Dark Chocolate Murder (6 page)

Crystal regarded her with amusement.  “I guess you want to claim that location you found for your shop.  But aren’t you forgetting something? Jean-Jacques and I are the ones who will sign the lease.”

Belinda frowned.  In her haste to break free of
the gilded cage of the mansion, she had forgotten that pesky detail.  Apparently, independence was hard to come by on foreign terrain.

“Oh, t
hat’s right.  The storefront is actually just down the street.  That’s why I chose this building to live in.  Since I don’t have a car right now, it would be convenient for me to live just a few steps from where I work,” Belinda explained.

“Brilliant idea,” Jean-Jacques nodded.

Belinda narrowed her eyes at him, detecting the slightest note of condescension and hating it.

“Let’s walk there right now,” Crystal suggested.  “If the owner is around, Jean-Jacques and I can tend to the lease right away.”

Silently, Belinda led them down the road lined with palm trees to a cluster of storefronts.  Her proposed location was set on a pleasant retail strip containing a
fromagerie
(cheese shop),
boulangerie
(bread baker), and
parfumerie
(perfume merchant).  Belinda felt confident that a chocolate shop would be the perfect addition to the charming storefronts.

“Well this is like one-stop shopping!” Crystal enthused.  “What a perfect location.”

“Yes, we shop at this
fromagerie
all the time.  They make the most delicious Camembert.” Jean-Jacques licked his lips.

“I’m so glad you guys like it.  My goal is to open the store by next month,” Belinda announced.

“Don’t you think that’s a little soon?  How will you be able to get everything ready in just 30 days?” Crystal asked.

“You know I’m a hard worker.  And it’s not like I have another job.  If I have to spend sixteen hours a day working to open this shop by next month, then I will,” Belinda insisted.

Sensing her defensiveness, Jean-Jacques changed the subject and asked, “What are you going to call your shop?”

“Something simple.  But something with my name in it,” Belinda grinned.  “I’m thinking Belinda’s Chocolate Boutique.”

Jean-Jacques and Crystal exchanged glances.  They clearly did not approve of the name.

“That’s a bit of a mouthful, don’t you think?  And it’s not French,” Crystal said gently.

“The word ‘boutique’ is French.  I think it’s just fine,” Belinda said firmly, not willing to discuss the matter any further with her maddeningly contrarian relatives.

From
the upstairs leasing office, a mature gentleman with white hair and spectacles emerged.  Belinda recognized him immediately as Michel Gagnier, the owner of the building.

“
Bonjour
, Belinda,” he addressed politely.

“
Bonjour, Monsieur
Gagnier.  This is my sister, Crystal, and her husband, Jean-Jacques.”

“Yes, we know each other,” M
onsieur Gagnier revealed.  “Jean-Jacques owns the winery around the corner and the women’s dress shop across town.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that,” Belinda said sheepishly.  How many businesses did Jean-Jacques own in this small country?  He seemed to be a veritable
Nelson Rockefeller with his affluence.

The two men led the way ups
tairs to the office where Michel Gagnier produced a lengthy lease written entirely in French.  Belinda stood by passively as Jean-Jacques took over the business arrangement, sealing the deal with his signature and a handshake.

*****

Later in the day, after Belinda was finally able to hustle Crystal and Jean-Jacques off her modest turf and back to their lavish abode, she stood in an empty apartment with unpacked bags. 
With sparkling tile floors and elegant ceiling fans, the place was clean but barren.  The bare white walls looked institutional, and she vowed to buy a can of paint to splash some color onto her bleak surroundings.  Thankfully, the carpets were thick and plush---just as they needed to be right now since she did not have a bed.  She wondered if Monaco had any stores that sold futons, but she didn’t feel very hopeful.  For now, she would spend her nights sleeping on the carpet, building a mattress from layers of blankets.

Diligently, she worked past dusk every day
over the next week, ordering ingredients, trying out chocolate molds, and setting up office equipment.  Fortunately, the storefront had formerly been a pastry shop and was already outfitted with state-of-the-art kitchen appliances.  There was also a cash register and fax machine to receive orders---but no copy machine.  Belinda smirked thinking how she would never copy another paper again.  Not for Jerry and not for anyone.

By the end of the second week, Belinda knew she had not been too ambitious in setting a grand opening date.  She would definitely be ready to open
on time if she kept working at this breakneck speed.

One afternoon, two days before the grand opening, Belinda was in her shop ins
pecting a tray of freshly made Raspberry Cloud truffles.  Filled with raspberry jam and a dollop of vanilla cream, the truffles looked irresistible.

“I have to taste these,” Belinda reasoned, “I can’t sell any candy that I hav
en’t personally tasted myself.” She popped the truffle into her mouth and giggled as jelly dribbled down her chin and cream clung to her lips.

“Looks delicious.  How do I get some of those?” A deep male voice laced with a French accent inquired.

Belinda looked up and locked eyes with a swarthy, casually dressed powerhouse of a man.  With the body and apparel of a lumberjack, he was exquisitely masculine and extremely unnerving as he smirked at Belinda with raspberry goo trickling down her face.  Searching in vain for a napkin, Belinda hastily licked the cream off her lips and indelicately wiped her chin on her sleeve.  The stranger’s amusement deepened, and he cocked his head to one side while wearing a disarming grin.  Mortified, Belinda struggled to speak to the French-accented Adonis who stood before her making a mockery of her embarrassing predicament.  She was more astonished when the man walked forward and boldly lifted a chocolate off the tray.

“May I?” He asked a beat too late.

You already have
, she thought but remained mute, not trusting her own voice at the moment.  She watched in amazement as he slowly placed the truffle on his tongue and bit right into the center, deliberately making the jelly and cream leak onto his chin.

“Now I see why you want to we
ar these as well as eat them,” the man said flirtatiously.  “They’re delicious.”

“Thank you,” Belinda managed, blushing furiously
, but grateful that he had lightened the moment.

“I’m Pierre Cédaire.
  Yes, you heard my name right. 
Cédaire
sounds just like
Say
Dare
,” he chuckled and extended his hand.

When Belinda offered him her hand, he clasped it lingeringly in
his and gently kissed the top.  “Oh, I’m sorry,” he smirked. “It appears I got more of the sweet on you.”

“That’s okay
,” Belinda mumbled.  “I’m Belinda Rockland.”

“Yes.  I heard that an American woman
was opening up shop here, and I wanted to check it out.  I’m in the culinary business myself, you see,” Pierre explained, his eyes glued to Belinda’s raspberry-red lips.

“Oh, did you see the ad I placed in the local paper?” Belinda asked, trying to remain composed under the man’s intense perusal.

“No, no. Word gets around.  The shopkeepers in the area are pleased that you’re opening this store.  They think it will complement their businesses, and I agree.  You do make a lovely addition to this community,” he drawled the last part in a low tone.

“You said you’re in the culinary industry?” Belinda asked,
evading his flirtation.

“Yes, I recently opened a French restaurant in Monte Carlo.  We have a highly skilled pastry chef, but we could use some gourmet chocolates.  Perhaps you and I could form a partnership,” Pierre alluded.  “I could commission you
to create some chocolate after-dinner mints exclusively for my restaurant.”

Eager for any business opportunity that would gain exposure and prestige for her shop, Belinda instantly brightened, forgetting about the
jam that still coated her skin.  “I would love to discuss that possibility further.  You speak English very well, by the way.  Have you ever lived abroad?”

Pierre laughed loudly as though she had just told a hilarious joke.  “I lived in New York City for ten years.  That’s where I studied to be a chef.”

“Oh! Well, that explains it,” Belinda said, feeling self-conscious as the man regarded her with an odd combination of humor and desire.

“Are you in Monaco all alone?” Pierre ventured.

“My sister and her husband live here.  But I don’t have any other family in Monaco,” Belinda replied, immediately perceiving a rising interest in the handsome man.

“A beautiful woman like you shouldn’t be alone in a foreign country,” Pierre said intimately.

Belinda resisted the impulse to roll her eyes at the practiced line he had tossed her.  How many women had this man tried to seduce with a cliché like that?

Stubbornly, she replied, “Actually, I’ve been very busy focusing on opening this shop.”

“Well I can certainly understand that.  My restaurant was a nightmare to open, and it’s still having some growing pains.  But, what’s that American expression, ‘all work and no play?’  I don’t recommend it.  I recommend lots of play.”

I’m sure you do, playboy
, Belinda thought, shooting him an expression that told him she had no tolerance for playing games.

“Would you be my guest at dinner?” Pierre invited,
sobering as the smirk faded from his lips.

Suspicious of Pierre’s suddenly gallant approach, Belinda pursed her lips thoughtfully.  In Boston, she had been accustomed to a casual first date of drinks or coffee---and an even more casual invitation
through text.  Pierre’s suave yet direct way of requesting that she be his dinner guest was unnerving, and she wasn’t sure how to respond.  Ruefully, she thought,
this is romance right in front of my eyes, and I don’t even believe it
.

Staring her down impudently, Pierre twisted his lips into an expectant smile. “Well? What do you say, Belinda?”

“Yes!” She burst out, not wanting the moment to slip away.  “Yes, thank you,” she said more softly.

“Good,” Pierre’s smile broadened.  “Would tomorrow evening work for you? I will come to your residence.”

“No!” Belinda shrieked as emphatically as she had said ‘yes’ a moment ago.  “I mean, shouldn’t we meet somewhere?”

“Yes, we should meet at your residence,” Pierre asserted.  “Do you live nearby?”

“I live---um, yes, not too far, but…”

Pierre’s smile evaporated and frown lines formed on his tanned forehead.  “Are you sure you’re in Monaco alone?  Because I have no interest in courting a woman who’s involved with someone.”

Courting
.  Yes, that was the word for it. 
Courting
.  No man had ever courted her before, certainly not Daniel with his insulting bowling and fast food dates.  Flustered, Belinda wondered how she could explain to Pierre that she was not involved with anyone…but couldn’t have him come to her place.  There was no way to hedge his invitation without offending him.

“I guess it would be fine for you to come to my place.  I live just down the street in the
Papillon Apartments.” Belinda held her breath, knowing that if Pierre were familiar with her apartment complex, then he would know exactly how plainly she was living.  But he didn’t blink an eye.

“Wonderful! How does eight o’clock sound?” Pierre’s smile reappeared, lighting up his handsome features in a way that could make any woman melt like chocolate in a fondue pot.

“Perfect.  I’m on the second floor,” Belinda tried to contain her excitement.  “Here, one for the road.” She impulsively picked up another Raspberry Cloud truffle and placed it in Pierre’s large hand.

“
Merci
.  I hope to be tasting many more of your sweets,” Pierre oozed seductive force.  His lines would sound foolish coming from most other men, but from him, in that cultured French accent, they sounded divine.

*****

The following evening, Belinda struggled to view her reflection in the tiny bathroom mirror.  It was the only mirror her inadequate apartment contained, but for the moment she was grateful
that she could only see her face.  Even though she didn’t own a scale, Belinda knew that all the chocolate taste-testing of late had padded on a few more pounds to her already generous curves.  Instead of focusing on an unwanted bulge in her strapless black dress, Belinda concentrated on her face.  Her porcelain skin had an extra radiance from the Mediterranean sun and a dewiness from the excitement coursing through her.  Her hazel eyes were accented by muted shadow and thick black mascara.  And her lips were as red as the raspberries in the truffles she had shared with Pierre.