Chocolate Kisses

CHOCOLATE KISSES

Judith Arnold

Kindle Edition

***

Copyright
1993 by Barbara Keiler

Kindle Edition License Notes

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***

Chapter One

8:58
a.m.

“YOU
BROKE MY HEARTS!”

Ned
Wyatt dusted the snow off his black denim dungarees and glanced toward the
road. He’d been accused of breaking a few hearts in his day, but what did that have
to do with anything? She’d been the one driving the minivan, after all; he’d
been riding a bicycle. If anything had broken it would have been his bones, not
her heart.

Then
again, she’d said
hearts.
If she had more than one heart, anything was
possible.

He
heaved himself to his feet and looked around. His eighteen-speed bike lay on
its side several yards down the road, apparently undamaged. He recalled the way
it had lurched under him like a wild bronco, spitting pebbles and slush in all
directions until he’d deliberately jumped clear of it.

Closing
his eyes, he replayed the near-collision in his mind: the van cruising down the
road toward him as he coasted out through the wrought-iron gates in the stone
wall surrounding Wyatt Hall. The whine of the van’s tires losing traction on
the slippery road as the driver slammed on the breaks. The violent spin. The
van’s rear bumper bouncing off the stone wall, sending the vehicle teetering on
two tires, tilting precariously for the longest, ghastliest split-second Ned
had ever endured before it finally dropped back onto all four tires with a
jarring thump.

As
he pulled himself out of the snow bank, he heard the driver’s high-pitched cry:
“My hearts! You broke my hearts!”

“Now,
wait a minute,” he said with what he considered admirable poise. He stalked
down the slope to the van. “I didn’t break anything. I’m not at fault here.”

“Of
course you are! What kind of maniac rides a bicycle in the middle of February?”

The
kind of maniac who’d grown restless from too many days of slate skies and
frozen precipitation, he almost retorted. When he’d awakened that morning to a
clear, sunny day, he’d decided to treat himself to some fresh air and exercise.
He’d bundled up and gone out for a morning jaunt in the brisk, biting cold.
He’d balanced a huge red valentine-shaped box of candy across the handlebars of
his bike, figuring he’d ride north along the winding rural lanes he’d known as
a child and then circle back to town and deliver his gift.

He
wasn’t sure what impulse had compelled him to detour through Wyatt Hall’s
austere iron gates. He hadn’t thought of the estate as home in twelve years,
and he’d felt like a visitor as he pedaled around the circular driveway to the
stately pillared entrance of the mansion. It was a grand house, three stories
of Georgian brick with a slate hip roof and four towering stone chimneys. It
would make a majestic setting for Melanie’s silly shindig.

He
didn’t think much of the pretentious party his sister had organized for that
night at the family estate. Debutante cotillions were absurd, even when they
were scheduled in honor of Valentine’s Day and even when his niece was one of
the debutantes. He would attend because Melanie had begged him to. But he still
found the entire notion of a society debut laughable.

“It’s
a disaster,” the van driver was moaning. “Everything is ruined. My hearts, my
buns—oh, God, my kisses!”

Ned
paused. From where he stood, her buns looked terrific, packed tightly into a
pair of snug blue jeans. She stood on tiptoe with her back to him, leaning into
the rear of the van. Her shoulder-length brown hair caught the early morning
sunlight and shimmered with red highlights. Her puffy down vest hid her torso,
but her legs were long and slim and enticing.

Her
hearts, her buns and, oh, God, her kisses.
What an intriguing combination.

He
sternly reminded himself that she was talking about food. The side of her van
featured the painting of a huge gold cornucopia, along with the words, “Fantasy
Feasts—Let Us Cater to You.”

“You’re
catering the cotillion?” he guessed, approaching the rear of the van.

The
driver groaned and turned to him. She had wide blue eyes, sweet pink lips and a
surprisingly angular chin. Ned would definitely like to pursue the subject of
her kisses with her. And her buns and her hearts, too—however many she had.

Her
beauty couldn’t disguise the sheer panic illuminating those crystalline blue
eyes and darkening the natural blush along her cheekbones. “This is an absolute
disaster!” she wailed. “Why didn’t you watch where you were going?”

“Are
you all right?” he asked, recalling once more the horrid sight of her van
spinning like a top on the icy road.

“How
can I be all right?” she glanced over her shoulder at the van and shuddered.
“I’m about to lose the biggest job of my life, thanks to you and your idiotic
bicycle tricks. And you want to know if I’m all right?”

“I
wasn’t doing tricks,” he protested. “I was just riding.”

“In
the middle of snow and ice.”

“I
didn’t know I had to get permission from the weatherman to take a ride.”

“And
you had to ride here, of all places. This is private property. It isn’t a bike
trail. How the hell was I supposed to know some maniac on a bike would come
speeding out from this private driveway—”

“This
is
my
driveway,” he told her, growing tired of her ranting, even though
he couldn’t imagine ever tiring of her stunning blue eyes.

“Don’t
be ridiculous. It’s Wyatt Hall.”

“I’m
Ned Wyatt.”

She
stopped in mid-tirade. “You’re who?” she asked in a tiny voice.

“Ned
Wyatt.” He extended his right hand. “And you’re…?”

“Claudia
Mulcahey,” she said in an even smaller voice. She lowered her gaze and slipped
her hand into his. Her fingers were pale and slim; he detected a slight tremor
in them. “I guess—I mean—you must be related to Mrs. Steele.”

“Melanie
is my sister,” Ned said. He clasped Claudia Mulcahey’s hand without bothering
to shake it. It felt delicate in his, graceful and cool and feminine. The
trembling indicated how much her driving mishap must have frightened her.

He
didn’t want to let go, but she withdrew her hand before he could think of an
excuse to keep holding her. “Well,” she said with a tortured sigh, “not only is
this job completely ruined, but I’ve just called my customer’s brother a
maniac. I may as well crawl in a hole and die.”

Ned
nudged her aside so he could survey the interior of her van. “You may as well
assess the damage and see what can be salvaged. Melanie has her heart set on
this stupid cotillion. She’s not going to take it well if her caterer crawls
into a hole and dies.”

Claudia
grimaced. “What can I do? Everything’s ruined. My cakes…” She pulled two
overturned metal trays toward her. They held large chunks and smaller crumbs of
golden and devil’s food cake, along with dislodged sheets of plastic wrap. “The
layers for two triple-tiered heart-shaped cakes. I was going to assemble them
here at Wyatt Hall, but they’re all broken. And my kisses…” Her voice
threatened to crack and she swallowed. Lifting an overturned bowl, she shook
her head. “Homemade chocolate kisses. Not the candy-store kind. There they are,
under the seat with the strawberries. And the cheese biscuits and the date-nut
buns and the braided loaves. Oh, no—did the yogurt dip spill? This is a
disaster!”

Ned
scrutinized the mess. A puddle of viscous white—the yogurt dip, he
presumed—stained the floor near the sliding side door. Strawberries lay
scattered about. Trays leaned at dire angles, spilling food items across every
surface.

“Yeah,”
he agreed. “It’s a disaster.”

“What
am I going to do? I can’t possibly make everything all over again. I have so
much prep work, and without the cakes…” Tears welled in her eyes.

“Hey,”
he said in a soothing voice. He wanted to envelop her in a hug and comfort
her—and then, if she responded at all positively, he wanted to discuss her
kisses and her buns. She was a fine-looking woman, and it had been six long
months since he’d left Manhattan and the lively social life he’d enjoyed there.
He wondered if Claudia had a date for Valentine’s Day.

Of
course she had a date: Glenwood, Connecticut’s first annual Valentine’s Day
cotillion, masterminded by Melanie Wyatt Steele. If Ned knew what was good for
him, he would send the charming Ms. Mulcahey on her way so she could bake some
more heart-shaped chocolate and vanilla layers before sundown.

“Surely
you and your partners can whip up another cake.”

“What
partners?”

He
leaned around the open door to view the side of the van. “It says, ‘Let
us
cater to you.’”

“I’m
‘us’,” Claudia admitted. “I’m all there is to Fantasy Feasts. ‘Let
me
cater to you sounded obscene, so I told the guy to paint
us
instead.”

Ned
contemplated the pleasure of letting her cater to him. “I’ll help you bake a
cake.”

“You?”

“Why
not?”

“You’re…a
Wyatt.”

“Damn,
you’re right,” he agreed, smacking his forehead with mock dismay. “Forget it,
then. Wyatts never help. It goes against everything we stand for.”

“That’s
not what I meant.” She sighed, evidently struggling to compose herself. “Your
sister hired me to cater her Valentine’s Day cotillion. She’s paying me a lot
of money. I can’t let you do any of the work.”

“Why
not? Two minutes ago you were blaming this whole fiasco on me.”

“But
you’re…” She glanced away, her cheeks growing apple red. “I mean, you’re a
Wyatt
.”

“What
exactly is the problem? Should I change my name?”

Squaring
her shoulders, she confronted him. “You are a Wyatt. I am an employee of a
Wyatt. Okay?”

“You,”
he argued, “are a snob. You think just because I grew up in Wyatt Hall I don’t
know how to peel carrots?”

“I’m
sure you know how to peel whatever you want,” she snapped. Her eyes grew flinty
as she stared up at him. “Wyatts can do anything, can’t they? They can stage
debutante balls and write out humongous checks and go bicycle riding in the
middle of February. I have no doubt they can peel carrots, too.” She took a
deep breath and reined in her temper. “I’m sorry,” she said in a muted voice.
“I’m just upset. If you’ll excuse me, I have a job to do.” She slammed the rear
doors shut.

“Wait
a minute.” He chased after her as she marched to the driver’s door. “Do you
think I’m not good enough to help you?”

“I
don’t want your charity, Mr. Wyatt.”

“This
isn’t charity.” Far from it. He wasn’t offering his assistance out of the
goodness of his heart. He was offering it because he wanted to practice his
peeling technique on her vest, for starters. He wanted to find out if her skin
felt as soft as it looked, and if her hair revealed its fiery highlights in
indoor lighting. He wanted to get friendly with her.

He
also wanted to make sure the cotillion proceeded without a hitch. He knew his
sister. He knew how much work she’d put into organizing the party. If the food
wasn’t perfect, she would throw a tantrum powerful enough to hit seven on the
Richter scale.

He
gripped Claudia’s arm and turned her to face him. “Listen to me. If being a
Wyatt makes me so special, I’m going to exercise my high-and-mighty
prerogative. Either you can be reasonable and accept my help or I’ll call my
sister and tell her you’re about to ruin her party.”

Claudia
gazed up into his eyes, no doubt trying to decide how serious his threat was.
To his surprise, a smile spread slowly across her luscious lips and her eyes
sparkled with a blend of amusement and audacity. So much for intimidating her.

Of
course, if she were all that easy to intimidate, he wouldn’t be anywhere near
as interested in her.

“You
want to help me, Mr. Wyatt?” she asked, challenging him with her gaze. “you can
start by cleaning my van.”

***

CLAUDIA
WAS QUESTIONING the wisdom of accepting his offer of help when she noticed the
red satin candy box crushed under her right front tire. By the time he’d
returned to the van after stashing his bicycle on the other side of the massive
stone wall surrounding Wyatt Hall she was overcome with remorse.