Hot Basque: A French Summer Novel 2 Read Online Free
Author: Laurette Long
fragrance of pansies and primroses wafted from the flower beds. Her next stop was the market, where she planned to scour the stalls for delicacies to tempt her man when he got home from work. Friday night. They had the whole weekend free and clear. Maybe on her way back from the market she’d have time to detour via Rue Pargaminières, there was that wonderful little boutique that sold the most inventive lingerie...
She dropped some change on the table, pushed back her chair.
Do not think of August, she admonished herself. Do not think of the three awful ‘A’s, August, Acapulco and Annabel. Your life has changed. You have everything to look forward to. Your sister is not your problem.
But, said a little voice, what about the baby?
***
Half an hour later she was back at the flat, unwrapping her purchases. Shopping at the market always gave her a boost. There were two covered markets in the city, each a gourmet’s delight. Today she’d been to the Marché Victor Hugo. She wanted to start dinner with foie gras from the Maison Samaran, planning to serve it with homemade fig confit and a garnish of fresh salad leaves. Maybe a drizzle of raspberry vinegar? She would follow it with fish. In consultation with the fishmonger she had chosen a beauty from amongst a large shoal of gleaming sea bass. Bright-eyed, its scales an iridescent silver grey. He gutted and cleaned it for her but left on the scales, she was going to bake it in the oven in a crust of sea-salt and serve it with a simple lemon and butter sauce.
She loved to work in Edward’s well laid-out kitchen. He’d gone for a bistrot look, mahogany cupboards complementing the marble worktops. A solid wooden island stood in the middle of the room with a built-in chopping board. Dove grey tiles covered the walls, lifted by a frieze of Portuguese azuelos .
As she worked she looked out through the open window onto the red-tiled rooftops of neighbouring buildings, a tiny balcony set with two chairs and a minuscule table, window boxes overflowing with pansies. Finally, hands on hips she surveyed her ingredients, checked all was ready for the final stage of preparations. But that would be later, much later. She thought of the contents of the cream and blue packet lying on the bed. She’d deliberately dress down this evening, T-shirt and Bermudas. She imagined Edward’s fleeting look of disappointment when he opened the door, then the sparkle in his eyes as he hugged her ‘hello’ and slid his hands underneath her top...
Satisfied, she left the kitchen and wandered on to the terrace that opened out from the living room. The leaves of the plane trees were just coming out, a tender green. In the street five storeys below, the traffic was queuing up at the lights. On the other side of the road the banks sloped down to the footpath which bordered the River Garonne. It was running high today, the melt had started in the mountains, the snow ran into the small spring where the river had its source, fattening and feeding it until it became the wide river flowing before her, gathering in speed and size until it joined the Atlantic Ocean in Bordeaux. This was the river where Edward rowed with his club. She had watched him several times, training her binoculars on the boat, searching for that gleaming blond head, that familiar figure with its broad back and shoulders, the well-muscled arms.
They would have the aperitif out here tonight, it would be warm enough. The Man liked to take a shower and change when he got back from work. Most times she joined him in the large tiled shower room, letting him soap her skin, knead her shoulders, kiss her neck till she couldn’t stand it any longer. Then he would turn her round, wrap himself around her, the passion would build, the air full of fragrant steam, the hot jets beating down on them as he lifted her on to him. Afterwards, as he rubbed her dry, she would feel him becoming aroused again, she’d dawdle, tease, pretend she
She dropped some change on the table, pushed back her chair.
Do not think of August, she admonished herself. Do not think of the three awful ‘A’s, August, Acapulco and Annabel. Your life has changed. You have everything to look forward to. Your sister is not your problem.
But, said a little voice, what about the baby?
***
Half an hour later she was back at the flat, unwrapping her purchases. Shopping at the market always gave her a boost. There were two covered markets in the city, each a gourmet’s delight. Today she’d been to the Marché Victor Hugo. She wanted to start dinner with foie gras from the Maison Samaran, planning to serve it with homemade fig confit and a garnish of fresh salad leaves. Maybe a drizzle of raspberry vinegar? She would follow it with fish. In consultation with the fishmonger she had chosen a beauty from amongst a large shoal of gleaming sea bass. Bright-eyed, its scales an iridescent silver grey. He gutted and cleaned it for her but left on the scales, she was going to bake it in the oven in a crust of sea-salt and serve it with a simple lemon and butter sauce.
She loved to work in Edward’s well laid-out kitchen. He’d gone for a bistrot look, mahogany cupboards complementing the marble worktops. A solid wooden island stood in the middle of the room with a built-in chopping board. Dove grey tiles covered the walls, lifted by a frieze of Portuguese azuelos .
As she worked she looked out through the open window onto the red-tiled rooftops of neighbouring buildings, a tiny balcony set with two chairs and a minuscule table, window boxes overflowing with pansies. Finally, hands on hips she surveyed her ingredients, checked all was ready for the final stage of preparations. But that would be later, much later. She thought of the contents of the cream and blue packet lying on the bed. She’d deliberately dress down this evening, T-shirt and Bermudas. She imagined Edward’s fleeting look of disappointment when he opened the door, then the sparkle in his eyes as he hugged her ‘hello’ and slid his hands underneath her top...
Satisfied, she left the kitchen and wandered on to the terrace that opened out from the living room. The leaves of the plane trees were just coming out, a tender green. In the street five storeys below, the traffic was queuing up at the lights. On the other side of the road the banks sloped down to the footpath which bordered the River Garonne. It was running high today, the melt had started in the mountains, the snow ran into the small spring where the river had its source, fattening and feeding it until it became the wide river flowing before her, gathering in speed and size until it joined the Atlantic Ocean in Bordeaux. This was the river where Edward rowed with his club. She had watched him several times, training her binoculars on the boat, searching for that gleaming blond head, that familiar figure with its broad back and shoulders, the well-muscled arms.
They would have the aperitif out here tonight, it would be warm enough. The Man liked to take a shower and change when he got back from work. Most times she joined him in the large tiled shower room, letting him soap her skin, knead her shoulders, kiss her neck till she couldn’t stand it any longer. Then he would turn her round, wrap himself around her, the passion would build, the air full of fragrant steam, the hot jets beating down on them as he lifted her on to him. Afterwards, as he rubbed her dry, she would feel him becoming aroused again, she’d dawdle, tease, pretend she
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