“You made this?” she sounded stunned, too. “All this…chocolate?”
“You do like chocolate, right?”
Chantal managed a nod, but her eyes were still on the cake. “But how do we…” she stared at the cake like it came from another planet, then glanced up at him, her face flushed. “I mean—fork or spoon?”
Luc had totally had plans about how tonight was going to go. Now he realized that none of those plans were going to happen. There wouldn’t be dinner, at least not at first. He couldn’t make his brain think anywhere beyond dessert.
“Fingers,” he said, matter-of-factly. Chantal’s eyes widened, then her lips curved in a broad grin.
“Fingers?” she asked, lifting a brow. “Won’t that get messy?”
Luc gave a deep sigh. “Yeah. But if you want the real French experience with how best to eat this...” With one hand, he pulled his tee shirt over his head, exposing a swath of solid, bare chest. Chantal spared him only a moment’s appreciative glance before she reached for her hem as well.
“Let me,” he rumbled. “To make sure you do it right.”
“No time,” she argued. “We don’t want the cake to fall.”
Before he could stop her, she snagged the bottom of her black and white tank, imprinted with the Sex Machina Phoenix design, and dragged it up over her head. Beneath, her breasts were wrapped in a smooth sports bra, which she peeled off next. “Not very sexy, I know,” she said. “But I prefer to keep the attention on the bikes.”
“Very wise.” Luc lifted his hands, sliding his palms up Chantal’s soft curves until he cupped the weight of her breasts. She rested her hands on either side of his waist, her gaze roaming his chest and abs, tracking another set of scars most people never saw.
“Looks like you had a really bad time learning how to jump out of that plane,” she said huskily.
“And it looks like you’re remarkably ink free.”
“So far as you know…”
She pushed his hands away, apparently so she could focus on exploring his body, her fingers grazing lightly over the old scars, then drifting over the fringe of hair on his chest. If he’d thought he was jacked before, he’d been sadly mistaken.
A condition she clearly noticed. Chantal dropped one hand to the button of his jeans, then slid it further, down the side of his shaft as it pressed heavily against the thick material. “I think I really should learn more about French desserts,” she murmured.
“I think you should, too.” His breath now tight in his chest, Luc reached over and slid his finger through the top layer of mousse, then held it up to Chantal’s soft lips. “It’s best if you taste first.”
She obligingly parted her lips and leaned forward, and Luc gritted his teeth as he felt the wet surface of her tongue beneath his fingers, before she closed her lips and lightly sucked the mousse into her mouth. Her gaze shot to his, her eyes going a little hazed, but he had no idea if it was due to the chocolate or reciprocal need. And at this point, he didn’t so much care.
“Oh,” she moaned softly, then dropped her own hand to the cake, dipping her fingers down into it. “It’s cold,” she whispered.
“Yeah.” That was about all Luc could manage, because Chantal then was lifting her hand to his lips, her long, fingers pressing into his mouth. “I’ve never tasted anything so good,” she murmured as his mouth closed around her fingertips.
Luc fairly groaned at the heat coursing through him, the sensation of Chantal’s fingers in his mouth almost more than he could bear. It wasn’t because of the chocolate though. He’d had plenty of chocolate in his life. But this…
“My turn,” he whispered, and he dipped his finger once more into the thick, soft chocolate, but this time instead of putting it into Chantal’s mouth he moved his hand over to the gentle curve of her neck, tracing her collarbone in a thin stream of chocolate. She shuddered as he lowered his lips to her skin to follow the sweet line, kissing a trail of wet heat up to the fragile arc of her ear.
“I—I don’t think there’s any more chocolate on me,” she managed as he laughed softly against her. “But since it’s my turn…”
She dropped her hands to his jeans, and Luc felt the tug of the zipper as she pulled it down over the straining length of his shaft. Then, with a quick, firm movement, she pushed his jeans down to mid-thigh, taking his boxer briefs with them. He exhaled as she cradled his shaft in one hand and stood back from him, lifting her other hand to the cake.
“I’m going to need more fingers,” she said.
Luc didn’t know how he remained upright the moment he felt the cool slide of chocolate mousse hit his overheated skin, but he gave up all pretense of stability when Chantal’s mouth followed where her fingers slid. He braced himself on the side of the butcher block island, closing his eyes against the surge of need as she laughed softly against him.
“Chantal…”
“Still my turn,” she murmured, and then her hands were at the sides of his jeans, pushing them down completely as he stepped out of his shoes. A moment later, he was standing totally naked in the kitchen and she was looking up at him, her tongue snaking out to capture a last bit of chocolate that lingered on his thigh. She rocked back on her heels, and her gaze swept his body with definite appreciation. “I’m beginning to think a French diet might suit me very well.”
“And I’m beginning to think you’re overdressed.” He reached out and pulled Chantal to her feet, then used that momentum to turn and pick her up with one arm at her back, the other behind her knees, her weight nothing after so many years of manhandling kitchen equipment and supplies. She laughed as he pivoted, pausing meaningfully at the now gouged cake.
“You still hungry for cake?” he asked, his gaze meeting hers. She looked back at him with warm, happy eyes, and he found himself thinking: If I could just make her smile like this every night…
“Oh, I’m definitely hungry,” she said, leaning in to snuggle close to him. “But now that I’ve seen what else is on the menu, not so much for cake anymore.”
Chapter Five
Chantal blinked her eyes open in sudden agitation, completely disoriented. She was lying in a strange bed, surrounded by deep cushiony softness…and by the long limbs and arms of a very warm, very strong man.
“I was wondering when you’d realize I was here.” Luc’s voice was thick and sleepy, and the French accent that was never too far away snuck in a little, making her smile as she pressed her back against his chest.
“I shouldn’t still be here at all,” she murmured. “Isn’t it time for you to make the doughnuts?”
“Mmph.” Luc twisted back, apparently trying to see the alarm clock. “Four a.m. I’ve still got a half hour.” He curled forward again and pulled her in a little closer. “I can do a lot of quality work in a half hour.”
She sighed as she turned in his arms, smiling up at him. “I’ve heard that about you.”
He leaned down to kiss her when a sound buzzed from the shadows over his shoulder. Though he tensed, he didn’t stop, instead allowing his lips to brush hers softly. Her own mouth felt almost bruised, but not painfully so—and her mind drifted back over the hours they’d spent on the deck overlooking the ocean, then in this bed, then in the shower…that last giving a whole new meaning to the phrase Lather, Rinse, Repeat. Luc Martin might make gooey French pastries for a living, but there was nothing soft about the man or his body. And he had serious stamina. Maybe baking was more of a workout than she realized.
That stamina was making itself known as Luc rolled over onto his back, pulling Chantal with him. She flopped onto his chest, giggling, then braced her fists on either side of him, her hair spilling over his shoulders as he looked up at her, his eyes soft and warm.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, but as soon as the words were out there, she wanted to call them back. Luc was meant to make some fun memories with, nothing more. She didn’t need to know what he was thinking—any more than he needed to know her private thoughts.<
br />
He didn’t seem to mind the question, though. “I’m thinking this is nice, having you here,” he rumbled with a lopsided smile, and Chantal’s heart gave a hard thud, then another one, her adrenaline jacking as he reached up and pushed her hair back over her shoulder. “I’m thinking I’d be a fool not to try and get you to stick around for a while longer.”
“Luc, you know I—”
“Shh…no response needed on that yet,” he said, stretching up to nuzzle her neck. “Just something maybe to think about.”
A second buzz from his phone sounded, and Luc pulled back, frowning. “Who in the hell is texting me at four in the morning?” he groused, but Chantal didn’t stop him as he stretched backward on the bed, his hand reaching out to snag the phone and haul it close as he peered at the screen.
He froze.
“Wait…what?”
From the angle he was holding it, she could read it too—and it only took the first few words to send her scrambling off the bed as Luc barked, “a fire?”
“Go, go—we, you should go!” Alarm bells were clanging in Chantal’s mind as she pulled up her messy pile of clothes and raced down the hallway, passing the first bathroom so that Luc could have it, then diving into the second. She splashed water on her face and thanked all that was holy that they’d made good use of the beach house’s showers already. All she needed to do was yank on her clothes and she was back out into the hallway a second later.
Luc was there as well, already dressed. “I don’t want to leave you here without wheels, but I gotta get to the bakery. You don’t mind coming with?”
Despite herself, she blinked at him. “Of course not, but I don’t want to be in the way—”
“You won’t. Hell, maybe you’ll keep me sane.” He waved the keys at her, turning for the door. “Let’s go.”
She grabbed the keys from his hand. “I’ll drive, you can talk on the phone.”
“Deal.”
They ran out of the house and down the steps, and Chantal darted for the driver’s door of the truck, pushing Luc toward the passenger side. This was no time to worry about being polite. They were on the road a minute later, Luc pounding digits into his phone.
His great aunt came on the line a second later—or a woman Chantal assumed was his aunt. No one else would be speaking French so quickly at four a.m.
“That way,” Luc pointed, and Chantal gunned the truck down the deserted streets. Fortunately, the beach house wasn’t far away from the bakery, and as Luc pointed where she should turn, he kept up a non-stop stream of conversation with his Tante Patrice, none of which she understood. But when they finally bounced into the parking lot of the bakery, her heart squeezed tight.
No fire still burned in the bakery, thank God. But it was obvious that one had happened—one that could have been really bad, should have been really bad. The front windows of La Boulangerie had been blown out, and the cute siding around the windows was scorched, but there was no apparent fire raging in the building, and the fire truck was pulled off to the side, a few of the tan-suited firefighters still poking around the front of the bakery.
Chantal pulled as close as she could to the building. Luc bailed out before the truck had even cruised to a stop.
A small knot of onlookers had gathered, and they didn’t look like they were going anywhere, despite Luc’s great uncle exhorting everyone at the top of his lungs to go back their houses. Now that she was out in the fresh air, Chantal could smell the stench of burnt, wet wood, the reek of it nearly overpowering in the heavy, pre-dawn air.
She frowned as Luc strode forward. “I’m the owner,” he called loudly, and everyone turned toward him, his great uncle rushing forward while his great aunt, still clutching her phone, burst into tears. Chantal strode over to Tante Patrice quickly, not really knowing what to do, but the old woman almost bowled her over, throwing her arms around Chantal and sobbing as if they were long-lost friends. She awkwardly patted Patrice, happy to be of at least a little help, then swiveled toward the burned hulk of the bakery. What had happened?
“A bomb?” Luc’s incredulous voice answered her unspoken question, and Chantal went stiff at the word. Her gaze riveted on the building, and instantly she could see the truth of what she was seeing.
Oh my God, no, she thought, her heart turning to a lead weight in her chest. No, no, no.
“You’re lucky you’ve got state of the art fire protection in there,” a man in tan gear spoke to Luc, gesturing to the building. “Sprinklers went off before the damn thing even hit the floor. It seems like foam dropped almost immediately after the explosion, and it wasn’t a big device.”
“We had a fire once before, a while ago,” Luc said, almost absently, rubbing his face. “I tend to—over protect. If any of the windows break, or the door, or there’s a flash bang of any sort, the system triggers just to be safe. But seriously? A bomb?”
“Classic Molotov cocktail,” the man said. “Not very well made, which also was in your favor. We’ll wait for the crime scene guys to make it official, but because there was so little damage beyond the scorching and the secondary fire, we won’t be here long.”
“Secondary fire?”
The firefighter gestured to another portion of blackened shrubbery, also now wet.
“Second thrower missed,” he said with grim humor. “At least whoever you pissed off managed to be idiots.”
Idiots, thought Chantal. If nothing else had convinced her of who was behind this attack, that comment did.
“I might know who it was.” She didn’t even recognize her own voice, but Luc heard her. He turned at her with surprise, but his expression was arrested with worry, not blame. Worry. When she’d barely known the man thirty seconds, and she was already bringing trouble to his doorstep.
Funny, too, at the outrage she felt, thinking it might be Granger. She hadn’t ratted him out in Houston. And she’d had no problem with her ex being pissed at her over Luc. But being pissed was one thing. Targeting Luc—his business, his family’s livelihood—with something as destructive as fire…that changed everything. That was unacceptable.
“Granger,” she choked out, and recognition flared across Luc’s face. Recognition and, she realized with a shriveling heart, anger.
“He’s coming after you?” Luc said, his voice going dangerously flat. Somehow there was a police officer standing next to him now, too. Great. But there was no going back now, Chantal knew. If it’d been Granger…
Then Luc’s words penetrated her brain. “What? No,” she said. “I’m not in danger from him, not in any real way. He’s just a jealous asshole. But he saw you—me with you, especially. So, he wanted to send a message that…well, that…” She passed a hand over her face. “Look, I don’t know for sure. But if it’s him, and I’m pretty certain it is, then—well, then, this is my fault.”
To her surprise, Luc barked a short, dismissive laugh. “It’s definitely not your fault, get that thought right out of your head. Besides, we’ll find out who it was easily enough.” He turned on his heel, pulling the cop with him.
“Cameras,” he announced, pointing at different places around the parking lot. “There, and there, where they’re obvious, and then either side of the facing road, where they’re not.” As he spoke, the police officer squinted up at the poles where the cameras were stationed. “Gotta be something on one of them, if not more than one. All of them record.”
“You really are thorough,” the cop said, but he was grinning now.
“Gotta be, with family around,” Luc said gruffly. His gaze dropped to Tante Patrice, and he reached for her, but she still clung to Chantal, so he ended up wrapping his arms around both of them.
“Mes fleurs,” the old woman sniffed. “Mes belles fleurs.”
“I know Tante,” Luc said, his voice more tender now, quiet. “We’ll get them.”
“No, no.” The old woman pulled away from them, then pointed to a thatch of lilacs at the corner of the building with a shaking finger. “Th
ere’s another camera there. See who is on it, yes? And then you get the bâtard who did this.”
Luc felt he’d been awake for three days straight, and it had only been a few hours. He’d put up a large “Closed” sandwich board sign at either end of the parking lot, but at least the crime scene tape had already been cleared away after the police had been through the front of the shop in record time. It really was a cut and dried attack: the two crude bombs were already bagged as evidence, the video feed from the cameras routed to the police station, and the CSI team announced that no perpetrator had gotten close. They’d thrown the bombs from a distance, then headed out.
The neighbors weren’t much help, unfortunately. The fire alarms had gone off at four a.m., which was just early enough for that strip of town to not be fully awake yet. No one reported hearing anything out of the ordinary, but it was summertime in Florida—nearly everyone had their windows closed and the air conditioners on.
Still, he suspected that the video feed from the cameras was going to show what Chantal already expected: that it was a pair of bikers who drove up—maybe more than two, but only two of them who lofted bombs at the bakery. And one of those two was the guy named Granger—an ex she’d left behind in the dust years before.
But seriously…why had he thrown the makeshift bomb to begin with? As a warning to Luc? To Chantal?
Either way, the guy had to be unhinged. Luc glanced over to where Chantal was kneeling in the flowerbeds, helping Tante Patrice pull out the worst of the damaged flowers. She’d taken off her hoodie and had balled it up to the side of the walkway, and Patrice was in her shirt sleeves. Another half-dozen of his best customers were inside the bakery, now that the cops had taken down the crime scene tape, cleaning up right alongside his staff. He hadn’t asked them to do that, of course. They were just being neighborly, all the while keeping up a lively conversation about who the perpetrators could be—everyone from joyriding idiots to gangster-style bikers to the cute little pastry shop on Weatherside Drive, who were Luc’s biggest competitors.
The Outlaw Edition Page 5