Free The Chocolate Thief by Laura Florand Page B

was standing there in humiliating Goth eye makeup, a sweatshirt, and an enormous pastry-chef jacket. He was the one talking about virgin chocolate with which he could do anything he wanted.
    “Now . . . what do you want to make of this chocolat ?”
    “Anything you tell me to,” Cade said, trying to be flip, to remind him that she was taking lessons and had to do what the instructor said. But it didn’t come out quite right. Her tone was too low, too absorbed.
    “Anything?” Sylvain gave her a little smile that made her feel like the teacher’s pet. “Vraiment.”
    Utensils had been laid out on each counter, waiting for the students. He picked up a great butcher knife, its blade as sharp as a stage whisper. His chef’s jacket, of course, fit him perfectly, made for him, so that his straight shoulders and lean waist were clearly defined. Elbow-length sleeves revealed lean, corded forearms, the muscles of his profession. “Veuillez m’aider à hacher ce chocolat, mademoiselle.”
    There was only one knife. How was she supposed to help cut with it? She looked around for another one.
    “Tenez.” He physically took her hand and put it over the handle of the knife. His hand on hers.
    Her skin felt sunburned, as if she needed to douse it in aloe and cold water.
    “Do you know how to hold a knife, mademoiselle ?”
    Yes. She had taken artisan chocolate workshops before, just not in Paris. And she liked to cook. At least once a month, she cooked. She always made it an elaborate, gourmet affair. But she kept silent, while his long, warm, agile fingers positioned hers, open, on handle and blade, so that she could shave off bits of chocolate without cutting off her fingers.
    The blade looked wickedly sharp. In her currently rattled state, she probably would cut off her fingers if she tried to manipulate it solo. But his hands stayed strong on hers, linking with her fingers to keep them lifted away from the blade. Together, his deftness overpowering her clumsiness, they shaved chocolate off a corner of the dark block. It curled and crumpled and fell to pieces against the cold marble, piling on top of itself.
    His arms brushed against hers, his biceps pressing against her shoulder. She could feel his lean, strong body. She could feel him taming himself for her, the speed and energy pent up and kept under control. He did not usually shave off his chocolate carefully, stroke by stroke, she knew. His knife would fly through it, thoughtlessly, as automatic as breathing; his muscles, used to this work, would barely be conscious of its resistance, its hardness under the knife.
    He lifted a shaving on one finger and brought it to her lips. “Goûtez,” he said. “Tell me what you taste.”
    “Could you show me how to cut the chocolate?” one of the American women asked Pascal hopefully, eyeing them from across the table. “I think I might need some . . . help.”
    Pascal Guyot gave Sylvain Marquis a look of deeply tried patience. Sylvain didn’t even notice it, focused on Cade.
    The chocolate was melting already on her parted lips. She took it, perforce, her lips closing just barely, just briefly, on his finger.
    His lashes lowered to hide some expression.
    She tasted . . . She didn’t think she should tell him what she tasted. It went beyond the chocolate, which was bitter, bitter on her tongue but extraordinarily smooth.
    A little sigh ran through him. “Let us make something you would like,” he told her, with heat in his eyes and a little, very male curve lingering around his mouth, as if he was playing a game he very much enjoyed.
    She was his game, Cade told herself. Was that it?
    Was he hers?
    “What do you like in your chocolat, mademoiselle ?”
    He poured white cream into a small pot as he spoke to her and added inverted sugar. He had taken her lesson in a different direction from the rest of the workshop. Pascal was still showing the others how to cut their chocolate and trying to stay patient with the woman who