CultOfTheBlackVirgin (20 page)

“It
has
to be a love bite,” Marcie tittered, the others joining in.

Jo had to fight to keep a neutral expression on her face as Carol turned to her with a threatening little smile. “We’re all in agreement that our guide is getting better looking every day. What do you think?”

Before she could open her mouth, Glenda interrupted. “He’s certainly a fine-looking fellow, for my money. Don’t you agree, Iris?”

Iris, scowling into her beer, said nothing for a moment, then offered, “He’s alright, if you fancy that type.”

Sarah said, “He would be much nicer if he weren’t so hairy, I think. I don’t like hairy men.”

“Oh he’s far too old for you anyway,” said Marcie. “He’s got to be in his mid-thirties, don’t you think?”

“Oh, no. Not near thirty five, surely,” exclaimed Carol. “There’s not a sag or a bag or a grey hair anywhere.”

“Anywhere? As if you’d know,” crowed Marcie. Everyone laughed, and Jo felt herself turning pink.

Even Ellen got into the spirit of the conversation, despite her seniority, offering, “Whatever his age, he certainly is a fine figure of a man.”

Carol sighed loudly. “If only I were fifteen years younger, I’d likely make a right fool of myself. I’d find a way to trip him up behind a bush somewhere on the trail. He doesn’t know how lucky he is. Fifteen years ago I was a looker, I tell you. He wouldn’t have been able to resist me, I swear.”

And so their conversation went. Jo forced herself to participate, saying, “He certainly is the tallest Frenchman I’ve ever met. Most are quite short, aren’t they?”

This half-hearted observation included her in the conversation without raising suspicion, she thought, as she twisted her ring around and around on her finger. She lowered her eyes to check her dress for any telltale bits of slut’s wool after seeing Carol roll her eyes backwards in mock hilarity, and Iris’s red-faced scowl turn into a sneer.

Eventually the beer began to relax her aching limbs, but when dinner was announced she found her body had seized up like a rusty pair of pliers.

“Ow ow ow,” she said to the women around her as she struggled to her feet. “I’m a wreck from too much walking. And too much yoga. I need a vacation.” She smiled at her own joke.

As luck would have it, Jo found herself seated beside her lover at the dining table. The composure she’d so carefully cultivated over the last half hour collapsed as a cavalier Luc pulled out her chair for her. She lowered herself gingerly, apprehensively, an anxious knot twisting in her belly.

Oh God! How’s this going to work? How can I possibly eat?

Just sitting beside him was making her sweat, turning her into someone she didn’t recognize. Her hands started to shake. She wanted him too much. And she liked him almost as much as she wanted him.

She wondered if he felt anything at all for her. For all she knew, he banged the hell out of some bimbo like her on each walking trip. She didn’t have a clue what was going on in his head. Except for the sex part—one thing she did know was that he desired her in a way that made her knees weak again to remember. The passion for that had to come from some sort of feelings for her, didn’t it?

Not necessarily. He might not even like me. He doesn’t even know me. Be careful what you’re projecting onto him,
an inner voice cautioned
. He’s most likely a born and bred Lothario.

Be very, very careful.

But then she had to wonder at herself—
why do I want him to care for me? Isn’t the sex alone good enough? Does he have to have feelings for me too? Am I beginning to have feelings for him?

She found she couldn’t answer her own questions, and she immediately forgot them anyway as he turned towards her and smiled, his crooked little tooth adding such charm to his expression that she wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

All of a sudden the anxiety she’d been nursing all day evaporated. Her lover was a kind man, she realized. Nothing terrible was going to happen to her. She could get through this meal. Yes, she would eat and then she would go directly to bed and lose herself in the oblivion of sleep.

Luc leaned towards her and asked in a low voice, “Today’s walk must have exhausted you. You were very brave. Would a little wine help you relax?”

She nodded, looking up into the kindest, the most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen.

He reached for the open bottles in front of him.

“Red or white? Which would make you feel the best, do you think?”

His words were innocent, but his look said something else to her. They told her quite clearly that he wanted to rip the dress from her sore body, throw her down on the table, and take her right there, in front of the entire world. Her eyes spoke back to his, telling him he was killing her.

Stop it—but not quite yet. Not yet, please.

She smiled, “White, please,” and watched him fill her glass. Then she made herself turn her eyes away from his to join the discussions flowing up and down the table.

But as conversation continued, she couldn’t keep her eyes averted for long. She couldn’t help herself from gazing down at the body in the chair beside her. She marveled at his thick, strong thighs. Unlike hers, which flattened against the wooden seat of the chair, his thighs looked as solid as the limbs of young trees. They reminded her of the trunks of clump maples back in the Pacific Northwest rain forests—round, hard, and smooth like that.

She imagined putting her hand on his leg…

He refilled her glass, interrupting her train of thought. Then he made a point of telling her and everyone within earshot where each of the wines on the table was made.

“I am especially eager that everyone appreciate the fine dark red wine from near Cahors, my home. But right now I want to know what you all think of this local white, a
Côtes de Duras Rivières,
which I think is excellent.”

Murmurs of appreciation and merriment flowed around the table, and dinner was served.

The chef had prepared a fabulous meal, to the surprise of everyone, for the dining room looked to be no better than the rest of the hotel. A mangy collie had been lethargically wandering in and out of the kitchen’s open door. Flies buzzed lazily at the dirty windows. But the cooking smells were enticing, and the first course proved to be an amazing dish of pan-fried whitefish fillets over a bed of fresh greens with herb vinaigrette. The wine complemented it beautifully. The fish was very fresh, and Jo discovered she was very hungry.

For some reason, the knot in her stomach loosened, for the moment, and she enjoyed her meal. Maybe she was too exhausted for nerves. In fact, she found she could actually look at her lover while she ate. She relaxed some more, feeling she had it all under control. A feeling of peace—inappropriate as it was—descended on her.

Despite sitting beside the sexist man in the world, the best lover I’ve ever had. The man I can’t wait to give myself to again.

As soon as I’m up to it…

She tried to ignore Iris, sitting diagonally from her, chewing on her fingernails between courses. Iris was watching Luc’s every movement as closely as Jo had earlier at the pool, listening carefully to every word he spoke. Iris rarely spoke herself, and Jo thought this was so she could observe while remaining almost invisible.

Wine continued to flow, and the group was divided over which was superior—the first or the second variety? A sparkling
Gaillacon
magically appeared at the table, and everyone wanted to sample that, as well.

After eating a little, Jo felt quite sparkly, like the wine. She chatted to everyone—except Iris. Iris was the only person at the table who didn’t laugh hard at a wonderful story told by Peter, who was by far the best storyteller in the group. Edward, too, had some good tales to tell, and by the time the main course arrived, everyone was having an excellent time. Jo noticed that Iris had let down her guard a little. Replacing her usual stony indifference, an expression of fevered agitation animated her heavy face.

They all enjoyed plates of roasted chicken, potatoes fried crisp in duck fat, and green beans, accompanied by the deep red wine from Cahors. Jo ate, realizing she was extraordinarily happy. Luc kept her wineglass full, and once the plates were removed he warned the group that they couldn’t miss the dessert course. Everyone groaned, because the meal had been so rich and delicious and huge that dessert seemed out of the question. But when the teenaged boy serving as waiter ran around the table with slices of warm
frangipani
, the scent of sugar and almonds was too much for anyone to refuse. Every last bit, on every single plate, was gone in minutes.

During the raucous after-dinner conversation, Luc had the opportunity to lean into Jo’s ear and whisper, “Come to my room tonight. Number Ten.”

Elated, she tipped back her head and laughed in the direction of the ceiling, pretending he’d said something extraordinarily amusing. Which, of course, he had.

His invitation didn’t surprise her as much as fill her with a sweet joy that threatened to bring tears to her eyes.

He wants me! He wants me again! Could life ever be as sweet as it is right now?

After the dessert plates and coffee cups were cleared away, Luc disappeared for a short while. When he returned he was carrying an enormous plate piled with blocks and rounds of various cheeses. Apparently, in France, dessert didn’t always mean a meal was over. The cheese course often followed. Everyone protested again as they realized they were expected to eat yet more.

He took the plate around the outside of the table, insisting they all at least taste the cheeses.

“I want each of you to try all of them. Just a tiny bit. Especially the
Laguiole
from near my childhood home. This particularly succulent piece was created from unpasteurized milk. It’s made only in the summer from fresh cows’ milk, fragrant with herbs, broom, and violets. None of you could ever have a piece of cheese like this outside of France. I swear.”

His enthusiasm was contagious, and Jo took a small piece from the tip of the knife as he held it towards her and popped it into her mouth.

“Thank you. It’s lovely,” she told him. It was—sinfully creamy and sweet salty smooth. “Really. But no, no, no, I can’t eat another bite.”

“But you must try the
Chaumes
, from the Dordogne.”

He cut a tiny piece and held it out to tempt her.

She took it.

“Very nice.” It was different but equally delicious. “No, no, no more. I can’t.” She was laughing now.

Ignoring her protests, he cut a morsel from another block.

“Not the
Cantal
? It is made from the milk of
Salers
cows. The best milk in the world.”

He was laughing along with her because he knew she couldn’t resist him and his seductive offerings. Each morsel was almost as succulent and delicious as the man himself. He pressed her and she ate.

As he stood over her with his heavy platter of cheese, he began leaning into her a little. Slightly intoxicated, and very tired, she subtly leaned back into him, certain no one could see such a small caress.

* * * *

But Edward noticed.

At first he wasn’t sure what he was seeing, but then he understood. There
was
something going on between Luc and Joanna. His wife had been wrong about them.

Luc, it must be obvious to everyone by now, was no professional. And Joanna was obviously, inappropriately, carrying on with a married man.

That meddling Carol and her gossip had hit the nail on the head. And right now they were doing more than playing footsie under the table. They were being far too bold, he thought.

Right.

He might have a word.

* * * *

After Jo had tasted each of the cheeses, Luc turned to the Davies and offered them the same, his body still pressed against Jo’s. Again, she thought about putting her hand on the large, hard thigh that continued to rub warmly against her arm as he served. She knew what it would feel like under those clothes, and she wanted badly to touch the warm skin that covered the muscles as hard and smooth as cordwood.

But going to Room Ten tonight was out of the question. Her body wouldn’t be able to handle it.

By now, everyone was more than a little merry. And, unfortunately, morning would come soon enough. Two by two the married folk made their goodnights until only the singles were left at the table.

Jo needed sleep, but she also wanted to stay with Luc as long as she could. His surreptitious invitation had filled her with an uncomplicated joy—impractical as his proposal was. But then just looking at him filled her with happiness. That strange feeling of peace was still with her. Although she might be a slut who had just cheated on the best man Seattle could offer, she was at peace with herself at the moment.

Eventually, however, she couldn’t ignore her body’s need for sleep. Again her muscles had seized and as she hobbled out of the room and waved goodnight to those left at the table, she saw the expression on Luc’s face. It was resigned amusement. He had to know she was in no shape to repeat yesterday’s dance.