Bride by Chocolate (Death by Chocolate) Read online

  “Whenever someone hacks into a system, they leave a trail. Sometimes it takes an expert to find that trail if the hacker is good. Felix is the best. He’ll locate where the tampering originated, then we’ll have the bastard. Meanwhile we can see about rescuing some of your shipments directly. Max can handle that. It’s his area of expertise.”

  Sam swung the Jag into the underground parking facility. Waved on by the attendant, he pulled into a reserved space near the elevator.

  When he would have reached for his door handle, Bebe stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Why are you helping me? It’s not your problem. I know you’re disappointed about your missing orders, but you could have gotten very good chocolates from another candymaker.”

  Sam’s eyes glinted with humor. “Heresy. There’s none better, and in this instance, second best won’t do. Trust me on that.”

  …

  A small understatement, Sam thought. And then he hoped to hell that Mrs. Trumble had the forethought to trash the Finnerman’s silver candy box he’d left sitting on his desk as a grim reminder of yesterday’s fiasco.

  Chapter Five

  “You poor dear.” Mrs. Trumble greeted Bebe like a long-lost granddaughter, snatching her from Sam’s guiding embrace. “Don’t you worry about a thing,” she soothed. “Our Sam is very capable. He’ll take care of this annoying situation and bring the culprit to his just desserts, so to speak.”

  She urged Bebe into Sam’s inner sanctum, past the outer office where they’d enjoyed teatime on her previous visit, and cosseted her on the suede sofa.

  “Now you just relax. I’ll make you a nice cup of tea and check on breakfast.” She smiled, then turned her attention to Sam.

  “I’ve informed Felix he’s to relay all information to this office. Max is in the air, and he’s received the necessary documents. Adams has dealt with customs. The shipment is ready to board as soon as Max sets down. Our people are scheduled to collect the other misrouted shipments as soon as they arrive. Legal is looking into the prosecution of such an offense, and would you like coffee before breakfast arrives?”

  “Coffee would be fine. Thanks.”

  In a cloud of powdery pink, the attentive assistant cruised out of the office, leaving them staring at the closing door.

  “If you’re wondering who’s in charge here,” Sam said, “it’s a question I often ask myself. My father inherited her, and then had the brilliance to bequeath her to me. We’d all be lost in a paper storm without her, as she’d be the first to point out.” The look of fondness for the surrogate grandmother-slash-tyrant softened his face. “So far she hasn’t mentioned retirement, and I’ve forbidden the word to be uttered in her presence.”

  Sam dropped his considerable physique down on the other end of the sofa, which had nearly swallowed Bebe whole. It seemed the right size for him.

  From her cushioned vantage, she visually explored the office suite. The whole Waterston’s factory could be tucked away here; if Mrs. Trumble’s outer office were included, it could even expand.

  The monstrous oak desk lorded over a view of the waterfront and half the city. Floor-to-ceiling windows provided an inspiring vista that would make a man think he’d already climbed mountains. An acre of plush cream carpet flowed across the suite to engulf the cluster of butter-brickle leather furniture. The half-moon sofa and three heavily stuffed chairs huddled around a glass-topped driftwood-based coffee table, looking wild and strong amid all the plush fabrications.

  Sam’s feet in Italian loafers rested comfortably on the thick glass corner of the table, the expression of intense concern on his face at odds with his relaxed posture.

  “This is no joke,” he said, his voice a growl, but soothing as only a man’s deep voice can be. “Someone’s very serious here. Do you have any idea who would want to sabotage Waterston’s? Think about it. Someone who would benefit from Waterston’s demise.”

  Bebe looked away from his probing gaze to the wall of windows. Exhausted, as if she’d been climbing mountains and for every step up she’d slid two steps back, she couldn’t even begin to imagine anyone so diabolical. Sam might make a wonderful Sherlock Holmes, but Moriarty was dead, wasn’t he?

  Who would do this? The whole idea gave her a headache and made her want to throw up.

  She laid her head back. Couldn’t she just listen to his voice without hearing his words? Who would benefit?

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  Three small bell sounds emanated from a recessed bar area and Sam rose to answer the summons. The smell of bacon and fresh-baked muffins filled the air. Her stomach rumbled in response. He lifted a small windowed door in the wall and pulled out a tray laden with silver-domed plates. As though also summoned by the bells, Mrs. Trumble came through the door carrying a tray with tea and coffee service. Bebe didn’t normally drink coffee, but the aroma smelled delicious.

  “Well, now,” Mrs. Trumble said. “Perfect timing.”

  Bebe attempted to rise, but the woman frowned and shook her head.

  “No, dear.” She placed the silver service on the coffee table. “Sam and I have this under control, don’t we?”

  He winked at her. “I think we can handle it.”

  Mrs. Trumble didn’t seem to notice the humor in his tone, or if she did, she chose to ignore it as she arranged the settings to her satisfaction and left.

  Their relationship was heartwarming, reminding Bebe how much she missed her parents and the love and laughter they enjoyed. Papa would be devastated to think someone wanted to ruin them. She had to stop whoever was doing this.

  Sam buttered her English muffin and placed it on her plate next to the fluffy scrambled eggs, Canadian bacon, and home fries. He poured fresh-squeezed orange juice and doled out sliced cantaloupe.

  “Come on,” he said. “Eat. Nothing’s impossible when you’ve had a good breakfast. Mrs. T. will confirm that bit of wisdom since she’s the one who imparted it to me.”

  Bebe dug in like a bee at the Rose Parade. She hadn’t had any appetite in days because her stomach had been in knots. Nothing would’ve stayed down, even if she’d eaten. But now she was starving.

  “At least you seem to have an appetite.”

  With her mouth full, she gave him a Gallic shrug and kept chewing. A big sigh of satiation was the best response he would get until she filled the hollow that reached all the way to her backbone.

  She finally settled into the couch’s engulfing corner, a mug of tea in one hand, half an English muffin in the other.

  “That was perfect. Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome.” He sat back, cradling a coffee mug in his powerful hands. “When was the last time you had a real meal?”

  “My appetite went to Brazil along with my third misplaced chocolate shipment.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “Besides, I needed to lose a couple of pounds.”

  He raised an eyebrow, his gaze sliding down her body to her raspberry high-tops propped on the table edge and back again. His brow arched higher. “I would never have guessed.”

  “You’re sworn to secrecy.”

  “Your secrets are safe with me.”

  The way he said the words gave her a warm buzz down to her toes. She knew he meant more than he’d said. It felt like a promise. “I trust you.”

  “Good.”

  The phone rang and Sam picked up. “Put him through.” He shook his head in a negative to Bebe. Not Felix. Not Max.

  She took another bite of her muffin, and then set her mug on the table. God, she was so tired. She felt like she hadn’t slept in weeks, and lead weights were attached to her eyelids.

  What would she tell Papa? Thank God her parents were in Europe for another month.

  She’d almost broken down and called her mother, but she hated to ruin their trip. They were with Papa’s family in Brussels and expected in Plaisir, France, at l’Ecole Lenôtre at the end of the month for a series of lectures her father had been asked t
o present. It was a wonderful honor from the most prestigious cooking school in France. He deserved to enjoy every moment.

  She watched Sam and thought about Papa. They were as opposite as it was possible to be. There was the obvious size difference, of course. Sam would look like a giant redwood next to her papa, who could do a passable Scotch pine ready for Christmas.

  And Papa hated computers.

  The man in front of her was completely at home on a computer.

  Her father had grumbled pitifully when Bebe had computerized the business, and even more when she’d insisted he take his laptop with him to input notes for his new book on the joys of chocolate.

  If he knew the computer system was at the heart of the current trouble, she’d never hear the end of it. Papa enjoyed teasing her almost as much as he loved chocolate. His eyes sparkled, his dimples deepened, and his chuckle made everything all right. He loved Maman and Bebe, making sure they always knew they were his sweethearts. Bebe knew he’d come home immediately if she called him, but she wouldn’t. Not yet. She needed to prove to herself she could deal successfully with the situation. Right now that meant accepting Sam’s help.

  He was her best hope. And on some gut level she hadn’t known she had, she knew that it was the truth. In response to that instinct, she’d permitted him do what she’d never allowed anyone else to do, ever.

  She’d let him take over.

  How had that happened?

  And why did she have no desire to protest?

  Stress, she decided, the chaos of the last two months, the lack of sleep, worrying herself into exhaustion while trying to juggle missed shipments and disparate time zones. She’d thought she was losing her mind, at the very least her ability to manage the business. The number of mistakes seemed to keep escalating, no matter what she did. She’d been on the phone for hours with computer experts who assured her it wasn’t the software; it was human error. Her error. She’d felt like Alice down the rabbit hole. Nothing made sense, and she couldn’t seem to stop the downward spiral. But now, for the first time in weeks, she could take a deep breath. She had an ally.

  She had Sam.

  Even if he is overbearing, bossy, and big.

  He wouldn’t have been her first choice. No way. Big, rugged, stern-looking Sam was not her type. He didn’t look like he smiled a whole lot. But he did look like he could command armies and slay dragons, and maybe that’s what she needed at the moment. He certainly wasn’t the kind of man she could ever imagine in her life on a permanent basis.

  Here was a man who expected to be in charge. That was his nature. Even if he hadn’t been born to wealth, he would have risen to power on his own merit and perseverance. His arrogance was born out of a strength of character. A confidence in his abilities made him assume leadership, while others had the good sense to step out of his way.

  The only thing that didn’t fit, that niggled at her sense of caution, was a certain twinkle in his eye when he thought no one noticed or when he made a comment and the stoic deadpan expression on his face said one thing, but his eyes said something else. Maybe she imagined it.

  She was too tired to think about it now, too tired to worry, too tired to move. She just needed to sit here a minute and let the food work its magic. God, she was so worn out, but she was safe in Sam’s sanctuary.

  She hadn’t known this man for more than three hours and yet she felt like the marines had landed, the fleet was in the harbor, and the cavalry was charging up the hill to her rescue. Her last thought as she nodded off…don’t worry, Sam will fix everything.

  …

  “My poor little pixie,” Sam whispered. He took the half-eaten muffin out of her hand and covered her with the afghan tucked away in the credenza for such an occasion. He’d been grateful for its warmth himself a time or two when late-night sessions had taken their toll.

  Like a porcelain doll someone had abandoned, she lay so still. Not even a flicker disturbed the velvet wings of lashes resting on her cheeks. A fine-boned elegance she seemed determined to camouflage in waking moments came alive in sleep. The wayward curls she shoved out of her way in annoyance now framed her face in a loving caress.

  He couldn’t resist coaxing an errant curl to wind itself around his finger. Silken soft and vibrant with life, it was like everything about her—totally the opposite of what he’d always thought he wanted and yet now the only thing he did want.

  Like he’d been doing shooters of 151 rum, he was drunk on only the anticipation of her.

  Damn, he had to stop this. She needed his help, not his rabid libido.

  He smoothed the afghan around her shoulders and across her knees, covered her feet where she’d tucked them up under her, and fought the urge to hold her.

  He went to his desk to use the phone, rather than use the one on the coffee table. He wanted her to sleep as long as possible. The dark smudges under her eyes shouldn’t be there; a nap would do her good. He probably should use the phone in Mrs. T.’s office, but desire overcame his good intentions. He wanted to watch her sleep, commit that face to memory, and enjoy his good fortune. And all because of a missing case of vanilla…

  Sam picked up the phone and dialed Felix’s extension.

  “Have you got anything for me?”

  “You were on the money. The person who set this scam up knows what he’s doing. He hacked in from a long-distance number.” The IT wizard explained how he’d traced and tracked, but still hadn’t hit the source. “He’s good, but we’ll get him. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “If I’m not here, have Mrs. T. put you through to my cell.” He punched the intercom button and spoke softly, “Hold all my calls unless it’s Max or Felix with an update.”

  “I’ll be right here if you need me,” she replied.

  Sam smiled. Dear Mrs. T. She could be a bulldog when she got hold of something, but since she was usually on his side it was a rather endearing trait. Nobody would come through his office doors short of a SWAT team, and he’d still put money on Mrs. Trumble.

  He settled back in his chair to enjoy the sight of his unexpected guest snuggled peacefully in his office, on his leather couch, wrapped in his cashmere afghan. It made a man feel downright possessive.

  She looked the perfect puzzle. Angelic, and yet sexy as hell.

  He could sit here for days.

  Bebe slept for two hours.

  And Sam watched her.

  When she started to stir, he fought a pang of disappointment. At least while she slept he could delude himself into thinking she was already his.

  Waking, she had yet to be won.

  He watched in fascination while she stretched like a sleepy kitten roused from a sun nap. Her arms reached over her head, fingers extended; first one shoulder eased up, then the other. Her back arched, and the afghan slid to her waist. Nicely rounded breasts gave the overlarge sweater an intriguing shape.

  Enraptured, Sam saw her blink and recognized the moment of disorientation she suffered. Then a slow smile eased the frown away and she turned her head toward him. Her smile grew. Luminous. Dazzling.

  “I fell asleep,” she whispered.

  Her shy surprise charmed him, and her sleep-husky voice brought images of all the mornings he could wake up with her in his arms. He could just slide into her waiting warmth…

  Sam nearly slid off his orthopedic executive combo recliner.

  Mrs. Trumble had insisted he needed it to prevent stress-induced backache. He wondered what she’d suggest for the current ache he suffered.

  “You needed a nap.” He hoped she didn’t realize his voice was about three octaves lower than normal. He needed to concentrate on the problem at hand. Bebe’s problem. Somehow he had to keep his unruly desire for her leashed. He would laugh at his ridiculous predicament, one he’d certainly never experienced before, if he weren’t so damned uncomfortable.

  Bebe tugged the blanket away. “I haven’t slept a whole night through since this mess began. The time change from here to Europe is so drasti
c.”

  She glanced up at the five small wooden clocks on the wall to the right of Sam’s desk: San Francisco, New York, London, Hong Kong, and Sydney. Like small wooden ducks, they marched up the wall.

  “I’ve been trying to catch people at the beginning of their workday so they’d have time to help me. Given the eleven-hour difference in some instances, timing is critical. I guess it’s just caught up with me. I don’t usually fall asleep in unfamiliar places.”

  “You’re safe here.”

  “I know.”

  Those were the best words she’d said to him since they’d met. He felt like he’d just closed a million-dollar deal.

  “When did you first notice things were going astray?”

  “About eight weeks ago I had a shipment of Lindt white chocolate go missing. They finally located it in San Diego. Well, that seemed like a natural enough mistake if someone were in a rush, but then it got to be absurd. I couldn’t order anything and have it sent properly. My overseas shipments were the worst, and they’re the most critical. Without the vanilla, we’re closed.”

  “The vanilla will be here today.”

  “But they said—”

  “It will be here.” Or Max was in deep dung.

  A soft buzz issued from the phone console and Mrs. Trumble’s voice came in a whisper.

  “Line two.”

  “It’s okay. She’s awake.” He punched the line button and the speakerphone crackled to life. “Max, what’s up?”

  “I’ve got the shipment,” said a voice sounding like too many late-night cigarettes with bourbon backs. “Do you still want it taken to Waterston’s?” The muffled sounds of aircraft, machinery, and voices droned in the background.

  “Yeah. The address on Pine.”

  “You got it. I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

  “Let us know when you land. We’ll meet you at the shop.”

  “Right.” Click.

  “Happy?” No need to ask, he thought; her face would always tell him exactly how she felt. Like her radiant smile now.

  “That’s wonderful. Thank you.”