The Chocolate Lovers' Club

by Carole Matthews

  Chantal walked to her room and unlocked the door. She could look at her e-mails and have an early night, she supposed. Her laptop sat on the coffee table—difficult when she’d been planning on giving another kind of laptop some attention. She took off her earrings and bracelet, putting them on the dressing table next to her wedding and engagement rings. Then, taking off her necklace, she massaged her neck as she paced the floor. There was no way she could sleep in this state of sexual arousal. The anticipation of a night with Jeremy had really got her motor running and she could not be content with satisfying herself. For a thirty-nine-year-old woman with a rampant sex drive, masturbation was the most depressing of pastimes. She’d tried it enough times to know. That was so not going to happen. She wanted sex. Hot, hard sex. It was as simple as that and, to be honest, she didn’t really care who with.

  Chantal sighed to herself. Looked like she was going to have to put Plan B into action.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE GUY THAT SHE’D MET by the swimming pool was sitting in the corner of the bar as she hoped he’d be. Chantal ordered a cosmopolitan from the bartender and then turned and flashed him an open smile. He took the hint and, picking up his drink, he came over to her.

  “So what happened to your dinner date?”

  “That was business,” Chantal said. “This is pleasure.”

  The guy’s glass was nearly empty. “Can I get you another drink?” he asked.

  “Well, you could,” Chantal said. “Or we could go back to my room and drink the champagne I have waiting there.”

  He grinned at her. “I’d always heard that American women were very forward.”

  She didn’t bother to tell him that she’d been ten years in Britain and that some of the nation’s eccentricities had become embroiled in her psyche a long time ago. Now she felt like some sort of mid-Atlantic hybrid.

  “You heard right,” she said. Chantal didn’t want small talk, she didn’t want to know whether he had a wife, kids, a dog. She didn’t care whether he sold software, hardware or peddled drugs. She wanted him in her bed tonight and to say good-bye to him in the morning. Plus she wanted to prove to herself that she could pick up any guy. She hated to admit it, but Jeremy turning her down had been a blow. It had felt like being rejected by Ted all over again. What if she was getting to the age where she couldn’t find strangers who wanted to sleep with her? What would happen then? Some women could dress up in a killer outfit, flirt all night with the hottest studs in the bar and still go home unlucky. Was she going to turn into one of those poor, unfortunate bitches?

  He shrugged his shoulders and put his glass back on the bar. “Then let’s go.”

  A feeling of relief and elation flooded through her. This was a kick that she couldn’t get, no matter how much chocolate she consumed. Chantal downed her cosmopolitan—a drink that she hadn’t wanted. She didn’t need to be drunk to do this. She preferred to be stone-cold sober to enjoy her conquests.

  They went to the elevator, but this time there was no discomfort between them as there had been with Jeremy, just a bristling of electricity. This time they both knew exactly what they wanted.

  Inside, Chantal pressed the button for her floor. As soon as the doors closed, he was upon her. He pulled her to him roughly, his mouth crushed against hers, his hand went inside her low-cut dress, baring her breast and she gasped as his mouth traveled to it, his teeth grazing her nipple. His fingers slid up inside her thigh, inside her panties, inside her. And she was ready and wanting him.

  The lift doors opened and they staggered out still entwined, fumbling together until they got to her room. With shaking hands, she let them both inside. He pulled her to the bed, undoing his trousers and hitching up her skirt as he did. Dragging down the top of her dress, he feasted on her breasts again, entering her with her thousand-pound dress tangled all round her waist. He thrust into her frantically and she came fast and furiously. They lay together breathing heavily and then she felt him harden again. Peeling her dress from her, he then lifted her from the bed, bending her over the chair by the dressing table. He came into her from behind, rutting like a dog, where she could see herself in the mirror, legs trembling, her breasts squeezed tight in his hands, being fucked by this handsome stranger. Lifting her again, he sat her on the dressing table, pressing her thighs around him as he pushed into her. She laid back, grasping at the table, scattering her jewelry to the floor, knocking over the table lamp, and came again.

  “Better now?” he said, with a smile.

  “Yes,” she breathed. “Yes.”

  He took her hand and led her to the bed. “Want to open that champagne?”

  “No.” She curled up on the bed. This was what she’d wanted. Anonymous fucking with no chitchat, no foreplay, no commitment. It would be better now if he just left. “I’m tired.” The truth was, she was exhausted. Physically and emotionally spent.

  He lay down beside her, still stroking her butt. “You’re one hell of a sexy woman,” he said.

  This is what she wanted to hear. This is what she wanted to hear—but from a different man. Chantal bit down on her lip. She wouldn’t cry. She would never cry over this.

  “I don’t know your name,” she said, and she turned to face him. But he’d already gone to sleep.

  Chapter Fifteen

  CHANTAL FORCED HERSELF TO OPEN her eyes. She had a headache from too much champagne and her limbs ached. Her thighs and her insides were sore. She’d got what she wanted last night, but somehow it always left a bitter taste in her mouth the next morning. Now she’d have to face the guy again in the cold light of day. She always hated this part.

  Turning over, she found that the other side of the bed was empty. There were no obvious sounds from the bathroom. Sighing with relief, she thanked her lucky stars that he’d got up and left before she’d woken. She liked guys who did that. The ones who wanted to stay for breakfast were the real pains in the ass. It had been good last night, but it had been reckless. He’d been on her so quick, had fucked her senses so much that she’d forgotten to ask him to use a condom. She’d have to take herself off to the chemist tomorrow to get the morning-after pill. The fear of pregnancy wasn’t a problem these days, but it wouldn’t be so smart to contract AIDS or some other sexually transmitted disease. That had been a stupid thing to do. She shook her head ruefully. Next time she’d have to be more careful.

  Chantal looked at the clock. It was just before seven. That would give her time for a long, hot bath; she could then do her e-mails and still have time for a quick breakfast before meeting Jeremy. Only chocolate croissants and strong, hot coffee were going to be enough to revive her today, and she hoped they were on the menu. It was a shame that Jeremy hadn’t been on the menu last night as she’d planned, but hey, never mind. If they had to work together today, maybe it was better that they hadn’t woken up together, but he’d sure missed out on a wild night. Chantal smiled smugly to herself.

  She stretched out in the bed, arching her back. Perhaps she should check her mail first before she did anything else. Chantal glanced over at the coffee table, but her laptop wasn’t there. Strange. And then it hit her. Suddenly she was wide awake. She scanned the room. Not only was her laptop missing, but her handbag had gone too. Shooting out of bed, she went over to the dressing table, crouched on all fours and examined the floor where she had scattered her jewelry just a few hours earlier. Sure enough, it had all gone.

  Chantal sat back on her heels and hugged herself. The bastard had robbed her. He’d fucked her and then robbed her. There had been at least five hundred pounds in her handbag in cash, and all her credit cards. She’d have to phone the companies and put a stop on them right away. If he managed to get into her laptop, he’d find all her PIN numbers stored there—then couldn’t he have some fun?

  Chantal rubbed at her eyes. This was a nightmare. A first-class fucking nightmare. But that wasn’t the worst thing. The jewelry was worth thousands—thousands and thousands. All of the pieces were high-gra
de diamonds. She tried to remember how much they’d been valued at, at their last insurance assessment. Was it thirty grand? Surely not. Christ, it didn’t bear thinking about. Would she even be covered if he hadn’t broken into her room, but was there at her request? All that he’d left was her watch, which she was wearing. She supposed she should be thankful for small mercies. God, that scamming bastard must be smiling to himself.

  How was she going to explain this to Ted? How was she going to explain it to anyone? She could hardly go down to the hotel reception and ask them to call the police and report that she’d been robbed by one of their hotel guests that she’d invited back to her room to screw. Instead, she was the one who’d been screwed. And royally. His name? Oh, she had no idea. But he was handsome. Tall, dark and handsome—more your romantic-hero type than the average burglar. And he was great in bed. But what a price to pay.

  Chantal closed her eyes and wished it would all go away. So much for an uncomplicated fuck.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I’M SITTING IN CHOCOLATE HEAVEN. It’s lunchtime and I’ve eschewed the healthy option of a Pret a Manger sandwich in favor of some hot chocolate and a large slice of Clive’s chocolate gâteau. It’s busy in here today and there’s only a window seat left, but that suits me fine. I can gaze out into the melee of shoppers passing by and try not to dwell on my woes. Shopping doesn’t do it for me—which is probably just as well as I have more than enough addictions already like chocolate, Marcus and humiliating myself publicly, to mention a few of them.

  This morning, following the knicker-kicking incident, I asked Crush to accept my resignation. Technically I don’t need to give him my resignation as I’m a temp and could simply phone up the agency and get them to move me to another office. He laughed his head off and said I was too much fun to have around for him to ever consider letting me go. I’m trying to work out if that is a good thing.

  Coming here was a last-minute decision, so I didn’t have time to text any of the other members of the Chocolate Lovers’ Club to see if they could join me. I could do without solitude today, but I’m not “in” with the crowd of girls at the office. They never invite me to go to lunch with them. Partly, I think it’s jealousy because I work for Crush and he’s the office heartthrob. If I were them, I’d do it the other way and I’d get “in” with me to get close to him. Clearly, they are low-level manipulators. I’ve still heard nothing from Marcus and that’s giving me a stomachache that just won’t go away. Perhaps this chocolate cake will help. I need to go back to the office buzzing with sugar if I’m to have any hope of getting through the afternoon.

  The door opens and one gorgeous guy comes in. All the gorgeous guys who come in here are usually gay because they’re all mates of Clive and Tristan, but it would be a sin against humanity if this one turned out to be interested only in boys. He gets a cappuccino and selects a plate of Clive’s pure plantation chocolates—a man after my own heart!—and then he looks round for somewhere to sit. As luck would have it—my luck—there is nowhere else to sit except at my table. A couple of girls on the squashy sofa look as if they’re about to start rearranging their shopping bags with a view to leaving and I will them to faff about for a bit longer which, obligingly, they do.

  “Is anyone sitting here?” he asks me.

  “No.” I try not to look too agog. Over at the counter, Clive is trying to catch my eye, but I ignore him.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “Please,” I say magnanimously, and gesture at the empty chair.

  “This is a great place, isn’t it?” he says as he settles himself. “I can’t get enough of their chocolates. I’ve only just discovered it, but now it’s my favorite haunt.”

  “Mine too.” Already, I am in love. Call me fickle, but I could really forget all about Marcus with a guy like this. He’s got that great dirty-blond, mussed-up hair—and eyes the shade of a summer sky. And he’s a chocoholic. I feel this is a match made in heaven. Most probably I should stay away from blonds, but what’s the saying about one bad apple? Quickly, I check out his ring finger before I’m hopelessly smitten by someone else inappropriate. No wedding band. Looking good.

  “At the risk of sounding corny …” He laughs at how corny he is sounding. Self-deprecating—I like that. “ … do you come here often?”

  “I do,” I say. Oh my word, how great does that sound? Do you, Lucy Lombard, take this man as your lawful wedded husband? I do.

  “I’m Jacob,” he tells me. “Jacob Lawson.”

  Jacob. Do you, Lucy Lombard, take this man,Jacob Lawson, as your lawful wedded husband? Oh yes! I do!

  “Lucy,” I breathe. “Lucy Lombard.”

  “Nice to meet you.” He reaches over and offers me his hand to shake. I take it, hoping that I’ve not got smears of chocolate icing all over mine. Jacob smiles at me and I smile back—open, warm, accepting—hoping that I’m giving off all the right signals. Formalities completed,Jacob then turns his attention to devouring his chocolates. “Do you work round here?”

  Glancing guiltily at my watch, I realize that I should be back at the office by now. One of these days Crush is going to chew my ears off for my tardiness, but I hope it’s not today. I’ll give him some old tat about having to rush into Boots to buy tampons—that always makes male bosses back off. “Yes. I temp in one of the offices just down the road. Big IT company.”

  He nods as if he’s impressed.

  “What about you?” He has on a great suit and is carrying a stainless-steel attaché case.

  “I freelance in the entertainment business,” he says.

  “Wow,” I say. “Wow.” I could sound more like a complete airhead, but I’m not quite sure how. Reluctantly, I check my watch again. “Look, I’m sorry, but I really have to be going.”

  His face registers disappointment. “Why don’t we meet up again?” he suggests.

  Now I’m so flustered that I can hardly speak. One day as a single woman and I’m being asked out on a date! “That would be lovely.”

  “There’s a chocolate and champagne evening coming up at the Savoy Hotel next week—do you fancy it?”

  Do I fancy it! I want to throw myself at his feet and weep with joy. He’s rescuing me from becoming a lonely and morbidly obese spinster. “That would be lovely.” Someone needs to jog me, my record’s stuck.

  “Here’s my card.” Jacob slides it over the table to me. It’s a plain white card with just a mobile phone number on it. How flash is that?

  “Thanks,” I say, then root round in my handbag for a pen and a scrap of paper. Settling on the back of the Chocolate Heaven bill, I scrawl out my name and number.

  “See you, then,” I say and then I bolt for the door, giving Clive a theatrical wink as I leave. Jacob waves at me as I walk past the window. My fingers curl round his card in my pocket. I do hope he calls me. You don’t know how much I hope he calls me.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “HI, GORGEOUS,” CRUSH SAYS AS I hurry to my desk. “Good of you to join us.”

  “Sorry, sorry,” I mutter. “My life is one big crisis. Live with it. I have to.”

  I could tell him about my good fortune in getting the offer of a date, but as I can’t quite believe it myself, I choose—for once—to keep my big, fat mouth shut. Aiden Holby comes and perches on the edge of my desk. It makes me hot when he sits so close to me, and I put up little barricades of files, pen holders and even my pink plastic pig, which holds my paper clips, around my desk to try to thwart him in his attempts to cozy up to me. But it all fails. He just sweeps aside my defenses and crashes on in. His firm, tight buttock is right next to my arm.

  As if I wasn’t flustered enough, he asks, “What are you doing this weekend?”

  Oh my word. Crush is asking me out too! Twice in one day! I must be giving out loads of pheromones or whatever they are that make men fall at your feet. And here was me thinking that he only sweet-talked me because of all the chocolate supplies I keep in my desk. “I’m not sure.” I might j
ust have to hedge my bets here. “Why?”

  “The Sales Department has got a team-building exercise this weekend. We’re going whitewater rafting in Wales. Up for it, Gorgeous?”

  Oh, so not a date. “Whitewater rafting? Why don’t I know about this?”

  “Because it’s in your files and you never look at them,” he explains patiently. “Tracy or whateverhernamewas organized it before she got sprogged and left.”

  This is the sort of sharing, caring company I work for.

  “The guys all want you to come along.”

  My heart lifts despite the fact that it isn’t a romantic tryst that’s on the cards. It’s nice to feel loved by anyone. Even if it’s the sales team. “They do?”

  “Yeah,” Crush says. “They want to make sure that there’s someone really crap there who’s going to make them all look great in comparison.”

  One balloon. One pin. One pop. “Cheers,” I say miserably.

  “It’ll be fun.”

  My idea of fun is a chocolate and champagne evening at the Savoy Hotel with a hot date—not getting soaking wet in Wales.

  “We’ll pay you,” Crush says. “As an extra incentive.”

  That does it, really. I have my price—and it usually involves money of any description. It wouldn’t be too bad to get wet in Wales and be paid for it. “I’ll check my diary,” I say coolly. “I’m seeing someone at the moment and we might have plans.”

  Now it’s Crush’s turn to look miffed. “I thought you’d only just been dumped by Marcus?”

  “Women like me don’t stay on the open market for long,” I say smugly.

  Crush huffs.

  I feel I have the upper hand here. “Double time and I’ll do it.”