Free The Chocolate Touch by Laura Florand

too long. His whole being craved proteins, a long, slow, complete meal. And the dessert on top of it.
    Frustration and injured pride flashed across the woman’s face. She lifted her chin. “Just what are you saying non to, Dominique? Did you think something was on offer?” She looked him up and down, her lip curling.
    His shoulders relaxed. Thank God for women who could give as good as they got. “I suppose I was just fantasizing that it was as good for you as it was for me. You can’t blame a man for dreaming.”
    A tiny soothing of her pride. She shrugged, to soothe it more. “Oh, it was great, but these things are better not repeated, you know. They lose all their appeal.”
    “Yes, of course,” he said. He knew that very well. And was rather pleased with himself for having managed not to be the one rude enough to point it out. He glanced back at the gleaming windows of his shop, in the most ridiculously counterproductive urge to show off to a certain someone how very well-mannered he was being.
    “I just came by to pick up some of your chocolates for some houseguests,” the brunette said dismissively. “And thought I would say hello while I was in.”
    “Bien sûr.” Merde . That meant he had to let her back in.
    Inside the shop, a cup of chocolate and a double dark chocolate réligieuse sat in front of l’inconnue . Untouched. She was standing, laying bills down on the table.
    Oh, God. “Guillemette,” he said sharply. “Could you assist madame?”
    “Madame” gave a brusque turn to her head when he left her side, but he prayed Guillemette’s elegant control of the room would cover even that situation.
    L’inconnue looked up when he approached her table. Even with her standing, he loomed over her. Her eyes were wry, cool, her face unblushing. That was bad, the lack of a blush. How to handle this so that it didn’t look like exactly what it was, a man trying to juggle two women?
    “Mademoiselle, bonjour,” he said quietly, forcing off all his hardness, trying to shove it away into some closet he could slam and lock. It was more difficult this time. He felt hard. Something vital was being threatened, and he only knew how to fight for what he wanted, slugging with all his strength. But his freckled stranger wasn’t a boxer. He couldn’t get what he wanted by slugging.
    “Bonjour,” she said distantly.
    “You’re not hungry?” he asked with a little smile at the food left on her table, exactly as if his heart wasn’t pounding frantically at the sight. She hadn’t even taken a taste.
    “I forgot I have an appointment.”
    That was a lie. The pounding of his heart was making him sick. He was so much bigger than she was. Could he just wrap her up and take her away and explain . . . what, exactly? Maybe he could explain with his hands and his mouth on her body. The thought surged through him. God, yes, tracing freckles. What a lovely, delicious morning that would be. There wasn’t any other way to communicate . . . whatever it was he wanted to communicate.
    “Did you like your caramels?” he asked with another smile, willing her to respond to it the way she had the afternoon before.
    Her eyebrows flexed, troubled, and smoothed again. “I did,” she said, but didn’t smile.
    He kicked his smile up another notch, coaxing hard. “Which one did you like the best?”
    “All of them,” she said, resigned. She looked away from him, slipping her wallet into her purse.
    “Would you like to see how they’re made?” he asked on a sudden inspiration, stretching out a hand. Could that prove an irresistible temptation? “Could you call your appointment, put it off?”
    She stilled and looked back up at him, her eyebrows knit. She glanced past him, toward the counter, where Guillemette boxed chocolates for the brunette. He didn’t dare glance back at what the brunette’s expression might be, but l’inconnue ’s face grew more troubled.
    “Surely you don’t have time for that,” she said