Forbidden Fruit

by Kojo Black

  “Please,” said Lisa.

  Smoky and fresh, if the small black coffee she enjoyed a few minutes later was an indication of things to come, her taste buds would indeed be seduced.

  “You asked me here for two days,” she said, looking Laurent squarely in the face. “Wouldn’t one meal serve your purposes?”

  Laurent’s eyebrows rose.

  “No. One dish will serve my purpose. But it will take us two days to prepare it.”

  It was Lisa’s turn to raise her eyebrows.

  “Us?”

  “Oui. You will assist me today in the preparation. Tomorrow, we will eat it together. Then you will understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “That the pleasure one mouthful can afford you is as valuable as all nutrients this dish will be bursting with.”

  “A healthy dish from your kitchen? I hardly believe that. Tell me what it is.”

  “In honor of your name, Lisa—a summer pudding.”

  Could she have heard right?

  “A summer pudding? But that’s so … British … and so simple.”

  “And so perfect for my culinary seduction.”

  Laurent’s smile made Lisa’s stomach somersault. She tried to hide the flush of her cheeks behind the tiny coffee cup, but she wasn’t even fooling herself.

  The kitchen of Le Petit Pois was positively futuristic. A stainless steel pod, hidden deep within the Tudor paradise, manned by a crew of white-uniformed, young men and women. Lisa noticed most of them sported the same tattoo on their left bicep. A row of peas, nestled in a gaping pod.

  Lisa was given a set of chef’s whites to change into. No one had asked her for a size, but they fitted perfectly and her name had been embroidered on the chest, in the exact spot where Laurent had the three gold stars on his. Even so, she felt self-conscious walking into the kitchen.

  Laurent’s acolytes ignored her as she went across to where Laurent was waiting beside a stainless steel work surface. The kitchen was completely silent, apart from the sounds of knife against board or fat sizzling in a pan. Everyone appeared to know exactly what they were supposed to be doing—they got on with the work with no drama. It was utterly unlike the professional kitchens Lisa had seen on television, in which the chefs swore at each other and threw pans around.

  “We start by preparing the dough for the brioche.”

  “Brioche for the summer pudding? That’s unusual. Most recipes call for stale white bread,” said Lisa.

  “Most recipes …” was all Laurent said. His tone said the rest.

  They worked quickly, Lisa silently following instructions, fascinated to watch a master chef at work. Laurent told her small details about the ingredients as they went along.

  “This butter, we churn it ourselves.”

  “I import the flour I use for breads and brioches from a small mill in Picardie.”

  “These eggs are laid by our own speckledy hens.”

  They mixed a smooth golden dough in a large steel bowl, Laurent gently schooling Lisa on her technique with the wooden spoon.

  “Now the most important part. We must knead the dough to relax the gluten. Just briefly.”

  Laurent sprinkled flour onto the surface of the worktop.

  “Give me your hands.”

  She held them out and Laurent clasped them with his, then frowned.

  “Come.”

  He hadn’t let go of her hands so she had no choice but to go with him. He led her through a thick steel doorway and the air around them was suddenly cold. Sides of meat hung in rows from hooks on the ceiling—they were in the cold store. Without warning, Laurent stopped, opened a stainless steel lid in the shelf in front of him and plunged both hers and his hands into a vat of ice cubes.

  “Ouch!”

  Lisa tried to pull her hands out but he held them in place with an iron grip.

  “The brioche dough is one of the richest, the heaviest in butter. If you try to knead it with warm hands, it will split.”

  “But this hurts.”

  “A little pain before pleasure. Your hands will soon be in the dough.”

  As soon as he released them, Lisa pulled her hands from the ice and shook them, dripping, in the cold air. She moaned. All of her knuckle joints experienced a dull ache, while her skin felt as if it had been burnt. She made to rub her hands dry on her white tunic.

  “No! You’ll warm them again.”

  Laurent rushed her back to the bench where they’d left the dough. He quickly flipped it out of the bowl onto the floured surface.

  “Now.”

  He stood behind her, so close that she could feel his warm breath on the back of her neck.

  “Rub your hands with flour.”

  Lisa took a small handful from the flour bag that stood open on one side of the bench. She rubbed her hands together to coat them. Laurent reached around her on either side and did the same with his. He sprinkled more flour over the surface of the dough.

  “Make the dough into a ball.” His chin tickled her ear.

  She tried to concentrate on his words, rather than his proximity. She scooped the dough toward her and began shaping it gently into a ball. He placed his hands over hers, making her even more aware of his body pressed against her back.

  “We need to work fast. First, punch the dough.”

  He showed her how to use the heel of her hand to push the dough forward into the hard surface. Then how to fold it over on itself and stretch it again in a slow, rhythmic movement. As their hands moved against one another, the cold dissipated and Lisa’s skin felt gradually warmer. Laurent’s breathing deepened with the effort he was putting into the kneading. His body pushed against hers with the same rhythm, until Lisa became gradually mesmerized. It was almost like dancing. It was almost like fucking. She watched his fingers working on the dough, barely aware that her breathing now matched his own. As she pushed forward on the dough herself, she couldn’t help but push back against him. Against the hard evidence of his arousal in the small of her back .

  “How do we know when we’ve done enough?” Laurent spoke quietly, but his voice sounded loud in the quiet kitchen.

  Lisa glanced around—the other chefs were taking no notice of them. Laurent’s cheek burned against her own like a hot kiss.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  “Feel the dough. Has it changed since we started?”

  Lisa stopped kneading and pressed the ball gently with her fingertips.

  “It’s springy. Not so sticky.”

  “That’s enough. Now we leave it to prove for a few hours.”

  Laurent stepped away from her and Lisa felt as if she’d shed a warm coat. The back of her body felt exposed. She sighed, watching as the owner of Le Petit Pois placed the ball of dough onto a metal tray and covered it with a damp cloth.

  “This is a proving drawer where it can rise,” he said, pulling open a steel cabinet and placing the dough inside. “We’ll come back later to bake the brioche.”

  Lisa leant back against the worktop, brushing a flurry of flour off the front of her tunic.

  “You have good hands,” said Laurent. “Excellent technique.”

  “Thank you,” said Lisa, looking down at her hands as color rose again to her cheeks. She’d spent many hours of her childhood kneading dough and baking bread with her beloved grandmother—a formidable home cook who’d awakened Lisa’s own interest in food and nutrition.

  “I must oversee the lunch service now, Lisa. Change out of your whites and go to the small sitting room. There will be sandwiches there for you. I’ll come back as soon as service is over.”

  In the privacy of her luxurious bedroom, Lisa stripped off the chefs whites and tossed them onto a chair. She stood in front of the full length mirror, contemplating what she saw. A young woman with a dusting of flour in he
r hair. Her chest rising and falling unnaturally fast when she thought about the pressure she’d felt in the small of her back. Her hand went to the front of her briefs. There was simply no denying it. Laurent Gillou turned her on.

  And it was something she couldn’t afford to indulge if she was to win this challenge.

  She pulled on dark jeans and a white cotton top, then went quickly downstairs to her solitary lunch. Smoked salmon sandwiches on soft rye bread, along with a small glass of champagne. Regardless of whether she won this damn challenge or not, she might as well enjoy the pleasures of Le Petit Pois. It was certainly way beyond her budget to come here as a paying guest and, as the reviews all said, it was a stunning setting.

  As the lunch guests left, Lisa and Laurent drove out of the front drive of Le Petit Pois in a Land Rover which, to Lisa’s mind, had certainly seen better days. Laurent had reappeared moments earlier, now dressed in tight jeans and a dark red polo shirt. He gestured for Lisa to follow him and the sight of his denim clad rear climbing into the car had Lisa chewing on her bottom lip all the way down the drive.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, as Laurent accelerated onto the main road.

  “To the farm.”

  That Le Petit Pois had its own farm should have come as no surprise at all. After all, she’d already seen the care Laurent took over the selection of his ingredients.

  “For the berries?”

  “Of course.”

  Berries. As far as the eye could see. Lines of strawberries, rows of raspberries, stands of currant bushes with red, black and white berries glistening between the leaves. Blueberries in troughs. Loganberries. Gooseberries. Tayberries. Cherries in an orchard. Golden raspberries and white strawberries.

  “What’s a boysenberry?” Lisa had thought she knew all of the berries.

  “It’s a cross between a raspberry, a blackberry, a dewberry and a loganberry. Open …”

  Laurent deposited a black-hued berry on her tongue. Lisa closed her mouth and crushed it against her palate, letting the sharp juices flood her mouth. She wrinkled her nose.

  “A little sour.”

  “But you disapprove of sugar.”

  “Dewberries?”

  “A small American blackberry. Come this way, we have some …”

  They walked on between tall rows of raspberry canes. Laurent picked fruit sporadically, placing the chosen berries reverentially into the basket over Lisa’s arm. They had currants and strawberries, raspberries, blackberries and a variety of their offspring so far. Dewberries followed.

  “We need a few cherries,” said Laurent, glancing up at the sky.

  Lisa followed his gaze. Grey clouds were rolling in over the horizon.

  “Cherries are hardly traditional for summer pudding,” she said.

  “Neither is brioche,” said Laurent. “But it doesn’t mean the pudding won’t benefit.

  The cherry orchard was at the far end of the raspberry field, where the trees had been planted on a rocky slope.

  “Dark Hudson or pale Rainier?” Laurent held up two types of cherry.

  “Dark Hudson for the color …”

  “But Rainier for the taste. We’ll have some of both.”

  They picked for a few minutes in companionable silence until Lisa felt a cold drop of water explode on her arm. Then another and another.

  “Oh hell!” she said. The last thing they wanted was for the berries to get wet—it would dilute all the flavors.

  Without saying anything, Laurent peeled off his polo shirt and quickly wrapped it over the basket of berries. He took it from Lisa, sheltering it further with his body. They both peered up the storm clouds above their heads.

  “The berries will be soaked before we get back to the farm,” said Lisa. “What can we do?”

  Whatever Laurent said was drowned out by a clap of thunder so close that Lisa felt it reverberating in her chest. She blinked. Laurent was running, away from her, away from the farm, down the slope to the far end of the cherry orchard. Without asking him where they were going, she followed, skidding on the stony ground in his wake, nearly tumbling down the hillside.

  As she reached the bottom of the orchard, Lisa saw the destination Laurent was making for. There was a stream, beside which stood a small folly in the form of Grecian temple. White columns topped with a green dome, the dark shadow of a doorway. They would be able to shelter till the rain passed.

  Laurent was already inside by the time she caught up. She peered into the dark interior. Laurent had put the basket on a stone bench and was draping his wet polo shirt over a statue of a faun. Lisa stepped inside, taking a deep breath of the fusty air. The edges of the floor were obscured by drifts of dead leaves and dark water stains had created clouds on the decaying plaster of the walls.

  “What is this place?”

  Laurent looked up at her.

  “The Temple of Pan, god of the woods. We have several of these follies around the estate. The perfect place for a lovers’ tryst.”

  “Or to shelter from the rain.”

  Laurent laughed. “Of course. Are you very wet?”

  There could be two answers to that question.

  “I’m fine,” said Lisa. But when she glanced down, she realized her white shirt was clinging to her skin. The fine lace pattern of her bra was completely visible. Self-consciously she folded her arms across her chest.

  Laurent, on the other hand, seemed completely oblivious to the fact that he was standing in front of her, bare-chested. Her treacherous eyes roamed where they wanted, meandering across sculpted planes of his chest and stomach. Laurent was panting from the exertion of the run and so was she. The air that had been cold and fetid at their arrival was becoming warm and vaporous. The rain drummed relentlessly on the metal dome above their heads, a sharp tattoo that drowned out the sound of their breathing.

  “We can wait it out here,” said Laurent. “It’ll blow over in a minute.”

  Part of Lisa hoped it would. Part of her hoped it wouldn’t. Beyond the chill on the surface of her skin, she was acutely aware of blossoming heat. Arousal. She was in a confined space with a half-dressed man and, to her horror, she was becoming increasingly attracted to him.

  “Try?” Laurent was holding out a strawberry, a luscious specimen that was slightly over-ripe.

  The scent of it invaded her nostrils and without a second thought she dipped her head to take it directly from his fingers with her mouth. Laurent held it steady by the leaves as her teeth sank through the yielding flesh. She straightened up, savoring the taste, wiping the juices from her chin with her palm.

  “Oh God, the flavor’s so much more intense than supermarket strawberries,” she said.

  “Of course,” said Laurent. “The strawberries you buy are grown in polytunnels, on nothing but water. No taste. Ours take the goodness from the soil and ripen in the sun.”

  “Another.”

  “It’s the same with our cherries,” said Laurent, dipping a hand into the basket. “First the dark.”

  He fed her a ruby red orb which glinted in the poor light. Lisa bit into the fruit. It was crisp and sharp, its distinctive flavor flooding her mouth. She spat the stone into her hand and threw it out of the door.

  “Now the lighter Rainier.”

  It tasted of cherries and nectarines and peaches all at once.

  Lisa sighed. “I could get drunk on these.”

  She peered through the doorway. The rain was easing. They could probably leave the shelter and start back. But she had a question for her host that demanded an answer.

  “Tell me, Laurent—these berries are perfect, delicious just as they are—so why make them into a pudding?”

  In the small stone room, Laurent’s laughter echoed sharply.

  “You can ask me that tomorrow, Lisa. After you’ve tasted it.”

  His e
yes held hers for a fraction too long. Heat flared.

  “Lisa …” He paused as if at a loss for words. “I want to …”

  Lisa swallowed. “What, Laurent?”

  “May I?”

  He stepped toward her and slowly raised his arms. She wondered what he was going to do. Then it became apparent. With infinite care, he untwined the hair elastic that secured her hair in its ponytail. When it was loose, he ran his fingers through it, arranging it casually around her shoulders.

  “I’m sorry. But I’ve wanted to do that since we met at the studio. You have beautiful hair. It’s a crime to tie it up.”

  “I …” It was Lisa’s turn to be speechless. He was standing so close to her now that she could smell his skin, with its overlay of cologne. Gazing into his searching green eyes, she lifted a tentative hand to his chest. “Laurent …”

  His skin was warm enough to make her suddenly shiver.

  “Lisa.”

  Her fingers were stained red with berry juice. He took her hand and lifted it to his mouth, sucking in first her index finger, then her middle finger. When he let them go the stain remained.

  He wrapped his arms around her, looking down at her.

  “I want to kiss you.” It was hardly a whisper, just carried from his mouth on a breath. “Very badly.”

  Lisa’s mouth went dry but her lips parted. Without thinking, she pressed herself against his body. Warmth flooded through her as she raised her face to his.

  He kissed her for what seemed like an eternity, his tongue roaming within her mouth, as his proximity overwhelmed her senses. She could no longer hear the beating of the rain on the metal dome. She couldn’t smell the soft fruit—only the more elemental smell of him. With her eyes closed, she lost all sense of the space they were in, only aware of the circle of his arms.

  “You taste like strawberries and cherries,” he said, when he finally raised his mouth from hers.

  Lisa looked over her shoulder.

  “It’s stopped raining. I think we can go,” she said.

  Laurent let go of her abruptly.

  “Yes, of course. I’m so sorry.”

  Lisa shook her head, but no words formed in her mouth. How could she tell him how much his kiss had just turned her on? Laurent pulled on his polo shirt in awkward silence. Lisa knew she should look away but she couldn’t. The pulse at the base of her throat was hammering and she wondered if there was any way of setting the memory of this moment in stone.