Criminal Confections Read Free Page B

of scoring a good team, I decided to run.

Chapter 2
    By the time I’d practically skidded to a stop downstairs (my fancy flats left me surprisingly spry), things were hopping.
    The resort’s driveway was packed with cars and taxis and gleaming SUVs. The guests who’d driven (or been driven) in them impatiently awaited bellmen or valet service or both. The valets ran to and fro clutching keys and wearing anxious expressions.
    The fragrance of fine chocolate wafted over everything, of course. I couldn’t tell if it emanated from Maison Lemaître’s Michelin-starred restaurant or its expansive spa or both. I made a note to double-check the spa treatments that were included in the retreat, then gauged my best path across the driveway.
    Crossing was like playing a real-time game of Frogger (albeit an upscale version), but it was nothing compared with crossing streets in Paris. I made it alive to the hotel grounds where the gauzy tents and chocolate VIPs were. There, the scent of chocolate was weaker, but the mingled fragrances of Merlot and mown grass were stronger. So was the breeze. Ruffled by its force, men shucked their suit jackets and tugged on T-shirts atop their dress shirts and ties; women shrugged and giggled and wiggled their way into their T-shirts, preserving their modesty by layering them over their dresses or shirts or lightweight, ideal-for-northern-California short-sleeve sweaters.
    At least most of them did, I noticed. One woman, standing near a tent featuring Lemaître Chocolates press releases and promotional items, simply turned her back to the crowd, shimmied out of her white-sequin-spangled cashmere T-shirt, and handed it to an older, white-haired man waiting nearby. Then, clad only in her pristine white skirt and jeweled sandals, the woman pulled on an orange Lemaître-logo T-shirt. When she turned to model it, I saw that she was a pretty, olive-skinned woman about my age, with expertly applied makeup, dark hair, and a lot of élan.
    Wow. I wanted a woman like that on my team. She had audacity. She wasn’t afraid to go for broke, either, no matter what it took. While everyone else was gawking at her immodest (and braless) way of changing clothes, I grabbed a yellow T-shirt from a box near Nina Wheeler’s elbow. I zeroed in on a woman standing nearby with her back to me, then nudged her.
    â€œTrade you?” I offered, keeping my gaze fixed on my prize—her orange T-shirt—while simultaneously offering her my yellow one in trade. “You don’t seem up for a striptease today.”
    â€œI’m not! Take it.” All but shoving her orange shirt at me, the woman completed the swap quickly—as though she was afraid I might change my mind. In an irked and preoccupied tone, she grumbled, “I should have known Isabel Lemaître would make a scene. She doesn’t usually attend the retreat.”
    â€œ That’s Isabel Lemaître? Bernard Lemaître’s wife?”
    A general murmur of assent met my question. Apparently, there was no such thing as a private conversation at a company retreat.
    That was understandable, though. The world of chocolate was a small one, really. Everyone knew Bernard Lemaître. More than a hundred years ago, his family had founded one of the most successful chocolate companies in the world. Bernard had brought that company to new heights. He’d turned it into a San Francisco institution as familiar as cable cars, Lombard Street, and Pier 39. He’d partnered with a local television kids’ show, making children of all ages love Lemaître Chocolates—and love him. He was an icon unto himself. When I’d accepted the consultancy at Lemaître, I’d hoped to meet Bernard. Christian had insisted his uncle Bernard was “too busy” to drop into the office regularly.
    It seemed apparent to me that Bernard was “too busy” with his dishy-looking younger wife. Even now, as I