Hot Basque: A French Summer Novel 2
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HOT BASQUE
A FRENCH SUMMER NOVEL 2
LAURETTE LONG
COPYRIGHT
Hot Basque Text Copyright © 2015 Laurette Long
All rights reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover Photo by Sylvain Mouney © Sylvain Mouney
Cover design Sylvain Mouney
DEDICATION
I started writing this book during my mother’s final illness. Mum, this one’s for you.
Marjorie Binns 1921-2014
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First, the ladies.
Once again, what would I have done without Elizabeth? Sincerest thanks to Elizabeth Stromberg, who reads with an eagle eye, an attuned ear and gives efficient, sensitive and sometimes surprising feedback. Who could have predicted that Liz knew a ‘Picasso’ was made by Citroen, rather than Renault, as I so confidently asserted?
Miette Marais, chère amie, un grand merci for checking the French (any errors left in are deliberate) and for your usual unstintingly generous support and encouragement.
Dr Aileen Alleyne, who carefully read the ‘meltdown’ chapters, told me what was wrong and advised how to put it right. Any remaining errors are not deliberate and are wholly my fault. Thanks Aileen, you are a star.
Next, the gentlemen.
The PMTSDT (Paris Moral and Technical Support Dream Team), Antony, Gilbert, Yann, always on hand to explain techie stuff and cheer me on. My sincere gratitude; the cocktails are on me for my next Paris trip.
The other half of the Stromberg team, Andrew, for his advice about different versions of the cover. You have the eye. Thank you my young friend.
Sylvain Mouney, once again, for the cover. In spite of a broken shoulder put together with five titanium screws, you did it! Many careful hugs.
Writing is a lonely pursuit. Interest and encouragement from family and friends warms the heart. Thank you.
Finally I’d like to thank Romain Vincent for designing a beautiful website.
www.romainvincent.com
TABLE OF CONTENTS
COPYRIGHT
Hot Basque Text Copyright © 2015 Laurette Long
All rights reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover Photo by Sylvain Mouney © Sylvain Mouney
Cover design Sylvain Mouney
DEDICATION
Marjorie Binns 1921-2014
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1 EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND. MARCH
2 TOULOUSE, FRANCE. MARCH
3 FRANKFURT, GERMANY. MARCH
4 TOULOUSE, FRANCE. MARCH
5 EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND. MAY
6 WILLOWDALE, ENGLAND. MAY
7 LONDON, ENGLAND. MAY
8 FRANKFURT, GERMANY. MAY
9 ENGLAND. MAY
10 EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND. JUNE
11 BIARRITZ, FRANCE. JUNE
12 BIARRITZ, FRANCE. JUNE
13 BIARRITZ, FRANCE. JUNE
14 BASQUE COUNTRY, FRANCE. JUNE
15 BIARRITZ, FRANCE. JUNE
16 LONDON, ENGLAND. JUNE
17 BIARRITZ, FRANCE. JUNE
18 BIARRITZ, FRANCE. JUNE
19 BIARRITZ, FRANCE. JUNE
20 LONDON, ENGLAND. JUNE
21 BIARRITZ, FRANCE. JUNE
22 LONDON, ENGLAND. JUNE
23 BIARRITZ, FRANCE. JUNE
24 LONDON, ENGLAND. JUNE
25 BIARRITZ, FRANCE. JUNE
26 BIARRITZ, FRANCE. JUNE
27 BIARRITZ, FRANCE. JUNE
28 LONDON, ENGLAND. JUNE
29 BIARRITZ, FRANCE. JUNE
30 BIARRITZ, FRANCE. JUNE
31 LONDON, ENGLAND. JUNE
32 BIARRITZ, FRANCE. JUNE
33 LONDON, ENGLAND. JUNE
34 BIARRITZ, FRANCE. JUNE
35 ENGLAND. JUNE
36 BIARRITZ, FRANCE. JUNE
37 BIARRITZ, FRANCE. JUNE
38 ENGLAND. JUNE
39 BIARRITZ, FRANCE. JUNE
40 WILLOWDALE. ENGLAND. JUNE
41 BIARRITZ, FRANCE. JUNE
42 ENGLAND. JUNE
43 WILLOWDALE, ENGLAND. JUNE
44 TOULOUSE, FRANCE. JULY
45 WILLOWDALE, ENGLAND. JULY
46 EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND JULY
To the reader
FRENCH SUMMER NOVELS
COMING NEXT: BOOK 3 VILLA JULIA
CATCH UP: BOOK 1 BIARRITZ PASSION.
This is where it all began...
About the author
1 EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND. MARCH
Jill O’Toole hurried up the path to the tall tenement building and pressed the bell for Flat 4F. It was freezing. As she waited for the door to click open, she shivered, pulling up her collar against the biting wind. Edinburgh in March was not much fun, unless you were indoors in front of a roaring fire or sitting in the fug of some warm pub, surrounded by your mates, buoyed up by the bonhomie generated by beers, whisky shots, and in her case, white wine. And of course she hadn’t dressed for the weather.
She’d dressed to kill.
Hopefully.
Under that warm coat was a very slinky black dress. Under that slinky dress was very little. Several inches below the hem of the slinky dress were shoes with 3-inch heels and toes that were so pointed her feet were developing a case of cloven hoof syndrome.
An hour earlier, back in her bedroom, there had been a personality tussle between Naughty Jill and Sensible Jill.
‘Rrrrrrun your fingers over this, girl,’ purred Naughty Jill, who was obviously of southern Italian ancestry. ‘Seelky. Sexy. Perrrfect.’
‘Don’t even think of it!’ Sensible Jill, the Nanny from Minsk, had her arms folded in classic confrontational style. ‘Have you seen the thermometer? Boots. Warm trousers. Bridget Jones knickers. And that thing that looks like a maternity top. And don’t look like that my girl. You shouldn’t have stuffed yourself with Marks and Spencer’s Moussaka for Two last night.’
The argument had started to get nasty when the hormones had lined up on either side of Naughty Jill, looking mutinous.
‘It’s been six months! We’re shrivelling up! This is your last warning O’Toole!’
So now she was hopping from one little goat foot to another and hoping the door would open before the hormones got hyperthermia.
At last! There was a buzz and a click. She made her way through the hallway past bicycles, folded pushchairs and wheelie bins. Who’d live in a tenement, hey? Practically all her friends did, this was Edinburgh after all, not too many opulent Victorian villas available in the city centre unless you were a rich writer or IT entrepreneur. She took a breath and began to climb the four storeys to Annie and Ian’s flat. A tenement, and on the top floor. Good thing she had her gym subscription plus her Tuesday night Pilates class plus her once-a-fortnight hill walking group. At least she’d work off a bit of the moussaka. Like half a slice of aubergine. She really had to get a grip.
On the third landing she offered up a silent prayer to Divine Vulvana, goddess of Pre-Matrimonial Affairs. Please, Holy Mistress, if you’re up there listening, please let this one be either good-looking or not suffering from a personality bypass. Preferably both. Not like the last two—no, three, was it really three blind dates her friends had set her up with?
Yes, she
was difficult, she was the first to admit it. But surely, somewhere, in the whole of Scotland, there was the man for her? Someone who ticked at least some of the boxes? Her very own Jamie Fraser, her Highland chieftain from the 18th century but who somehow or other had got into the 21st century and was waiting, poised like a magnificent stag, ready to—
‘Hi there, great to see you!’
Ian was at the door, pulling her into a warm hug.
‘Cold cheeks, hey? Did you manage to find a parking space?’
‘I got a taxi. I’m aiming to get plastered, aren’t I?’
She winked at Ian and handed over the bottle of wine. He winked back and gave a sly grin.
‘Might even get a lift back, who knows?’
She poked him in the ribs and moved gratefully into the warmth. Pity Ian was taken. Now there was a man. Tall, broad, muscular. Good looking. And, according to Annie’s indiscretions when she’d had a glass of wine too many—no, she would not go there.
Ian took her coat and gave a whistle at the dress.
‘Not too...formal?’
Her nerves gave a flutter. Ian was quick with the reassurance.
‘Oooh noooo...’
That smile. Those teeth.
Maybe Annie and Ian would get divorced.
‘Come on through.’
The flat was worth the climb. The spacious sitting room had four high windows with a view of the floodlit Castle in the distance. Soft music came from miniature speakers and candle-light burnished the antique furniture. Logs crackled in the fireplace where a group of people stood chatting, drinks in hand. Annie, the hostess, wearing a Gothic low-cut gown in black velvet, plus another couple she’d met once before, Graham and Sushi, or Sukie. Also, someone with his back to her, a stocky fair-haired man who turned as Ian ushered her into the sitting room.
‘How are you honey?’
Annie swept over, gave her a kiss and a hug, and took her arm.
‘Is it snowing out there? Come and say hello. You know Graham and Sadie, don’t you? And this is Kenneth. Kenneth, meet Jill.’
Well-cut jeans and a soft leather jacket. A warm, firm handshake, no limp fish stuff. Frank appreciation in the smiling grey eyes.
Ian handed her a glass of wine and the conversation resumed. They’d been talking about their forthcoming skiing holiday.
‘Austria again?’ asked Jill.
‘That’s the one,’ said Graham. ‘Why change a good thing? This will be our fourth year and it’s great for all us adults, plus we can put the kids in classes, they meet up with the same friends from last year, the parents can go to the bar and get pissed and everybody’s happy.’
‘Do you ski, Jill?’
Kenneth was looking straight at her. His manner was easy, confident. She noticed the square capable hands holding his glass, picked up on the movement of his muscles through the soft leather. Clean fingernails. A promising start. She gave him her best smile.
‘I do, yes. I have friends in Megève actually, with a chalet.’
‘Whew!’ He gave an admiring whistle. ‘Very nice. English friends?’
‘No. Just made them up. Trying to impress.’ She gave him a wicked grin, which brought an answering smile. ‘How about you?’
‘Been a couple of times. But I’m more into other activities.’
‘Ken’s a pilot,’ said Ian, topping up Jill’s glass. ‘Private pilot, that is. Nice little hobby if you can afford it.’
Her eyes widened.
‘Lie or truth?’
‘Truth. Scout’s honour.’
‘Really? I’ve never met a scout before.’
More smiles.
‘So, you like expensive hobbies, Kenneth?’
‘Call me Ken. Expensive, and fun.’
Call-me-Ken let his eyes linger on her dress, the low-cut neck and tight skirt.
‘If you’re interested I’ll take you up one day. Quite a kick being sky high.’
A wink this time.
A nice languid feeling was beginning to spread to long-neglected areas south of her navel. She glanced at Ken from under her lashes. Not tall, but broad-shouldered. And a flat belly under those expensive jeans.
‘If you’d like to take your seats,’ said Annie, ushering them through an archway opening into the dining area. Ian seated everyone, then lit the candles.
‘Excuse me while I see to the wine.’
He’d placed Jill next to him. On her other side, Ken was chatting to Sadie, half-turned away from her.
Not a bad profile. A strong nose. Good jawline. Oh yes, way more promising than the other three. And he seemed to be interested in her, as well.
Annie had prepared a gravadlax starter with dill sauce which they had with a Sancerre. Muted jazz was playing in the other room, and the level of conversation rose as everyone ate and drank.
‘This is delicious, Annie, you really must show me how you do it.’
Annie burst out laughing.
‘This is my friend Jill who never cooks,’ she explained to the others.
‘Yes, but I might, one day, if I find someone worth cooking for.’
She felt Ken’s eyes on her, turned to him with a suggestive smile. He let his gaze linger on the tops of her breasts, creamy above the low-cut neckline.
The main course was just as good as the starter. Annie had done venison, braised with chestnuts and served with a celeriac purée. The two empty bottles of white were whisked away and with a flourish Ian set down two reds.
‘Very impressive.’
Ken was examining the label of the nearest bottle.
‘Did you get these from Fairbrother’s?’
‘Yup. Had to hand over free tickets for the Celtic match to get a case. And mortgage the flat.’
There were laughs and murmurs of appreciation as they tasted the burgundy.
They were a high-flying lot. Both Graham and Ian worked in investment banking. Jill wondered if Ken was in the same sector and was just about to ask him when he said:
‘So, Jill, how do you know Annie and Ian?’
‘Annie and I go to the same gym. We’ve got into the habit of going for a drink together, or a meal, once a week.’
‘Girls’ night out?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘I’ve always wondered what you ladies talk about when you’re on your own.’
‘Apart from world peace and the price of fish, you mean?’
O’Toole, you pathetic thing, is that your idea of witty repartee? She gave a mental cringe, but Ken seemed to like it. He was laughing, sipping his wine, looking at her over his glass.
Was he undressing her? He was definitely undressing her. She could feel the zip on her dress sliding down. Thank heavens she hadn’t listened to the Nanny from Minsk. Even though the Visa card was still in intensive care since paying for the sleeenky underwear. Which was digging into the moussaka bulge. She sat up straight, pulled her tummy in.
‘So Jill, how long have you been in Edinburgh?’
‘Couple of years now. I was working just outside London before that. Spotted a job offer up here that looked interesting and thought ‘why not?’ Time for a change.’
‘And has it lived up to your expectations?’
‘So far, brilliant. Of course I knew Scotland wasn’t the Côte d’Azur, but the social life makes up for the weather.’
‘So you go out pretty often?’
‘More than when I was down south, that’s for sure. What about you? Are you a native son?’
‘I was born in Inverness. Grew up there and started work there.’
‘Which would be?’
‘Oil.’
He grinned.
‘Pays for the plane. And the Porsche.’
The boxes were being ticked at a rapid rate. Could she possibly be sitting next to the future father of her five children? O Divine Vulvana, may you be showered with wreaths of myrtle.
She reached for her wine and her serviette slid off her lap.
‘Allow me.’
Allow me! That sexy accent, he sounded just like the young Sean Connery in the James Bond films. She gasped as, bending to reach under the table, 007 ran his fingers right up to her silk-clad knee, paused briefly, then continued, onwards and upwards. Heavens, she’d not realised he’d got such long arms.
‘There you go.’
‘Thank you.’
Did that squeak come from her? She took a slug of wine.
He handed back the serviette, looking at her through narrowed eyes. It was a hot look, pupils dilated. She ran her tongue over her lower lip, bit it. Calm down O’Toole. And go easy on the vino. But it had been six months. Her hormones were cheering her on. Who was she to ignore her basest instincts?
The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Ian served brandy after dinner, she drank a couple of glasses, laughing, joking, joining in with the inevitable arguments about the elections and the vote against Scottish independence. Ken was playing devil’s advocate to Ian and Graham on opposite sides of the floor. He was sitting next to her on the two-seater Chesterfield that stood to one side of the fire. Every time he leaned forward to make a point he pressed his leg closer against hers and she allowed her skirt to ride up just a teeny bit more.
It was two in the morning when they finally made a move. Graham and Sadie lived nearby, and were going to walk back.
‘Don’t think you should be driving my friend,’ said Ian, looking at Ken whose face was flushed. ‘Especially not in that car of yours, you’ll have every copper in Edinburgh pulling you over.’
‘Left it at home, mate,’ said Ken. ‘I’ll call a taxi, drop you off Jill?’
His hands were on her as soon as they got into the back seat, she felt goose bumps break out all over her skin. Was her dry spell in the desert finally coming to an end? Could this be the start of something big, something ending in a country cottage covered in roses and five bonny bairns frolicking in the garden with the Labrador and the pony?
When they drew up outside her building, he paid the driver and accompanied her without a word. They made it into the flat, then he was pulling off her coat, kissing her face and neck, pressing her against the wall.