The Chocolate Touch (6 page)

“I
can’t keep shaving every day,” Dom cursed the next morning, looking into the mirror above the sink outside the
toilettes
in the corner of the
laboratoire
. “It’s making my skin break out in a rash.” He ran his hand over the path of tiny red bumps around his jaw. He supposed a man with a rash looked less threatening than a man with a four-day growth of black scruff, but it couldn’t be sexy, could it?

How long was this normal style of getting a woman interested in you supposed to take, anyway? He had built hopes yesterday, but then she had refused to use his first name and refused to give him her own, and he had known he had to pull back again or lose her. Then, later after the
manif
, he hadn’t dared, not so soon after letting her glimpse his true colors. He might have dipped himself in chocolate, but the fact was that no one who bit through his chocolate exterior would find a soft, sweet ganache inside. Even after years of therapy, he was ready to let fly with his fists at the first provocation. She hadn’t seemed to mind, but then she had just proven she had no sense about danger.
He
had minded for her.

Merde,
but this stuff was complicated. He kept trying to pretend she was chocolate because at least he understood that you could never rush chocolate, but since she persistently resembled a woman instead, it was hard for him to treat her like something he could stir with a spoon.

Unfortunately.

He sure would love to stir her with his “spoon,” he thought inappropriately, caught his own wicked grin in the mirror, and sighed. He was never going to learn to be a gentleman, was he? He wondered if she would let him make love to her for hours, though, absorbing him the way she did when she sat in his
salon,
the way she took his chocolates home and ate them all up in a night. She could eat
him
all up in a night.

He was going to drive himself crazy thinking these things.

“I’m not meant to shave this much,” he said, coming back into the kitchens, rubbing the back of his hand on his jaw.

“That’s you, thin-skinned,” Célie said dryly, stretching her short body far out over the ganache she had just poured, in order to smooth it flat between two metal frames. She had started training under him when she was eighteen, escaped herself out of a bad situation. He had only been twenty-four back then, setting out on his own after six years training in other kitchens, none of which specialized in chocolate, an act of pure, stubborn insanity.

“Such a sensitive man,” his caramellier Amand mocked, recovering a pot from one of the long sinks along the wall.

“Famous for it, even,” Célie said.

Great, his shaving issues were going to be the joke of the day.

“Do you make sure to let the shaving cream sit for a couple of minutes before you shave?” Amand asked helpfully. “That makes all the difference.”

Dom gave him an indignant look. His young caramellier had fine light brown hair and had to stop shaving for three days before you could even tell. What the hell did he know?

“I have this really great cream I use on my legs afterward,” Célie volunteered. “Do you want me to bring you some to try?”

He was probably the only maître chef in Paris who had employees who mouthed off to him this way. They followed his training to the minutest detail when it came to the production he was famous for, but they made up for it by being smart asses. As a rebel himself, he was lousy at imposing his will. His employees actually used
tu
with him. He could guarantee Sylvain’s and Philippe’s teams didn’t do that.

“Just trying to be helpful,” Célie smirked, and smoothed the next frame of ganache.

Putain.
He hesitated beside Célie en route to the “hot” room, the
cuisine,
where the caramels, and baking, and cream-heating were done. “Does it smell very feminine, your cream?” he asked awkwardly, sotto voce.

Célie grinned. “Just like gardenias. That’s not a problem, is it?”

Bordel de cul
. He went to talk about the day’s work with his pastry team, all of whom had some advice on shaving. He wondered wistfully if he could fire Amand for passing it on so fast, but unfortunately, he liked the guy. Amand had been loyal to him from day one, had a hilarious sense of humor, and could work like a demon during the Christmas season. For that, Dom just had to put up with being the butt of his own staff’s jokes.

Guillemette came up the stairs and lifted her eyebrows at him. Definitely he needed to give that girl a raise. She, at least, had been subtle.

His heart pounding, he ran down the stairs.

When he saw what was waiting for him at the bottom, he nearly ran right back up and fired Guillemette on the spot. Turned out, her eyebrow raising was way the hell too subtle.

Jaime looked up right away at the sound of feet on the metal stairs. She followed all movements involuntarily these days, but never with that leap of hope in her heart.

It reminded her of her freshman crush on a senior in high school. Finding excuses to linger with her friends places he might pass, giggling, imagining at night their great love story, not even jealous of his beautiful girlfriend because it was a
crush
and it was normal he wouldn’t be interested in a freshman. Other than her movie star crushes, it had been the funnest, safest interest in a man she had ever had.

Dominique came down the stairs with the graceful speed of an athletic man who knew this territory so well he could have raced the twisting stairs blindfolded, not looking where his feet went, glancing . . . right toward her table.

He smiled immediately when he saw her, and her heart started pounding. How could any man be so hot? That shaggy rebel black hair that needed a cut, the hard size of him, the way he moved. The intent almost-black eyes, the square smooth jaw, those big hands that made her body shiver with longing, as if they could lift her up like some baby chick, cupped warm in them and utterly secure. That rough, gentle voice of his, talking about flavors, until she wished she could become one of his.

She would give about anything, at that moment, to look like the tall, elegant, beautiful brunette waiting at the cash register. If she did, she would have had a chance at nabbing him for a little while.

Dominique noticed the brunette when he was nearly at the bottom of the stairs. His step faltered, and he had to grab onto the railing for balance.

Jaime’s heart sank to her toes. Shit. She had already ordered. She was going to have to watch this. She reached blindly for her purse, with its book-loaded iPad, which she had never before turned on in his
salon
.

The lovely brunette turned away from the counter at his approach, gazing at Dominique Richard as if she expected all of his attention.

She got it, too. Dominique glanced once at Jaime, then focused on the other woman. The gentleness vanished from his face, leaving it hard-edged, dangerous. The kind of face that got better women than she to walk right up and tuck themselves behind him on his motorcycle. He had to have a motorcycle to go with those leathers she had seen the other day. Probably a loud one.

Jaime turned on her iPad. She felt sick, as if she was watching a train run over someone she loved and doing nothing to stop it.

“Dominique,” the brunette said in a beautiful sexy voice. How did Frenchwomen
manage
that little husk and catch? As if they were constantly on the edge of an orgasm. This woman’s voice layered silk in it, too, suggesting she and Dominique had a history among sheets of just such silk.

Jaime stared blindly at the list of book titles on her tablet.

“Bon . . . jour,”
she heard Dominique say.

She flicked a glance despite herself. The woman’s smile promised . . . God. Jaime wished she was French. How could the other woman promise fifty million orgasms with just a smile?

This was a lot worse than spotting that senior crush making out with his girlfriend. It was more along the lines of the time she had discovered her real boyfriend in college making out with the girl who attracted him for her body and not for her money.

Maybe she needed to get out of here before she took one more blow than she could stand.

D
om was in a flat panic. The sight of the woman by the cash register had alarmed him, but then
l’inconnue
pulled out her iPad and everything went to hell. She had never once done anything else in his
salon
but focus on him. On all the best he had to offer to the world.

Offer for one hundred euros a kilo, of course. He didn’t owe the world shit.

He scowled at Guillemette. If he had known what was waiting for him, he could have stayed upstairs and made the brunette come to him, dealt with her there where his little freckled
habituée
couldn’t see.

Every line of the brunette’s body made it clear she was throwing out an invitation for sex, and certainly it was flattering and even a little bit arousing that she had liked it so much the last time. But he couldn’t even remember her name, and . . . he was going to lose his
habituée
over this. If she had started to drift toward the bait he was dangling for her on a hook, this appearance of a sleek shark was going to drive her right out of his waters entirely.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw
l’inconnue
rest her head on her hand and tap the screen of her iPad.
She wasn’t wearing a hood today.
If he could get closer, he could see at last what her hair was like. Was it all that same reddish-caramel color?

“Dominique,” the brunette breathed, clearly believing that the tone was enough to wrap around him and pull him straight toward her.

And it might have been. He was pretty good at quick, wild sex that involved no cuddles afterward. He had a special talent for it, even.

At her table,
l’inconnue
pulled a scarf out of her purse and looped it loosely over her head, her Audrey Hepburn look. Which was kind of romantic and sweet, because a face less like Audrey Hepburn’s would be hard to imagine. Maybe a little in the cheekbones.

Merde,
no, it wasn’t sweet. She had come
out,
she had come here today ready to be just a little more naked to him, and now she was hiding herself again, and he hadn’t even gotten a good look at her hair.

“How are you?” Dom asked the brunette crisply, trying to make himself seem unavailable without making
anyone watching
think he was a rude, crude, and socially unacceptable human being who had sex with women whose names he couldn’t remember later and then treated them badly. Everything else might be true, but he did
not
treat them badly. This woman had pursued
him,
had gotten exactly the little fantasy she was looking for, and months later, must have started fantasizing again.

The woman gave him a small, intimate smile. “Thinking of you.”

Putain.
She was as aggressive in her glossy way as he was, and since she didn’t give a damn about him and therefore had resilient feelings, brushing her off wasn’t going to be that easy to do.

Certainly not without giving the definite impression to
people who happened to be watching
that he used women and was heartless to them afterward.

Which he
was,
but in his defense, they were heartless to him, too. Hearts weren’t involved. He used them because their only reason for coming on to him in the first place was that they wanted him to use them.

He could feel himself floundering in panic, and then his guts caught up with him and kicked his brain into action. He wasn’t going down without a fight.

“Come.” He took the brunette’s arm and led her out onto the sidewalk, out of sight of the windows. Then he turned to look at her. Had he ever even
known
her name? Or had she told him to call her
bébé
or something?

He had a talent for that, too. Women who wanted to be anonymous. Who didn’t want to leave anything behind with him, not even their names.

Like his
inconnue,
who sat there, holding on to her name like a treasure, not letting him have even that one scrap of her.

“I’m sorry,” he told the brunette roughly.
“Non.”
He had to do this quickly. The longer he was out here, the worse his absence was going to look.

The brunette stared at him, her smile disappearing.

“I don’t—I’ve met someone.” His heart pounded to admit that out loud.
I’ve met someone.
Another woman whose name he didn’t know. But he had touched her shoulders yesterday and she hadn’t jerked them away or anything. She hadn’t screamed to the riot police for help.

Putain,
but he had it bad. Some part of him pointed out that he was being inordinately stupid, turning down easy, hot sex with a stranger in favor of a painstaking, tentative, slender chance of even going to dinner with another stranger. But this beautiful brunette had never sat in his
salon
as if his very existence made up her happiness, as if she could spend hours soaking him in and still want more of him. She would be happy for hours of sex, sure, but it wasn’t . . . it just really wasn’t the same thing.

Maybe he had been living on the sexual equivalent of desserts for too long. His whole being craved proteins, a long, slow, complete meal. And the dessert on top of it.

Frustration and injured pride flashed across the woman’s face. She lifted her chin. “Just what are you saying
non
to, Dominique? Did you think something was on offer?” She looked him up and down, her lip curling.

His shoulders relaxed. Thank God for women who could give as good as they got. “I suppose I was just fantasizing that it was as good for you as it was for me. You can’t blame a man for dreaming.”

A tiny soothing of her pride. She shrugged, to soothe it more. “Oh, it was great, but these things are better not repeated, you know. They lose all their appeal.”

“Yes, of course,” he said. He knew that very well. And was rather pleased with himself for having managed not to be the one rude enough to point it out. He glanced back at the gleaming windows of his shop, in the most ridiculously counterproductive urge to show off to a certain someone how very well-mannered he was being.

“I just came by to pick up some of your chocolates for some houseguests,” the brunette said dismissively. “And thought I would say hello while I was in.”

“Bien sûr.” Merde
. That meant he had to let her back in.

Inside the shop, a cup of chocolate and a double dark chocolate réligieuse sat in front of
l’inconnue
. Untouched. She was standing, laying bills down on the table.

Oh, God. “Guillemette,” he said sharply. “Could you assist madame?”

“Madame” gave a brusque turn to her head when he left her side, but he prayed Guillemette’s elegant control of the room would cover even that situation.

L’inconnue
looked up when he approached her table. Even with her standing, he loomed over her. Her eyes were wry, cool, her face unblushing. That was bad, the lack of a blush. How to handle this so that it didn’t look like exactly what it was, a man trying to juggle two women?

“Mademoiselle, bonjour,”
he said quietly, forcing off all his hardness, trying to shove it away into some closet he could slam and lock. It was more difficult this time. He felt hard. Something vital was being threatened, and he only knew how to fight for what he wanted, slugging with all his strength. But his freckled stranger wasn’t a boxer. He couldn’t get what he wanted by slugging.

“Bonjour,”
she said distantly.

“You’re not hungry?” he asked with a little smile at the food left on her table, exactly as if his heart wasn’t pounding frantically at the sight.
She hadn’t even taken a taste.

“I forgot I have an appointment.”

That was a lie. The pounding of his heart was making him sick. He was so much bigger than she was. Could he just wrap her up and take her away and explain . . . what, exactly? Maybe he could explain with his hands and his mouth on her body. The thought surged through him. God, yes, tracing freckles. What a lovely, delicious morning that would be. There wasn’t any other way to communicate . . . whatever it was he wanted to communicate.

“Did you like your caramels?” he asked with another smile, willing her to respond to it the way she had the afternoon before.

Her eyebrows flexed, troubled, and smoothed again. “I did,” she said, but didn’t smile.

He kicked his smile up another notch, coaxing hard. “Which one did you like the best?”

“All of them,” she said, resigned. She looked away from him, slipping her wallet into her purse.

“Would you like to see how they’re made?” he asked on a sudden inspiration, stretching out a hand. Could that prove an irresistible temptation? “Could you call your appointment, put it off?”

She stilled and looked back up at him, her eyebrows knit. She glanced past him, toward the counter, where Guillemette boxed chocolates for the brunette. He didn’t dare glance back at what the brunette’s expression might be, but
l’inconnue
’s face grew more troubled.

“Surely you don’t have time for that,” she said slowly.

“It will be a pleasure,” he said firmly.

Again her gaze flicked to the brunette and back to him, incredulous. “You don’t even know my name. Do you?” she asked warily.

“No.” He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Once again, she didn’t respond with the correct politeness and tell him.

Really. And here he was trying so hard to prove to her
his
manners. “I’ve told you mine,” he prompted encouragingly. “Dominique.”

But that, unexpectedly, made her laugh. “Everybody in Paris knows
your
name, Dominique Richard,” she told him with . . . with what he could only describe as affectionate humor. As if she was going to ruffle his hair indulgently next.

Hmm. He was not her little boy. And yet, the idea of her hand in his hair, even patting it like a little boy’s, made his whole body curl with longing.

“Come upstairs,” he coaxed. It must, indeed, have been irresistible bait, because she moved with him to the bottom of the stairs. “You’ll love this.”

“Ciao, Dominique,” the brunette said silkily as she took her sack of chocolates and made a little gesture to her ear,
I’ll call you later.

La salope,
Dom thought with respect. That was probably why he had been attracted to her in the first place. He liked a woman who fought back and fought dirty.

He looked down at his
inconnue,
her eyes once again cool, distant, incredulous. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time he had to surmount an impossible handicap from his past. He smiled down at her. “Come up.”
Come see me at my best.

He just barely remembered, last minute, to fall into step behind her rather than lead the way. Someone, some exasperated girl when he was a teenager, had complained about his lack of gallantry, and that had been one of the things she had pointed out—that he was supposed to follow behind the woman up the stairs. He had refused to care. The very last thing he was able to do back then was put himself in a position that suggested he was anyone’s servant, man or woman.

But as he followed behind
her
up
his
stairs, he thought it wasn’t so bad. He didn’t feel like her servant, he felt like a Peeping Tom. He could see her butt as she climbed and planned to put some more meat on it by stuffing her with delicacies while she was upstairs. And if she slipped on those narrow spirals, he could catch her.

A light came on in his brain. Maybe
that
was the reason he was supposed to follow a woman up the stairs. Did that mean he was supposed to go before her on the descent, too?

That wouldn’t be nearly as much fun, because he wouldn’t be able to see her butt, but he kind of liked the idea that if she tripped, she would ram straight into his broad shoulders and cling to them. And he wouldn’t let her fall.

He grinned a little. Maybe if he was lucky, she would trip because she was so busy watching
his
butt. He’d been told he had a good one, although the context felt uncomfortably sordid and dirty as he followed Mademoiselle Nameless up the stairs.

“She’s
not
going to call me later,” he mentioned into her ear, brought to the level of his mouth by the two steps between them. “She doesn’t even have my number.”

Her step faltered and he actually got to reach out a hand and put that gentlemanliness into practice, catching her . . . maybe just a little lower on her back than was quite well-mannered, maybe just a little too much of her butt, but he didn’t want her to
fall.

She tripped again at the touch, but she didn’t knock his hand away.
This is it, Dom. Either she’s desperately afraid of heights, or she might be ready for you to ask her out. She might not disappear if you do.

He ducked around as soon as they reached the top of the stairs, to see her expression when they first came into his
laboratoire.

When her face lit up like a sunrise, he wanted to kiss her right then.

Damn,
this whole going slow stuff was hard.

 

Jaime had never seen anything like Dominique Richard’s kitchens. While it had some things in common with Sylvain’s, Sylvain concentrated purely on the production of
chocolat,
no pastries, no caramels other than those incorporated into the chocolate itself. And Sylvain’s was on the ground floor, with windows high up, in a more expensive part of Paris and therefore a more cramped space.

Dominique’s . . . really was like ascending into heaven. The spring light of Paris came in from all the great casement windows, two of which were open on this gently cool day, to let in air. He was a couple of streets back from République itself, not on a major traffic artery, and the street noise was just a gentle reminder that the world was alive.