The Chocolatier Read online

  “My mother taught me to think for myself and take care of myself. She had to after my father died. She had no way of knowing that we would share a similar fate.”

  “Marco is a lucky boy. He has a fine mother.” Sara slid a glance toward her. “Many women would be looking for their next husband rather than thinking about opening a business.”

  Sara’s comment sounded a lot like Marge’s advice. “I haven’t even thought about that.” Which technically, was true. Whatever involuntary, physical feelings Lauro had aroused in her were just that—feelings, not thoughts. She’d sometimes had crushes on boys in high school. A week later, she’d forgotten them. “Besides, I’m in no hurry. I miss my husband. Can’t imagine replacing him any time soon.”

  Ahead of them, Lauro turned around. He gave Celina a warm smile and gestured for her to join them. Watching the exchange, Sara pursed her lips in a satisfied smile. “I know it’s selfish of me to want you and Marco to stay. Maybe you’ll find someone here in Italy.”

  What did Sara mean by that? Her expression, her tone of voice… Had Lauro told his mother anything? She chewed her lip again. But what was there to say? Surely she had misread his attention. He was her brother-in-law. Flattery was practically the Italian way, after all.

  Here, men were complimentary. They appreciated women and weren’t afraid to express their appreciation for beauty. But their words and glances and touches didn’t mean as much as they did in America, of that she was certain. She shouldn’t take it the wrong way, nor should she read anything into Lauro’s or Sara’s actions or comments. She was merely in a different culture, that’s all there was to it.

  When they arrived at the last room, Lauro was explaining the final process to Marco. The room was filled with boxes covered with gold paper and vivid purple ribbons. Here and there were gift boxes in the shape of hearts or shells or jewelry boxes. Some were covered with fabric, while others looked hand-painted. Workers sat at long tables placing chocolates into boxes and wrapping each with a ribbon.

  “Here, perfection is essential,” Lauro said. “From the appearance of the chocolate to how it is placed in a gift box. Every chocolate is a gift—to family, friends, or yourself.”

  “How do you give a gift to yourself?” Marco asked.

  “Isn’t there something you’ve always wanted, but you’ve never told anyone? Or maybe you did, but they forgot. Since you know exactly what you want, you buy a gift for yourself.”

  “Or make one?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  “We like to make gifts,” Marco said. “My mother says handmade gifts come from the heart.”

  “Your mother is wise. You should listen to her always.” Lauro lifted his chin in her direction, a faint smile playing on his lips.

  A warm sensation bloomed in Celina as she watched Lauro and Marco. Just beyond them, a quick movement caught her attention.

  Behind Lauro, the women assembling the boxes were whispering, their slight frowns and furtive glances trained in her direction as they caught the look Lauro gave her.

  Sara touched her elbow. “I think we should move on,” she said softly, her gaze lingering in the direction of the workers.

  Self-conscious, she ran her hand over her hair. She wondered how much the employees would talk.

  As she was following Sara out, Marco raced to her, and she turned to grasp his hand.

  “Celina, wait.” Lauro caught up with her. “Don’t mind them,” he said, indicating the women who were watching her leave.

  “Why are they staring?”

  “You’re an American. They’ve heard you’re a chocolatière. And I’ve never brought a woman here, not since—” He cut himself off.

  Isabella. Who was this woman who had broken his heart, and why was the memory of their affair following her wherever she went?

  This was a small community that stretched back generations. Not like San Francisco, where people poured in from all over. She’d met few people who were actually born there. No, this was a different culture. Who your parents were mattered, and old transgressions were not often forgotten.

  If she ever expected to fit in here, people would have to accept her for who she was. She could just imagine what they were saying. Tony’s widow—the shameless hussy has an eye for his brother now. What did she do to our poor Antonino? Lauro should watch out. Annoyance seeped through her reserve. For them, but also for Lauro.

  “Everything here seems to have happened ages ago, but no one forgets.” Celina’s words had a sharp edge, but she couldn’t help it. “Although my husband should have kept in touch, at least he got on with his life.”

  Sara shot a look at her son and made a quick gesture.

  “We should talk about Isabella,” Lauro said to Celina. “And my brother. Come with me?”

  “Alberto promised Marco a surprise,” Sara said, holding her hand out to the little boy. “I think we should find him, don’t you?”

  Celina was torn between her exasperation and the physical attraction she had for Lauro that she was trying hard to deny.

  Marco happily went with Sara and Carmine, leaving her alone with Lauro. He took her hand and led her down a corridor.

  Maybe now she would get some answers about Tony.

  Chapter 14

  Lauro led Celina into a commercial kitchen and closed the door. “This is our test kitchen. We can talk here.”

  Celina took in the expanse of white porcelain and gleaming steel and nickel-plated equipment. Windows framed views of the ocean in the distance, and luminous white porcelain tile lined the counters, walls, and floors, giving Celina the sensation of floating inside of a seashell.

  Even the cool air, redolent with the rich aroma of chocolate and sweet liqueur, seemed tinged with sea salt, yet this setting, so soothing in its familiarity to her work kitchen in San Francisco, did little to placate the growing frustration she felt surrounding the constant comparison to Lauro’s old girlfriend, who was probably married with children by now.

  Or was it the nearness of Lauro, of being alone with him, that made her uneasy, just as it had at Adele’s boutique?

  Shrugging off these thoughts, she turned and spied the source of the aroma. On a marble counter sat a small bowl of sea salt for finishing. Next to that was a tray of molded chocolates in assorted shapes. Sea salt sparkled atop each one.

  “Our head chef and I have been testing nuanced fruit and liqueur flavor profiles,” Lauro said.

  Celina’s nose twitched. “Balancing sweetness or bitterness with sea salt, which also stimulates the taste buds. A nice textural touch, too.”

  “That needs a steady hand. Too little, no result. Too much, disaster.” Trailing a finger along her bare wrist, he added, “Much like love.”

  “I loved Tony very much,” Celina murmured as heat rose on her neck. And she needed to know what had happened here.

  He brushed her arm as he leaned past her, peering at the chocolates. A shiver raised the fine hair on the nape of her neck, and she felt her flush deepen. She imagined her cheeks were the color of the red poppies on her dress.

  “I’m glad,” he said, his voice imbued with compassion. “You were happy together?”

  As he spoke, she blinked against a growing, long-dormant yearning that seemed to unfold in her like a seedling reaching for the sun.

  Celina saw him waiting for her reply. “Very much, though we had our difficulties in the beginning. All of his injuries…they were traumatic for him.”

  “I’m glad you were there for him. We were both lucky to have loved him.”

  Lauro turned to choose two dark chocolates and handed one to her. “One early morning last week, I walked through a terraced garden over the ocean, peeling a blood orange. It was a Taroco orange, or arancia rossa, brought from Sicily many years ago, its skin thin with a hint of blush, its flesh the color of a setting sun, its sweetness beyond that of any other orange.”

  Pursing his lips in remembrance, he went on, his voice rich with reverence and wo
nder. “The salt air on my lips, combined with the sweet juice, inspired this new effort. Try it for me. I’d love to know what you think.”

  Celina brought the dark chocolate-enrobed delicacy to her nose and inhaled, reveling in the juxtaposition of aromas. Biting into it, a complexity of flavors melted across her tongue. The intense aroma of blood orange with its singular sweetness…a bitter edge of dark chocolate with hints of tropical earthiness…a tart explosion of sea salt that intensified every flavor. She licked her fingers, savoring the ganache that had melted, leaving traces on her skin. Smiling, she watched Lauro sweep his tongue over his lips to take in every morsel.

  “It’s magnificent,” she said, a strange ache gathering in her chest as she watched him. “An intriguing dichotomy…”

  “You are an artist, too, I think.” Lauro perched on a stool and took her hand. Gazing at her slender hand in his, he ran his thumb along her fingers.

  A subtle aroma of spiced sandalwood, tinged with sweet vanilla and a trace of chocolate, emanated from his skin. When mingled with his natural scent, the effect was purely masculine, like nothing Celina had ever experienced.

  Barely able to contain herself, she slid her hand from his grasp. “Please, don’t.”

  Surprise registered on his face. “I don’t mean to anger you.”

  “It’s just that…” She heard her voice quiver and hoped he hadn’t noticed. How could she explain how he made her feel? This desire she hadn’t expected, hadn’t sought, but couldn’t deny. Still, it didn’t feel proper.

  Not at all.

  Yet if she were honest with herself, she had caught herself wondering what his lips would feel like on hers, or how his arms would feel locked around her.

  “I understand. I am not Nino.” Lauro stepped behind her and smoothed his hands over her shoulders, kneading the tightness in her neck. “Relax.”

  Tony used to do this. Celina fought to maintain her composure. At his touch, she realized how tense she’d felt for so long. After a while, she felt her muscles warming and loosening under his strong hands.

  “You were going to tell me about Isabella.”

  “I will. But at the moment, you and these knots need more attention.”

  The heat from his hands coursed through her body, filling her with an indescribable sensation that should have concerned her, but instead, she sank into the feeling, and soon found herself welcoming the reprieve. Celina dragged her eyelids closed. Just this once, she promised herself. No one else was here, and she needed to feel something other than the oppressive cloak of mourning that had shrouded her shoulders since Tony’s death. Every stroke peeled back the layers of misery, lifting her into another, brighter, dimension of life.

  Love. It felt a lot like love.

  Arching her neck to one side, she noticed how Lauro followed her movement. Slipping beneath the softly draped collar of her dress, his palms caressed her neck, his fingers threaded through her hair. It had been months since she’d been comforted like this, touched like this. His rhythmic breath was soft on her ear, and her muscles were as fluid as warm ganache.

  As he shifted to the other side of her neck, more tension melted away. Taking his time, he pressed his thumbs at various points along the nape of her neck. “The line of your neck, your shoulders…exquisite,” he murmured.

  His melodic, baritone voice reverberated to the depths of her heart, warming the barren chamber left cold so many months ago. A moan of remembrance, of longing, escaped her lips.

  “Your essence glows from your heart,” he whispered, stroking her neck and transporting her to a realm where softness and strength entwined.

  Warmth from the energy he’d released in her body welled up inside her and poured from her in waves. Once started, she never wanted this life force to stop again, for next time, it would still her heart. There was only one way to ensure that it never did.

  She turned into his hand, pressing her lips first to his palm, then pulling him toward her, now arching against him, and at last finding the softness of his mouth. Testing the full lips that had held her gaze so many times, she tasted the lingering blood orange and chocolate on his lips, like nothing she had ever tasted before.

  At once, his movements stilled, waiting for her to go on. She hesitated only a moment, feeling his heartbeat thudding in response, before pressing on and taking in the fullness of a kiss that enveloped them both in its soaring intensity.

  Freed of the shackles of mourning that had restrained her expression, she framed his face in her hands, then threaded her arms around him. The weight of his body pressing against hers was glorious and left her astounded. This feeling, this desire, was unlike anything she’d ever experienced, and she sank into his embrace, deepening their kiss, never wanting to leave his arms.

  Groaning with desire, Lauro lifted her to a marble counter.

  The heat of her thighs sizzled through her thin dress onto the cool slab, fogging her brain and obscuring all reason. She yielded to her desire for this exquisite man, who stood before her wanting only to please her and soothe her.

  She wanted all of him. She ran her hands over his bronzed face, exploring the fine breadth of his brow, the arched black eyebrows angled like raven’s wings, the high cheekbones that balanced a profoundly dimpled chin. He was, she imagined, like an artist’s rendering of a Roman god, but the light in his eyes outshone his beauty. It was as if her soul was reflected in his gaze.

  “Amore mio, anima mia.” Murmuring her name between her kisses, Lauro uttered words she’d never thought she’d hear again. “Quanto ti amo.”

  As they devoured each other, a power stronger than their will seized them, and it was as if destiny had reached beyond borders, beyond calamity, to join them in a joyous union neither could have ever imagined.

  The click of an opening door sounded behind them, followed by a woman’s soft exclamation. “Mi dispiace, perdonami.”

  Celina pulled away from Lauro to put distance between them, but she realized it was fruitless. They’d been caught like a couple of students making out in school.

  “You have a telephone call from London,” the woman said. “It sounds urgent.”

  Lauro held fast to Celina’s hand, reassuring her. “I’ll be right there, Mariela.”

  Glancing over her shoulder, Celina caught the gaze of a young woman who was furtively attempting to close the door while also trying to catch a glimpse of who her boss was with. The woman smiled shyly at her.

  After the door closed, Lauro let out a breath and kissed her forehead. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been caught kissing a girl.” He drew a handkerchief from his jacket and handed it to her. “I think you might need to freshen up.”

  “You, too.” She wiped her red lipstick from his mouth and smoothed his hair back into place, while he adjusted his jacket. “I hope you don’t think I’m always like that,” she added. “I got carried away. Maybe we shouldn’t…”

  “I was surprised, but that doesn’t mean this isn’t real.” Taking the handkerchief from her, he dabbed her lips, then kissed her lightly again. “I’ve never felt like this.” He grinned. “I have burned inside for you. I’ve wanted to do that since the moment I met you.”

  “You certainly fooled me.” While she was amused now at how he’d hidden such feelings behind a sullen exterior, his actions had caused her great anxiety. She lowered her eyes in a coy manner. “Any plans to make it up to me?”

  “This is only the beginning.” Lauro glowed with such pleasure, his face lit with love.

  As she imagined the pleasures in their future, a smile danced on her lips.

  “Come with me to my office while I take this call,” Lauro said, offering her his hand. As he did, a shadow of concern crossed his face. “There’s also something you should know about.”

  Chapter 15

  Amalfi, 1939

  “Wait,” Lauro cried, tearing loose from Nino’s grip to follow Isabella across his parent’s living room. Her scarlet dress slashed through the Chris
tmas Eve crowd like an arrow intent on its target, which as near as he could tell, was the rear door.

  “Let her go.” Nino gripped his arm again.

  Lauro whirled to face his brother. “Bastardo!”

  “Maybe so. But we’re not fighting over Isabella. Not here.”

  Nino tugged him toward the entry door through a throng of their uncles—their father’s brothers—who had been standing nearby and had witnessed the entire debacle between him and Isabella.

  Other friends and family members were watching them, and Lauro saw Isabella’s protective mother toss her husband an angry look. His father was crossing the room toward Signora Guardino to calm her, while Sara was edging the room to find Isabella. What was going on?

  Nino pushed the door open. “I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  Lauro plunged outside, sudden anger erupting toward his brother. “What did you do to Isabella?”

  “It was before you met her.”

  “When?” Lauro spit out the word, barely able to contain his fury.

  Holding his hands up as a shield, Nino stepped back, putting distance between them. “Last spring.”

  “Was there a baby?”

  “She lost it. If I had known before, I would have married her.”

  Lauro closed his eyes in agony. The man who’d broken Isabella’s heart was his own brother. A thought struck him, and he had to know. “Did you…force yourself on her?”

  “I didn’t have to. She’s awfully persuasive—”

  Filled with savage rage, Lauro lunged like a lion, blinded with the desire to obliterate the man who’d spoiled his one true love. His brother ceased to exist to him. Thudding against Nino, Lauro’s impact sent them sprawling onto the gravel court, and he landed a solid blow against Nino’s nose, which exploded with a spurt of blood.

  Urged on by the satisfying blow, Lauro hit his brother again, while Nino crossed his arms against his face and curled under him, absorbing the impacts.