When Chocolate Is Not Enough... Read online

  In a few days he expected her to walk into a professional conference where her reputation and his products would be on the line. Would he let her down when it came to the work? The preparation? The tedious background jobs she had always been assigned while the boss took the credit?

  And what if they did win? Could she rely on him to produce the same quality cocoa beans year after year? This seemed to be some huge joke to Max—a great entertainment.

  She had promised herself that she would never again make the same mistake she had made with her former boyfriend Pascal Barone in Paris. She wouldn’t stake her future career on someone who was not as dedicated and passionate as she was. His uncle, Chef Barone, who actually owned Barone Fine Chocolate, was a master chocolatier who had poured his life into his work—but she had got it badly wrong when she’d assumed that his nephew Pascal felt the same.

  And right now she was making exactly the same mistake with Max Treveleyn. Worse. She had almost kissed him.

  He was laughing his head off when all their morning’s work and a huge amount of chocolate had been wasted.

  Just like that her heart conceded defeat to the battering it was getting from the sensible part of her brain.

  Stupid. That was what she was. A total, complete idiot.

  Daisy ran her tongue over her lips and mouth and tasted chocolate. He was right. It was delicious—and would be even better given the correct mixing time and a couple of tweaks to the ingredients. But now they would have to start again from scratch and repeat the whole process.

  She did not know whether to laugh or to cry.

  So she told him the truth.

  ‘Max?’

  He looked up at her, and the smile lines on his face creased into dark chocolate smears which on his tanned skin looked tantalisingly good enough to lick off. She inhaled quickly and straightened her back.

  ‘This is very good chocolate. And I know I could make spectacular products with it. But I need more than that. I need someone I can rely on—someone who takes his work seriously. Someone looking to the future. Someone who will keep on delivering cocoa of this quality.’

  She slid her hands back from the table, so that only the fingertips were in contact with the metal surface. He was watching her in silence now, his mouth calm and straight, his hands resting on Dolores, but his eyes were on fire and it took an effort for her to say the final words she needed to get out.

  ‘I’m sorry, Max, but this is not working out for me. You need to find another chef to work with.’

  She stood back and brushed her hands together, adding flakes of half-dried chocolate to the mess on the worktop. ‘Do you mind if I use your bathroom before I head back to London?’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MAX opened the cold water tap to maximum, clenched both hands around the ceramic rim of the large square butler’s sink, closed his eyes, and plunged his head under the stream of running water, bending his head from side to side so that the water cascaded down over his neck and shoulders.

  His shoulders dropped forward, releasing the tension for a few minutes, before the chill worked its magic. Releasing his grasp on the sink, Max pushed his hands through his hair to try and rinse away the combined grime of a morning of hard work on the cottage blended with a thin layer of melted cocoa. As hair conditioners went, this one still had a long way to go.

  Just like him.

  Eyes blinking, Max threw back his shoulders and combed his wet hair backwards with his fingers, throwing out droplets over the stone kitchen floor and down his bare back.

  Max glanced out of the large window above the sink. It was the only modern glazed window in the cottage, and his grandmother had used to love the view over the garden as she worked in the kitchen. Her window on the world, she’d used to call it. And she had been right. This had been her world.

  But for a long time it had not been his. Far from it. But now he had to make the best of what he had. This cottage was the only piece of England that truly belonged to him—and Freya. It was her inheritance as much as it was his.

  He frowned.

  This was where he had hoped to spend a two-week summer holiday with Freya. Instead of which he would have to make do with a weekend visit following her birthday, before Kate whisked her off to a château in France. So that would probably be the last time he could spend time with Freya until Christmas, and this year was certain to be a lot different now that her mother was engaged. His little girl was going to have a new family—new people who were bound to fall in love with her and want her to be part of their lives.

  The thought of sharing her was so hard he simply did not want to think about it.

  Rolling his neck and shoulderblades, Max sniffed once and sighed out loud to ease away the deep tiredness that would so easily overwhelm him if he let it.

  He had tossed and turned in bed most of the night, before surrendering at dawn to the killing combination of jet lag from his long, uncomfortable economy flight from St Lucia and Kate’s news about her plans for Freya.

  Max raked his fingers through his wet hair again and blew out very slowly as guilt hit him harder than usual. Freya needed him just as much as he needed her—and so did his farmers.

  It never got easier to balance the two main responsibilities in his life. But he had already come close to losing his connection to Freya when he’d lost Kate. They had both worked hard to make sure that did not happen. But now Kate was getting married again.

  No. He did not have time to indulge the deep pool of anxiety that had started to well at the pit of his stomach the moment Kate had told him that she was engaged.

  Because, whether he liked it or not, Freya was going to share her life with a brand-new stepfather. Anton would be the one to kiss her scraped knees better and read her bedtime stories and hug her when she needed a hug. Anton would be the man helping her with her homework and cheering from the sidelines on sports day.

  Suddenly Max flung open the kitchen door and stepped outside into the warm air, trying to calm his agitated breathing.

  Things needed to change.

  He needed to turn the estate around and build a solid financial future. Selling organic cocoa beans at premium rates would be a good start.

  And now he had to find some way to persuade Daisy Flynn to see that he was not a complete idiot and that they could be ready in time for this contest.

  She had driven all the way from London to work on their business—and in exchange he had done everything possible to demonstrate that he was a disaster.

  What had happened in the mixing room had been a mistake. He could see that now. The fact that she was the cutest thing in a pink sundress he had seen in a long time was totally irrelevant if she could not take him seriously. But those legs!

  No. They had simply been caught up in the excitement of the moment. That was all. He had only imagined that she had wanted more just as much as he had.

  But what more could he give her? They had only just met, for one thing. And anything else would be madness—he had already destroyed one relationship with his arrogant belief that he could do anything, work every hour of the day, and still have someone there waiting for him to come home. And like it. Wrong. He had become a cliché. A workaholic who loved his job more than anything else in the world. And vague excuses about it only being a temporary effort had stopped being credible as the months became years.

  The estate was demanding and insatiable and always would be.

  Max glanced across at a framed photograph of his parents, taken on St Lucia. They were standing in front of the plantation house—his house. They had given him everything he could want as a boy. The least he could do was honour them by keeping the plantation and their dream of an organic cocoa business alive.

  And in the process make his daughter proud of her dad.

  With that final thought, he roughly grabbed a sponge and headed out to the hosepipe.

  Hot water cascaded down over Daisy’s shoulders and she dipped her head back and rinsed her hair
for the third time.

  She loved chocolate. She truly did. But not as a bodywash.

  It had taken three shampoos and a pink foam sponge she’d found in the bathroom cabinet to scrub away the final traces of brown gunge—delicious though it had been—from her skin.

  Daisy wrapped herself in a bathsheet and demisted a space in the bathroom mirror.

  A pink-faced, well-scrubbed girl stared back at her with a slightly startled expression.

  Her hair was standing on end—as usual—and she did not hold out much hope for anything close to a hairbrush or a hairdryer. Not in this cottage!

  Towelling herself dry, Daisy tugged on her underwear, which had survived relatively unscathed, apart from a stain on her bra strap, before wrapping the now moist towel back around herself to protect her modesty. Max had murmured something about washing in the kitchen, but she did not want to run into him semi-clad in the corridor.

  Max.

  Daisy sat down on the toilet seat and glared at the bathroom door as though it was a portal to a new world where anything might happen.

  What was she going to do about Max?

  He had barely said a word since she’d told him that she was leaving. More polite muttering than joined up intelligent sentences. He had simply pointed to the bathroom and the small spare bedroom before disappearing back towards the garden.

  She rubbed her hands over her face. There was a huge mess waiting to be cleaned up in the workshop. And it would take hours to dismantle the equipment and wash and dry the components before he could even try to start a new batch of chocolate.

  Guilt nagged at the corner of her soft heart.

  Max had already paid the entrance fee for the conference contest, and booked her hotel room. Finding a replacement chocolate chef was not going to be easy at such short notice.

  How could she recommend him to her friends in the trade when she was not prepared to give him a chance herself?

  But perhaps it was better this way—Max was not ready to work with chocolate. He could still make an income for himself with the sales of the cocoa beans, and in the meantime he could build on his skills and read instruction manuals! Preferably before he powered Dolores up again.

  Either way, she could not hide in the bathroom all day. It would be better for them both if she simply borrowed something to wear while her dress dried in the garden and drove back to London as soon as possible.

  Then she could put all this behind her.

  Put Max behind her. And his daughter Freya. And this lovely cottage and the amazing chocolate he made. And how wonderful it had felt to be in his arms for those precious fleeting moments in the garage.

  Oh, no! She groaned and shook her head, before pressing the heel of her hand against her forehead.

  How did she get herself into these situations?

  What an idiot. Even thinking about staying on here was bound to lead to even more disaster in every way possible. What had she been thinking? Except, of course, thinking had not come into it at all.

  Snap out of it, girl. She sniffed and stuck out her chin. She could do this. This was her decision. She had to thank Max for the offer but say this was not for her. Any of it. Especially the Max part.

  Daisy cautiously opened the bathroom door and stepped out into the hall, which was strangely quiet. No running water. No howls of angry rage. No sign of Max.

  Then she realised that something rather important was missing.

  Her sandals! They were still outside in the garden, next to the hosepipe, and she would not leave without them.

  In the meantime, her feet were freezing. Perhaps Freya’s mother had left behind a pair of slippers she could borrow for a few minutes while her only pair of couture sandals dried off? Failing that, she would have to resort to the wet shoes. Or beg some socks from Max.

  Daisy looked around the small, cosy and simply furnished cottage bedroom. With its low ceiling and solid timber beams it was a perfect bedroom that any little girl would love. The bedcover and curtains were made from a pretty floral fabric with butterflies and sprays of small flowers and a cream background. The plastered walls were painted in cream, and on one wall, opposite the bed, above a chest of drawers, was a collection of personal photographs.

  Daisy stepped over to the framed photographs. Each one captured an image in Freya’s life.

  This was Max with his little family.

  Max as a new father, gazing lovingly and with total astonishment into the face of the tiny baby a smiling Kate was holding in her arms while Max wrapped one protective arm around her shoulder. A little blonde girl in a yellow sundress running towards her father across the grass. Freya at school, birthday parties and Christmas celebrations.

  Max truly did have a very pretty daughter who would be breaking hearts soon enough.

  Daisy sat down on the bottom of Freya’s bed and smiled up at the collection. Yes. This was exactly how she would want to wake up every morning. Looking at the happy faces of the people she loved and knowing that they loved her back just as much. Especially her father.

  Daisy reached down and picked up a single pink sock from the bedroom rug. Her own mother had died when she was twelve, but it must be very hard for an eight-year-old to reconcile herself to the fact that her precious father was not going to be living in the same house or sharing her life on a day-to-day basis.

  Her eyes scanned the wall of photographs.

  The collection was very clever. Max wanted Freya to remember that he had been part of her life growing up and was still there for her now.

  Daisy inhaled deeply through her nose and wondered if there was a similar wall of photographs of Freya in Max’s bedroom. It must be so hard, leaving his little girl behind, knowing that he would not see her again for months at a time. And what had he said? Kate had a new fiancé?

  Ouch.

  Max Treveleyn might not be the greatest mechanical engineer in the world, but he was a good father. And yet he had sacrificed being with his daughter and possibly even his marriage to live on a plantation and grow the cocoa he was so passionate about.

  He was loyal to Freya. She knew that much. And she admired that more than she could say.

  She shook her head.

  She might feel sorry for his situation, but that did not mean she should take a risk on him at this stage of her career. She was so close to her dream shop. If Max let them both down at the conference her reputation would be damaged in the small world of fine chocolate-making.

  She blinked away a moment of weakness and, pushing off the bed, took the few steps to a slim wardrobe which stood to one side of the fireplace.

  Tugging open the wardrobe door, she reached in to tuck the sock back inside—but instead stood transfixed. Because the wardrobe was full to bursting with children’s clothing.

  Ballet costumes with stiff pink and white tutu skirts. Party dresses, trousers and sweaters. Pyjamas and fluffy slippers in a tiny size—hats, scarves, jackets. It was wonderful—but it was also very private and special.

  Max had saved these clothes for Freya to wear so that she would always feel comfortable when she stayed here.

  It was totally magical.

  Daisy swallowed down her sense of guilt that she had invaded this private space, closed the wardrobe door, and pressed her hand against it.

  She remembered the time she’d come back from catering college to find her father had sorted out a wardrobe for her old clothes, all pressed and clean and ready for her to wear when she came home. She’d never told him that most of them were too small for her. She had just loved the idea that it had given him comfort to plan for her return when she was away.

  And here was another father who had done the same.

  Oh, Max.

  Just like that her arguments about working with him seemed to fade into trivial gripes about his lack of technical skills. So he had bought a blending machine with a faulty speed control? That was hardly the end of the world.

  And his chocolate was fantastic.


  Maybe her decision to take off had been a little hasty. Maybe—just maybe—she could still make this work.

  The heel of her right hand knocked several times against her forehead.

  She was such a totally soppy girl. She was probably going to regret this. But she would give Max Treveleyn yet another chance.

  But he had to understand why she was so serious about the work, or they would not stand a chance against the seasoned professionals at the conference.

  With a huge sigh, Daisy stood up and peered at her reflection in the bedroom mirror. Well? Are you going to do it or not? she asked the girl with the crazy hair who was looking back at her. Because you have to decide one way or the other. And you have to decide right now. You either go for it completely or you walk away now. No compromises.

  And absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent guaranteed no touching. At all. Ever again.

  Ten minutes later, after much rummaging about in the cupboards in the hall, Daisy shuffled across the kitchen wearing a pair of football shorts and the smallest vest she could find, which still fell down over her hips.

  She stepped outside the back door, looked around—then instantly froze, hardly believing her own eyes. Transfixed.

  Max was still scrubbing down his arms on the patio, and she could see that the curls of blond hair on his tanned chest were slicked dark with sweat and cold water from the hosepipe he must have used to wash with.

  She had always thought of herself as a town girl. Not glamorous or super slick, but definitely an urban dweller.

  But the sight of Max as he towelled himself off in the sunshine hit her hard in what was most definitely a more primitive part of her brain.

  There was a reason why the race of cavemen had survived—and this was it.

  From where she was standing she could see the muscles working all down his back and shoulders as he washed away the last remaining brown flakes.

  One thing was for sure.

  Max Treveleyn was not hot chocolate fondue at all.

  Max Treveleyn was a huge tower of freshly baked choux pastry profiteroles filled with whipped vanilla-scented Chantilly cream and then smothered in warm, molten bitter chocolate sauce. So that each bite gave a smooth tang of dark chocolate on the outside but was creamy and luscious in the middle, squidging out of the sides of your mouth if you tried to eat a whole one all at once.