Read The Chocolate Thief Online

Authors: Laura Florand

The Chocolate Thief

The Chocolate Thief
LAURA FLORAND
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
With
mille mercis
to Jacques Genin and Michel Chaudun,
two master chocolatiers in Paris who
so very kindly allowed me inside their
laboratoires
and patiently answered all my questions.
 
Thank you also to Sophie Vidal,
chef chocolatier
for Jacques Genin,
who was patience personified.
Chapter 1
S
ylvain Marquis knew what women desired: chocolate. And so he had learned as he grew into adulthood how to master a woman’s desire.
Outside, November had turned the Paris streets cold and gray. But in his
laboratoire,
he brought his chocolate to the temperature he wanted it, smooth and luxurious. He spread it out across his marble counter. With a deft flick of his hand, he stroked it up and spread it out again, glowing and dark.
In the shop, an elegant blonde whose every movement spoke of wealth and privilege was buying a box of his chocolates, unable to resist biting into one before she left the shop. He could see her through the glass window that allowed visitors a glimpse of the way artisan chocolate was made. He saw her perfect teeth sink into the thumbnail-sized chocolate and knew exactly the way the shell yielded with a delicate resistance, the way the ganache inside melted on her tongue, the pleasure that ran through her body.
He smiled a little, bending his head to focus on his chocolate again. He did not see the next woman as she entered his shop.
But as it turned out, she wasn’t about to let him miss her.
 
The scent of chocolate snuck out onto the rainy street. Boot heels broke their rapid rhythm as passersby, bundled in long black coats, glanced toward the source and hesitated. Some stopped. Some went on. Cade’s momentum carried her inside.
Theobromine wrapped around her like a warm blanket against the chill. Cacao flooded her senses.
She hugged herself. The aroma brought her home, belying her own eyes, which told her she couldn’t be farther from the steel vats of the factory, the streams of chocolate ejecting without break in tempo from spouts into molds, and the billions of perfectly identical bars and bold-printed wrappings that had formed her life.
Something, some tension she carried with her, unknitted in her shoulder muscles, and the shiver from its release rippled all the way through her body.
Someone had molded chocolate into giant cacao bean halves that graced the display windows and added drama to the corners of the shop. She could imagine the hand that had shaped them—a man’s hand, strong, square, long-fingered, capable of the most delicate precision. She had a photo of that hand as her laptop wallpaper.
On the outside of each bean, he had painted a scene from a different country that produced cacao. And on the surface of the horizontal beans, he had placed thumbnail-sized chocolates, exactly where he wanted them.
She looked around the shop. Tucked in corners here and there, black brands on shipping crates spoke of distant lands. Real cacao beans spilled from the crates, reminding customers that chocolate was an exotic thing, brought from another world. Cade had seen those lands. The black brands brought their scents and sights back to her mind, the faraway people she had met, the sounds of machetes on cacao trees, the scent of fermenting cacao husks.
He had scattered cocoa nibs here and there, as a master chef might decorate a plate with a few drops of sauce. He had spilled vanilla beans and cinnamon bark on multiple surfaces, wantonly, a
débauche
of raw luxury.
Every single element of this décor emphasized the raw, beautiful nature of chocolate and thus the triumph of its ultimate refinement: the minuscule squares, the
chocolats
worth $150 a pound, from the hand of Sylvain Marquis.
Sylvain Marquis. Some said he was the top chocolatier in Paris.
He did, too,
she thought. She knew he had that confidence. She knew it from that picture of his hand she carried on her laptop.
His boxes were the color of raw wood and tied with shipping string. The name stamped on them—SYLVAIN MARQUIS—dominated them, the color of dark chocolate, the font a bare, bold statement.
Cade breathed in, seeking courage from the scents and sights. Heady excitement gripped her but also, in strange counterpoint, fear, as if she were about to walk naked onto a stage in front of a hundred people. She shouldn’t feel this way. Chocolate was her business, her heritage. Her dad often joked that her veins ran with the stuff. A significant portion of the global economy actually did run off the chocolate her family produced. She could offer Sylvain Marquis an incredible opportunity.
And yet she felt so scared to try, she could barely swallow.
She kept seeing her family’s most famous bar, milk chocolate wrapped in foil and paper and stamped with
her
last name—thirty-three cents on sale at Walmart. Those thirty-three-cent bars had put more money into her family’s bank accounts than most people could imagine. Certainly more than
he
could imagine. And yet her soul shriveled at the thought of taking the one in her purse out and displaying it in these surroundings.
“Bonjour,”
she said to the nearest clerk, and excitement rushed to her head again, driving out everything else it contained. She’d done it. She’d spoken her first word of French to an actual Parisian, in pursuit of her goal. She had studied Spanish and French off and on for most of her life, so that she could easily communicate when she visited cacao plantations. For the past year, she had also paid native French speakers to tutor her toward her purpose, an hour a day and homework every night, focusing on the words she had come here today to use—
samples, marketing, product lines.
And
chocolat.
And now, finally, here she was. Speaking. About to put
la cerise sur le gâteau
of the whole new line she was planning for the company.
The cherry on the cake
. . . maybe they could do something with
La Cerise
as one of the new line’s products.. . .

Je m’appelle
Cade Corey. I’ll take five samples of everything here, one of each kind per box, please.” Only one of those boxes was for her. The others were to send back to Corey Chocolate headquarters in Corey, Maryland. “And while you are boxing that up, I have a meeting with Sylvain Marquis.”
Her French sounded so beautiful, she couldn’t restrain a tiny smile of pride. It just came tripping off her tongue, with only the merest stutter getting started. All that homework had paid off.
“Yes, madame,” the crisply attired young man answered in English as cool and precise as a pin.
She blinked, her balloon of happiness shriveling, humiliated by one word in her own language.
“M. Marquis is with the chocolates, madame,” he said, still in English, making her back teeth clench. Her French was
much better
than his English, thank you. Or
merci.
A young woman began to fill boxes with Cade’s chocolates while the snobbish young man guided her through a door in the back of the shop.
She stepped into a magical world and almost managed to forget that slap of English in her face as her happiness balloon swelled right up again. In one corner, a lean man in glasses with the fine face of a poet or a nerd poured generous ladles of white chocolate over molds. In another, a woman with her hair covered by a brimmed paper cap used a paintbrush to touch up chocolate owls. Two more women were filling boxes with small chocolates. More women still were laying finely decorated sheets of plastic over chocolates grouped by the dozen and tamping down on each chocolate gently, transferring the decoration.
At the central table of rose-colored marble, a man took a large whisk to something in a bain-marie that looked as if it must by itself weigh forty pounds, a faint white powder rising in the air around him. Across from him, another lean man, this one with a tiny dark beard, squeezed chocolate from a pastry bag into a mold from which lollipop handles protruded. His wedding ring glinted in a ray of light from the windows.
They were all lean, in fact. Surprisingly so, for people who worked all day with chocolate only a bite away. Only one man, tall and burly, stood out for his paunch, and he seemed entirely cheerful with his weight. Everyone wore white, and everyone had a paper cap, styles differing according to role. It was a world with a hierarchy, clearly defined for all to see.
Over the sinks hung brushes, spatulas, whisks. On the marble counter stood a large electric scale and an enormous mixer. On a counter to one side were all sizes of containers and bowls. Filled with raisins, candied oranges, sugar, they surrounded those working at the great marble island.
Everyone glanced up at her entry, but most focused on their work again. Only one man, expertly stroking chocolate over marble, spared her a lingering gaze that held greater authority, and perhaps more dismissal.
Tall and lean, he had black hair that fell in slightly wavy locks to his chin. He had tucked it carelessly behind his ear on one side, clearly exposing his strong, even features. A white paper toque minimized the risk of any of the rest of it falling into some client’s chocolate. Chocolate smeared the front of the white chef’s jacket he wore.
He was beautiful.
She swallowed, her mouth feeling dry. All the scents, the activity, the realization that the best chocolatier in Paris was, in person, even more attractive than in his photos—it all swirled around in her, surging up in ever-heightened excitement. She was here. Living her dream. This was going to be so much fun.
And Sylvain Marquis was hot.
Maybe she was overexcited. He wasn’t that great, was he? Okay, he had looked sexy in his photos, and that shot of his hand had filled her dreams for nights on end, but she had tried to take all that with a grain of salt.
But here, in person, she had a sense from him of energy and control, passion and discipline. It fed her excitement, provoking an exaggerated sensitivity on her part. She felt like a can of Coke being jostled, building up a fizz that was pressing against its limits.
“Bonjour, monsieur,”
she said, as her French tutors had taught her to do, and she confidently walked forward to thrust out her hand.
He proffered an elbow in return, which threw her off. She stared at it, then stared up at him.
He raised his eyebrows just enough that she felt abruptly slow on the uptake.
“Hygiène,”
he said.
“Je travaille le chocolat. Comment puis-je vous aider, Mademoiselle Co-ree?”
She translated all that in her head, growing more and more excited as she realized that she
could,
that this language thing was working. Hygiene. I am working the chocolate. How can I you help, Miss Corey? He sounded so elegant, she wanted to hug his voice up to her in delight. Instead, she found herself awkwardly brushing his elbow, flushing despite herself. How the heck do you shake an elbow?
It dropped away from her. He touched the back of his pinky finger to the chocolate he was tempering on the marble, concentrating. And none of his focus was on her.
That didn’t make sense. He knew who she was. This wasn’t a surprise visit. He had to realize she could up his income by millions. How could he not concentrate on her?
Yet he seemed to consider her less important than a batch of chocolate. She braced against the presentiment that someone might try to put her fizzed-up-Coke self in the freezer.
“Do you have somewhere we could talk in private?” she asked him.
He twitched his eyebrows. “This is important,” he told her. Meaning the chocolate and not her.
Did he think she was just here as a professional tourist? “I’m interested in finding someone to design a new line of chocolate products for us,” she said calmly.
Now who’s important, Sylvain Marquis?
She had practiced that line at least fifty times with her French tutor, and actually saying it out loud in this place and for the reason she had practiced it made her feel giddy with success. “We’re interested in going into premium chocolates and are thinking of something very elegant, very Parisian, maybe with your name on it.”
There,
that
had gotten his attention, she thought smugly, as he stared at her, his long, thin spatula freezing on the chocolate. She could almost see the euro signs flashing in his head. Had he just added a few zeros onto the end of his account balance?
“Pardon,”
he said very slowly and carefully. “You want to put
my
name on one of
your
products?”
She nodded, pleased at finally making an impact. Excitement resurged like Old Faithful inside her. This would be her gift to her family, this gourmet line. She would be in charge of it, and it would involve all the luxuriating in high-end chocolate making and Paris she could possibly want. “Maybe. That’s what I want to discuss with you.”
His mouth opened and closed. She grinned at him triumphantly. What would his hand feel like when they shook on the deal?
Warm maybe. Strong. Sure. Full of the energy and power to turn something raw into something sensual and extraordinary.
There she went with the fizzing again. She glanced around at the small
laboratoire,
a miracle of intimacy and creation, so different from the chocolate factories in which she had grown up.
“Vous—”
Sylvain Marquis broke off whatever he had started to say, shutting his mouth firmly again. Something was percolating up into his eyes, breaking through that cool control.

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