When his head ducked, he saw those whiskey brown eyes deepen, darken. He heard her breath catch. Felt the sudden trembly chill in her fingertips. And then his mouth dived down and settled on hers.
She tasted like warm, dark chocolate. Rich. Soft. Meltable.
Nothing in the universe tasted exactly like chocolate. Not good chocolate. Not really exquisite chocolate.
But she did. And no, it wasnt the Bliss shed been indulging in that put that exquisite taste idea in his mind. It was her. Her mouth. Her taste. Her lips molded under his, melted under his. She went still, on the inside, on the outside.
And damn it. So did he.
Praise for the work of USA TODAY bestselling author Jennifer Greene
Jennifer Greenes writing possesses a modern sensibility and frankness that is vivid, fresh, and often funny.
Publishers Weekly on The Woman Most Likely To
This is a must read book. Great job, Ms. Greene!
Old Book Barn Gazette on
The Woman Most Likely To
Combining expertly crafted characters with lovely prose flavored with sassy wit, Greene constructs a superb tale of love lost and found, dreams discarded and rediscovered, and the importance of family and friendship.
Booklist on Where Is He Now?
Crisp, pulls-no-punches humor.
Publishers Weekly on Where Is He Now?
Blame It on Chocolate
Jennifer Greene
www.millsandboon.co.uk
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Recent books by Jennifer Greene
Lucky
Hot to the Touch
Wild in the Moment
Wild in the Moonlight
Wild in the Field
To incurable chocoholics everywhere.
Of all the vices worth enjoying, this one seems awfully close to number one.
I gined ten pounds researching this book for you.
Taste-testing the best truffles on the planet was hard work! But worth it.
Trust me on this.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
WHEN THE ALARM CLOCK BUZZED on Monday morning, Lucy Fitzhenry leaped out of bed. It was hell waiting for that alarm. She hated wasting time on sleep when her life was so brimming full. She wasnt just jazzed to start the day; she was kite-high and dancing-ready.
She made it three feet across the room before the nausea hit. One second she was fine, the next she was beyond miserable. Thankfully she made it into the bathroom before a major upchuck.
Afterward, she knelt on the cold tile with her elbow crooked on the toilet seat, too weak to get upat least for another couple secondsfeeling infuriated in general.
She knew she was getting an ulcer. This was the third time in the last two weeks her stomach had done the revolt thing, and healthy twenty-eight-year-old women with cast-iron stomachs didnt hurl for no reason, so that had to be it. An ulcer. An ulcer caused by stress.
It was tough for a fussy perfectionist whod always been big on responsibility and doing the right thing and making everyone happy to suddenly take on wickedness. She was trying. She was putting her whole heart into it. But it definitely wasnt coming naturally, so she had to struggle at it, and changing ones personality was unavoidably stressful.
Her stomach rolled one more time, but the ghastly part of the nausea seemed to have passed. She hoped. Slowly she pushed to her feet, opened the glass doors to the shower, and flicked on the faucets.
Shed had the clear glass shower doors put in last week. That, and her sleeping naked, were two visible signs that she was gaining on her wickedness goal. Another concrete measure of progress were the purple satin sheets on her bed. Temporarily she didnt have a guy to vent all this new wildness on, but one thing at a time. Her stomach needed to recover from all these personality upheavals before she gave it any more stress.
By the time she climbed out of the shower, she was not only feeling fine again, but picking up speed. She ran naked into the kitchen to pop a bagel in the toaster, then charged back to the bedroom to raid her closet. Since ninety percent of her wardrobe consisted of either designer Gap or designer Old Navy, the days clothes decision was hardly tricky. She opted for Gap today. T-shirt. Sweatshirt. Jeansnot her favorite pair; they bagged a little in the butt, but she should have known better than to buy a size seven without trying them on; they were always a little big.
Back in the bathroom, she poked in her contacts, smacked on lip gloss, and ran a brush through her chin-length blond hairher hair was so fine it was already nearly dry. Then she claimed the bagel and streaked for the front doortaking ecstatic, if hurried, pleasure in galloping over the white carpet. White. WHITE. White, thick, plush and totally impractical. The print over the fireplace of the eagle flying over silvery-green waters was another splurgeshe fiercely, fiercely loved that picture. But both the print and the carpet were further proof that she was mastering the indulgent, impractical, wicked thing.
Of course, the carpet wasnt paid for. And neither was most everything else. But as of two months ago, she was no longer renting. The duplex had a mighty mortgage, but it was still hers-all-hers. Possibly she was the latest bloomer of all late bloomers at twenty-eight, but what the hey. Shed had to fight harder than most for true independence, and for darn sure, she was grabbing life with both fists now.
At the front door, she yanked on the jacket her parents had given her for Christmasa white Patagonia number that was crazily impractical considering her work, but unbeatably warm. And on the first of March in Minnesota, there was still a solid, crusty foot of snow on the ground, the temperature cold enough to make her eyes sting. She locked the door, still pulling on her white cap with the yellow yarn daisies. Shed have hat hair all day, but who cared? Shed look like a train wreck after the first hour of work anyway.
With the hot bagel crunched between her teeth, she slid into the drivers seat of her old red Civic, turned the key and begged it to startwhich it did. The baby just liked to be coaxed on cold mornings. Praying for the Civic had become a second religion. The Civ had more than 200,000 miles on her. Lucys newest theory was that if she gave the car enough wash-and-waxes and changed its oil long before it asked and vacuumed it twice a week, itd be too happy to die. At least until she got the living room carpet and couch paid for.
In Rochester, where shed grown up, people knew what rush hour was. Not here. Eagle Lake probably put up traffic lights out of pride, although some cars did show up to keep her company once she reached the highway. Originally shed chosen Eagle because it was a nice, long drive from her parentsand also because there was already a solid nest of singles and other young couples in the areabut it was a good half-hour commute to her job. She finished the bagel, tuned the radio up for a kick-ass beat and was singing hell-bent for leather when her stomach suddenly produced an unladylike belch.
Not AGAIN. Yet the nausea came on like a battleship, heavy and ugly and overwhelming. Her skin turned damp and hot so fast she barely had time to pull over to the shoulder and brake. Hands shaking, flushed and hot, she leaned over the passenger side, argued with the door, thank God got it open, arched her head outand then nothing.
The bagel stayed in. The bite of freezing wind on her cheeks seemed to help. Eventually she sank back against the headrest, feeling weak and yucky, cars speeding past her. The practical voice in her head ordered her to quit messing around and call the doctor, enough was enough with this nausea thing.
But her emotional side kept trying to figure out what shed done to deserve this. Yeah, she was trying to be more wicked, but basically the sins on her conscience wouldnt fill a list. Shed skipped school once in kindergarten. Shed thought evil, evil thoughts about Aunt Mirandabut then, so did everyone else in the family. Shed gone to a party one time without underpants. Shed let Eugene hang on too long. Shed borrowed her sister Gingers blue cashmere sweater in high school and got a spot on it and never fessed up. And yeah, there was that one other occasion.
Shed come to call that one other occasion the Night of the Chocolate.
But as quickly as that memory surfaced, she shuffled it, fast, into the part of her brain labeled Denial. Godif there was a God, and she thought there wasjust couldnt be paying her back for that one. Shed already suffered enough.
When it came down to it, shed lived like a saint 99.99 percent of her life. She dusted under the refrigerator, never took a penny that wasnt hers, always flossed. Her family relentlessly teased her for becoming a fussy old lady before she was thirtywhich really hurt her feelings.
The point, though, was that this stomach upset thing wasnt a sign that her life was about to spin completely out of control. It was just an ulcer or something like that. A something that a visit to the doctorhowever inconvenient and annoyingwould resolve once and for all.
And just like that, she felt better. Her hands stopped trembling and the weak feeling almost completely disappeared. Cautiously she restarted the car and pulled out on the road. She didnt turn the radio up and sing like her usual maniac self the rest of the waywhy tempt fate? Sometimes it paid to be superstitious.
Twenty minutes later, she was still okay. In fact, not just okay, but feeling totally fine when she spotted the thousand-acre fenced-in estate. She turned at the tasteful, elegant sign for BERNARDS.
The sign didnt bother spelling out Bernard Chocolates. It didnt have to. Anyone on four continentsat least anyone who appreciated fine chocolatewould easily recognize the name.
Even though it was Lucys second home, getting through the property every morning was more complicated than joining the CIA. Still, she was used to it. At the front gate, she simply popped in ID to make the electricity security fence open.
The driveway immediately forked in three directions. The road to the right led to the plant. The middle road meandered up to the Bernard mansion. Humming now, Lucy took the familiar third road that curled and swirled a half mile, bordered by lush pines and landscaped gardens.
A moment later she reached another electric fencethis one fifteen feet tall, with a gate that was both locked and manned 24/7. Instead of waving her through, Gordon hiked outside when he spotted her crusty Honda. Hell, Miss Fitzhenry, I was about to call the cops. Youre seven minutes late. I was afraid you must be in an accident.
Sheesh. Was she that predictable? Im fine, honest. Did you have a nice weekend?
Oh, yes. Me and the missus saw a good movie, had the grandkids over. In the meantimeboth Mr. Bernards are up at the house. Asked me to tell you to stop by around ten this morning if you could.
Thanks. And you have a great morning, Lucy said as she rolled up her window, but her pulse suddenly bucked like a nervous colts. Her pulse, not her stomach, thank heavens. The nausea seemed to be totally gonebut she still couldnt stop the sudden bolt of nerves.
The nerves were foolish, really. Any day now, shed known the Bernards would summon her for a serious meeting. Her last experiments had been beyond successfulso successful that they affected the entire future of the company. That was great news, not bad.
It was just that she normally met with Orson Bernard, not his grandson. On paper she reported to the senior Bernard, and God knew, she adored the older man, loved being with him and working with him both. Still, Orson was well over seventy and long retired. Everyone knew who really signed the paychecks these days.
It wasnt as if Lucy didnt like Raul Nicholas Bernard. She did. Orsons grandson was too darned adorable and charming and sexy not to like. Everyone liked Nick.
She just always got rattled around him. He knew it. She knew it. Probably the birds in the trees knew itwhich made her reaction to him all the more embarrassing. Realizing she was chewing on a thumbnaila habit shed broken at least ten years agoLucy firmly blocked that tangled thought train.
Behind her, the fence clanged shut. She caught Gordons wave from her rearview mirror and had to smile. Physically Gordon resembled a sublet Santa, but his background included intensive years as an army ranger.
It regularly tickled her funny bone that she could conceivably work in a place that required such expensive and extensive security. Funnier yet was that she actually had power over the security staff. Her. Lucy Fitzhenry. A woman who couldnt control her own flyaway hair, couldnt drink champagne without a fit of the giggles, and required a daily milk-shake to maintain 110 pounds.