When Chocolate Is Not Enough...
‘Miss Flynn? If you could wait a moment?
Miss Flynn?’
Fighting against her sudden desire to reach for the nearest heavy frying pan in the kitchen, Daisy stopped and inhaled deeply.
This man was Marco’s customer—and she owed Marco several favours. Not including the job offer. Insulting one of his diners was not perhaps the best way to win more orders from the restaurant chain. Even if this particular diner seemed to think that he knew more about chocolate than she did. At least his lovely wife had been charming. And he had bought some of her rabbits for his little girl, who probably idolised him.
That was it. He was a family man. Happily married. And one of Marco’s paying customers.
Be nice to the people who pay your wages, Daisy.
So she fixed a professional, all-weather, no matter how great the provocation neutral smile on her lips, lifted her chin and turned slowly around so that she was not blocking the kitchen door.
And instantly had to fling her back flat against the wall to stop him from sending her flying.
He was caught out by her sudden stop and grabbed hold of both her arms to stop himself falling and crushing them both on the floor. In the process he drew her to him so quickly that Daisy barely had time to breathe before she found herself pressed up against the front of his shirt.
Both of them sucked in a shocked breath, and for a moment time seemed to stand still before he took a step back to create an appropriate space between them.
Back at the food stall she had been too busy to notice more than his unruly long dark blond hair hanging from a side parting almost to the collar of his black shirt. But up close he seemed to tower over her, even in his fairly flat black boots. He had to be well over six feet tall, but it was the sheer breadth of the man that made her bristle and want to step backwards to get out from his shadow.
His fitted black shirt covered a hard body and wide shoulders—but that was only part of it.
His blue eyes were the colour of forget-me-nots in the spring, and they contrasted so intensely against his deep suntan and heavy eyebrows that they seemed to be illuminated from within. And at the moment those eyes were focused totally on her. Light from the large picture windows in the restaurant shone on one side of his face, throwing his long shapely nose and square jaw into sharp profile.
If it was not for the thin white scar that cut through one of his eyebrows, and the dark bruise of shadows under his eyes, she would have said that he was gorgeous.
But she would settle for the upper end of the handsome scale.
Overall, he was probably the most masculine man she had met in a very, very long time. Not that she met many male customers in a life that whirled between Tara’s flat and the kitchen they used for their catering business.
He took a step away from her and released her arms. She inhaled the scent of cheese and lunch, good bread and … chocolate. Not the full-cream praline chocolate she had used to make the dessert he had just enjoyed, judging from the clean dessert plates, but an undercurrent of bitter, sharp and aromatic cocoa. As distinctive as any type of coffee or wine. And, to her attuned senses, as tantalising as the most expensive cologne any Paris perfumier could concoct.
That was probably why her throat went amazingly dry the instant one side of his mouth turned up into a cheeky smile which creased the side of his face and was obviously intended to make her swoon at his charm.
Not going to happen.
Even if it was remarkably effective. And he still smelt amazing.
She flicked her hair back behind one ear, desperate for something to do whilst attempting to find out why he had called to her. Perhaps his lovely wife had sent him to apologise, and he was being a dutiful husband?
Then she looked into his eyes.
Okay. Perhaps not such a good boy after all.
In fact those eyes were sparkling with excitement, and an interest which seemed to be aimed at her.
A frisson of more than professional interest lit like a fuse inside her poor heart—before she dumped a large bucket of icy water over it.
This was a married man with a child, whose mother was still sitting in the retaurant! The sooner she remembered that and let him get back to his coffee and his elegant and stunningly beautiful wife the better.
Handsome people who had won first prize in the gene pool lottery belonged together—not in kitchens with the hired help.
Daisy lifted her chin. She had waved goodbye to being second best the day she’d packed her bags and left Paris and her cheating former boyfriend Pascal behind. Not even this Greek-god-handsome face and body were going to sway her down that rocky path again. She had learnt the hard way that good things did not always come in beautifully wrapped packages.
This man looked like a praline wrapped in gold foil, but for all she knew that tempting cover might well conceal a bitter lemon boiled sweet. All promises. No delivery. Been there, done that, and hadn’t even come back with the T-shirt to show for it.
‘Did you need something, Mr Ormandy?’ she asked in as sweet a voice as she could manage—but the tone seemed to emerge as a sort of a squeak.
‘I was hoping that you might spare me a few minutes to talk about a business proposition, Ms Flynn. And please call me Max, as all my friends do,’ he murmured, and flashed her the full-on charming smile which, aimed at any other woman, would instantly have had her on her knees.
The cheek of the man! His wife was still in the same room, chatting to the head chef. She didn’t know what kind of business proposition he had to offer her, but she knew she didn’t want anything to do with it.
Even so, she had to rally her defences before replying.
‘A business proposition? What kind of business could we possibly have in common? Unless, of course, you happen to be in the chocolate trade? That is the only way you could tempt me to take you seriously.’
She had intended him to take her question as a joke. After all, she wasn’t interested in the least in whatever he had to offer.
This was why his reply hit Daisy right between the eyes and rendered her completely speechless.
‘Actually, I am in the chocolate trade. I happen to own an organic cocoa plantation in St Lucia. The Treveleyn Estate grows some of the finest organic cocoa beans in the world, and I’m looking for a dessert chef who is as passionate about chocolate as I am. Tempted now?’
CHAPTER THREE
‘HAVE you ever heard of the Federation of Organic Cocoa Growers?’
Daisy looked at Max over the rim of her coffee cup and gave a quick nod of affirmation. They had escaped to a quiet corner of the restaurant while the waiting staff cleared the room after the end of the lunch service, but she was pleased that she was not alone with Max—especially since his lovely wife had already waved him goodbye and headed off towards the shops, leaving them to talk chocolate.
Chocolate. That was what she had to focus on. Not the way his blue eyes looked at her with such intensity that they seemed to glow.
He wanted to talk to her about chocolate. She could do that all day.
‘I buy most of my chocolate from a small Belgian company who source their raw cocoa paste from federation members.’ She put down her coffee cup, but wrapped her fingers around the delicate china before speaking again. ‘Why do you ask?’
Max shuffled forward in his seat and rested his elbows on the table as he stretched his arms out towards her, closing the gap between them and making her wriggle a little on her chair.
‘Simply this,’ he said. ‘I’ve just flown back from St Lucia so that I can attend their annual conference. It’s being hosted this year by a hotel chain who specialise in boutique eco-hotels in luxurious settings. Think Bali, Malaysia, Costa Rica and a few unspoilt sites across Europe. Their hotel in Cornwall was a working abbey until a few years ago—they were virtually self-contained. And organic.’
Daisy smiled and took another sip of coffee. ‘Any conference about cocoa sounds wonderful to me. I do struggle to keep up with the latest news sometimes—especially at this time of the year. In fact Tara is expecting me back in the office to get ready for two hen parties and a wedding rehearsal buffet lunch. I wasn’t joking about the wedding season, and there’s lots of extra cooking to do.’ She licked her lips and put down her cup. ‘But that doesn’t mean that I am not passionate about chocolate. I’m just busy.’
Max laid his hand over hers just as she started to stand, startling her with the gentleness of his touch and the pressure of unfamiliar skin against hers.
‘That’s good to hear,’ he said. ‘Because I haven’t got to the really good bit yet. This is a conference with a difference.’ He slid his hand away before she had a chance to say anything.
Daisy breathed out in exasperation and frowned at him, only to be met with a smile of such total confidence that she finally surrendered to her curiosity and slid back into her chair.
‘Five minutes,’ she replied, and made a thing of looking at her watch.
Almost instinctively she sensed Max move forward, just enough to make her want to shuffle back, but she fought it to finish off her coffee and lower the cup back into the saucer with a clatter.
‘I don’t want to be rude, but either you’re on commission for the hotel chain or I’m missing something here. Last time I checked St Lucia was a Caribbean island with pretty spectacular scenery and a lovely coastline of its own. Has the wonderful world of the internet not reached your plantation yet? I’m sure it is much more economical to do business over the web these days. I certainly wouldn’t want to waste my time at parties when I could be working.’
‘You’re quite right.’ He nodded in acknowledgement. ‘But I wasn’t joking about having a business proposition. You are clearly just as passionate about your business as I am about mine. That is why I have an idea which could be of benefit to both of us.’
His fingers tapped for a few seconds on the table.
‘Let me start by telling you why I have travelled thousands of miles to be here, Ms Flynn. Firstly, I have my daughter’s birthday coming up—but you already know that.’ He paused for a second to flash a laser beam smile which made her choke slightly on the dregs in her cup. ‘What you may not know is that for the last twenty years or so every sack of cocoa beans leaving the Treveleyn Estate has been snapped up at market prices by one of the largest confectionery companies in Japan.’
He raised one hand and then the other as he spoke, so that each word seemed to be punctuated by the waggle or curve of his fingers.
‘They want top-quality cocoa beans which they roast and process in-house, and they come to me to make that happen—which is good news for them and good news for me … as far as it goes.’
His hands dropped back down to the table. ‘The problem is that even with premium pricing there is still not enough money coming into the estate to give the farmers who work there a decent income and provide a future for their families.’
He sat back and stretched out his long legs, but she could see the tension in the multiple creases on his forehead and in the muscles in his neck.
‘When I bought the estate I made a commitment to the families who work for me that I would make it my business to trade the amazing product we grow for the best price. Since then I’ve been working to make that happen. With something new. And that is why I am back in England.’ Max reached down inside his rucksack and pulled out a zipped plastic bag containing a large white plastic ice cream container. ‘Two years ago we started roasting and processing some of the cocoa on the estate. It has taken a lot of hard work, but I finally think we are there.’
He waved the box and carefully undid the lid a little. The delicious, powerful aroma of freshly ground chocolate filled the space between them.
‘This is only a small sample of the cocoa paste I made last week. My plantation specialises in rare and amazing varieties of cocoa bean—the kind of fine flavour which would give unique characteristics to any chocolate. Now I am looking for new buyers who can truly appreciate what fine chocolate from a single estate in the West Indies can taste like, smell like—feel like on your tongue when you eat it.’
His mouth twisted into a smile of pleasure and delight as he spoke the words, and Daisy sat mesmerised, tempted to take a closer look at the raw chocolate and yet holding back, just in case it truly was as remarkable as Max believed it to be.
‘But there is a problem.’ He bowed slightly in her direction. ‘I want to sell this pure cocoa direct to chefs. And to me the best way of doing that is by showing the master chocolatiers at this conference just how terrific my cocoa can be in the hands of someone who has a passion for chocolate. In short, I need someone like you, Miss Flynn.’
Daisy blinked several times and stared at Max across the table. ‘Why me? There are lots of dessert chefs in London who would love to try your chocolate if it is as good as you say it is.’
‘I have just tasted a sample of your work. Believe me—my cocoa would be perfect for desserts like the one I have just eaten. Silken, perfumed and delicious. With just a hint of spice. I know that my chocolate and your recipes would be an amazing combination. In exchange you would, of course, be the first chef in the world to use artisan single-estate cocoa from the Treveleyn Estate. And all you have to do is agree to use my chocolate. What do you say? Are you willing to give it a try?’
Daisy’s heart started thumping as the impact of what Max was suggesting hit home.
A new organic chocolate supplier from the West Indies was offering her a single-estate fine chocolate. This could be the final magical ingredient she had been looking for—that unique final piece of the huge jigsaw puzzle.
It had taken her three years to recover from her disappointment in Paris, and there was not a day that had gone by without her thinking about how she could take that final step. Her very own signature chocolate. If there was any chance at all of her opening a chocolate shop with her name above the door, then she needed something remarkable to give her a unique edge over the other competitors.
She had worked hard, studied hard, and she had spent month after month working on recipes she knew would succeed. And yet she still had not felt quite ready to make the leap to her own business—not without that very special extra factor that would make her stand out from the crowd.
She had been disappointed before, but this could be it—she had to give him a chance.
Otherwise she might never be able to open her own chocolate shop.
Perhaps this scruffy man who loved her chocolate cake was the very person who could make her dream come true?
Suddenly her brain caught up with her heart.
This all sounded too good to be true. Perfect strangers did not come up to you in restaurants and offer you luxury cocoa. She was doing it again—she was allowing her enthusiasm and desperation to take over.
Business head on. Business head on.
‘Forgive me for asking, but before I answer that question I would like to know more about your cocoa plantation. There are some horror stories out there about chefs who have been let down by wonderful suppliers after they have spent months working on recipes. I need to know that you would be able to continue supplying the same quality product month after month, year after year. I hope that doesn’t sound too insulting, but chefs have to rely on their suppliers, and I wouldn’t want to put my name on the line and make a commitment only to be let down,’ she said firmly.
His reply was an intense stare, followed by a thin-lipped smile in which both sides of his mouth lifted at the same time, creating deep folds either side of his cheekbones. It was an all-embracing smile that a girl might fall into and be lost. Strange how she could not look away.
‘Okay,’ he drawled in that odd, lilting half-American accent of his. ‘I suppose that could happen. But this is not some passing fad. Far from it. I bought the estate a few years ago, but it has been in my family for as long as I can remember. In fact I spent the first half of my life on that estate on St Lucia. My parents fell in love with the place, and the people, and so have I.’
Max paused and looked out of the window for a few seconds before chuckling to himself.
‘The estate is a jealous mistress—but what can I tell you? I know every inch of her. I know where each variety of cocoa grows best, the microclimates around each river valley and native forest, and the names of every one of my estate worker’s families.’
He turned back to Daisy, his brow furrowed and intense, and when he spoke again each word seemed to echo inside Daisy’s skull.
‘I have invested everything I have in the future of the estate. And that’s why the Treveleyn Estate will always deliver. You have my word on that, Miss Flynn.’
Daisy inhaled two deep breaths, and then pushed her coffee cup to one side with both hands, breaking the tension which had built up in that space between them.
The power in those simple words was so energising that his intensity and sincerity seemed to leap across the small table, grab her physically by the shoulders and give her a shake. He meant it. He was not simply managing this estate—it was his life.
It wasn’t often that she met people with such a burning commitment and joy and drive for what they did—but she saw it in the man sitting across the table from her. Max Treveleyn was the real deal. He wanted to make a difference and do it on his own terms. And she admired him for that.
Her mind jumped from option to option, trying to weigh up the risks.
Should she take a chance? Take a chance on his passion? Or go through life settling for second best, just like her dad had done all of his life? Always waiting for his ship to come in. His bus to arrive. Waiting, waiting. Until it was finally too late to realise his dreams.
No. Never again. She was done with compromising. This could be precisely what she had been looking for. Even if Max Treveleyn was more like a Formula One racing car than a double decker London bus.
So she licked her lips, just once, and dared to look up at him with a faint smile, only too aware that his gaze had never once left her face.
‘As it happens, I am always looking for new suppliers of fine organic chocolate which could give my restaurant dessert ranges that special edge.’
She immediately raised both hands, palms facing Max, as he half rose out of his chair with a great roar of triumph which sent the waiters scurrying away.
‘No promises,’ she said quickly, leaning back, startled. ‘I have worked hard to make a name for myself. I shall need a price list and samples, but—yes.’ She nodded. ‘I will give your chocolate a try.’ She lowered her hands. ‘I should be able to get back to you in two or three weeks.’
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