When Chocolate Is Not Enough...

It was the man from the food stall who had bought the chocolate rabbits. His black jacket was hanging over the back of his chair, and he was wearing a fitted black cotton long-sleeved shirt which had seen better and cleaner days. On any other man it would have looked scruffy and washed out, and hardly suitable for a lovely restaurant lunch. But drat if it did not suit his broad shoulders as he stretched forward. How irritating was that?

His hair looked as though he had just woken up and raked it through with his fingers, but for some reason the tousled look fitted him perfectly.

She gulped down something close to apprehension. Um. She had a fair idea of exactly what his response would be if she marched up and asked him what he thought about the chocolate dessert.

‘Forget that couple,’ the chef whispered in her ear, and Daisy breathed out a sigh of relief. ‘They are still waiting for dessert service. But those two ladies over there are just paying the bill. Perfect. Try them first, before looping back. Have fun! ’

Max had gone through a huge portion of lasagne, two servings of delicious warm bread, and had just inhaled a platter of cheese and biscuits when the waiter placed a dark circle of aromatic dense chocolate loveliness in front of Kate, then stepped around with his portion.

Max could already smell the chocolate, and instantly pushed his cheese plate to one side, ready for his dessert.

Kate responded with a small laugh. ‘I know that you are dying to tell me everything about this chocolate, so I’m going to simply sit here and drink my coffee while you enjoy yourself. Feel free to dig in any time you like. You do know that I shall insist that the chefs use Treveleyn Estate chocolate for my wedding reception, don’t you?’

Max chuckled. ‘Of course. You can consider it my wedding present to you both. So, what do we have here?’

He lifted the plate so that he could inhale the fragrance of the chocolate base, trying to ignore the sideways glances from the waiting staff and other diners, then cut straight across the middle of the circular cake, separated the two halves and tried smelling it again.

Oh, wow, that was good. Seriously good. A chocolate and almond liqueur was laced through the mixture, but it was not too powerful to conceal the wonderful spicy and deep aroma of the chocolate.

Only then did he scoop up a generous bite-sized portion and wrap his mouth around the cake, before sliding the spoon away to leave … a small miracle. The smooth, smooth chocolate melted on his tongue, releasing more and more layers of flavour. Not too sweet, and certainly not sickly, the cocoa butter had been blended with cream, finely ground nuts and butter to create the closest thing to a praline chocolate centre he had ever eaten. It was superb.

The chef who had made this knew how to blend cocoa beans from different varieties to create a perfectly aromatic but smooth flavour—intense but enjoyable. Stunning.

Max immediately took a larger spoonful, then another, and savoured every morsel before looking up at his bemused former wife, who had barely taken a single spoonful.

‘Now, that was seriously good.’

‘Thought you’d like it. But I have to watch my weight—so, please, finish off mine as well. You know you want to.’

‘Pass it over! This is superb. In fact,’ he mumbled through tiny scrapings of cake, trying to make it last and prolong the pleasure, ‘this is so good it has given me an idea for the conference at the weekend. Kate, would you mind if I left you to your coffee for ten minutes? I need to track down the dessert chef who made this.’

‘Well, now’s your chance.’ Kate nodded over his shoulder. ‘She’s on her way over to speak to us.’

Max whipped around in his chair, and was halfway to a standing position when he lifted his chin and found himself staring at the white-coated chest of a girl he recognised only too well from the organic chocolate stall. She was wearing the gallery’s restaurant jacket now, but there was no mistaking that hair and those stunning eyes.

‘Daisy? What are you doing here?’

The startled look on her face as she took a step backwards was not perhaps the best reaction he could have hoped for, but it did give him a few seconds to connect his mouth and his brain.

‘Sorry, you startled me. I had no idea that you worked here as well.’ He tried to recover with a grin.

‘Just visiting,’ Daisy replied, and scooted around to the other side of the table to shake Kate’s hand. ‘Good afternoon. My name is Daisy Flynn, and I am the chocolatier for this restaurant. I notice that you ordered the chocolate and almond cake? I do hope that you enjoyed it.’

‘Oh, it was absolutely delicious. Catherine Ormandy. Lovely to meet you. In fact I was just telling Max here that the restaurant has quite a reputation for its wonderful chocolate desserts. Do you make them all yourself? Because they really are very special.’

‘You are very kind, Mrs Ormandy. My colleague Tara Hamilton and I run a company specialising in organic party food. But I do create all the chocolates and desserts by hand in our own kitchens. As well as party treats. In fact, I think your husband has already sampled some of my work—at our stall this morning.’

With that she stepped to one side and looked at him with a fixed, closed-mouth smile. ‘He seemed to think that I was intent on poisoning the tastebuds of the younger generation with sugar and additives. Isn’t that true, Mr Ormandy? I do hope that you’re not feeling ill after scoffing my chocolate dessert. Shame that my creamy boobs were not to your taste.’

Without giving him a chance to reply, Daisy swivelled back to Kate. She smiled warmly at her slightly stunned expression, just as Marco came over and stood by their table.

‘Ah. I see you have met our chocolate chef. Ms Flynn took top marks in the master chocolatier awards ceremony only last year, after training at Barone Fine Chocolate in Paris. We are hoping to persuade her to work with us a lot more.’

‘Thank you, Chef,’ Daisy said, and looked at the female diner while discreetly avoiding eye contact with her husband on the other side of the table. ‘It was lovely to meet you, Mrs Ormandy. I do hope that you have a splendid afternoon and will visit the restaurant again soon. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will leave you in Marco’s capable hands.’ And with that she turned and walked slowly and calmly, head high, back in the direction of the kitchens.

She had almost made it as far as the swing door leading to the kitchen when a loud male voice called out behind her in a very distinctive accent she had heard before.

‘Miss Flynn? If you could wait a moment?

Miss Flynn?’

Fighting against her sudden desire to reach for the nearest heavy frying pan in the kitchen, Daisy stopped and inhaled deeply.

This man was Marco’s customer—and she owed Marco several favours. Not including the job offer. Insulting one of his diners was not perhaps the best way to win more orders from the restaurant chain. Even if this particular diner seemed to think that he knew more about chocolate than she did. At least his lovely wife had been charming. And he had bought some of her rabbits for his little girl, who probably idolised him.

That was it. He was a family man. Happily married. And one of Marco’s paying customers.

Be nice to the people who pay your wages, Daisy.

So she fixed a professional, all-weather, no matter how great the provocation neutral smile on her lips, lifted her chin and turned slowly around so that she was not blocking the kitchen door.

And instantly had to fling her back flat against the wall to stop him from sending her flying.

He was caught out by her sudden stop and grabbed hold of both her arms to stop himself falling and crushing them both on the floor. In the process he drew her to him so quickly that Daisy barely had time to breathe before she found herself pressed up against the front of his shirt.

Both of them sucked in a shocked breath, and for a moment time seemed to stand still before he took a step back to create an appropriate space between them.

Back at the food stall she had been too busy to notice more than his unruly long dark blond hair hanging from a side parting almost to the collar of his black shirt. But up close he seemed to tower over her, even in his fairly flat black boots. He had to be well over six feet tall, but it was the sheer breadth of the man that made her bristle and want to step backwards to get out from his shadow.

His fitted black shirt covered a hard body and wide shoulders—but that was only part of it.

His blue eyes were the colour of forget-me-nots in the spring, and they contrasted so intensely against his deep suntan and heavy eyebrows that they seemed to be illuminated from within. And at the moment those eyes were focused totally on her. Light from the large picture windows in the restaurant shone on one side of his face, throwing his long shapely nose and square jaw into sharp profile.

If it was not for the thin white scar that cut through one of his eyebrows, and the dark bruise of shadows under his eyes, she would have said that he was gorgeous.

But she would settle for the upper end of the handsome scale.

Overall, he was probably the most masculine man she had met in a very, very long time. Not that she met many male customers in a life that whirled between Tara’s flat and the kitchen they used for their catering business.

He took a step away from her and released her arms. She inhaled the scent of cheese and lunch, good bread and … chocolate. Not the full-cream praline chocolate she had used to make the dessert he had just enjoyed, judging from the clean dessert plates, but an undercurrent of bitter, sharp and aromatic cocoa. As distinctive as any type of coffee or wine. And, to her attuned senses, as tantalising as the most expensive cologne any Paris perfumier could concoct.

That was probably why her throat went amazingly dry the instant one side of his mouth turned up into a cheeky smile which creased the side of his face and was obviously intended to make her swoon at his charm.

Not going to happen.

Even if it was remarkably effective. And he still smelt amazing.

She flicked her hair back behind one ear, desperate for something to do whilst attempting to find out why he had called to her. Perhaps his lovely wife had sent him to apologise, and he was being a dutiful husband?