Dark Chocolate Murder (7 page)

At a few minutes before eight o’clock, Belinda
squeezed into her highest heels and descended the stairs to wait outside.  The night was mild, but there was no way she was going to wait for Pierre in her apartment, even if a hurricane hit.  She could not let him see the inside of her apartment.  Not tonight.  Maybe not ever.

Belinda watched as a
dark green Peugeot pulled up to the curb and parked.  Out stepped Pierre, holding a bouquet of wildflowers in one hand…and a bag of groceries in the other.

“
Bonsoir
,” he greeted with a quick bow while offering the bouquet.  “Wildflowers for you, Belinda…for the wildness I know is sleeping in there somewhere.”

She accepted the flowers while staring in horror at
the grocery bag.  Certainly he didn’t mean to bring those groceries inside and…have dinner in her apartment?

“I would
like to cook dinner for you,” he confirmed her fears.  “I hope you enjoy authentic cuisine from the south of France.”

“Yes, I do,
but…” Belinda faltered.  “You want to cook dinner here?”

“If that’s alright with you.
” He frowned, perceiving her hesitation.  “Don’t think I have anything against restaurants.  I own one, for goodness sake.  But I just thought it would be nice to cook for you tonight.”

Pierre sounded nervous for the first time since he had found her dripping jelly from her chin like an infant.  His idea was so romantic; any woman would feel flattered by such a gesture.  And Belinda did too---but not in that practically
invisible
apartment!

“It’s a wonderful idea, it’s just that, my apartment…”

“Is occupied by another man?” Pierre asked edgily.

“No!” Why did this man always jump to the conclusion that there was someone else? “It’s just…”

“Well, you have piqued my curiosity, Belinda.  I don’t know if you have a man up there or a pet donkey, but I am going to see your apartment.” Hastily, he walked past her and ascended the staircase.

“There’s
nothing
in there,” she said to his back, but he didn’t hear her as he stomped up the stairs.

Reluctantly, she unlocked the door and let him inside.  His eyes scanned the room but remained expressionless.  He walked into the cramped galley kitchen and set the grocery bag down.

“I don’t understand.  What was the big secret?” Pierre asked in genuine confusion.

“It’s just not a very nice apartment,” Belinda said awkwardly.  “I don’t even have any furniture.”

“You just moved here from another country.  No one would expect you to have a castle’s worth of furniture.” Pierre shrugged, not understanding her discomfiture.

“But it’s so small.  There’s hardly even room for you to cook,” Belinda persisted.

“Small? I told you that I lived in New York City for ten years! I’ve had my share of small apartments, believe me.  This is quite spacious compared to some places in Manhattan.  And as for cooking in here, I’m a chef, I’ll make it work.” Pierre winked at her.

Suddenly, Belinda felt foolish.  She
had
just moved here and shouldn’t be ashamed of her modest living space. “Well, if you can whip up your magic in this kitchen, then you must be a blue ribbon chef!” She joked.

His deep laughter
rang through the air, and she drank it in as though it were wine.  Pierre had already made her feel more comfortable than she had in a man’s presence for a long time.  The notion surprised her, though, as she finally noticed how gorgeous he looked.  In her effort to scoot him away from her apartment, she hadn’t taken in his intoxicating appearance in her favorite attire: blue jeans and a tee-shirt.  With impossibly narrow hips and broad shoulders to offset them, Pierre looked almost…edible.  She bit her lip, trying not to stare at his masculine frame or the fetching sight of black stubble on his chiseled face.

From the top of the grocery bag, he snatched an apron that read
‘Kiss the Chef.’ “Don’t worry.  You don’t have to kiss me now.  But you should kiss me later.  After all, the apron expects it,” Pierre drawled.

“The apron expects it?” Belinda asked ironically.  “Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint the apron.  I had a million of those
Kiss the Chef aprons back home, you know.”

“And did you receive many kisses?” Pierre inquired
brazenly, tying the apron around his strong torso.

“Maybe a few,” Belinda evaded, sorry she had mentioned it.  She had often worn the apron when cooking for Daniel, and he had merely kissed her chastely on the cheek or not heeded the
coquettish message at all.  As she stood there watching the beautiful Frenchman unload the grocery bag, she wondered why she had wasted five whole years with her ex-husband.  She should have divorced him after five months because their relationship certainly didn’t get any better as time marched on.

“
Voyons
, I got a
baguette
from the
boulangerie
next to your shop, and some extra virgin olive oil to dip it in.  That’s for starters.” Pierre handed her the loaf of bread, which she set on a cutting board.

“Luckily, the one thing I do have is kitchen supplies.  No bed, no sofa, but I picked up enough cookware to feed an army,” Belinda laughed, slicing up the bread.

“But I’m so glad it’s not an army.  It’s just us two,” Pierre commented softly, placing a bottle of red wine on the counter and twisting it open with a corkscrew.

“I even have wine glasses!” She announced, suddenly glad they were in her apartment and not some loud, impersonal restaurant.

“Yes, you do have all the important things here,” he grinned, pouring their glasses half full.

“A toast to you, Belinda, and to
much success for your business.” He raised his glass before adding, “And to many more nights spent in your company.”

Chapter Five

Belinda clinked her glass against his and sipped the heady wine, lush with its oak and blackberry undertones.  As she drank the wine, hot color creeping into her cheeks, Pierre removed the rest of the groceries from the bag.

While
he cooked, she admired every detail as though it were foreplay.  As a baker, she had long eroticized food and wine, but she had never felt as stimulated as she did tonight.  Slowly sipping the wine and not protesting when Pierre refilled her glass, she sank back against the kitchen counter, feeling pleasantly numb.  Belinda knew she should put the wine down until they started eating, but she was enjoying the bliss of oblivion too much to stop.

She
had experienced so many ‘firsts’ lately.  A few months ago, she wouldn’t have believed there could be so many new experiences waiting around the corner.  Here, on this quaint street in Monaco, in the heart of Western Europe, Belinda Rockland was experiencing yet another first: a man was cooking for
her
.  Because no, quite frankly, Daniel’s charred toast and slimy eggs on Valentine’s Day didn’t count.  Belinda shook her head, impatient with herself to stop comparing Pierre to her ex-husband.

Eyes glazing over from the effects of the wine, she watched Pierre
sauté the butter, stir the sauce, and munch on the crusty bread as he worked.  He was quiet as he cooked, but the silence between them was comfortable.  Taking a sip of wine, he caught her eye and stared lingeringly at her face.

“Your eyes look like emeralds with the moon glowing outside the window,” Pierre remarked.

“They’re just hazel,” Belinda mumbled.

He smirked and rephrased his compliment, “Your eyes are beautiful, Belinda, whether you realize it or not.”

“
Merci beaucoup
,” she managed in a shy whisper.

When dinner was ready, they
stayed in the kitchen and ate standing up.  Pierre didn’t seem to mind the informal dining at all and spent more time gazing into her eyes.  He was not only an attractive man, but also a very talented chef, and she savored every bite of his meal.

“So what made you leave New York City? The small apartments?” Belinda asked lightly.

Pierre frowned, setting down his glass of wine and inhaling deeply.  “The apartments were fine.  It was the relationships that were the problem.  Well, one relationship actually.  My ex-wife.” His expression transformed dramatically as he spoke the words.

“You’re divorced?”

“Yes, for a little over two years now.  I have a four year old son.  He lives with me,” Pierre said matter-of-factly.

“Oh how wonderful! What’s his name?” Belinda asked, her heart soaring at the mention of a child.

“Marc.  He’s the love of my life.” The gleam returned to Pierre’s eyes as he spoke of his son.

Belinda smiled warmly, pleasantly surprised to hear this roguish man talk about his child as the love of his life.  “That’s beautiful.  But
it must be difficult raising him on your own.”

“It is.  But I have
a sister in the area.  Her name is Nathalie.  She’s married with two young boys, so Marc has cousins to play with…and a babysitter I can trust.”

“Sounds like an ideal situation.
”

“Far from it,” Pierre grimaced.  “My ex-wife hardly has any contact with our son.  She’s too caught up in her own life.”

“What do you mean?” She asked, returning his grimace at the mention of a neglectful mother.

“She’s in New York City still.  Living the high life.  She’s an actress on Broadway, and a very successful one. 
Juliette Fontaine.  Have you heard of her?”

Yes, Belinda had heard of her, and she wasn’t impressed. 
Juliette Fontaine was a stunning blonde with the willowy body of a ballerina.  She was also frequently splashed across the tabloids for her boozing escapades and casual affairs with Hollywood leading men.  It seemed cosmically wrong for a woman like Juliette Fontaine to have so much success while starring in one of the longest running plays on Broadway.

“I have
heard of her.  So you mean it’s okay with her that you took Marc to live in Europe?” She asked in disbelief.

“Okay?
It’s perfect for her selfish agenda.  She doesn’t have to feel guilty for focusing her entire life on her acting career because her son is well taken care of.” Pierre’s features contorted in anger.

Belinda also felt a rush of anger pump into her blood.  How could any woman forsake her own child?  Didn’t his ex-wife know how some women longed to have children but couldn’t?  Unable to control her stormy emotions on this sensitive subject, Belinda pressed, “I’m sorry, but she
sounds like a terrible woman.  I’m sure your son is a beautiful boy, and I couldn’t imagine any normal woman wanting to be away from him.”

“Thank you.  He is a handsome little fellow,” Pierre
beamed with paternal pride.  “And, no, she’s not a normal woman.  Now, please, let’s change the subject to something a little lighter…and sweeter.” He reverted to his teasing tones, and Belinda wanted to lap up his innuendo like a kitten with a saucer full of milk.

“
Bonne idée
,” Belinda murmured the French term for ‘good idea.’

“I love your accent.
” Pierre took a step closer to her as he spoke.

He loved
her
accent?  Her Boston accent?  Really?  Belinda looked downward and grinned, thinking how she had never heard a more delectable accent than his French one.  But she wouldn’t reveal that to him; she would let a man compliment her for once without complimenting him or saying something self-deprecating.

“Thanks.  So, a
re you a…Monacan?  I’m sorry, I don’t know the technical term for it.” Belinda blushed.

“
Monégasque
,” Pierre enunciated perfectly in that charming French accent.

“
Monégasque
,” Belinda repeated in her light but noticeable American accent.

“
Très bien
.  But actually, I’m from the south of France.  I just have my restaurant here.  Thousands of French and Italian workers commute to Monaco each day, you know.”

“I never would have guessed that!” She confessed, laughing at herself.

Pierre gave a breathy chuckle and replied, “I’m glad I could teach you something new.  Maybe you could do the same for me.”

Belinda’s blush deepened.  This man made her feel decades younger, a fact which both excited and frightened her.  “Well, you clearly d
on’t need any help with English,” she joked.

“That’s correct.  But I’ve never made chocolate before.  And I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.  Teach me.”

Teach me
.  The words were a seductive command that Belinda was powerless to deny.

“An after-dark lesson?  How scandalous!” Belinda flirted
, not really knowing what she was doing.  It had been too long since she had indulged in this kind of playfulness with a man.  And she had never indulged in it with a man as devastating as Pierre.

Without further discussion,
he took Belinda by the hand and led her from her apartment into the spring night.  When they were outside, Pierre glanced at his watch.  “Not just after dark.  After midnight.  Even more scandalous.
Allons-y
.”