectly logical.
Perfectly reasonable.
Perfectly ridiculous.
“I’m home. Where are you?” Sam’s voice punctuated by a heavy door closing came from the front of the condo.
“Beat it, buddy!” Tweety chimed in.
“Pipe down, Big Bird. I live here.”
Bebe laughed at the never-ending exchange between the two males in her life. Tweety was slowly getting used to his new surroundings, but he never failed to try to warn Sam off. Sam was equally determined to win her budgie over. He’d resorted to bribes of honey sticks, Tweety’s favorite food.
So far, stalemate.
“I’m in the kitchen.” She pulled the warming pan out of the oven and set it on the stovetop. The sautéed vegetables and the chicken breasts looked perfect, ready to pour over the pasta.
“Hmmm. That smells incredible. Is it dinner? Or am I hallucinating from hunger?” Sam slid his arms around her waist and placed a soft kiss behind her ear. He’d discarded his suit jacket and loosened his tie. He looked edible.
The shiver traveled all the way to her toes.
“Good. You’re hungry,” she said in a breathy gasp.
Tender kisses continued down the sensitive skin of her neck. “I’m always hungry when you’re around, or when I’m thinking about you being around—”
“For food. Hungry for food. The chicken’s getting cold.”
“So,” he said continuing to nuzzle her neck, “do you want white or blush wine with your pasta?”
Blush to go with her skin tone. “You decide.”
He reached past her for the bottle sitting on the counter. “What’s this?” he asked, picking up the opened bottle. When she turned to take the serving bowl to the table, he stepped aside.
“It’s the wine Jean-Paul and Glenna brought with them when they stopped by tonight. You just missed them,” she said, setting the bowl on the small table. “They had reservations and Jean-Paul doesn’t like to be late.”
“Especially for dinner.”
Bebe smiled at Sam’s grin and raised brow.
“He’ll need to keep up his strength if he expects to stay ahead of my sister.” He sniffed the uncorked bottle. “This is good stuff. Shall we have this?”
“Works for me.”
Sam seemed to hesitate, a frown forming. “Would you rather eat in the dining room?”
Bebe looked up at him, then down at the festive table with the small vase of purple freesia flowers she’d purloined from Glenna’s bigger bouquet to make a centerpiece. “This is fine with me. Would you rather?”
“No. I hardly ever—actually I don’t think I’ve ever had a meal in there except with you.” His expression was one of thoughtful surprise. “This is fine.”
Meaning he always took his dates out?
Sam pulled out Bebe’s chair and seated her, then took his own chair opposite.
“How did your meeting go?” Bebe flinched. Did that sound wifely or what? She gazed at Sam with the most casual look she could manage. He didn’t seem to have a reaction. Just watch it, B.
“We had a lot of ground to cover,” he volunteered. “The legal minutia had to be finalized, and every investor had to put in their two cents. But after all was said and done, we sent them in a limo to the airport, signed, sealed, and delivered.” He lifted his wineglass and tilted it toward her. Bebe lifted her glass to his. “To good plans well executed,” he said.
The gleam in his eyes led her to think there might be more than one plan he toasted. Should she ask what plan? Did she want to risk knowing?
“So,” he said, “what else did Jean-Paul have to say?”
“He just wanted to make sure I was okay, and that nothing important had been stolen or damaged in the break-in. He’s leaving for Paris next week.”
“Before Valentine’s Day? That’s going to go over like a ton of toads with Glenna. Valentine’s Day is sacred in my family. It’s the day my dad proposed to my mother and she accepted.”
“Oh, Sam, that’s so romantic.” Would there ever come a Valentine’s Day when Sam wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps and propose to one of the many, many chocolate recipients? Don’t go there… She took another sip of wine. “Between you and me, if the looks sizzling between your sister and Jean-Paul tonight are any indication, I don’t think he’ll be going alone.”
“He’d better not be playing fast and loose with my sister.” Sam gave her a mock glare. “I’d have to pound him into pâté—that is if there’s anything left to pound after Glenna finds out he won’t be around on V-Day.”
Bebe laughed. “Poor Jean-Paul. Should I warn him?”
“He’s a big boy. He can take care of himself
.” Sam took a bite of the chicken.
When he fairly hummed in pleasure, some of Bebe’s tension eased. Don’t be ridiculous, her little internal voice taunted. The way to a man’s heart is not through his stomach. If it were, Sam might as well marry Wolfgang Puck, for pity’s sake.
“This is delicious,” he said, forking up the next bite. “Time-out while I make a complete glutton of myself.” He took another bite. Mouth closed, he chewed. Swallowed.
Bebe watched, fascinated.
Sam grinned.
She did a mental swoon. He really had the loveliest manners. Maman would adore him.
“Is Jean-Paul going to see your parents while he’s in Europe?”
“Probably. They’re both on the exhibitors committee for Le Salon du Chocolat this year. It’s not until the end of October in Paris, but I know they have several meetings scheduled.” She took a swallow of her wine and then nearly spit it out. “Ah, mon Dieu!”
“What?” Sam slapped his napkin on the table and started to rise. “What’s wrong?”
“I have to find Jean-Paul.” Bebe jumped up from her chair. “I didn’t tell him not to mention the break-in to Papa.”
“Wait.” Sam caught her hand, stopping her flight to the phone. “He’s not leaving for a week. He and Glenna won’t be home from dinner for at least a couple of hours. We have time to finish this incredible meal,” he said, tugging her back to sit on his lap. “We probably even have time for dessert.”
“Dessert?” Bebe bit down on her lower lip. Merde. She would surely lose her Martha Stewart-by-Mail members club card now. “I didn’t make dessert, Sam.”
“You didn’t?”
“Nope. No dessert.”
“Well, I could make do,” he said, brushing his lips across hers in a whisper of electricity and running a hot hand down her thigh. “But I know how you love a good dessert at the end of a truly wonderful meal.” Another brush of Sam’s lips had her pressing closer. “How does crème brûlée with caramelized peach sauce sound?”
Bride by Chocolate (Death by Chocolate) Page 18