Hot Basque: A French Summer Novel 2 (20 page)

Jill grinned.

‘I’ll have to remember that,
ouvrez votre bouche.
However, it’s not quite as simple as that. There are all these rules and regulations and getting your qualifications approved by the French and that’s even before you start looking for vacancies.’

‘My dear Watson, you forget you are speaking to an expert. One Who Has Been There. I can point you in the right direction, give you a few tips. I mean if I managed to convince the French authorities that I was worthy to put my foot in the hallowed halls of their education system, why not you? In the Health Service?’

‘So you don’t think I’m crazy? To be thinking about moving to France because of some guy I only met six days ago?’

‘No, because there’ll be so much red tape involved that by the time you’ve got it all sorted out you and Antoine will have been having underwater orgasms for at least two years. You’ll have been skiing with him, had a lovely week in a gypsy caravan cooking squirrel stew, spent so much time on his motor bike you’ll be walking bowlegged. If you change your mind, you can always stay in Edinburgh.’

She gave Jill a saucy look.

‘So, he’s well and truly bewitched you, hey? I can see how that might have happened. I always half-fancied him myself.’

‘O ungrateful, ungrateful wretch. You go and land yourself Drop Dead Ed and now you’re interested in the hot Basque?’

‘Did someone mention my name?’

Edward had come up behind them, bare feet silent on the grass.

Both Jill and Caroline gave a shriek.

Edward nudged Caroline over and perched on the side of her chair. He trailed one finger across her bare midriff, smiling when he saw the rush of goosebumps.

‘Is this the sort of conversation a chap can contribute to?’

‘Noooo!’

The chorus was emphatic.

He held up his hands.

‘OK just a suggestion. But I wanted to warn you ladies that Jules is back, getting changed, and that fellow, what’s his name, the big guy with the muscles and the Harley, oh yeah, Antoine, he’s on his way over too.’

The announcement brought another shriek from Jill and a sprint indoors.

Edward, watching her go, raised one eyebrow.

‘Why does she have all those red marks on the back of her thighs? Right,
ma petite chérie
. Time for a confidential talk with your fiancé. About, what did you call him, the hot Basque? And a certain ungrateful Caroline, from what your friend was saying. A blond half-Basque not good enough for you, hey?’

Caroline put up her hands protectively.

‘No, that’s not what she said, well she did, but you didn’t hear the bit before, so the remark was out of context.’

‘Ah. Out of context. That’s an original excuse. So, put me in the picture, my sweet, I’m all ears.’

‘Now Edward you know that’s not fair, I can’t break the secret of the confessional, this was women’s talk, you won’t get a word out of me so don’t start, no, no, don’t do that, Rayburn, stop it, put me down, I insist you put me down immediately, I am warning you...’

The rest of her words were drowned by the huge splash as her fiancée tossed her into the pool, a satisfied smile on his face. He flung himself down on the sun lounger, laughing as she fumed and spluttered.

‘I hate people who throw other people in the pool! It really is juvenile. And I’ve only just learned how to swim! I could have drowned, do you hear me, Rayburn? I’m serious.’

Rayburn thought he loved it when Caroline got cross. Later he could get to try out some fake apologies involving subtle seduction techniques until his
petite chérie
finally caved in, forgave him and fell to her knees begging for more.

He was really looking forward to that.

Annabel was not a happy person.

She’d had to set the alarm at some ungodly hour in order to be at the Crucial Cake Consultation. Apparently bakers, oops excuse me, famous French chefs, didn’t do afternoons. She’d been with Claudio until 5 am, before managing to drag herself away and get a taxi back to the Docklands. She’d been in such a state of feverish arousal she’d hardly got a wink of sleep.

Now, in a taxi once more, heading for the rendezvous in Mayfair, she was so tired she could hardly focus.

The meeting with the Great Chef did not go smoothly. He and his team of fawning elves kept whizzing all these pictures past her, babbling on about the unity of the Theme and the unity of the Ingredients, orange, marzipan, vanilla, chocolate, royal icing, how was she to know what was best, she’d never even baked a scone, it was their job to come up with the perfect creation, God knows it was costing enough. They’d showed her pictures of things that looked like upturned whitewash buckets all the way through to five-tier sandcastles complete with turrets and staircases and miniature brides and grooms.

The Great Chef’s patience was wearing thin, his ‘French’ accent had slipped back into Birmingham. What concept, he wanted to know, was ‘Madame’ hoping to embody, now that she had rejected the Aztec theme they had (a peevish purse of the lips here) agreed on at the beginning? Was it something spiritual, embodying the essential harmony of two soulmates perched on the brink of The Unknown? Something primal and unadorned, without too many Elements? Or a more traditional concept, there were some beautiful creations with lace and vines and hand-sculpted roses and even imported blown glass seashells from Italy. And if she wanted a Symbol, the Great Man could do them all–top hats, chandeliers, skyscrapers.

And of course there was the all-important matter of the colour coordination. Had ‘Madame’ finally decided how she was going to theme her day colourwise?

Annabel’s head was spinning and she was having a hard time keeping her temper under control. How the hell did she know how she was going to theme her colours or anything else when she was now dithering about whether or not there was going to be a Day at all? But if there was going to be a Day, then she needed the Great Chef.

Last summer it had all seemed so easy, she’d met with three different events organisers, they’d jumped at her idea, Acapulco was the thing, sea, clifftop, Aztec holy man, the bride walking barefoot across the sand to her groom, a sort of Inca pre-Raphaelite virginal figure, long hair in twists and whorls, specially coloured in that amber strawberry blonde the painters used. In the end she’d dismissed the lot of them. Who needed an events organiser? She was the one coming up with all the brilliant ideas. But recently she’d got distracted, and time had just seemed to fly, and now it was all spinning out of control, if only she wasn’t so tired!

She fought back a yawn, caught the eye of a particularly snotty young elf standing next to the Great Chef and gave herself a mental shake. If she could just escape from the basilisk stare of the Great Chef and his team and go back to the flat for a hot bath and a nap. Her mind was in a whirl between all the different decisions she had to make, all the pressure people were putting on her ‘You do realise ‘Madame’ that we are now in June...’

Yes, she bloody well did realise, and she also realised that her precious week with Claudio was slipping past at an alarming speed. All she wanted to do was be with him, feel that surge of adrenalin each time she slipped out for a tryst, each time she stood outside the door of his suite, trying to get her feelings under control, trying to compose her features into a look of icy indifference, the look that turned him on, that awakened the hunter, that signalled the struggle was ready to begin. She would tilt her head, raise her eyes in challenge, see the glint of his teeth as he began his slow, sexy smile, brace herself as he raised his hands, ready to slide them silkily around her throat, gently, then tighter, fastening her in a grip of iron as he bent to take her mouth.

She was turning into a vampire, beginning to live only for the nights, when he had finished his endless business meetings and the pair of them could finally see each other, the moment when her life really began.

And one of these nights she would be the one who stood tall as he knelt before her, she would be the one who imposed the rules. Claudio would only remain interested if he found a partner as strong as he was. She could sense a turning of the tide already.

Today, for example, he’d allowed her an extra treat. He was meeting her for lunch, it would only be for a brief hour, but already the thought of what would pass in that hour, the looks, the touches, the whispered words, she could feel herself growing faint with desire. She blinked. She needed to be ready. She needed to be strong, dominant, indomitable.

‘I’ll let you know tomorrow.’

She terminated the discussion abruptly, swivelling on her Manolo Blahniks and leaving the Great Chef and his elves open-mouthed.

In the taxi taking her to the restaurant she made a decision. The envelope that Susie had given her was tucked into a pocket of her handbag. She slid out a pill, looked at it, then dry-swallowed it quickly before she could change her mind. She had to be on top of her form, today and in the precious time remaining.

As she stepped inside the restaurant the
maître d’
, noticing her arrival, glided over immediately and led her to a table in a discreet alcove at the back of the restaurant.

It was set for one.

He bent close to murmur in her ear.

Due to unforeseen circumstances, Monsieur Claudio had been detained. He deeply regretted he would not be able to join her for lunch. But he wanted Madame to go ahead as planned, and had chosen the dishes himself, which he hoped she would enjoy.

He pulled out a chair for Annabel, beckoned to a waiter, who placed a glass of Cristal in front of her, and wished her
bon appétit.

She almost burst into tears.

She reached for the glass, her face a mask. As she raised it to her lips, she heard the ping of a text arriving on her phone.

‘
Scusa amore mio
, stuck in a meeting all afternoon. I will make it up to you tonight. Wear the red.’

Annabel sat up straight in the chair and drained her glass.

He’d ordered the red. He’d get the black.

‘You know what we need, Jillian Benedicta?’

‘More sex?’

Caroline threw a withering look at her friend, slumped over a cup of coffee on the terrace, eyes hidden behind giant sunglasses. Antoine had dropped her off just before nine, on his way to work.

‘You’re no fun, do you know that? I wish I’d never come up with that stupid matchmaking idea. I was looking forward to a nice girly holiday with lots of shopping.’

Caroline leaned close and spoke loudly next to Jill’s ear.

‘Lots of shopping!’

‘Ow!’

Jill raised her sunglasses and tried to summon a glare.

Caroline leaned back in disgust.

‘What time did you get to sleep last night?’

‘Sleep?’ She gave a hollow laugh. ‘That’s why I came back here, to sleep.’

‘Right. Well if you’re not up to it, I shall just have to go with Nadia. I spotted a divine polka dot bikini in a little boutique near the market the other day. Very Hollywood. And they had an adorable filmy caftany thing to slip over the top. All shimmery green and gold. And just down the road–’

‘Fifteen minutes Torquemada.’

Jill grabbed another cup of coffee and tottered off.

Caroline smiled smugly and went inside to inform Julian and Edward they were on baby-sitting duty this morning.

***

It was eleven o’clock and Nadia was still empty-handed.

Jill and Caroline had had trouble persuading her to come shopping in the first place and practically had to restrain her by force when Caroline presented her with an envelope.

‘This is from Julian. He wants you to buy yourself a present. No–’ she cut off Nadia’s protests. ‘He’s really grateful for everything you’ve done, everything you’re doing. He’s absolutely thrilled with the swimming lessons for Joshua which are all down to you. He was going to buy you something himself, but I talked him out of it. Disaster avoided.’

Nadia looked at her doubtfully.

‘Nadia, you’ve seen his taste in clothes. Come on! He’d probably have bought you a twinset.’

‘Twinset?’

‘Yes, you know a jumper and cardigan, Home Counties, the Queen, Duchess of Windsor.’

Seeing Nadia’s look of incomprehension she patted her on the shoulder.

‘Forget it. What I’m trying to say is he grew up in a family where the women had a certain dress code. He’d have bought you something absolutely dire, and you’d have been forced to wear it because you’re too polite to say no. Now, Jill and I are your fashion gurus for the day. Take the envelope and follow your leaders.’

They had a great time exploring the trendy boutiques in the town centre. Jill and Caroline were soon clutching an assortment of bags but Nadia glanced, hovered, touched, hesitated. They ended up in the women’s fashion department of
Galeries Lafayette
and there they spotted it immediately, on a mannequin. The perfect Nadia outfit.

A button-through denim skirt and sailor top. Not too dressy, very French, very chic, totally alluring. Very Marion Cotillard at the seaside.

As Nadia came out of the dressing room, Jill and Caroline gave a collective ‘ah!’

The sailor top was demure, yet fitted enough to follow the curves of Nadia’s breasts. The short skirt showed off her pretty legs, toned from years of swimming and now turning an attractive shade of peachy gold.

‘You look lovely! What do you think?’

In the mirror, a big smile spread across Nadia’s face.

Next was the shoe department.

‘She’s got the bug,’ said Caroline, watching her make a bee line for a pair of sandals on display near the beachwear. They were hot pink, decorated with a delicate row of beading. Nadia had a faraway look in her eyes.

‘Smack bang in love,’ said Jill, seeing her expression. ‘Oh Nadia, what I’d give for a pair of pins like yours.’

‘Pins?’ asked Nadia.

‘Legs, girl, lovely long shapely legs. Those sandals are going to add the perfect finishing touch. Try them on. The boys aren’t going to be able to take their eyes off what you’ve got between those hot pink feet and the hem of that cute little skirt.’

Nadia’s face lit up in another beaming smile.

‘Right then,’ said Caroline, as the assistant handed over another bag. ‘Where’s the lingerie department? How much is left in that envelope?’