The Chocolate Heart

The Chocolate Heart

by Laura Florand

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Overview

". . .lets you taste her every word." —USA Today bestselling author Christie Ridgway

Mille-Feuilles can't buy you love. . .

No one hates Paris—except Summer Corey. The moody winters. The artists and their ennui. The inescapable shadow of the Tour Eiffel. But things go from bad to worse when Summer stumbles into brooding, gorgeous chef pâtissier Luc Leroi and indecently propositions the hero of French cuisine. . .

Luc has scrambled up from a childhood panhandling in the Paris Métro to become the king of his city, and he has no patience for this spoiled princess, even if she does now own his restaurant. Who cares if she smiles with all the warmth of July? She doesn't eat dessert!

There is only one way to tempt her. A perfect, impossibly sweet seduction. . .

Praise for Laura Florand and her novels

"I adored this story. . .Paris, chocolate, and romance, all in one hilarious package." —New York Times bestelling author Eloisa James

"Both sensual and sweet. . .a story that melts in your mouth!" —USA Today bestselling author Christie Ridgway

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780758286345
Publisher: Kensington
Publication date: 11/26/2013
Series: Amour et Chocolat , #4
Pages: 368
Product dimensions: 5.40(w) x 8.20(h) x 1.10(d)

About the Author

Laura Florand was born in Georgia, but the travel bug bit her early. After a Fulbright year in Tahiti, a semester in Spain, and backpacking everywhere from New Zealand to Greece, she ended up living in Paris, where she met and married her own handsome Frenchman. She is now a lecturer at Duke University and very dedicated to her research on French chocolate.

Read an Excerpt

The Chocolate Heart


By LAURA FLORAND

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

Copyright © 2013 Laura Florand
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-8635-2


CHAPTER 1

She walked in, blond, small, tanned, smelling of monoï, the tiare-infused coconut oil from the islands. Luc recognized the scent because he smelled and tasted everything that passed through his hands, good or bad.

It wasn't a policy he usually applied to people, but ... she looked like someone a man wouldn't mind tasting, certainly. A sun goddess you might pick up off a beach on a tropical escape, feel the sand sticking to her skin when you made love to her, shake it out of the sheets in the morning with a smile on your face.

Or so he imagined. He had never escaped to a tropical island, not even once, but his ability to imagine—and realize—impossible things was world famous.

She looked tired, around-the-world-in-eighty-days tired, with a pinch around her eyes that went beyond jet lag. But when she looked up and met his eyes, she pulled out a smile so bright it was several minutes before Luc realized she had no idea who he was. She hadn't recognized him. She had just seen the symbol of the hotel under his name on his shirt and thrown him the same bright smile she would have given anyone.

So right from the start there was a problem. A conflict within him, perhaps. Luc knew with certainty that she had arrived on the edge of nerves and exhaustion. That she needed tolerance and compassion.

Yet he couldn't quite forgive her for that split second when he had fallen for that bright smile, and it hadn't been for him.

She probably thought he was the bellboy.


That was one hot bellboy, Summer noticed. Standing near the polished mahogany reception desk, framed by marble columns, light glimmering on his face from a gold chandelier. Welcome, Madame, to your mausoleum. Although doubtless he thought this place was a gorgeous palace.

Black-haired, probably about thirty, the man curled like a whip around her attention and yanked it to him.

How? She hadn't slept more than ten hours in the past four days, some of which she had spent hanging sick over the side of a cargo ship. How could he wake her up enough to notice him? Even if he was gorgeous, radiating sculpted, precise elegance, with a perfect, coiled tension in him. Tall and lean and lovely—and watching her.

Maybe someone at the hotel had checked out her dating history, figured out her type, and placed him there to keep her distracted and malleable.

How thoughtful of them.

She smiled at him because she was almost never too far gone to smile at someone as if he was special. The gift cost her nothing, certainly not any iota of herself, so why be stingy with it?

The bellboy, or whatever he was, stood perfectly still, a hotel logo embroidered on his stylish white shirt, with an open collar and up-to-the-minute cut. For a moment the power of his presence forced every detail on her: a honed, startlingly handsome face, the copper tone of his skin, the black hair, the black eyes that fixed her as if he had just spotted water in a desert.

"Monsieur." She put a hand on his wrist, smiling up at him, and a little flick ran up that matte skin. Great. She definitely needed a man who was putty in her hands right now; she didn't have the strength for anyone who could resist her. "Could you show me to my room, please?"

Tricky, for a bronze statue to stiffen further, but he managed it. Maybe not such putty after all. Wow, his eyes were so ... intense. Greed kicked through her, a desire to grab that intensity and wallow in it. Mine, mine, all mine. God, she must be out-of-her-mind tired.

"I think you have me mistaken for someone else," Gorgeous said with distinct hauteur. He kept cutting his way through every blurring of her brain, the one clear thing in her fatigue. He looked like a Greek god. A real Greek god, not those heavy-lipped marble things. Born out of Chaos, hardened by fire, ready to go fight some Titans.

"I'm Summer Corey," she retorted firmly. Top that, Greek God. "Come on. Here." She dove into her purse and came up with a handful of fifty-euro bills, fresh from the airport distributor, and lowered her voice as she pressed them into his palm. "Just get me to my room before anyone else realizes I'm here, okay? I need a nap."

"A nap."

Preferably in a hammock on the beach, but she wasn't going to get that. She was going to get some opulent bed that gave her hives. "I promise I won't let you get fired for sneaking me in."

Black eyebrows went up. "I promise you I won't be fired."

Oh, for God's sake, couldn't he take extravagant tips for discreet favors to rich clients gracefully? He was working at the top hotel in Paris, for crying out loud. Maybe she was going about this the wrong way. "I am Summer Corey." As in, the person who could do the firing, so stop arguing and get moving. Before she just fell over into his arms. She swayed a little at the thought of someone lifting her, carrying her, taking her away from all this.

"Congratulations." He left his hand open so that the bills scattered over his feet. "I'm Luc Leroi."

If she had had one iota more energy, she might have gasped and genuflected, just to subvert his arrogant tone. Le Roi, the King. She hadn't forgotten any European princes her mom was trying to set her up with, had she? No one came to mind. "So what are you king of?" she asked him with a little grin, which she was pretty proud of. Not everyone could pull out friendly grins for indiscreet bellboys when she felt ready for her own funeral.

His lips parted as if he had taken one to the gut, and his eyes went obsidian.

"Here," he said finally, with an edge to his voice. "Welcome to my kingdom, Summer Corey."

That couldn't be right. According to her father, this was her kingdom now. Her parents had always had trouble telling the difference between what might be their daughter's fairytale kingdom and her own personal hell. She curled her hand around his arm and leaned into him confidingly and then had a hard time not just letting him take all her weight. He took a soft, sudden breath as her body got close to his. Oh, yeah, so maybe he would like having her weight plastered to his body. She swayed just a bit more into him. "Here's some advice. When the owner of 'your kingdom' asks to be discreetly shown to her room, it's probably a good idea to help her out if you want to keep your throne. No matter who you think you are."

His eyes glinted. "That's thoughtful of you. The advice. Can I return the favor?"

Hard arms swept her off her feet and up against his chest, one arm under her legs, the other her back, the iron grip shocking her. He moved so fast it took her brain a few seconds to catch up and realize he had just saved her from this cold marble hall. And longer still to realize that she was probably supposed to be alarmed that he'd caught her, not overwhelmed with relief. Her body wanted to go limp as a rag doll.

"If you think your daddy's buying a hotel makes you queen of it, you might want to do some research on your new subjects before you come sweeping into your queendom. Thierry, mademoiselle's key."

A young man gaping at them from behind the mahogany desk blinked at the crisp command, fumbled, and finally slipped a card into Luc's fingers.

Black eyes glittered down at her. "And you might want to know a little bit more about a man before you ask him to escort you to your room." Her captor strode into the nearest elevator and dipped her enough to press a button without loosening his grip.

Summer stared up into night-black eyes as the doors shut them in. Never get caught with a strange man by yourself in an elevator. Especially if that strange man has literally grabbed you off the floor and hauled you into that elevator.

Oh, what the hell. It was better than being clawed to shreds by rage and loneliness and anxiety. She laid her head down on his shoulder and went with it.

His fingers spasmed into her, a tiny, quickly controlled pressure. His chest moved in a long breath under her cheek.

A strong shoulder. She curled her face into it, concentrating on the male strength and delicious scent of him. Such a strange, complex mixture of scents, whispers and promises of the entire world. Her eyes closed, tension draining out of her body.

His fingers flexed into her again, gentler, longer.

Good. He wasn't going to drop her. That was about all she needed to know at this point. She snuggled her face against his muscles, her mouth curving faintly as she drifted toward sleep.

The elevator's stop and his long, smooth stride as he left it nudged her awake again. Why was he walking so fast? Was he really carrying her off?

Her heart beat harder, adrenaline trying to break through her fatigue. She told her adrenaline to shut up. She liked this, plunging into erotic danger just where she had thought to be buried in deadly, merciless elegance. Kidnapped by a gorgeous stranger--you couldn't ask for a better distraction than that.

She wondered what he was planning to do with her, and how much she might like it. The muscles of his chest and abs flexed hard against her as he walked. It had been three years since anyone had held her, and he smelled so good.

Dimly, she grasped that fatigue and emotional stress had sent her right off the deep end, but she had no strength left to haul herself back up into a sane reaction. Besides, the scents in his shirt lured her like a fairy story. There, that vivid freshness, like strawberries growing in a wood, peeking under leaves. There, a crisp, bright, almost stinging scent, like limes gleaming on a tree in the sunlight. There, something rich and opulent she could sink into, curling up and letting its darkness velvet over her.

Her thoughts skated over the lean, hard muscles against which her body rested as he inserted her room card into the lock. She buried her face extra tightly in his shoulder to shut out the room. Goddamnit, but she hated hotels. Hated them with an intense and utter passion that made her want to scream their walls down--scream herself free.

Please don't leave me alone in this hotel. An irrational plea.

He set her down on the bed. For a second his arms caught under her, his body low over hers. Her eyes flickered open to his face, close enough that it was the only thing in the world she needed to see. "What's your name again?" she asked fuzzily. Probably best to know, since she was about to let him do whatever he wanted to her. Later, who knew, she might regain sense and have to track him down and punish him for taking advantage of her collapse. Find out if he had a deadly disease, or if she should acknowledge his paternal rights, or ... Shut up, brain. Let me just go with this.

His mouth compressed so hard she only then realized how much it had softened in transit. "Luc Leroi," he said, like nails into her brain. "It's on my shirt." He picked up her hand and drew her index finger over the first swirl of the L. "Here. Maybe you're a kinetic learner."

The shirt had a thick, tough texture, almost like an apron, not the usual silk-cotton blend. The thick, high-quality embroidery slid under her finger, the looping curve, the smooth fabric of the shirt, the muscles underneath. Down and around the loops of the L, the gentle wave of the U, curl the C, another L. She kept going after he stopped moving her hand, kept tracing the letters.

The hardness melted slowly from his face, his mouth softening, his eyes growing more intense. Maybe it was just her brain blurring.

As her focus faded, his sharpened. The thought of being at the center of that focus lured her like the one bright light deep in a tangled forest. No. Like the possibility of being the one bright light in a dark forest, of sinking into its depths and secrets, of being held as its one pure heart.

She took a breath. How did you keep a focus like that on you? Men with focus never focused on her for long. Luc, the king of something. Kings could be bought. Her dad did it all the time. If she bought him, then he would owe her his focus, right? She could pack him and his scents up with her and take him with her to her island. Clearly, he was worth more than a few bills from her purse, though, and he wanted her to know it.

"I could give you a Bugatti," she murmured to the fold of his shirt, because she couldn't keep her eyes open. Wait, what was she talking about? What use would a Bugatti be to him on that island? "Or a yacht."

His hand closed over her shoulder, hard enough to hurt. "What?"

She brought a hand to his, pushing at that painful grip, and he released her as if she stung, straightening away.

Well, damn. Her eyes flickered open enough to notice he looked furious. Gorgeous fury framed by the opulence of gray and rose silk draping above the bed.

Fuck. She threw her arm over her eyes-the next best method of shutting out the world she had been thrown back into. Apparently, being hauled off by a Greek god wasn't going to work out for her. The cold loneliness of the hotel room laughed, stretching little evil fingers toward her. I'm going to get you.

Maybe it was confusing the Greek god for her to keep trying to bribe him that way. You would have thought a god would be used to being offered tribute, but maybe not. She was slaphappy, wasn't she?

"I'm really tired," she said suddenly from under her arm.

A tiny silence. "Oui, j'ai vu." He sounded as if he was in some kind of pain.

A strong sure hand closed over her calf, and deft fingers released her sandal. Those same strong fingers hesitated and then closed briefly around her toes, wrapping them in warmth. "And freezing," he said low.

Maybe he could warm her up. She peeked out from under her arm hopefully. He gave her an incredulous, hard look and released her toes. Damn.

His hands flew. Faster than she could quite follow, he had her other foot bare and the comforter folded over her so that she was wrapped up in it like a gourmet hot dog.

And would have to warm herself up with her own reflected body heat. Damn it.

"How do you know I'm tired?"

He sighed. "It's obvious, soleil. Do you think I carry every beautiful brat who walks in and tries to buy me?"

He turned toward the door. Cold and loneliness rushed toward her, ready to fill all the void left when he abandoned her.

Beautiful. If you dropped the "brat," that sounded promising. "So you'll get back to me on the yacht?" she asked wistfully, just before the door closed on him.

CHAPTER 2

He still felt dizzy from it the next morning. Almost sick with it. Like some sweet little beauty had stroked her hand down his body, curled it around his dick, and then slapped the fucking hell out of him.

He wasn't into that. He liked the stroking, craved its sweetness, but he didn't want anyone beating on him in careless self-absorption.

The beauty of her, like a ray of sunlight breaking through the clouds, falling into a cold dark place he thought no sunlight could touch. And then he reached out and realized he couldn't catch sunlight. It could glide over his hands, blithely, indifferent to him, but he couldn't hold it in his.

He had been so convinced, in that first moment, that she was drawing on all her strength to keep that sunlight bright. That she needed him to sweep her up in his arms, rescue her from a dragon, carry her into his castle and keep her safe.

And all she wanted was to tip him for carrying her bags. Worse than every other woman whose beautiful, golden worlds he had ever longed for from the incredible distance of the other side of an upturned hat held out in the Métro. At least the golden, glossy women who used to flick him raw with their indifference in the Métro were probably working for their money. Back then, when they had seemed at the very top of his world, he couldn't even imagine women like Summer Corey, who had limousines to take her places.

He should have left her in that marble and mahogany lobby. Walked off, with her money swirling in a little eddy on the floor. But tangled with his pride and rage had been, still, the ridiculous desire to save her.

Well, he had cracked. He had saved her because he just couldn't leave her there, dripping money, crumpling from exhaustion, and acting as if he was worthless.

For a moment it had seemed to work. Nothing like kidnapping a woman to make her notice you. She had curled into him, pulling his soul out of his middle with each deep breath she drew against his shoulder.
(Continues...)


Excerpted from The Chocolate Heart by LAURA FLORAND. Copyright © 2013 Laura Florand. Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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