The Oddest Little Chocolate Shop in London (3 page)

  
‘Just
around the corner, actually. Hill and Caruthers. Do you know it?’ She cocked
her head to one side, trying to look both highly numerate and friendly, which
was a tough combination. ‘Anyway, if you need any help with your books … ’

  
His
dark gaze narrowed on her face. It was a disconcerting look, as though he knew
perfectly well she was a fraud and had barely scraped a pass in maths at school.

  
‘Dominic,’
Rachel muttered warningly, staring at him. She smiled at Clementine before
sneezing again. ‘I’m Mr Ravel’s assistant. And I’d really like to carry on
being his assistant.’

  
'His
assistant?' Clementine's eyes focused on that sparkly engagement ring. 'Not his
girlfriend, then?' Then could have bitten her tongue out when both of them
stared, speechless. 'Sorry, it's none of my business.'

     
Rachel
glanced at the chocolatier, and her voice became squeaky. 'You think I'm
engaged to
him
?'

  
He
raised his eyebrows. 'I beg your pardon?'

  
'I'm
engaged to Dylan,' Rachel told her, shaking her head impatiently. 'We've been
together over a year now, it was our anniversary a few weeks ago. It's just ...
well, I'm saving for a deposit on a flat with him, and I really need to keep this
job. So anything you can do – '

  
‘Rachel,
that’s enough.’

  
She
shrugged at her boss's reprimand, but fell silent, looking away sulkily when he
glared at her.

  
Mr
Ravel turned back to Clementine. ‘It’s true that a second pair of eyes would be
welcome. The business has not been doing as well as I had hoped when … ’ His
jaw clenched and he seemed to give himself a mental kick. ‘If you are good with
figures,’ and his gaze swept her figure, almost as though he were unaware that
he was doing it, then wandered back to her face, ‘I could certainly do with
some expert help, mademoiselle.’

  
‘Clementine,’
she reminded him.

  
He
inclined his head at her name, in a kind of old-fashioned Gallic gesture of
courtesy, the kind you only see in romantic movies, and she fell dizzily and
irrevocably in love with the man.

  
Well,
in lust
.

  
He
was very attractive, after all. Too attractive to be let out in public.
Unaccompanied by her, that was.

  
‘When?’
she asked, hugging the cat to her chest so tightly that the poor creature made
a tiny choking noise and she apologised at once, loosening her grip.

  
He
had blinked, surprised perhaps by the speed of her response, but recovered
quickly. ‘Today?’

  
Quick-witted
too. She liked him more and more. ‘I can do today. What kind of time?’

  
Lifting
his wrist, he glanced down at his watch, blissfully unaware that she was
salivating over that muscular forearm with its cluster of dark hairs. ‘I have a
meeting in an hour, then we have to do some clearing-out upstairs this
afternoon … How about this evening?’

  
‘Over
a meal?’ she suggested, and saw his dark eyes refocus on her face.

  
‘Oui,’
he agreed slowly.

  
‘Meet
here at seven o’clock?’

  
He
nodded, and it was done. She had a date with the chocolatier. Her heart
squeezed in pure joy.

  
‘I’ll
bring my accounts,’ he added calmly, and showed her to the door with old-world
politesse, tacitly ignoring the Persian cat still attempting to escape the
tight clutch of her arms.

  
‘I’ll
bring my accountancy skills,’ she quipped, and allowed him to bundle her out of
the door and lock it behind her.

  
The
sound of the bolt going across was not terribly romantic.

  
Humph,’
she muttered to the cat, who glared at her crossly and flexed one white,
steel-tipped paw as though considering the use of lethal force. ‘Still, he
didn’t actually
throw
us out. Just
escorted us from the premises. Now I suppose I had better see if anyone round
here knows who you belong to, my beauty.’

  
Okay.
So it was a quasi-date. With accounts and a pocket calculator. But it was still
dinner with an attractive man. And she could not remember the last time that
had happened. Or rather, she could, but would rather not bring that dismal
occasion to mind.

  
Simon
had been a jerk. Dominic Ravel was perfect.

  
Or
he would be by the time Clementine had finished with him.

CHAPTER TWO

In Hope of Chocolate Orgasms

‘So what is this Monsieur Ravel like?’

  
‘Lovely.’
Clementine sighed into the phone. ‘Heavenly, in fact. Kind of citrusy with an after-hint
of rich bitter chocolate.’

  
‘Come
again?’ Her sister Florrie made an exasperated sound down the line. ‘I don’t
want to know how he smells, Clementine. For goodness sake, you’re worse than a
bloodhound for thinking with your nose. I mean, what does he look like? Is he
hot?’

  
 
‘Imagine eating a chili pepper on the
hottest day of the year, then treble it. I’m telling you, I lost the power of
coherent speech every time he looked at me. Those dark eyes … like velvety
chocolate … ’

  
‘Now
keep your feet on the ground, Clem. Remember what happened last time you
thought you had found The One. What was that loser’s name? Steve?’

  
‘Simon.’

  
Clementine
could not disguise the savage bit in her tone.

  
‘That’s
him,’ Florrie said flatly. ‘Simon used you horribly, then dumped you on your
birthday. By email!’

  
‘You
enjoy reminding me of that, don’t you?’

  
‘No,
Clem. I just don’t want to see my little sister make the same old mistakes
again. He may be gorgeous, but you know what the really fantastic-looking ones
are like.’

  
‘Vain,’
Clementine supplied wearily.

  
‘And?’

  
‘Arrogant.’

  
‘And?’

  
‘Already
attached.’

  
‘Or
they have no intention of letting a woman hook them.’ Her sister’s voice
softened. ‘Have dinner with this guy. Enjoy the moment. Then throw him back
into the sea and swim on.’

  
‘You’re
right, I know you are. I’m having trouble seeing him as a fish, but it’s the
sane thing to do. Throw him back, swim on.’

  
‘Of
course I’m right.’ Florrie, who shared a flat with her, hesitated. ‘Just make
sure you bring home some of his special French truffles. Like the ones you
bought me at Christmas. They were melt-in-the-mouth. What did you call them?’

  
‘Chocolate
Orgasms.’

  
‘Yes.’
Florrie laughed. ‘The perfect name for them. And as long as the only orgasms he
gives you are made of chocolate, you should be safe.’

  
‘Florrie!’
Clementine exclaimed, laughing too but embarrassed. ‘It’s just dinner.’

  
‘Right,
right.’

  
‘I
would never … Not on a first date … And it’s not even a date. I’m looking at
his books.’

  
‘Of
course you are.’

  
‘I’ll
see you later,’ Clementine said tartly.

  
‘If
I’m still awake when you creep in.’

  
‘Listen,
you wretch – ’

  
Someone
cleared their throat noisily right behind her and Clementine, who had been
leaning over an empty desk in an empty office, jumped, startled and instantly
guilty.

  
‘Gotta
go,’ she said hurriedly and put down the phone, then turned to smile at her
uncle, hoping to placate him.

  
The
boss.

  
‘Sorry,
Uncle Geoffrey. It was … ’

  
‘My
sister’s other garrulous daughter,’ he supplied sardonically, shooting her an
ominous look from under bushy eyebrows.

  
Geoffrey
was greying on top and rather stout, but still had a certain air of distinction.
His taste in suits was not exciting, but he tried to make up for it by wearing
‘quirky’ waistcoats and bow-ties which did not always suit him, though
Clementine would never have hurt his feelings by pointing that out. He was a
middle-aged Tweedledum, in fact. But adorable all the same.

  
He
had also been her favourite uncle until she had come to work for him. Not that
she did not like him anymore. But the fond avuncular smile so familiar since
childhood had been abruptly wiped from his face the first time she broke the
photocopier, and his voice had taken on a distinctly nagging tone when she
started coming back late from lunch. Only a few minutes late, but he had a favourite
saying about lost minutes. A very tiresome saying, and one she was now having
trouble blanking from her memory.

  
But
the accounting firm was his business, built up from scratch by his father
before him, and she did not want to disappoint him by getting anything else
wrong.

  
Clementine
feared she was not cut out for office life. Though it did not help that, since
she had no accounting know-how and was a menace where machines were concerned,
Uncle Geoffrey had now restricted her to the dullest jobs: dusting and
vacuuming were the mainstay of her life these days, with the occasional spot of
filing.

  
Still,
she needed to bring home enough money to pay her share of the bills, or her
sister would very quickly start muttering, ‘Night job,’ under her breath every
time she found Clementine watching telly in the evenings. And Uncle Geoffrey
had been very generous with her pay, considering how little he asked her to do.

  
She
wished again that she had not been made redundant from her job at the
advertising agency. That had been an exciting career with great prospects.
Until the redundancy package came along.

  
‘How
many times have I asked you not to use the office phone for personal calls,
Clementine?’ he demanded now. ‘Much as I love you and Florrie, I don’t see why
the two of you should constantly take advantage. And don’t try slinking off
just yet, it’s still a few minutes to half past five. And what does that mean?’

  
‘I’m
on your time?’

  
‘That’s
correct. You’re on my time.’ Belatedly her uncle seemed to register the fact
that she had reapplied her make-up, and rather more lavishly than usual. He
frowned, examining her. ‘Going somewhere special tonight?’

  
Tidying
away the notepad she had been doodling on while on the phone before he could
spot it, Clementine looked back at him speculatively. ‘If I tell you, will you
promise not to tell Mum?’

  
‘Do
I look like a spy?’ he demanded. ‘Do you think I’m in my sister’s pay?’

  
‘It’s
a dinner date. Chez Monsieur Ravel.’

  
‘Who?’

  
Clementine
sighed. ‘The chocolatier around the corner. Near the tube station. French
place.’

  
‘You’re
having dinner there? Is it a bistro?’

  
‘He
makes chocolates,’ she explained patiently, ‘and sells them in the shop.’

  
Perplexed,
he rubbed his shining forehead. ‘So why is this man taking you out for a meal?’

  
‘I
think he’s cooking it himself, actually.’

  
‘Good
grief.’ Uncle Geoffrey sniffed. ‘Ravel. Yes, I bought your aunt some chocolates
there once.’

  
‘Which
ones?’

  
‘They
have names?’ When she nodded, he blinked in disbelief, then waved his hand
vaguely. ‘I have no idea. As I recall, they were little heart-shaped chocolates
with some pinky-red mush inside. Rather tasty.’

  
She
gave a soft sound of pleasure, nodding. ‘Strawberry Hearts.’

  
‘So
you’re dating this chocolate-maker?’

  
‘Helping
him with his accounts. Over dinner.’

  
Uncle
Geoffrey stared. ‘But … you don’t know anything about accounting.’

  
‘He
doesn’t know that.’

  
‘You
can’t even add up, Clementine. Not if your estimate of what was in this week’s
tea kitty is anything to go by.’

  
‘He
doesn’t know that either.’ She paused, frowning. ‘I didn’t add up the tea money
properly?’

  
‘I’m
afraid not. You added a zero, by the look of the napkin you used for your
working-out.’

  
‘That
makes a difference?’

  
Uncle
Geoffrey looked at the wall clock. It was past five-thirty. He adjusted his
bright blue and orange bow-tie. ‘Go on, enjoy your date,’ he told her wryly.
‘And all the free chocolates.’

  
‘Thanks,’
she said, grabbing her bag and making for the door. On the way out, she threw
cheerfully over her shoulder, ‘I’m hoping he’ll give me lots of orgasms!’

  
It
would have spoiled her fun to explain the joke. Besides, Uncle Geoffrey
probably would not have heard her over his loud spluttering.

The white cat was waiting for her in the
shop doorway again.

  
‘Hello,’
she said, bending to stroke behind its ears. ‘Still here? Maybe you’re like me,
can’t keep away from sweet things.’

  
She
had asked some of the neighbouring shopkeepers that morning before leaving, but
nobody had seen a white Persian in the area before, let alone lost one. So
Clementine had reluctantly set the cat down on the busy pavement and watched in
trepidation as it slipped away, weaving between commuters as though the animal
knew perfectly well where it was going. Home, she had presumed.

  
Yet
here the cat was again, back at the chocolaterie.

  
‘It’s
a she,’ a warm male voice stated suddenly. ‘I … erm … checked.’

  
Clementine
straightened with such a jerk, she almost collided with the door frame. She
found herself looking directly into the sardonic eyes of Monsieur Ravel.

  
‘Oh,
hello,’ she said, a little breathless. She had been thinking of him all day, yet
somehow she had forgotten exactly how sexy he was up close.

  
He
had a patrician nose, a rather stern mouth, but dark Gallic eyes which smouldered,
more than making up for that aloof air by making her imagine long nights spent on
a fleece rug in front of a roaring fire. Not that she had ever spent a night on
a fleece rug instead of a bed. Indeed it sounded rather uncomfortable. She had
been camping once and there was nothing pleasant about seven hours spent tossing
and turning on an airbed in a dark, sweaty tent.

  
But
there was something sexy about his eyes.

  
‘Bonsoir,
Clementine,’ he replied, and his gaze moved slowly over her. It was like being
covered in warm milk chocolate. She liked the way he said her name too, as
though savouring the taste of it on his tongue. She started feeling a little
sticky. ‘I think you’re right, by the way.’

  
She
was trying not to think of him as Monsieur Ravel, a name which made her shiver
with delicious anticipation. The name Dominic was more human, someone she could
relate to. Then she realised he was waiting for a response.

  
‘Sorry?’

  
‘The
cat must be lost.’ He shifted, gesturing her to come inside the shop. The cat
followed her inside, and he closed the door. The door bell jangled in a musical
way, delightfully old-fashioned, as he locked it and turned the shop sign to
Closed. ‘She came back a few hours after you had left. She kept miaowing so
pitifully, I’m afraid I fed her some tuna in the end.’

  
‘And
she’s a … she?’

  
Dominic
nodded. ‘As far as I can tell.’ His smile made that aloof air disappear. ‘I’m
no expert, but I think it would be more obvious if she was a he.’

  
‘Oh,
quite.’

  
‘And
now she won’t leave.’

  
‘Tuna
is fatal. Didn’t you know that? Any kind of tinned fish or meat … You’ll never
get rid of her now.’

  
‘I
realise that now. But she looked – sounded, in fact – so hungry.’

  
‘They
always do. It’s a gift.’

  
‘Ah,
bien.’

  
They
both studied the white Persian while the cat herself, oblivious to the two
humans studiously avoiding each other’s eyes by looking at her instead, groomed
her fur with neat, meticulous licks.

  
‘So,’
she muttered, ‘you had some accounts to show me.’

  
‘Yes.
This way.’