Dark Chocolate Murder (14 page)

Pierre watched through heavy-lidded, smoldering eyes as she peeled off her bra and panties.  Standing
nude in the moonlight, Belinda reminded him of a fertility goddess, the very epitome of femininity and softness.  The trees blew a breeze through her loose ginger hair and her hazel eyes appeared as emeralds in the shadows of the night.

“You really are
a living Venus,” he muttered, clearly incensed beyond the point of patience after her seductive strip tease.

Ordinarily, Belinda would have blushed, but tonight she felt too confident
to act like a shrinking violet.  She wondered if her newfound assertiveness stemmed from all the wine, but she didn’t think so.  It was the chemistry between her and Pierre that was inebriating.  Fine French wine complemented their fiery connection but did not cause it.  The fact that Pierre had invited her to stay the night and she knew she would be waking up in his arms made her even more self-assured.

Walking directly into Pierre’s arms, Belinda opened her mouth and caressed Pierre’s lips with her own.  She pulled back once, twice, and a third time, not allowing their lips to make full contact.  After the third time, Pierre growled and lunged forward, capturing her lips for a firm, potent kiss that revealed how excited she had made him.

She didn’t feel the lattice of twigs and branches as he lay her onto the grass.  All she felt were his hands and lips and the gale wafting through the trees.  Positioning himself between her thighs, Pierre surprised her by pausing at her feminine core and exploring brazenly with his mouth.  Sighing dreamily, Belinda eagerly provided access for him to engage in this most intimate act, feeling every inch the goddess he had compared her to.

Pierre’s heightened arousal demanded that he join with Belinda
, and soon he was pushing inside of her.  They lay side by side, one of her silk stocking-covered legs slung over his torso as her fingers twisted through his hair.  As Pierre plundered her body, she felt him reach a much deeper, hidden part of her.  And she also felt herself readily abandon it to him, welcoming him inside her soul as ardently as she accepted him into her body.  The stars winked at them in the dark purple sky, and Belinda kept her eyes wide open as she reached ecstasy in tandem with Pierre.

Long minutes later, Belinda stirred, a chill rising to the surface of her skin and creating a sheet of
goose bumps.  Attentively, Pierre held her closer and said gently, “We should go inside now.  The air is getting too cold.”

Lazily, they stood up, neither making an attempt to put on clothes.  Belinda simply wrapped her dress around her like a towel after a shower.  Tiptoeing alongside Pierre, she looked around, wondering if any neighbors had just witnessed their interlude.  But the houses were far apart on Pierre’s block, and
the night was starkly silent except for the sound of their footsteps.

Inside the house, Belinda yawned contentedly as she walked up to Pierre’s bedroom.  The two flopped onto the bed as Pierre pulled the blankets tightly around them.  Wrapped inside his embrace, Belinda fell asleep listening to the symphony of his breathing and heartbeat.

*****

Sunlight dazzled the room and awoke Belinda from a restful sleep.  Instinctively, she shielded her eyes from the imposing light, feeling like Sleeping Beauty waking up after a hundred years.  Quickly, Belinda realized that something was amiss, as the warmth of Pierre’s body was absent from the bed.  Forcing her eyes open, she cocked her head up, looking around the room for her lover.  Troubled, Belinda shot out of bed and walked to the top of the staircase.  From the kitchen downstairs, she could discern the rich intonations of Pierre’s voice.  A second, smaller voice could be heard as well.  As a childish giggle erupted, Belinda realized that Marc was downstairs with his father.  But Marc hadn’t been here last night, had he?

Belinda began to descend the stairs until, mortified, she realized she was nude except for the pair of stockings that she hadn’t bothered to take off last night.  Dashing back into the bedroom, Belinda sought a suitable cover-up.  None of her personal effects were here, and she would have to go downstairs without applying any makeup or even running a brush through her hair.  But she had to find something to wear
in front of her lover’s son.  Pierre’s shirts would probably trail to her knees, but that still wasn’t modest enough with his four year old boy in the house.

Opening Pierre’s closet, she found a gigantic white
flannel bathrobe.  The massive garment made her look like a polar bear, but it would have to do.  Marching downstairs, Belinda craned her neck to hear the conversation between father and son.

“Papa, can we put ice cream on the waffles?” Marc implored.

“No! You’ve had more than enough ice cream lately,” Pierre said firmly.  “We’ll have our waffles with butter and cinnamon, and an egg on top.  Doesn’t that sound yummy?”

“Not as yummy as ice cream!” Marc retorted.

Belinda stood at the doorway of the kitchen, suddenly uncomfortable about entering the room.  Pierre and Marc were having a lighthearted exchange, but somehow she felt like an intruder.  That uneasy feeling vanished a moment later when Marc spotted her in the doorway and beamed.

“Papa, it’s the pretty lady!  Does she live here now?”

Pierre turned and favored Belinda with an intimate smile.  “No, Marc.  The pretty lady is visiting today.  She’s having breakfast with us.”

Rushing over to Belinda, he gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek and whispered in her ear, “Nathalie dropped Marc off early this morning.  You were sleeping so soundly that you didn’t hear the doorbell ring!”

“Oh, yes, I did sleep very well,” she said luxuriously.

“Papa, where are her arms?!” Marc
cried in alarm from across the room.

Belinda looked down at the sagging bathrobe, noting that her arms were completely obscured by the material.  Horrified th
at she had frightened the child, she rolled the sleeves up to her shoulders and soothed, “My arms are right here, sweetheart!  I’m borrowing your Papa’s bathrobe and it’s too big on me, so my arms were hiding!”

Relieved, the little boy returned his attention to breakfast, lifting the lid of the
waffle maker and sticking his finger in.  Pierre shook his head and scolded, “Marc, be patient!  The waffles aren’t ready yet.  Close the lid.” Turning to Belinda, he offered, “Would you like a double espresso?”

“You made espresso this morning?” She asked,
pleasantly surprised.  It seemed so chic and European, the total opposite of the bland coffee she used to filter through her cheap one-cup machine back in Boston.

“I
make espresso every morning,” he clarified.  “I can’t function without it.  All these years of late night hours as a chef and now a restaurant owner…let’s just say I’m not a morning person.”

Belinda took a closer look at Pierre.  He had subtle dark circles under his eyes that she hadn’t noticed before.  His face was slightly weathered from living in the dry, sunny climate of southern France, but his features were still
magnificently handsome.  And his hard physique defied logic, even defied gravity.  He was certainly in better shape than most men in their twenties, Belinda thought with admiration.

“I’ll take you up on that double espresso,” she said graciously.

“Not me! I want apple juice!” Marc interjected, his little hand moving over the lid of the waffle maker again.

“Marc! Put your hand down right now!” Pierre hollered.

The little boy scowled but obeyed his father’s orders.  A few minutes later, the trio sat down to breakfast at the round table in the center of the kitchen.  Belinda allowed Pierre to serve her, delighted that he seemed to take pleasure in the task.  Gallantly, he placed a heaping plate of cinnamon-brushed waffles in front of her and served her another tiny cup of double espresso.  As Marc munched away and slurped his apple juice, Belinda felt like she was observing an idyllic scene from a Norman Rockwell painting.  But she wasn’t an observer; she was really there, eating breakfast with a man she had fallen madly in love with and his darling little son.  Sipping her espresso, she reached across the table and lightly rubbed Pierre’s forearm, communicating with that gesture how truly happy she was at that moment.

Chapter Eleven

The old man held the door open with his foot, pushing his way inside the house
as his arms overflowed with gifts.  In his wrinkled hands, he held a bounty of romantic gifts: a dozen long stem red roses, chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne, gold jewelry box, and an assortment of truffles from Belinda’s Chocolate Boutique.  When he reached the living room where his wife was unwinding by the fireplace with a mug of tea, he unburdened himself of the packages.

“Close your eyes,
ma chérie,
” he instructed in his most romantic voice.

It was a tone his wife had not heard for many years, and she instinctively looked over her shoulder in surprise.

“I said close your eyes!” He exclaimed good-naturedly.

“I’m sorry.  I just didn’t know where that bedroom voice was coming from.” The old woman
laughed, then acquiesced, turning towards the fireplace and shutting her eyes.

“It hasn’t been that long!” The old man disagreed, puffing up with male pride.  “Or has it, dear?” He sighed as she laughed
louder but kept her eyes closed.  Slowly, he walked towards her with the bouquet in his hand and placed a fragrant rosebud directly under her nose.  Airily, he caressed her cheek with it.

“You brought me roses,” s
he said happily, inhaling the sweet aroma.

“That’s just the beginning.
  I have many gifts to bestow on you today.  After all, Collette, it is our 50
th
wedding anniversary.” The old man went back to the sofa to collect the other presents.

“May I open my eyes now?” Collette asked.

“No!” He hollered, and Collette gladly complied, not accustomed to this sort of solicitous behavior from the man she had been married to for half a century.

“Whatever you say, François,
” Collette addressed her husband dreamily, sinking back onto a velvet pillow.

“Your second gift.” François lightly pressed the bottle of champagne against his wife’s forehead.

“That’s cold!” She remarked, startled.

“Any guesses as to what it is?”

“Yes, a bottle of liquor to get me drunk…the way you used to do 50 years ago!” She giggled, remembering the early days of their marriage when she was a twenty-something bride hopelessly in love with her groom.

“Ah, memories!” François sighed.  “But it’s not liquor,
ma chérie
.  It’s champagne!  There’s quite a distinction.”

“There certainly is.  Champagne I’ll actually drink!”

François smiled, reflecting on his wife’s elegant taste.  She puckered her lips at virtually any liquor but could drink champagne like it was liquid candy.

“For the third gift, you may open your eyes.” François allowed.  “But not yet!” He added hastily.

He unlatched the jewelry box and removed a ruby necklace that he draped and fastened around his wife’s neck.  Tears brimmed her pale blue eyes when she felt the metal on her skin; it had been decades since her husband had given her any jewelry.

“
Now,” he told her gently.  “Open your eyes.”

She opened her eyes and looked down at the necklace adorning her and gleaming in the
fire glow. “It’s breathtaking! I’ve never had rubies before,” Collette breathed, giving her husband a kiss.

“But I’m not done yet! 
Here is a card with all my love written on it.” He whipped out a pink envelope and handed it to his beaming wife.  “And there’s one more gift.” François presented her with a giant box of chocolates wrapped in a red bow to match the color of the necklace.

“Candy!” She exclaimed.

“Yes, but this gift I can’t take credit for.  This is a present from our nephew.”

“Oh how kind of him! He has always been lik
e a son to us…” Collette’s voice faded away.

She and François had a son of their own many
years ago, but he had died in a boating accident as a child.  After that tragic loss, their marriage had nearly disintegrated.  Then Collette had miscarried a few times, and she and François had abandoned the idea of being parents.  Today, though, their bond was stronger than it had ever been, even as Collette reflected sadly on the boy who had cruelly vanished from their lives so many years ago.

“Are you thinking of our boy?” François asked on a heavy note of emotion.

“You know I am,” Collette replied softly, as her husband put an arm around her.

“These chocolates will make you feel better.  Let’s see here.” François untied the ribbon on the box and peeked inside. “They’re called Fatally
Sweet truffles.  It says here they’re made with the darkest chocolate available and blended with passion fruit.”

“Oh, they sound scrumptious!  Let’s eat them with the champagne.” Collette reached for a truffle and popped it in her mouth.

“How is it?”

“Delicious!”
Collette enthused.  “Here, love, try one.” She handed a chocolate to her husband.  “Oh my, but it has a bit of an aftertaste, doesn’t it?” She made a sour face.