The Chocolate Heart (24 page)

Quit sleeping in luxury suites or beating herself up?
She took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “I've been trying,” she murmured. Trying both. “I don't really have this trouble on the island.” Neither luxury suites, nor a vulnerable opinion of herself. Or maybe on the island her self-esteem was vulnerable, but no one was attacking it.

His eyebrows flicked together. His hands tightened on her cheeks. “You're happy there.”

Her smile bloomed. “Very happy.”

His face tightened. “You worked very hard, and earned something very difficult that you decided didn't have any value, and went on a cruise, and jumped off on a remote island. And acted like a girl let out of a convent at Carnival, although I really don't think you're the first college student to have three affairs in a year, Summer. And after a year away, a violent attack, and the ruins of your easy paradise, you still chose to go to another island rather than come home. While you stopped dating entirely. For three years. And then walked in here and straight up to me.”

“You know, I was really just trying to get someone to show me to my room,” Summer mentioned, aggravated.

A sharp smile, the edge of his teeth showing. “There were three actual bellmen standing in that lobby, Summer. With uniforms on and everything. I can promise you at least two of them would have jumped at the offer of a yacht.”

“Oh?” She tried to look interested. “Which ones?”

He just looked at her a long moment. “You know, Summer, one advantage I have over you is that every damn thing I've accomplished in my life, I know exactly who accomplished it. I have no doubts about myself whatsoever. So you might not want to test me so much. I'll pass.”

She gathered her bathrobe around herself and gazed at him in utter awe and envy of that confidence, that complete conviction. Wishing that confidence was wrapped around her in place of the bathrobe.

He stroked a lock of messy hair back, drawing it through his fingers and playing with its texture. Holding her entire being with just that gentle tug and shift against her scalp.

“Tell me something, Summer,” he said very quietly. “Why are you so afraid I'll catch you? No one else ever has.”

He had no idea how hard she fought not to give herself entirely up to him. “I don't know.”
I've just known from the first you could. I want you to
hold
me. And never let me go.

But I
want
to be able to go. Before I get crushed. It's so miserable here.
She didn't make sense.

To want something so much and to be so desperately afraid of it.

She grinned. “Maybe because no one else was nearly as gorgeous?” Or as strong. Or as steady and controlled. Or as full of that pent-up passion that she longed to free. “Anyway, I'm out of here in April, so I'm just exaggerating about being trapped.”

She was lying even worse than usual, that was what she was doing.

That flicker in his face again. What had happened to his iron armor? That was the second time she had landed a blow. “We'll see,” he said.

“What?”

“How much you're exaggerating. Although I would prefer some other word than ‘trapped
.
' ” He tucked the hair behind her ear. “ ‘Held,' maybe?”

There was a knock on the door, and Luc's hands flew faster than sight, closing her bathrobe, flicking tangles out of her hair, before room service brought in a selection of
viennoiseries.

“Are you sure they're going to survive without you?” she asked after the man pushing the cart left. She felt self-conscious, sitting on the edge of the bed, breaking a roll so that golden flecks spilled onto her bathrobe and the scent teased warmth around her.

“I think over the past five years here, I've earned the right to come in late one morning.” But tension built in him, under that cool ease, like a coiled spring. He tried not to pace, but that energy didn't know what to do with itself. “I need to set up a schedule that will free up some of my evenings. Now. Starting this week. It will be good for the sous-chefs to have full responsibility more often, and probably good for me to not be looking over their shoulders, although”—He winced a little at some image of possible results, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. “It will be good for everyone. I'm even thinking about working with Hugo and Alain to close the restaurant Sunday and Monday. None of the other three-star restaurants stay open seven days a week.”

Really? He would do that for her? When she would never in her life have dared to ask? Hope sparked, all unexpected. “I can give people raises to compensate for the increased responsibility or the shift in hours, if that helps. Or work out a way to compensate for any loss in revenues.”

His jaw tightened. “Summer. I don't care if your father gives you the entire world wrapped in a bow. I do not need
you
to intervene in my kitchens. I don't need you to help me accomplish anything in my life.”

It hurt so much, it was so utterly true, that she couldn't do anything but hold the bathrobe together at her throat while behind its plush white all her insides plunged in dizzy, sick freefall.

“I probably really should go.” He shifted to thread his fingers into her messy hair and kiss her. He cocked his head when he lifted it, searching her face. She didn't know why. Her lips had responded to his. A perfectly proper kiss. He must have decided it was one, too, or if it wasn't, that it didn't matter as much as getting to work. He stroked her hair back from her face, curved his hand around the nape of her neck, and gave it a little squeeze.

At the door, he stopped just long enough to look back at her and hold her eyes. She was still managing a light smile, which made his eyes search hers again, but her smile didn't falter. “By the way, Summer,” he said, “in case you didn't realize—your taste in men has improved.”

L
uc leaned over the big calendar on his desk, erasing and writing things in. Damn it, why the fuck did the president have to eat here so much? Luc would have to be on that night. Next Friday, he was taking Patrick and Noé out to Valrhona to help develop a special Leucé chocolate, so that day was shot. Here—Patrick was just going to have to handle that banquet. It was good preparation for his own place, being in charge at the big events.

“So can we take my car?” Patrick asked, stepping cheerfully into the office. “To Valrhona?”

Luc gave him a wary look. He had never ridden passenger with Patrick before, and God only knew what Patrick might do. “I was thinking I would drive.”

“You're
always
thinking you would drive. Everything. Seriously, you have to learn to
let go.
” Patrick moseyed over to Luc's desk and set one hand on top of the calendar before Luc thought to flip the page. Patrick's glance only flickered down to it—by rights, not even long enough to read it all—but his face suddenly split into a grin, and he looked closer. Then looked back up at Luc, the grin half-fading into something . . . practically misty-eyed. “Luc. This is adorable.”

“Patrick, will you get the fuck out of my—”

“Has she
seen
this? I'm getting all mushy just looking at it.” Patrick tapped a finger on one of the many slots where something had been erased or put in brackets and words like, “S.—theater?” “S.—skating?” had been added. And then there were all the slots were Luc had determined he should be able to take the afternoon break instead of working through it and had just written,“3–5: Summer.”

Luc set his jaw and rode out the flush as best he could. It had been easier to keep himself from flushing a few days ago, before Summer shattered his control. The damn control just hadn't been working right since.

Patrick frowned, studying the calendar further. “You know, Luc, I might want to have a love life, too. Do you have to put me on
all
the evening slots you're going to the theater? Make Noé do some of them. He loves being out of our shadow.”

“ ‘Our'?”

Patrick grinned. “Well, it's true that I cast more of a radiant glow, but for some reason, not everyone wants to bask in my reflected glory. Besides, if I'm on all the nights, and you're mostly days, I'll never see you again.” He looked utterly woebegone. “Not to mention, I'm not sure how many fine crumbs you might grind our intern into if I'm not there to protect her. Why don't you switch her to nights with me?”

Ah. Luc glanced through the glass walls at Sarah carrying a giant mixing bowl that looked bigger than she was, face flushed with the strain and jaw set in absolute determination not to ask for help. He slid a glance at Patrick, who rested against the desk with his back to that view, possibly on purpose in order to keep himself from slipping over to help her, but it was always hard to tell with Patrick. It would ruin ten years of working Patrick past his screwed-up childhood if Luc kept Sarah out of his reach. But Patrick wasn't a boy who could barely shave anymore, and Luc wasn't sure what that made of him, the chef, to sacrifice their intern's right to an un-harassed work zone to keep Patrick happy. It would help if he had any idea what Sarah thought about Patrick, but Sarah would hardly confide in him. An odd thought crossed his mind, Summer slipping into their kitchen life with a smile, helping negotiate these workplace romance issues. Maybe if she was very clearly attached to the chef, which would give her a natural role as queen here and make her less of a threat to other women . . .

Alain Roussel pushed the door to the office open, glanced at Patrick, and hesitated as he looked at Luc.

“Oh, don't mind me.” Patrick folded his arms like a man in for the long haul. “You can say anything in front of me.”

Alain looked at Luc again, waiting. Luc flicked open a hand. “Go ahead.” Patrick settled more deeply into his position, looking pleased with himself.

Alain took a deep breath. “We're to close the restaurant Sundays and Mondays, starting three months from now, as soon as current reservations run out.”

Luc gaped at him. Patrick's arms fell from his chest. “I beg your pardon?”

“She's the owner, Luc. I couldn't argue her out of it. Actually, she wanted it to start next week, and I argued how much damage that would do to our reputation to cancel so many reservations. So she thinks she's compromising. She was very—did you two get in another fight or something?”

“No.” She had seemed just a little—odd when he kissed her that morning, but . . . wait, what the hell business was this of Alain's? Luc gave the director a cool look.

Alain glared at him despairingly. “Did you
have
to crack? I never expected any control out of her, but
you.
”

“It gives a man a whole new perspective on life, doesn't it?” Patrick said cheerfully.

“I'll talk to her.” It confused Luc no end to not feel angry. The thought of taking two days off a week to enjoy her made him feel as if, for the first time in his life, he could lay his head down on his desk and just—let all the tension drain out of his muscles. His desk,
putain, non,
that would be a waste. How about two soft breasts . . .

“No, you won't,” Alain said bitterly, and Luc was already so deep into the fantasy that he narrowed his eyes dangerously at having someone try to interfere in it.

“Talk to her. She's gone out for a run.”

A run? Summer swam for exercise. And hated winter. “In the rain?”

 

Summer ran until she couldn't run anymore. She came in streaming, her face coated with rain under the baseball cap with which she had tried to keep it out, running clothes plastered to her body, limping on calves already tightening up.

Luc appeared before she had even gotten through the lobby, sugar on his hands and a red streak down his cheek. He stilled a half-second at the first sight of her, and then came forward fast. Under that controlled, superb flow to his movements, wildness simmered very close to the surface.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” He swung her up into his arms, which earned them a few flashes of cameras, and hauled her off to the elevator, where she writhed her way out of his hold, hunching her shoulders as cold water dripped down them.

“I can't swim far enough in that fucking pool.”

He punched the button for her floor. “How far did you run?”

“From here to Notre Dame and back? Probably about twelve kilometers.” God knew, she had walked the distance enough in her time. She brushed past him as the elevator doors opened, limping despite herself.

He came after her. “How far do you usually run?”

“I don't. But I've got great cardiovascular.”

“So your lungs could handle it way past what your legs should have.” He marched her straight into her bathroom, opening the faucets full blast, stripping them so fast with those flying, deft hands, she barely had time for an exhausted blink. He picked her up and he sat down in the great pool of a tub, with her in his lap, hot water foaming around their legs as the level rose. She shivered violently at the warmth.

He drew one of her legs up, massaging the foot and calf with clever, strong fingers. “Trying to get away?” His voice was—angry. Arousal grew in him, pressing into her naked butt, the water foaming furiously around their thighs. Outside, city lights fought the growing dimness. Oh, God. Not only was she naked to that snooty city, but the way he held her leg up to massage it meant that her sex was spread wide, too. The water burbling against it.

“Yes,” she said, and tried to escape, which made her slip off his lap and fall backward into the water.

He hauled her out by her leg and laid her across his lap, resting her head against the side of the tub. “Summer. You're not going to get away from me, so stop it.”

His fingers dug so cleverly into her overused muscles. Climbing up her calf. Easing tendons around her knee. Digging into her lower thigh. She gasped and shivered, and water burbled more intimately against her sex, proving the lips of it had parted.

From this angle, Luc's face looked severe. Beautiful. It always hit her like a ton of bricks, those honed, high masculine cheekbones, that sense of a stripped-down, lean, dangerous beauty burned clean of everything but its hardest core.

“You have a nerve.” She wriggled against him, and his arousal grew harder, his face more dangerous, and his hands climbed higher up her thigh, digging in relentlessly. “You can shut me out of your mind without any effort at all, but I'm supposed to decide this is worth something? Worth what?
Me?
”

“Yes,” he said flatly. “Exactly. You're supposed to decide I'm worth you.”

That stopped her dead. She stared at him, a whole rush of things inside her that made her want to reach up and latch on to his shoulders to hold herself steady. The water foamed to her waist, hiding his hand as it traced calmly—and thoroughly—over her wet, open sex on his way to her other thigh. She shivered convulsively, glaring at the city stretched out before her.

So many boyfriends, why did
he
feel like the first man who could reach in and actually take her?
Your taste in men has improved.
Yeah, improved to the point of being suicidal. Way to go.

“Not a yacht. Not a smile. Not the change from your wallet. You.”

“Is this revenge?” she asked, confused. “You're still trying to punish me for that first night? Because that's cruel, even for you, to want all my life as forfeit.”

“Even for me?”

She tried to hide her face in the water. He braced her up out of it with an arm. “I don't know why I said that.”

“You're right,” she said rapidly. “Let's have this conversation tomorrow, when we're both fresher. I'm not making any sense.” She started to duck out of his arm.

It wrapped around her and held her hard. “Let's have it tonight.”

All through her, muscles eased, not just from his fingers but from the fact that he had locked her unyieldingly against his body.

“I've never shut you out of my mind, Summer. Let's start with that. And you have no idea how much effort I've put into trying to do so.”

She twisted into his shoulder, sinking into him. It took so little. Just his hold. Just his reassurance. And everything in her yielded to him. Why was she so damn weak? Why had she
always
been that weak, that hungry for any scrap of love?

One arm held her. The other drew her leg up, massaging her other calf. The position held her sex wide and not quite touching his arousal, water rocking gently between them. “Now maybe you can tell me what I've been doing that feels so cruel to you.”

She shook her head against his chest. She didn't want to reinforce what a spoiled brat she was, that he was cruel because she wasn't the center of his existence and because he was so utterly exquisite a trap for her.

“Summer. I can learn to make things exactly right. But you have to tell me what I'm doing wrong, first. I have no idea how I'm being cruel.”

Her eyebrows creased against his wet skin. “
Exactly
right?”

Muscles shifted against her face with his shrug. “At a minimum.”

“You don't have to be exactly right.”

“I already said that was just a starting point.” He shifted her until she was astride him, his hands massaging deeply into her butt, so taut from the run. She shivered uncontrollably at the release, her sex rocking and rubbing against his with every press of his fingers. His eyes glittered, his need unmistakable.

Why did he
do
that? Refuse to let himself go? “I like you the way you are,” she protested.

He made a skeptical sound. Did he need reassurance? Everything in her bloomed with delight at the possibility of giving him something he needed.

Abruptly she slid forward over him, taking him deep in her slick, welcoming body. He made a hard sound. She shivered with rightness, everything settling into its place. “I love this,” she murmured.

She felt him stiffen at the “I love” and hurried the “this” out, before he could reprimand her. That was okay, wasn't it? To love
this.

It seemed to be, because his body curved around hers. “Do you,
soleil
?”

She nodded, her cheek rubbing against him.

“Is it perfect?” he whispered.

The acquiescence of her cheek against silk skin and muscle shivered pleasure and relief all through her. “More.”

He rocked her hips very, very gently, very, very slowly, back and forth on him, so that the water twisted and poured around him, and he drew her almost, almost off him, bereft, and then oh-so-slowly pressed her back until she had every last bit of him. And then he held her there, grinding her harder, watching her squirm and twist and clutch for what she wanted and he controlled. “Tell me one cruel thing I did today.”

This.
But her body clutched around him so frantically, and her back arched so that her nipples thrust wet and taut into the air, and it wasn't cruel. She loved it utterly.

“Tell me, Summer.” He pulled her slowly off him again.

She writhed at the threat of separation. “Just the truth,” she gasped.

He rewarded her by letting her rock halfway back on him. She whimpered a little, astonished that she felt secure enough to let him see her beg. “Which would be?”