The Chocolate Heart

Book 4: Amour et Chocolat

by Laura Florand

Genres: Contemporary Fantasy; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

A spoiled heiress and a perfectionist chef, both starved for love, find plenty to feast upon in this complex romance by the author of The Chocolate Touch.

Mille-Feuilles can’t buy you love . . .

No one hates Paris—except Summer Corey. The moody winters. The artists and their ennui. The inescapable shadow of the Tour Eiffel. But things go from bad to worse when Summer stumbles into brooding, gorgeous chef pâtissier Luc Leroi and indecently propositions the hero of French cuisine . . .

Luc has scrambled up from a childhood panhandling in the Paris Métro to become the king of his city, and he has no patience for this spoiled princess, even if she does now own his restaurant. Who cares if she smiles with all the warmth of July? She doesn’t eat dessert!

There is only one way to tempt her. A perfect, impossibly sweet seduction . . .

Praise for The Chocolate Heart

“Florand outdoes herself with this exquisite confection. . . . This contemporary romance is as painstakingly crafted and decadent as the sweets it portrays, leaving the reader longing for just one little taste.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review

“Chocolate, Paris, and a Greek god for a hero; this delectable confection has it all!” —Library Journal

“All the elements of (Florand’s) successful recipe for reading pleasure—headstrong heroine, dashing hero, sinful desserts, and sultry situations—come together in another deliciously entertaining offering.” —Booklist

Release date: December 1, 2013

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

She walked in, blond, small, tanned, smelling of monoï, the tiare-infused coconut oil from the islands. Luc recognized the scent because he smelled and tasted everything that passed through his hands, good or bad.

It wasn’t a policy he usually applied to people, but . . . she looked like someone a man wouldn’t mind tasting, certainly. A sun goddess you might pick up off a beach on a tropical escape, feel the sand sticking to her skin when you made love to her, shake it out of the sheets in the morning with a smile on your face.

Or so he imagined. He had never escaped to a tropical island, not even once, but his ability to imagine—and realize—impossible things was world famous.

She looked tired, around-the-world-in-eighty-days tired, with a pinch around her eyes that went beyond jet lag. But when she looked up and met his eyes, she pulled out a smile so bright it was several minutes before Luc realized she had no idea who he was. She hadn’t recognized him. She had just seen the symbol of the hotel under his name on his shirt and thrown him the same bright smile she would have given anyone.

So right from the start there was a problem. A conflict within him, perhaps. Luc knew with certainty that she had arrived on the edge of nerves and exhaustion. That she needed tolerance and compassion.

Yet he couldn’t quite forgive her for that split second when he had fallen for that bright smile, and it hadn’t been for him.

She probably thought he was the bellboy.

That was one hot bellboy, Summer noticed. Standing near the polished mahogany reception desk, framed by marble columns, light glimmering on his face from a gold chandelier. Welcome, Madame, to your mausoleum. Although doubtless he thought this place was a gorgeous palace.

Black-haired, probably about thirty, the man curled like a whip around her attention and yanked it to him.

How? She hadn’t slept more than ten hours in the past four days, some of which she had spent hanging sick over the side of a cargo ship. How could he wake her up enough to notice him? Even if he was gorgeous, radiating sculpted, precise elegance, with a perfect, coiled tension in him. Tall and lean and lovely—and watching her.

Maybe someone at the hotel had checked out her dating history, figured out her type, and placed him there to keep her distracted and malleable.

How thoughtful of them.

She smiled at him because she was almost never too far gone to smile at someone as if he was special. The gift cost her nothing, certainly not any iota of herself, so why be stingy with it?

The bellboy, or whatever he was, stood perfectly still, a hotel logo embroidered on his stylish white shirt, with an open collar and up-to-the-minute cut. For a moment the power of his presence forced every detail on her: a honed, startlingly handsome face, the copper tone of his skin, the black hair, the black eyes that fixed her as if he had just spotted water in a desert.

“Monsieur.” She put a hand on his wrist, smiling up at him, and a little flick ran up that matte skin. Great. She definitely needed a man who was putty in her hands right now; she didn’t have the strength for anyone who could resist her. “Could you show me to my room, please?”

Tricky, for a bronze statue to stiffen further, but he managed it. Maybe not such putty after all. Wow, his eyes were so . . . intense. Greed kicked through her, a desire to grab that intensity and wallow in it. Mine, mine, all mine. God, she must be out-of-her-mind tired.

“I think you have me mistaken for someone else,” Gorgeous said with distinct hauteur. He kept cutting his way through every blurring of her brain, the one clear thing in her fatigue. He looked like a Greek god. A real Greek god, not those heavy-lipped marble things. Born out of Chaos, hardened by fire, ready to go fight some Titans.

“I’m Summer Corey,” she retorted firmly. Top that, Greek God. “Come on. Here.” She dove into her purse and came up with a handful of fifty-euro bills, fresh from the airport distributor, and lowered her voice as she pressed them into his palm. “Just get me to my room before anyone else realizes I’m here, okay? I need a nap.”

“A nap.”

Preferably in a hammock on the beach, but she wasn’t going to get that. She was going to get some opulent bed that gave her hives. “I promise I won’t let you get fired for sneaking me in.”

Black eyebrows went up. “I promise you I won’t be fired.”

Oh, for God’s sake, couldn’t he take extravagant tips for discreet favors to rich clients gracefully? He was working at the top hotel in Paris, for crying out loud. Maybe she was going about this the wrong way. “I am Summer Corey.” As in, the person who could do the firing, so stop arguing and get moving. Before she just fell over into his arms. She swayed a little at the thought of someone lifting her, carrying her, taking her away from all this.

“Congratulations.” He left his hand open so that the bills scattered over his feet. “I’m Luc Leroi.”

If she had had one iota more energy, she might have gasped and genuflected, just to subvert his arrogant tone. Le Roi, the King. She hadn’t forgotten any European princes her mom was trying to set her up with, had she? No one came to mind. “So what are you king of?” she asked him with a little grin, which she was pretty proud of. Not everyone could pull out friendly grins for indiscreet bellboys when she felt ready for her own funeral.

His lips parted as if he had taken one to the gut, and his eyes went obsidian.

“Here,” he said finally, with an edge to his voice. “Welcome to my kingdom, Summer Corey.”

That couldn’t be right. According to her father, this was her kingdom now. Her parents had always had trouble telling the difference between what might be their daughter’s fairytale kingdom and her own personal hell. She curled her hand around his arm and leaned into him confidingly and then had a hard time not just letting him take all her weight. He took a soft, sudden breath as her body got close to his. Oh, yeah, so maybe he would like having her weight plastered to his body. She swayed just a bit more into him. “Here’s some advice. When the owner of ‘your kingdom’ asks to be discreetly shown to her room, it’s probably a good idea to help her out if you want to keep your throne. No matter who you think you are.”

His eyes glinted. “That’s thoughtful of you. The advice. Can I return the favor?”

Hard arms swept her off her feet and up against his chest, one arm under her legs, the other her back, the iron grip shocking her. He moved so fast it took her brain a few seconds to catch up and realize he had just saved her from this cold marble hall. And longer still to realize that she was probably supposed to be alarmed that he’d caught her, not overwhelmed with relief. Her body wanted to go limp as a rag doll.

“If you think your daddy’s buying a hotel makes you queen of it, you might want to do some research on your new subjects before you come sweeping into your queendom. Thierry, mademoiselle’s key.”

A young man gaping at them from behind the mahogany desk blinked at the crisp command, fumbled, and finally slipped a card into Luc’s fingers.

Black eyes glittered down at her. “And you might want to know a little bit more about a man before you ask him to escort you to your room.” Her captor strode into the nearest elevator and dipped her enough to press a button without loosening his grip.

Summer stared up into night-black eyes as the doors shut them in. Never get caught with a strange man by yourself in an elevator. Especially if that strange man has literally grabbed you off the floor and hauled you into that elevator.

Oh, what the hell. It was better than being clawed to shreds by rage and loneliness and anxiety. She laid her head down on his shoulder and went with it.

His fingers spasmed into her, a tiny, quickly controlled pressure. His chest moved in a long breath under her cheek.

A strong shoulder. She curled her face into it, concentrating on the male strength and delicious scent of him. Such a strange, complex mixture of scents, whispers and promises of the entire world. Her eyes closed, tension draining out of her body.

His fingers flexed into her again, gentler, longer.

Good. He wasn’t going to drop her. That was about all she needed to know at this point. She snuggled her face against his muscles, her mouth curving faintly as she drifted toward sleep.

The elevator’s stop and his long, smooth stride as he left it nudged her awake again. Why was he walking so fast? Was he really carrying her off?

Her heart beat harder, adrenaline trying to break through her fatigue. She told her adrenaline to shut up. She liked this, plunging into erotic danger just where she had thought to be buried in deadly, merciless elegance. Kidnapped by a gorgeous stranger—you couldn’t ask for a better distraction than that.

She wondered what he was planning to do with her, and how much she might like it. The muscles of his chest and abs flexed hard against her as he walked. It had been three years since anyone had held her, and he smelled so good.

Dimly, she grasped that fatigue and emotional stress had sent her right off the deep end, but she had no strength left to haul herself back up into a sane reaction. Besides, the scents in his shirt lured her like a fairy story. There, that vivid freshness, like strawberries growing in a wood, peeking under leaves. There, a crisp, bright, almost stinging scent, like limes gleaming on a tree in the sunlight. There, something rich and opulent she could sink into, curling up and letting its darkness velvet over her.

Her thoughts skated over the lean, hard muscles against which her body rested as he inserted her room card into the lock. She buried her face extra tightly in his shoulder to shut out the room. Goddamnit, but she hated hotels. Hated them with an intense and utter passion that made her want to scream their walls down—scream herself free.

Please don’t leave me alone in this hotel. An irrational plea.

He set her down on the bed. For a second his arms caught under her, his body low over hers. Her eyes flickered open to his face, close enough that it was the only thing in the world she needed to see. “What’s your name again?” she asked fuzzily. Probably best to know, since she was about to let him do whatever he wanted to her. Later, who knew, she might regain sense and have to track him down and punish him for taking advantage of her collapse. Find out if he had a deadly disease, or if she should acknowledge his paternal rights, or . . . Shut up, brain. Let me just go with this.

His mouth compressed so hard she only then realized how much it had softened in transit. “Luc Leroi,” he said, like nails into her brain. “It’s on my shirt.” He picked up her hand and drew her index finger over the first swirl of the L. “Here. Maybe you’re a kinetic learner.”

The shirt had a thick, tough texture, almost like an apron, not the usual silk-cotton blend. The thick, high-quality embroidery slid under her finger, the looping curve, the smooth fabric of the shirt, the muscles underneath. Down and around the loops of the L, the gentle wave of the U, curl the C, another L. She kept going after he stopped moving her hand, kept tracing the letters.

The hardness melted slowly from his face, his mouth softening, his eyes growing more intense. Maybe it was just her brain blurring.

As her focus faded, his sharpened. The thought of being at the center of that focus lured her like the one bright light deep in a tangled forest. No. Like the possibility of being the one bright light in a dark forest, of sinking into its depths and secrets, of being held as its one pure heart.

She took a breath. How did you keep a focus like that on you? Men with focus never focused on her for long. Luc, the king of something. Kings could be bought. Her dad did it all the time. If she bought him, then he would owe her his focus, right? She could pack him and his scents up with her and take him with her to her island. Clearly, he was worth more than a few bills from her purse, though, and he wanted her to know it.

“I could give you a Bugatti,” she murmured to the fold of his shirt, because she couldn’t keep her eyes open. Wait, what was she talking about? What use would a Bugatti be to him on that island? “Or a yacht.”

His hand closed over her shoulder, hard enough to hurt. “What?”

She brought a hand to his, pushing at that painful grip, and he released her as if she stung, straightening away.

Well, damn. Her eyes flickered open enough to notice he looked furious. Gorgeous fury framed by the opulence of gray and rose silk draping above the bed.

Fuck. She threw her arm over her eyes—the next best method of shutting out the world she had been thrown back into. Apparently, being hauled off by a Greek god wasn’t going to work out for her. The cold loneliness of the hotel room laughed, stretching little evil fingers toward her. I’m going to get you.

Maybe it was confusing the Greek god for her to keep trying to bribe him that way. You would have thought a god would be used to being offered tribute, but maybe not. She was slaphappy, wasn’t she?

“I’m really tired,” she said suddenly from under her arm.

A tiny silence. “Oui, j’ai vu.” He sounded as if he was in some kind of pain.

A strong sure hand closed over her calf, and deft fingers released her sandal. Those same strong fingers hesitated and then closed briefly around her toes, wrapping them in warmth. “And freezing,” he said low.

Maybe he could warm her up. She peeked out from under her arm hopefully. He gave her an incredulous, hard look and released her toes. Damn.

His hands flew. Faster than she could quite follow, he had her other foot bare and the comforter folded over her so that she was wrapped up in it like a gourmet hot dog.

And would have to warm herself up with her own reflected body heat. Damn it.

“How do you know I’m tired?”

He sighed. “It’s obvious, soleil. Do you think I carry every beautiful brat who walks in and tries to buy me?”

He turned toward the door. Cold and loneliness rushed toward her, ready to fill all the void left when he abandoned her.

Beautiful. If you dropped the “brat,” that sounded promising. “So you’ll get back to me on the yacht?” she asked wistfully, just before the door closed on him.

He still felt dizzy from it the next morning. Almost sick with it. Like some sweet little beauty had stroked her hand down his body, curled it around his dick, and then slapped the fucking hell out of him.

He wasn’t into that. He liked the stroking, craved its sweetness, but he didn’t want anyone beating on him in careless self-absorption.

The beauty of her, like a ray of sunlight breaking through the clouds, falling into a cold dark place he thought no sunlight could touch. And then he reached out and realized he couldn’t catch sunlight. It could glide over his hands, blithely, indifferent to him, but he couldn’t hold it in his.

He had been so convinced, in that first moment, that she was drawing on all her strength to keep that sunlight bright. That she needed him to sweep her up in his arms, rescue her from a dragon, carry her into his castle and keep her safe.

And all she wanted was to tip him for carrying her bags. Worse than every other woman whose beautiful, golden worlds he had ever longed for from the incredible distance of the other side of an upturned hat held out in the Métro. At least the golden, glossy women who used to flick him raw with their indifference in the Métro were probably working for their money. Back then, when they had seemed at the very top of his world, he couldn’t even imagine women like Summer Corey, who had limousines to take her places.

He should have left her in that marble and mahogany lobby. Walked off, with her money swirling in a little eddy on the floor. But tangled with his pride and rage had been, still, the ridiculous desire to save her.

Well, he had cracked. He had saved her because he just couldn’t leave her there, dripping money, crumpling from exhaustion, and acting as if he was worthless.

For a moment it had seemed to work. Nothing like kidnapping a woman to make her notice you. She had curled into him, pulling his soul out of his middle with each deep breath she drew against his shoulder.

Until he was melted all over again, helpless with it, ready to kneel at her feet to take her shoes off like Prince Charming, stroke her hair back off her face, lull her to sleep.

And she offered him a fucking yacht. Like her next potential gigolo. Bordel.

Sketches lay beside him, a pile of ideas that had kept kaleidoscoping through his brain all night, as if his finger had been thrust into some creative electric outlet. His skin hummed with tension, it shivered on the edges of his teeth, and he kept wanting to take one firm bite of her just to soothe it.

He had finally started sketching out the ideas at four a.m., when it became clear he wasn’t going to get any sleep. His back teeth clenched at how fragile the ideas were, so full of sunshine in darkness, so utterly lacking a proper layer of tough cynicism.

But now, as he formed a dark, curving shape out of chocolate, reminiscent of a cupped hand, the muscles of his jaw slowly unclenched. He relaxed into his power.

She had never heard of him? And she was coming to him after years away from civilization, where her only sweets were probably coconut juice? It was almost embarrassing to target her, she was going to fall so easily.

He smiled. So easily. All her sunshine, yielding to him in a generous rush as if he was impossible to resist.

Her eyes were going to grow wide with wonder, her mouth was going to soften helplessly in longing, and she would never again press careless money into his hand without seeing him. As if he was a child sent down the seats of the Métro with his hand held out and his head hung low, sullenly waiting to see if he had danced well enough for the polished, lofty commuters to glance at him. No. Nobody dismissed him now.

“Well, somebody couldn’t sleep.” His senior adjoint, or sous-chef, Patrick Chevalier, stopped in front of the bulletin board to pin up a newspaper photo of Luc kidnapping a beautiful blonde, his face wild and feral. L’Été revient, read the title. Summer returns. Right above it was the guiding quote Luc had put up for his kitchens: “Everything beautiful comes from control.”

Luc clenched his teeth harder.

Patrick tilted his head to study the effect of that photo under that quote, grinned in complete self-satisfaction, and came to nod at the sketches and the chocolate sphere into which Luc was carving holes. “Have I been inspiring you again?” The younger man reached up as he spoke to pull plates off the wall and lay them out for prep.

“Endlessly,” Luc said dryly, easing the chocolate from its mold and trying to figure out how he was going to get that photo off his bulletin board without giving Patrick the satisfaction of knowing how much it got to him.

Instead of beginning a subtle Japanese pattern of gold dust and cocoa powder on the plates, Patrick leaned his hands on the marble counter and gave Luc a bright, expectant look. Patrick always looked—and acted—like a surfer, all bronze-haired and half-shaved and goofy, with a lithe, relaxed way of moving, but his work was brilliant, so Luc put up with him. Fine, actually, he liked him, and it was going to be a severe wrench when Patrick abandoned the nest to set up his own place. As he would be doing any day now, probably. Patrick was ready to fly.

The very idea made Luc more brooding, more bitter. He could just sink into this fucking nastiest winter in history and never have any sunshine in his life, anywhere, how about that?

“And here I was thinking you came in on time to get to work,” Luc said.

Patrick made a pffing gesture with one hand. “I’ve got more important priorities going on here, mec. Gossip.”

“You know I don’t gossip, Patrick. Especially about myself.”

Of course, Patrick ignored that. Patrick had a real gift for ignoring things and still managing to come out ahead. “I heard you carried off a princess. In your foul clutches and everything.”

“Foul?”

“Well, your obsessively clean clutches, but admit it doesn’t have the same ring. Is she as pretty as they say? Can I come rescue her from your fell dungeons?”

“I’m sure she’s comfortable in them.” An image flashed through his mind of her wrapped in that heavy silk rose comforter like some princess’s sleeping bag, her lashes drifting down over the circles under her eyes. His idiotic heart squeezed. Should he have walked out and left sunlight unguarded that way?

Sunlight didn’t need protection, he reminded himself. It was a huge gas ball millions of miles away, and no one could hurt it, or even threaten it. Best practices for dealing with sunlight involved a lot of sunscreen and minimizing exposure.

A little shiver ran over his left pectoral in the shape of his name. Traced through a thick shirt by a slim, raw-nailed finger. He didn’t want to minimize exposure. He wanted to invade her body and her mind with everything in him and have her close around him in welcome.

“Yes, but pining,” Patrick said enthusiastically. “Pining for a prince to rescue her from the evil sorcerer king. Or should I think of you more as the Lord of Hell?”

“Patrick.” Luc placed one hand flat on the marble, stretching out his fingers. Callused, they held the long, lean elegance one might expect from a pianist, and even more strength. Piano keys didn’t weigh very much, and even the best piano players didn’t practice sixteen hours a day. “These are not clutches.”

Patrick grinned and placed his own hand beside Luc’s, inspecting them. Patrick’s palm was squarer, the tips of his fingers broader, the hair on the backs of his hands golden. Both men’s hands could play cat’s cradle with a bit of hot sugar and spin it into a net to toss over a dream.

“Don’t kid yourself,” Patrick said. “That’s an evil sorcerer hand if I ever saw one. Look at that black hair. I’m pretty sure the golden boy gets to be Prince Charming. Plus, you’re mean.”

“Making you redo a screwed-up job is not mean, Patrick.”

“And you’re so controlled. That’s got to be an evil sorcerer trait.”

“I thought evil sorcerers got to act on insane rages with wild, diabolical laughter.” He had always been a little jealous of evil sorcerers, in fact.

“You watch too many Disney films at one in the morning,” said the person who was inventing a fairy tale with an outrageous wave of his hand. “I’m quite sure real evil sorcerers are excessively controlled.” He gave Luc a pointed look. “Just speaking from my personal experience about how evil that feels to the rest of us. Which makes last night’s gossip all the more interesting,” he added, exaggerating his manner like a dog enthusiastically salivating over something juicy. “I heard she cracked that control like a raw egg.”

Luc gritted his teeth.

Eggs slipped into Patrick’s hands as smoothly as a magician’s trick and cracked neatly into a pan, deep golden yolks glowing. “I need to get her to tell me her secrets.” Patrick smiled smugly down at the whites already starting to cook over the gas burner.

Luc gave the pathetic eggshells lying on top of the nearest trash can a hard look. “There’s no secret, Patrick. It has to be all over the hotel. She tried to tip me to carry her bags to her room.” It wasn’t in his nature to confide in anyone, but there were some things that rankled too much even for him.

Patrick’s mouth dropped open. “She did wh—? Putain!” He gave his head a stunned shake. “Merde. Bordel. You?” As he thought about it some more, a grin slowly rose through his first shocked sympathy, and he started to laugh helplessly. “Sorry, Luc. Pardon. But since you think you’re God, there’s a side to that that’s pretty damn hilarious.”

Luc gave Patrick a narrow look, then dipped his head to focus on his work and allowed the hidden corner of his mouth to curl. “I do not think I am God,” he said with deliberate emphasis.

Patrick grinned. “That’s why I worship you, mec. There’s really no question as to your godhood. Now allow one of your humble acolytes to rid you of this rude princess. I’m sure, if she’s as pretty as everyone is saying, that I could take care of her for you.”

The half smile disappeared off Luc’s face. “Patrick. Stay away from Summer Corey, or I’m going to be lord of your own personal little hell.”

Patrick’s tawny eyebrows flicked up a little. “Sérieuse-ment?” He slanted Luc a vivid glance as he set the perfectly fried eggs on a custom-designed fifty-dollar white plate and, with one deft flick of his wrist, slid it ten feet down the marble counters to stop precisely in front of their intern, Sarah, just beneath the cutting board she was about to set there. Sarah Lin, the American who had abandoned her engineering career to train in French pastry in Paris, stiffened, that perpetual self-pressuring crinkle of her eyebrows relaxing just for a second in surprise. Her eyes flew to Patrick’s back. Patrick never even glanced over to see her reaction, already prepping plates again. “What an interestingly villainous thing for you to say.” He gave Luc a fond pat on the shoulder. “Not that it would change anything: You already are, mec. You already are.”

A weight lay on Summer’s sleep like a heavy, warm body, and whenever stress tried to prickle her awake, she just snuggled into that heavy warmth and sank back into the depths of sleep, oddly cosseted.

When she woke, she couldn’t remember where she was. No sound of waves, no smell of tiare, no humid heat.

She opened her eyes and stared straight at the Eiffel Tower. Serene and dark against a gray sky, framed by the foot-wide silver scrollwork of the perfectly placed picture window.

Oh, it’s you, Summer realized. Oh, damn it, you got me again.

What was it with this city that made parents think it was such a perfect place to get rid of their kids? The trashcan of the rich and famous.

She rolled on her back so she didn’t have to look at the gloating iron bitch through her window anymore and instead got a sumptuous view of the heavy rose and pearl-gray silk drapes over the embroidered headboard. Even though she closed her eyes, her inevitable glimpses of the room seemed to ripple its image around her, as if she was a pebble lost in it: the heavy silk and embroidery of the cushions and art deco chairs, the muted, elegant rose-and-gray tones, the perfect mahogany wood floor.

She threw her arm over her face. Images flooded her mind, shell leis thrown on the water so she would come back, her father’s hard determination when he had kicked her out of paradise, her mother’s laughing refusal to understand, all her schoolkids. And black eyes looking down at her, a firm sculpted mouth softening.

Her eyes widened under the shelter of her arm, her lashes tickling her skin, as she remembered that mouth. Her own mouth softened helplessly, hungrily. She scrubbed both hands over her face abruptly, dashing the softness away. What had she been thinking?

She wanted to get back to heat and sea and happiness. She did not want to get caught in some G. . .