The Chocolate Heart (11 page)

W
ithin minutes of Ellie Layne Casset's departure late that afternoon, Patrick found an excuse to start plating one of the chocolate desserts beside Luc. “So did you leave her alive? Or did you flay her, you bastard?”

Luc fisted his hand around three circles of gold sugar and shattered them into bits. Damn it. He shook out his hand, scattering the fragments. “Are you protecting
her
from
me
?”

He shouldn't have used her father's insult against her. Since when did he stoop to imitating anyone, let alone someone so lacking in creativity?

Patrick lifted his fingers in indication of something about the size of an atom. “But she's so wittle bitty. And did you catch those big blue eyes on her?”

Yes. Still and blank, as he swept out . . .

“Stop protecting her, Patrick.” It drove him wild with rage, the thought of
Patrick
stepping in to shield her. From him.

“Did you make her cry?” Patrick asked severely. “You're good at that.”

“What?”

“All our girl
commis
and interns, before they quit. And me, every night on my pillow. Sarah, has His Godhood made you cry?”

The slender, dark-haired intern paused in the act of reaching across an open flame for a pan, that eternal crease of hers tightening between her eyebrows.

Patrick reached out and caught her arm, raising it higher above the burner. “Careful.” He beseeched Luc for sympathy. “It's terrible. I'm so hot women are always burning themselves when they're around me. Not enough contrast with actual flames.”

Sarah Lin's mouth tightened, and she grabbed the pan and disappeared again. Patrick didn't appear to notice.

“No, I did not make her cry,” Luc snapped. “You're confusing her with someone who cares.”

Patrick's lips twisted oddly. “I wonder why I might do that.”

Luc rolled his shoulders. What a fucking awful day. Even Ellie's incessant bubbliness hadn't managed to make it better, and he usually liked Ellie quite a bit. In fact, he remembered feeling mildly jealous of Simon's catch. Today she had given him a migraine.

Shit. Was it possible he had really hurt Summer? And worse, had he
wanted
to?

Damn it, his shoulders felt knotted tight enough to snap. He could really use a swim.

 

Summer cut through water that yielded far too easily compared to ocean waves.

The hotel pool was a thing of beauty, a serpentine river whose brick edges curved around a small island in the middle, full of ferns and wide-leafed plants. More green things grew under gentle lights in banks around the room. Soft night-lights glowed under the water and from discreet points along the walls.

Summer swam around it like a hamster in a wheel. Used to swimming out to the reef on a daily basis so she could walk along it looking for shells, or swimming the half mile out to the neighboring atoll for fun, the compact little pool left her . . . frantic.

But she came here, every quiet, lonely night when it would be high noon on the other side of the world. Slipping into the monotony of it, no waves, no fish to nibble at her toes, no dolphins to arc up to the surface of the water in amused curiosity, no small harmless sharks to provide an illogical kick of adrenaline.

She could forget, let her mind go blank, sink Lethe-ward. The river of oblivion.

Yes, oblivion would be nice. Sleep, no dreams. It was one in the morning. The pool was closed, but if the spoiled brat owner wanted to drown herself, who was going to stop her? In fact, several charities and universities would be delighted. She couldn't say she had her father's dedication, but she had done a few clever things with the million dollars he had given her as “seed money” when she was eighteen. Turned out she had an amazing knack for dating future enormous successes and being the first person to invest in their dreams. Must be her taste for insanely obsessive, focused, ambitious workaholics. It never worked out well for the relationship, but her portfolio was doing great.
Penthouse
had even done an article on it once. “What do all these hotshots have in common? They once dated Summer Corey.” She had refused to pose, but they had managed to get some sexpot shots off paparazzi and touch them up.

She tucked her head in and something touched her ankle. She gasped in water, surfacing.

Hands caught her hips and set her, coughing, against the edge. Luc Leroi. The strange lights of the nighttime pool played with the water gliding over his gold shoulders. He stood on the bottom of the pool that her toes couldn't reach, and her elbows braced on the edge put them almost exactly even. A strange sense of power surged through her. She was so used to looking up at men that to be on a level made her feel . . . towering. Invincible.

Exposed. To a man wearing nothing but a slick-fitting black swim short, his body on offer to her. Her gaze drifted before she could help it, over taut abs and strong, supple shoulders, long, defined arm muscles, a core constantly in use, a body that never stopped bending, lifting, stretching, controlling. Gold seemed to spread through her palms, a heat she wanted to stroke all over him.

“Pardon,”
Luc said. “I was signaling to pass.”

Right. The touch of an ankle, pool rules. How hard had he pushed himself to overtake her? Even with all that compact power in his shoulders . . .

Don't pay attention to his bare shoulders, Summer. Or to the rise and fall of his chest.
Or to the fact that his hands still held her hips.
Considering how spoiled you are, you have to have enough sense of self-preservation to get out of here with your soul.
But she pulled her cap off, ponytail dropping down to cling to the nape of her neck. Nobody looked good in a swimming cap.

“I'm sorry if I scared you.” He seemed to pick his words with great care, his eyes watchful. “You don't notice much when you swim, do you?”

She shrugged, not smiling. How long had he stood there, watching her circle with those steady, impervious eyes of his?

Her body began to tickle all over in perverse pleasure at her vulnerability.
He's not supposed to be your toy, Summer. Remember? His emotions are too much more important than yours.

Water trickled off his hair and slid down his forehead. He didn't release her hips to brush it off.

Her fingers ached as she watched the drop travel, curling into her palms as it neared his eyes. It caught on his eyebrow. Her own forehead crinkled, her thumb rubbing against her own hand.

“Or any other time,” he said.

She had watched him for an hour. What did he think she hadn't seen? “We spoiled brats, we aren't famous for our powers of observation.”

His hands flexed into her hips, sending heat lancing through her. “I would apologize for that, if I could make the apology sincere.”

Her head went up. “Yes, and I would eat you, if I could stand to put you in my mouth,” she said deliberately.

His hands spasmed on her hips.

“Eat your desserts, I mean.” She smiled insincerely.

His eyes held hers, a black gloss. Incredulous, hard, searching. “You have a very . . . dirty . . . mouth,” he said slowly, as if she was a riddle.

“No,” she said with another wide smile that could leave him no idea how angry she was, and ran the tip of her tongue over her lips again, carefully, before giving a delicate, hungry nibble to her lower lip. “No, I promise, my mouth is perfectly . . . clean.”

A tremor flickered over his skin.

She slipped off the support of the edge, pulling her body against his to stay afloat. He jerked when her body pressed against him. “Sum—”

She kissed him. Her mouth open on his . . . heat and warmth, his mouth so
sweet.
Opening to her instantly, taking her into his mouth, letting himself deep into hers. So hard and so hot. Her body slid wet against his as she tried to pull herself even more deeply into that dark intensity of him, and—

A hard hand closed around her chin and separated them, wrenching her away from the mouth that was still shaped around hers.
“Qu'est-ce que tu fous?”
he asked crudely. “What the hell are you doing?” Crude, abruptly intimate, rough.

Great. Rough, intense sex with a stranger, breaking all barriers into vulgar intimacy. No hearts involved. That would be
perfect.
She surged up against him again, rubbing her hips against his while he forced her chin away from his mouth.

His hips arched into hers, his breath hoarse. His other hand wedged its way to her midsection and forced her back against the wall, away from him. “Do you even remember my name?”

What? Why the hell did he have to bring names into it? “I could just call you ‘Gorgeous.' ” Something safe like that. Yeah, and he could call her
spoiled brat.

So much anger flared in his eyes. How powerless
was
she, if he could still control his temper?

She twisted her head quickly, catching his hard thumb in her teeth and suckling it. Breathing hard, face set, he pulled his hand away.

“Luc.” She peeked enough to catch the flicker in his eyes as the word hit him. Now as long as she didn't let it hit
her.
“Luc,” she whispered again and closed her eyes against any indication of his feelings. She couldn't do this if he was a person. She wanted temporary oblivion, a tiny dip in enticing darkness to get her through these three months here. Then she would go back to the place where she was whole and happy and not leave part of herself behind again with someone who thought she was insignificant.

She found his hand again and curled her tongue around his thumb.

He wrenched it out of her mouth and caught her chin, turning her face back toward his.

She kept her eyes shut. The chlorine overwhelmed his scent, aiding her quest for anonymity. She could forget how delicious he smelled, outside this pool. Like the world had blended its spices on his skin.

“Open your eyes, Summer.”

She squeezed them tighter, drawing her leg up his thigh while the hot pressure of his hand against her belly kept her at bay.
Don't be ridiculous. You know you want this, nameless sex with a rich blond brat in a pool, come on, you don't need me to look at you. Let's just get this over with, all right? Lower that pressure. Just a few inches more . . .

“Putain.”
He picked her up to set her on the edge of the pool, and she opened her eyes enough to see a black fury.

“I've got higher standards than this,” he said flatly.

Twisting, he dove into the water, not resurfacing until he was at the far turn around the little island, leaving her sitting there as if he had just sliced her belly open.

Gutted her like a fish, and left her flopping out of the water.

H
igher standards.

Higher standards.

The words expanded and contracted like a fever dream as she walked through the hotel with Alain Roussel, learning its workings. As she looked at financial reports and drew doodles in their margins of waves against beaches and coconut palms. In her room, under the lofty light of the Eiffel Tower, she put more photos of her island life on her big-screen television and tried to stare at them, at all the people who loved her and whom she loved in gratitude for it, until the words went away. But they came back, filling her like a balloon about to pop.

If only that
pop
would ever come. The need for a pin was driving her insane.

Higher standards.

Like she was a burger and fries, offered to his superior palate.

She wondered if he could keep the sneer on his face while he was burying himself deep in her against a shower wall—

What the hell was wrong with her? She sank forward, in that same shower, scrubbing her face hard with her hands.

“Did you get any sleep last night? Or are you just sick?”

Luc, noting
gold powder
on the whiteboard, gave Patrick a dark look. “I'm not sick.”

Patrick grinned. “No, of course not. Not
you.
It's against your principles.”

“Well, it is.” He hadn't gotten sick in ten years. It would have outraged him to sneeze on one of his creations.

“Mine, too,
mon cher,
except in ski season. Then I'm always too sick to work for a good two weeks.”

“I've noticed,” Luc said dryly.

“Oh, come on, I go after Valentine's, it's our slow period. You should come this year, instead of going off to Costa Rica like last year. Volcanoes.” Patrick made an exaggerated
pff
ing noise of contempt. “Fantasize about exploding much, do you?”

“Go away, Patrick. Do I look like I want to talk to you?”

“Well,
no,
actually.” Patrick folded his arms in delight and leaned on the opposite side of the marble counter as if it was a damn bar and Luc was about to mix him a drink. “That's what's so fun. It's usually not this easy to annoy you. So what's with the red around your eyes? Are you overdosing on energy pills? I always thought that energy of yours was unnatural.”

Luc gave him a disgusted look. Patrick had as much energy as he did, he just managed to hide it somehow. Maybe Luc should try to learn the trick of that lazy façade. He would bet island sunshine there would
love
a lazy surfer boy.

His eyebrows plummeted as he remembered her face relaxing, turning up to Patrick's the day before. Maybe he should send Patrick off on his ski trip early, a nice long one. When she finally focused, he didn't want it to be on the
wrong person.

“Ooh. This
is
easy. Look at your eyebrows, all scrunched so cute like that. A little accusation of drug abuse has already gotten a rise out of you?”

“Weren't you supposed to be working on those Phénix?”

“Oh, sure, sure, sure.” Patrick picked up some utensils and started tossing things around. He had a way of working as if he was throwing on clothes un-ironed while half-asleep, but Luc had stopped flinching long since, and only occasionally double-checked it. That double-checking was an unwarranted compulsion that was one of the reasons Patrick would eventually leave to start his own place. “But if it's not drugs, and you're not sick, that leaves . . . ” Patrick froze. “You're not allergic to something, are you?”

“Of course I am not,” Luc said, irritated.

“Mon cher.”
Patrick reached out and squeezed his shoulder, across the counter, as if he had had a near brush with death. A top chef wanted
nothing
excluded from his artist's palette. “So glad for you. Then that leaves sleep. Or lack of it.” He grinned. “Is she cute?”

“Patrick.” She was so far beyond cute. Except when he had caught her tossing stuffed animals with small children. That had been surreally adorable. Surreal?
But she must do that kind of thing all the time, teaching small children. It's the sexy, elusive image of her
here
that is surreal.

“What am I saying, of course she's cute. To attract His Majesty's attention? She has to be. Are you going to produce gorgeous children?”

“Pa-trick.” The word “children” punched through his stomach and left a hole in his insides, his soul a damn American doughnut
. Merde,
this was bad.
She had wanted him to take her against the wall of a hotel pool while she kept her eyes closed so she didn't have to know who it was.

But . . . she had watched him for an
hour.
As if she couldn't look away. How could she pretend not to know who he was? And how had his life turned so upside down that he had had to refuse wild, kinkily semipublic sex with a beautiful blonde who was offering herself up in a pool to him? No man should ever have to do that in life.

And then be teased by his sous-chef about the cute woman he had spent the night with.

He probably should have leaped at his chance.

But she had his heart stuck to her damned fingers. And she dismissed everything he made for her as easily as breathing. It made him
wild
with rage. It woke that child in him, who so many times had wanted to leap at the beautiful, indifferent Métro commuters and claw at her and
force
her to look at his pitiful dancing. And that child made him writhe.

“She's not a beautiful blonde by any chance?” Patrick asked innocently.

“Patrick. Why don't you go skiing now? Didn't you always tell me the powder was better in January and you only sacrificed yourself for me? The guilt is killing me. Go. And stay away a
long time.
I'll handle Valentine's without you.”

“Aww . . .” Patrick blew him a kiss. Luc nearly leaped across the counter and strangled the man. “That's so sweet of you, chef. But I know you're just deluding yourself about managing without me. Plus, my reservations start February 16.”

Luc looked at the total catastrophe of the dessert he was trying to invent. He had been working on the thing off and on, in between rushes, all day. The warm suggestion of some delicious ripe fruit just out of reach was working out, but the other element he was working on, this idea of something stretching toward that fruit without ever being able to reach it—it was all just an awkward, over-forced mess. “You know, it wouldn't be any great loss to me to upend this over your head.”

“Seriously?” Patrick straightened as if touched by a live wire. “We can have a
food fight
? I've
always
wanted to do that here.”

Just for a second, the idea was glorious. The taut, tense kitchens erupting into battle, releasing . . . all kinds of frustrations. Luc grinned despite himself. “Don't tempt me. We've got a new owner. I wouldn't want to leave the wrong impression.”

“Too late,” Patrick said sympathetically, reaching out to pat him on the shoulder. “I hear she doesn't like sweets.”