by Kojo Black
Forbidden Fruit
Compiled by Kojo Black
“There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable.”
–Mark Twain (1835 – 1910)
Sweetmeats Press
A Sweetmeats Book
First published by Sweetmeats Press 2015
Copyright © Sweetmeats Press 2015
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing from Sweetmeats Press. Nor may it be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
ISBN 978-1-909181-62-5
Typeset by Sweetmeats Press
Sweetmeats Press
27 Old Gloucester Street, London, WC1N 3XX, England, U. K.
www.sweetmeatspress.com
Sweetmeats
We all lust after what we cannot have, from forbidden sweets as a child to forbidden pleasures as an adult. The most dangerous and extraordinary temptations are often the most exciting, the most alluring. What we are forbidden to touch is always what we yearn to feel. The fruit we are forbidden to taste is always sure to be the juiciest. And the higher up that fruit grows, the farther it is out of our reach, the sweeter, riper, and more delicious it is destined to be.
In this collection, four of our favorite authors have provided us with a bountiful collection of stories bursting with desire, lust, and fruity themes. Forbidden Fruit offers up a platter of erotic tales for your delectation. Peel back the layers, savor the sweetness, and sate your senses until the juices run down your chin!
Contents
Summer Pudding
by Tamsin Flowers
The Love Apple
by Zak Jane Keir
A Dance of Ocean Magic
by Elizabeth Black
The Cherry Orchard
by Vanessa de Sade
Summer Pudding
Tamsin Flowers
The television studio’s green room wasn’t green, but his eyes were. So intensely green that they momentarily robbed Lisa Summer of the power of speech.
“I said, bonjour.” His accent was strong. French, obviously.
“I … sorry … hello.”
She’d only just been deposited in the green room by the runner who’d collected her from reception, and she hadn’t got her bearings. But she knew who he was, the man with the emerald eyes. He was Laurent Gillou. Owner of Le Petit Pois. Winner of three Michelin stars, three times over. Author of seven best-selling cookbooks. And representative of the heaving over-consumption and food elitism sweeping the country’s middle classes. Lisa had analyzed recipes in his books—she had yet to find a dish that carried less than six hundred calories and lashings of saturated fat.
“You are the nutrition expert, oui?”
She nodded, holding out a hand. “Lisa Summer.”
She expected him to shake her hand, but Laurent Gillou raised it slowly to his mouth and kissed it. His lips lingered on the back of her hand, as his eyes locked with hers.
“You know, you’re wrong about food,” he said, as he let her hand drop. “But we will see when the debate starts. May the best man win.”
“Woman,” corrected Lisa. “You’ll find that I know what I’m talking about.”
Ugh! The man was so arrogant. She turned her back on him and strolled across to the complementary buffet, looking over it with a critical eye. When were caterers going to learn that mini sausage rolls weren’t healthy? And who even liked them?
Secretly, however, she was thrilled to be here. She still couldn’t believe that she’d been asked onto national television to give her expert opinion on food and nutrition. Opinions in Opposition was the country’s most popular early evening show. Each week it pitted experts with opposing opinions against each other in what very often turned out to be explosive discussions. Of course, Lisa was fully aware that the show’s reptilian host, Dexter Dixon, did all he could to inflame passions on either side, but she felt confident that she could hold her own. She knew her stuff and she’d always had a cool head.
“Perhaps, mademoiselle, we share an opinion on the wretchedness of this offering.”
She turned to face Gillou so she could study him more closely. In the flesh, he looked vastly different to the man on the cover of his books. Thinner, a little more refined than the ruddy-faced bon viveur in a chef’s white tunic with the three gold stars on the breast. His dark suit was exquisitely cut, his salt and pepper hair immaculate. But with his aquiline nose and penetrating eyes, his look was defiantly Gallic.
“Perhaps,” said Lisa, “but we wouldn’t agree on an alternative.”
Dexter Dixon hustled into the room and hurried over to them.
“Ah-ha, you two have already met. Splendid. Now, Debs will take you for a bit of pimpage in hair and makeup, then the battle can commence.”
Lisa watched Gillou bridle at the suggestion he needed to be pimped in any way, but she would welcome the attentions of the professionals. She wanted to look her best. Her mother would be watching.
An hour later, she felt decidedly unlike herself with a ferociously tight chignon and a layer of makeup so thick she could barely change her expression. Debs propelled her into the studio as Dexter Dixon began his introduction of her. The lights were blinding. Beyond them, the studio audience was a dark, shadowy mass.
“Lisa Summer is a qualified nutritionist. A woman who certainly knows her goji berries from her chia seeds. Welcome, Lisa.”
There was a small ripple of clapping as she took the seat she’d been instructed to go to, then silence.
“And today, our nutritional expert will be butting heads with a man who worships food for its rich flavors, the pleasures it can afford.” Dexter paused for effect. “Laurent Gillou needs no introduction …”
His words were drowned out by a raucous cheer from the audience that continued as Gillou appeared at the studio entrance, and lasted until he’d shaken hands with both Dexter and Lisa. He took his seat, then raised both his palms, then lowered them slowly, conducting the audience to settle down.
“Merci, merci.”
Dexter Dixon didn’t stand a chance.
Lisa Summer didn’t stand a chance.
Laurent Gillou had the viewers eating out of his hand—no one was remotely interested in why they should eat five servings of vegetables a day.
“Let’s get this discussion rolling,” said Dexter, raising his voice as the audience caught their breath. “Miss Summer, why don’t you start us off? Tell us, why shouldn’t we eat whatever we want, what tastes good to us?”
Lisa was prepared. She’d known she’d be faced with the most fatuous of questions from Dexter Dixon.
“Of course, the way food tastes is important,” she said.
Laurent Gillou gave an exaggerated nod, turning his head to scan the audience as he did.
Lisa ignored him and continued. “But unfortunately not all foods that taste good are beneficial to your health.” The audience emitted a tired sigh. “Luckily, however, you can combine the two—there’s nothing as delicious as a fresh, crisp salad with some lean chicken breast or a slice of poached salmon.”
Laurent Gillou’s bark of laughter encouraged similar snorts from beyond the lights.
“I can think of almost a thousand things mor
e delicious than those,” he said.
“All of which will damage your heart and your waistline, no doubt,” said Lisa.
Thirty minutes later, neither of them had budged an inch on their respective views.
“The problem, Miss Summer, with people like you,” Gillou said, “is that you don’t understand the pleasure principle. If something gives you great pleasure, it must be good for you. You derive a value from that aspect of it, over and above the mere calorie and vitamin content.”
The audience gasped its approval.
“I don’t agree,” said Lisa. “It’s important …
Gillou cut her off.
“It’s like sex. The content is just two bodies rubbing together. But the value? It can be something transcendental, beautiful.” A flurry of spontaneous clapping. “Food and sex? These are what makes life bearable on this isolated little rock, where we face only the inevitability of death.”
The audience erupted in their agreement.
Lisa’s jaw set tight. There was really little she could offer in the face of the inevitability of death.
“Fine words, Monsieur Gillou,” said Dexter Dixon, once the uproar had died down. “Anything to add? Your final point, Lisa?”
Lisa swallowed. What the hell could she say?
“Monsieur Gillou, your transcendental assertions mean nothing to school children who are suffering from malnutrition because it would never cross their parents’ mind to simply feed them some vegetables.”
“I agree, mademoiselle. Poverty and ignorance is a tragedy. But perhaps I can offer you a challenge. I’ll donate one full week’s takings from Le Petis Pois to the nutritional charity of your choice, if you can resist my culinary seduction.”
He swept his eyes from one side of the audience to the other, as if he were challenging them. They emitted a collective sigh.
Dexter Dixon turned to Lisa.
“What do you say, Miss Summer. Will you accept Laurent’s challenge?”
“What would it involve?” She should have just said no.
“You come to Le Petit Pois for two days and allow me to prepare for you a dish so pleasurable that you’ll forget all about its nutritional credentials.”
“Oh, Miss Summer, please say you will,” said Dexter Dixon. His eyes twinkled.
“Yes!” called a man.
“Do it!” shrieked a woman.
“Go for it!” said several voices at once.
The audience wanted the experience vicariously.
Dixon turned to Laurent Gillou. “We could film this, yes?”
Gillou shook his head. “No, my recipes are secret. But I will bring Miss Summer back to the studio to tell you all about it.”
Lisa was trapped. There was no way she could refuse. And the steady strumming of a pulse at the base of her throat, combined with a rush of heat between her legs, told her she didn’t want to.
“Yes, I’ll do it.”
Damn! What had she just walked herself into?
Lisa barely stopped to fetch her coat from the green room. She wanted to get out of the TV studio as fast as she possibly could. Now she’d have to come up with some way to wriggle out of this ridiculous commitment. Then, waiting for the elevator, the worst thing happened. Laurent Gillou came and stood beside her.
He cleared his throat.
She ignored him.
“Mademoiselle Summer, I have to say, you made some very good points about fresh food and good health.”
Lisa’s jaw might have come close to hitting the floor.
“Thank you.”
“I very much look forward to some more discussion when you come to Le Petit Pois.”
“About that …”
“My assistant will telephone you to fix a date. Please give me your number.”
The doors opened. Gillou stood back to allow her in first. They stood facing each other across the mirrored box, as Lisa recited her mobile number. In the mirrors, she could see an infinite number of Gillous and a corresponding number of Lisas. A dozen pairs of those sharp green eyes. A dozen pairs of his sensuous lips which, as she watched, curled into a smile.
“Let me warn you, Lisa.” He used her first name. “I will win this challenge. I will beguile you with my most exquisite creation.”
Was he being serious? She smiled back at him.
“What will you cook for me? How will you tempt me?”
“That I will decide on the day.” He stepped forward, until they were less than a foot apart, and Lisa became acutely aware of his scent—vetiver and sandalwood. Heat prickled at the back of her neck. “Something that your beautiful mouth won’t be able to resist.” As he said this, he reached up to trace the outline of her lips with a fingertip. Lisa reeled, but it was all she could do not to push the tip of her tongue out between her lips.
Jesus! Get a grip!
The doors opened. Gillou strode away without another word.
Gillou’s assistant—French, naturally—was efficiency personified. She also appeared to have had a charm bypass. She barked instructions down the phone about how to get to Le Petit Pois, when Lisa was expected and what she should wear. The restaurant was deep in the heart of the countryside and she would be expected to stay the night. So, two solid days with Laurent Gillou. Would that be long enough to re-educate him and win this silly challenge? She’d be damned if she didn’t give it her best shot.
“On the first day,” continued the assistant, “you’ll be spending time in the kitchen, so I recommend casual clothes and comfortable shoes. Then, on your second day with us, Monsieur Gillou would like you to dress appropriately for a meal in our dining room. Our private dining room. Comprenez-vous?”
Lisa wasn’t sure she did. After all, what was the distinction, in terms of dress, between the public and the private dining room? For no reason at all, she packed her best underwear.
It was already hot by the time Lisa steered her little Citroen through the imposing gates of Le Petit Pois a few minutes after ten o’clock. The officious woman had instructed her to arrive at ten and it hadn’t been Lisa’s intention to be late. But her old car didn’t offer the luxury of sat nav, so she’d had to drive and map-read at the same time. At least they couldn’t disapprove of her choice of car.
The gravel drive wound through the most spectacular stands of rhododendron—at least they would have been, if they’d been in flower. But it was July now, and their blooms were long since over. Still, it made her think of the driveway to Manderley, and her heart beat a little faster with each twist and turn. Finally, the dark cavern of bushes gave way to a thicket of Scotch pines, standing sentinel as the drive curved in a carriage circle. A grand sweep, at the apex of which stood the most perfectly beautiful house Lisa had ever laid eyes on.
Le Petit Pois was a small Tudor manor that had once belonged to the brother or father or uncle of one of Henry the Eighth’s wives—Lisa had read about it on the restaurant website, but she couldn’t remember the details. Flint stone walls, timber frame above and a forest of spiral brick chimneys stretching up to the sky.
Lisa parked her car to one side of the carriage sweep and got out, staring up at the house. Of course, she’d seen pictures of it online, but nothing had prepared her for its absolute perfection, an architectural concoction of red, black and white against the cobalt sky. She sighed.
“Miss Summer, you found us!”
She tore her eyes from the intricate brickwork of the chimneys to find Laurent Gillou bearing down on her. This time he was dressed in his chef’s whites and she noticed how they set off the tanned skin of his face and forearms.
“Monsieur Gillou, how are you?”
“All the better for seeing you,” he said, putting out a hand for hers. “I thought you might not show up for our little challenge.”
This time, when he raised her hand to his lips, she wasn
’t surprised by his action. Only by the response it generated across the surface of her skin. She shivered momentarily.
“If you knew me at all, you would know that I always keep my word,” she said, forcing half a smile so it wouldn’t sound so severe.
“Hopefully, I will know you a lot better by the end of our time together,” he said.
Yes, he was charming and, by God, she found him attractive. But she’d come here on a mission to make him realize the error of his ways, that the health-giving benefits of food were just as important as the taste. He’d certainly never be able to convince her otherwise. But now wasn’t the moment to start an argument.
“Your restaurant is stunning,” she said.
“Your first visit.” It wasn’t a question. This was the type of restaurant that would know if you’d been before. “You have an overnight bag?”
“Yes,” she said, turning to fetch it from the back of the car.
“Leave it,” he said, catching her by the arm. “I’ll have someone put your car in the garage and your bag in your room.”
He led her into the building through a small side door, rather than the main restaurant entrance, but she was still impressed. He led her into a small sitting room, hung with dark-hued oil paintings of wilting flowers, decaying fruit and dead game, rich and sensuous despite their gore. A wide-necked vase stood on the mantel piece, crammed with deep red blooms, and the scent of lilies hung heavily in the air.
Lisa crossed the room to look out through the small, leaded windowpanes. A redbrick terrace gave way to steps leading down to a typically French parterre—a checkerboard of small, immaculate flowerbeds full of thyme, lavender and rosemary. Beyond, a dark green lawn undulated down a slope toward a perfectly circular lake with a fountain at the center. Her breath caught in her throat. She’d heard that Le Petit Pois and its environs were beautiful, but this was perfection on a grand scale.
“A feast for the eyes,” said Laurent, coming to stand next to her at the window. “Can I offer you a coffee?”
So this how the seduction would start. With something as simple as a cup of coffee.
