Criminal Confections (4 page)

Christian's abrupt clap made her jump. “Yes! Get on it!”

“I'm sorry,” she mumbled. “I'll leave right now.”

As Christian turned to his retreat guests—presumably making sure they'd witnessed his masterful employer-employee relations—Adrienne caught my arm again. Her intent expression riveted me.

“Take this.”
She whispered the words harshly, shoving a thick rectangular item at my midsection. “Please, Hayden. Take it! I can't let Christian have it. Just . . . keep it safe for me, okay?” Her fearful gaze zipped to her boss. “I'll get it later.”

Dumbfounded, I accepted it. It was a notebook, I saw after a hasty downward glance, not much different from my favorite Moleskine number. It was the kind of thing pastry chefs (for instance) and chocolatiers typically use to track recipe ideas and formulas. It had to contain years' worth of work, judging by the heft of it. Nodding, I bundled it close.

The whole exchange took maybe fifteen seconds. Ten seconds after that, Adrienne had scurried up the lawn toward the hotel.

Mr. Yellow T-shirt watched her leave. Just like Danny, he was too late.
You missed your chance, buddy,
I told him with a regretful mental shrug.
You just let a great woman slip away.

Christian's next bellow roared into my consciousness.

“What about
you,
Hayden?” He transferred his gaze from Adrienne's former location, which—if looks could start fires—would have been a blazing inferno. “Isn't there
something
you're supposed to be working on right now, too?”

He had to mean my report about Lemaître's operations, I realized. But he couldn't come out and say so in mixed company—not without letting on that he
had
used my consulting services. Moments ago, he'd sworn he never had.

But he still wanted to needle me about my report?

Christian Lemaître had a lot of nerve. He was a bully.

Determined not to be as easily cowed as poor Adrienne, I held my ground. Calmly, I tucked away Adrienne's notebook into my crossbody bag for safekeeping, just as though it were mine.

Butter wouldn't melt in my mouth when I smiled at him.

“Right now, I'm just enjoying your hospitality,” I said.

Christian nodded at me. “Well, enjoy it while you can.”

Even nonchalantly said, that statement sounded like a threat. Maybe Christian Lemaître wasn't as laid-back about deadlines as he'd claimed to be, I realized. But I was stuck.

“I'm
dying
to know about that fascinating assignment you were working on. You know the one,” Christian persisted while waggling his brows, obviously intending to carry on some sort of double-coded conversation with me while his otherwise clueless guests looked on. Maybe he enjoyed messing with people that way. “Did you ever find out exactly what the problems were?” Eager to appear the expert, Christian turned to a bystander and confided, “Hayden is an absolute whiz at what she does. She's
unstoppable
.”

At the fringes of the group, Nina Wheeler narrowed her eyes at him. Evidently, the PR rep wasn't any more fond of her boss's antics than I was. Although Nina didn't intervene—I wouldn't have, either, to be honest—she did cast me a speculative glance.

I nodded at her in shared understanding.
You're right,
my nod said.
You're not crazy—Christian is acting weird.
I'd worked for my share of annoying bosses, and I knew it wasn't fun. Sometimes it was necessary, though. That was apparently the position that stressed-out Nina was in. I felt relieved that someone besides me appeared to recognize what was really going on here.

I'd barely completed that thought before Nina left the group. Probably, she was going to comfort Adrienne, I figured. I was glad someone was. Right now, I was trapped. Christian hadn't paid me for the work I'd (almost) completed. Although I had the money in my trust fund for a fallback, I had a reputation to maintain.

Plus, I didn't want to disappoint Travis—or rile up Danny, who was occasionally frustrated by my “lackadaisical” attitude toward the report-writing part of my consulting business. I understood where he was coming from, but I didn't agree.

I also didn't agree with Christian's intimidation tactics. Adrienne's frightened face still stuck in my mind. For her sake, I straightened my spine and stepped up squarely to Christian.

“Actually, my assignment is going well,” I told him. “I'm just surprised
you
weren't already aware of the . . .
troubles . . .
I was looking into. You're usually so on top of things. Aren't you?”

“Yes. I am.” Christian tightened his jaw. He managed a blasé-seeming wave. “We can touch base later. That's fine.”

“Are you sure?” I widened my eyes as disingenuously as I could. Insincerity didn't come naturally to me. Ordinarily, I'm a take-me-as-I-am kind of gal. But he'd riled me up by being mean to someone as softhearted as Adrienne. “I'd be happy to discuss my findings and all the implications of them now.”

I recognized immediately when Christian understood my meaning.
He
could leverage me with my overdue report—but
I
could leverage him with the lie he'd just told about not using my chocolate whisperer consulting services. We were at an impasse.

If anything, Christian somehow tightened his jaw even further. I was surprised his teeth didn't snap. “No. Thank you,” he managed. Then, a clap. “Everyone, I think it's teatime!”

He meant Maison Lemaître's well-known British-style all-chocolate afternoon tea service. I'd been looking forward to it.

The crowd meandered toward the hotel. I started to, too—and almost ran smack into Christian on my way. His arm clutched mine. What was it with people grabbing me so hard today, anyway?

“I'm trying to be nice, Hayden,” he said with a mean look. “Don't try my patience too far. You'll be sorry you did.”

Too late, I remembered he
was
notoriously ruthless. He'd banished his own uncle from running the family business.

“Don't push me, either,” I said. “You need me, remember?”

Scowling, Christian let me go. I waited until he'd stomped away. Then I bolted for my hotel room, suddenly feeling pretty darn übermotivated, energetic, and ready to work on my report.

Chapter 3

I had every intention of working on my report. Honestly, I did. But as I was striding diligently toward my room at Maison Lemaître—scarcely noticing the fragrant begonia beds and tinkling tiled fountains I passed along the way—I caught another intoxicating whiff of chocolate . . . and thought of Adrienne.

Somewhere nearby, poor Adrienne was knocking herself out to create chocolates for her demanding tyrant of a boss, Christian. With the reception only a couple of hours away, Adrienne didn't have a lot of time left, either. She'd mentioned that she hadn't slept much the night before. She was probably exhausted.

Adrienne needed my help, I decided, and veered in the other direction. When I found the kitchen she'd been assigned to—an offshoot located within close proximity of the ballroom and its nearby light-string-bedecked and landscaped patio—I got right down to work. It didn't take much to shuck my crossbody bag, slap a chef's apron atop my orange Lemaître T-shirt, and dig in.

Adrienne was surprised to see me; I was surprised to find her working on her “luxury” line of caffeinated nutraceutical Lemaître chocolates—specifically, gilded “energy” truffles.

Adrienne only grimaced. “This is what Christian wants.”

Everyone knew Christian got what he wanted. She didn't need to say it for both of us to know it. Bernard was proof of that.

“With all the changes at Lemaître since Christian took over from Bernard,” Adrienne went on, “I
really
can't afford to goof up on this. People lost their jobs! Everyone got reshuffled.”

Right. That explained Adrienne's panic at being caught red-handed—by Christian—
not
working during the chocolate scavenger hunt. It also explained her visible agitation now. She talked a mile a minute, seeming almost as frenzied as I sometimes did.

I'd originally planned to return Adrienne's notebook. Looking at her now, though, I decided to wait until morning. In the state she was in at the moment, she might lose it, drop it in a double-boiler of melted chocolate, or accidentally set it on fire. She was just that frantic as she worked on her truffles.

Watching Adrienne scurry to and fro across the kitchen, I felt torn about what to do. The trouble was, I'd thought the caffeinated chocolate line was already an official no-go. I'd voiced my preliminary concerns about it to Christian several days ago, during our agreed-upon “final meeting.” I just hadn't detailed them all in writing yet.

At the company's primary San Francisco facility, I'd learned that anhydrous caffeine is extremely difficult to work with. It looks harmless—similar to just-add-water lemonade powder—but it's intense and highly concentrated. It comes with a correspondingly bitter flavor that's difficult to disguise.

Even in the minute amounts used in making chocolate, that bitterness is evident . . . and unpleasant. It ruins the
terroir
of the chocolate—the unique characteristics given to it by the climate, geology, and geography of the place its cacao beans were grown. It throws off the flavor. No matter how Adrienne and I adjusted the formulas, we weren't able to create a truffle that delivered the necessary nutraceutical “kick” of caffeine while preserving the expected Lemaître Chocolates' quality.

Evidently, Christian had ignored my warnings. According to Adrienne, he'd instructed her to continue developing caffeinated chocolates without me—and to prepare “sneak preview” samples for the welcome reception, too, where the nutraceutical line was to be unveiled. The problems inherent in that had kept eager-to-please Adrienne working feverishly in the days leading up to the retreat. They'd made her a nervous wreck by the time I arrived on the scene, too.

But there wasn't much two diligent chocolatiers couldn't accomplish together. Knowing Adrienne as well as I did, I was able to duck in and out of the proceedings without distracting her. With our energy pumped by the music I switched on for a morale booster, Adrienne and I performed a familiar ballet of chocolate production. We prepared several pounds of dark-chocolate couverture. We measured minuscule amounts of powdered caffeine. We dipped dozens of truffles, then gilded them with edible gold leaf and arranged them on serving trays.

By the time we were finished, I felt more like a mad scientist than a chocolate whisperer. I also felt giddy with relief and buzzed with a glow that felt more like the result of a philanthropic job well done than the effect of the few sugary truffle samples I'd cadged. Giving Adrienne a hug, I smiled.

“You did it!” I told her. “Now, get out of this kitchen, willya? Go take a break. Have a massage! You earned it.”

Uncertainly, Adrienne bit her lip. “I don't know, Hayden. There's still more to be done. The formula might not be right.”

“It's as perfect as you can make it for now. That'll have to be good enough.” If the chocolates didn't deliver the expected “kick,” it wouldn't be the end of the world. Firmly, I caught hold of my friend's slight shoulders. I turned her around. “Don't make me march you off to the spa myself. I'll do it, you know! Have something healthy to eat, too. They're bound to have something energizing at the spa café.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Laughing, Adrienne relented. “I will.”

“Maybe you'll run into Mr. Yellow T-shirt on the way,” I teased. “It looked as though you two were hitting it off today.”

“Oh.” Suddenly, Adrienne's pert face clouded. She fidgeted with her apron strings. “Um, it wasn't like that. Not with him.”

“Come on.” Giving her a nudge, I persisted. “He likes you!”

But Adrienne only shook her head. Then she gave me a long look. “Thanks again, Hayden. You're always coming to my rescue.”

Touched by her appreciation, I hugged her. “Anytime.”

Then we both undid our aprons, grabbed our things, and went our separate ways—Adrienne to unwind at the spa, and me to track down my errant plus-one and make him model potential welcome-reception attire for me. Danny sure did look good in a suit . . . but I couldn't remember now if I'd told him to bring one.

Hoping I had, I waved to Adrienne and then dashed toward the exit door. Like every hotel kitchen I'd ever been in, it connected with a warren of slightly dingy hallways for staff use, additional stairwells, and—after a little backtracking—the main staircase I needed to get to my room. Grateful for my travel-honed sense of direction (it hadn't failed me yet), I ascended three flights of stairs with my crossbody bag thumping along at the effort, reached the third landing, opened the fire door . . . and found a surprise waiting for me outside my room.

 

 

The man standing there frowning at room 332 was tall, tousle-haired, and rakish-looking. He was holding a manila filing envelope. He was handsome and broad-shouldered, and I know what you're thinking: I'm just being coy. He was
Danny.

Except he wasn't. This man was Mr. Yellow T-shirt himself. I couldn't fathom why he'd be lurking outside
my
hotel room.

Reasoning that he was probably looking for Adrienne (via me, the only one of the two of us who
hadn't
been too shy to look him directly in the eyes), I strode forward.

“Hi!” I said. “You must be looking for Adrienne.”

I guess I was more hyped-up on chocolates than I thought, because I spoke pretty loudly. I accidentally startled him. He jerked and almost dropped his manila envelope. When he saw it was me, he recovered quickly, though. He tightened his grip on his envelope and then shook his head. “No, not Adrienne.”

He seemed uncomfortable. Up close, I noticed his outdoorsy demeanor
and
his faint hand tremor. His slightly suntanned face sported a sheen of sweat, too. That imperfection didn't mar his good looks, though. It only made him seem more real, less glossy.

“I was looking for
you,”
he said . . . and then I understood.

He wanted to hire me. He wanted to do it clandestinely. That's why he was approaching me here, in private, instead of downstairs in the hotel bar or later at the welcome reception.

I wasn't surprised. By the time my clients find me, they tend to be pretty desperate. They're often at the end of their ropes, with no idea how to fix the problems bedeviling them.

Sometimes a new product launch has gone hideously awry and has to be dealt with before the company stock takes a dive. Sometimes a longtime flagship product plummets in popularity and needs to be retooled for twenty-first-century tastes. Sometimes what seemed like a good idea to a CEO can't
quite
be made to work in the real world of fast-casual foodservice. It varies.

“Well, you found me.” Smiling, I offered him a handshake. “Hayden Mundy Moore. Chocolate whisperer. Orange team member.”

His gaze dipped to my orange T-shirt—specifically to my modest, T-shirt-covered breasts. He leered. For the first time, I felt on edge. I know how to take care of myself, but in this case, my impulse to knee a creeper in the groin warred with my need (constantly hinted at by Danny) to grow my business.

“Rex Rader,” he announced in a tone made sloppy by more than one sample (I was guessing) of scavenger hunt chocolate liqueur. I detected it on his breath. “Of
mmm
-Melt.”

That's right. He actually said it like that:
mmm
-Melt.

He sounded like a porn star filming an ad for candy bars—candy bars that could make you
much
happier than most did.

I blinked. “
Mmm
-Melt?”

“Melt chocolates,” Rex clarified in a less sexed-up tone. “You
must
have heard of us. We're the
modern
chocolatier.”

Now that he'd pronounced his company's name normally, I realized I
had
heard of it. I'd heard of him, too. Rex Rader was, for lack of a better description, the thirtyish Hugh Hefner of the San Francisco chocolate industry. He was smart, charming, and usually accompanied by beautiful women. Now that I knew who he was, I half expected to see a glamazon posse materialize.

It was difficult to take him seriously. But I tried.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Rader?” I asked.

“Call me Rex.” He leered at my chest again, then leaned his shoulder against my room's doorjamb with a confident air. He ran his fingertips along the edge of his manila envelope with a suggestive look. “You can invite me inside, for a start.”

Ugh. Sure, Rex Rader was
supposed
to be charismatic and fascinating and full of “cool” ideas—the wunderkind of chocolate. But just then, I wasn't in the mood for flirting.

“No, I won't be doing that. But I will tell you my fee for an initial consultation.” I did, jacking it up by 20 percent as a deliberate disincentive. His eyes widened with satisfying—and hopefully libido-dulling—surprise. “If you're still interested, we can set up a meeting for later. Downstairs.”

Rex breezed right past the public locale I'd suggested.

“But I'm here right now.” He pouted, fondled his manila envelope, then looked up. “Come on, Hayden. Let's work together. I
know
you'll enjoy what I have to offer at
mmm
-Melt.”

I'll admit it. I almost weakened. There was something about Rex Rader that pulled me in . . . that made me want to know more. Plus, I would need another consulting job after my work for Christian Lemaître was finished, and I liked San Francisco.

Then Rex came out with that ludicrous
mmm
-Melt thing, and all my curiosity about him vanished. Poof! I wanted him gone.

“Look, I have a process. I don't take jobs on a whim.”

“It's not a whim! Take my portfolio! You'll see.”

“I typically consult with my financial advisor first.”

“Go ahead! I'm an open book.” Another leer. “Ask anyone.”

“Fine.” I snatched his portfolio. “I'll consider it.”

“
Goood.”
Rex drew out the word in a satisfied purr. His gaze dropped to my legs this time. He leered at them, too. “
Niiice.”

Wow. Did this technique really work with some women?

“See you at the reception.” I squashed his Melt portfolio against my chest, then offered a handshake. “Bye for now.”

Rex couldn't have missed my purposely dismissing tone. But he darn well pretended he had. He didn't even quit lounging in my hotel room doorway. But he did raise his gaze from my knees.

“‘Bye'? Are you sure?” His liquored-up breath blasted me in the face. He lowered his voice. “We
could
go inside and—”

Thankfully, I never found out what Rex was going to suggest. Because a second later, my longtime friend Danny emerged from the same stairwell I'd used (what can I say—we approach life similarly) and made a beeline straight for us.

His approach had a typically dampening effect on Rex Rader. That happened sometimes, given that Danny Jamieson was more than six feet tall, packed with muscle, and sporadically tattooed. At thirty-two, Danny possessed a swagger that told the world he knew how to handle . . . well,
anything.
It was that quality, I suspected, that tended to make people step out of Danny's way.

Rex was no exception. He actually gawked.

Most likely, I did, too. Danny also had that effect on
me.
It didn't matter that I knew he had two college degrees, more than his share of street smarts, and an endearing, childlike enthusiasm for birthday parties. Every time I saw Danny after a long time apart, all I saw was one thing: beefcake.
My
beefcake.