Spiced Vanilla

by Victoria Blisse

  A Total-E-Bound Publication

  www.total-e-bound.com

  Spiced Vanilla

  ISBN # 978-0-85715-043-1

  ©Copyright Victoria Blisse 2009

  Cover Art by Natalie Winters ©Copyright March 2010

  Edited by Michele Paulin

  Total-E-Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2010 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way

  , Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom

  .

  Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has been rated Total-e-burning.

  SPICED VANILLA

  Victoria Blisse

  Dedication

  Thank you God for my skill, thank you my dear husband for encouraging it

  and thank you all who inspire me to write.

  Chapter One

  It had become a habit—a pleasant one, maybe the only one in my whole day. Around about two o’clock I would walk down the main street, past the supermarket, the café, the appliance shop and the carpet store, and I’d turn up a plain side street with no remarkable features. It was a short way up that street to the place I loved. Jacques.

  Around six months ago, I had walked past that street and caught a delicious scent on the air. It combined almonds, vanilla, chocolate and a hint of spicy cinnamon, and as my stomach rumbled, I had to check it out. It seemed so comforting, that smell, it reminded me of happy times in the kitchen with my Mother as a child. Jacques was new then. It had opening offer posters in the window. The smell of new paint was an astringent undercurrent as I drew closer to the shiny black exterior of the shop.

  At first, I thought Jacques was a cake shop, but it only took a moment looking at the artistic, architectural cakes to make me realise it was something much more. I remembered the word from my French GCSE lessons. Jacques was a Patisserie. Even back then, with the opening offers, I could not afford to try a cake. I wanted to. There were several that caught my attention.

  There was a tart made with fanned-out layers of apple, a cheese cake so deep yellow it made my mouth water and a square chocolate cake with icing and the most delicate stars and sparkles decorating it. It wasn’t just that they looked good either. They smelled divine, too. With every opening and closing of the door, I’d get a waft of sweet, warm bakery and confection, and I would close my eyes and imagine the tastes. Custard, cream, chocolate, fluffy sponge and crunchy meringue. It quickly became my favourite place.

  I wished I could go in and buy something, but the price tags were just too high for me. I could barely afford a cheap cake let alone an artistic, expensive one. But every day, I would treat myself to their visual beauty combined with their heavenly scent.

  It was a late summer day with just the hint of the approaching autumn chill in the air when I made my usual trip down to Jacques. I set off from my home at two, and I was at the window of the patisserie by two-fifteen. It was a Friday, and I could see his stock was well-depleted. All the large cakes had been sold bar a carrot cake and a sponge, and many of the shelves in the window and by the counter were nearly empty.

  I closed my eyes and inhaled as the door opened and the bell jangled. The subtle scents of light summer filled me—lemon and orange, the citrus tang mellowed with vanilla and strawberries, milky cream and the gentlest caress of chocolate and warm alcohol.

  The screeching of brakes pulled me viciously from my summer daydream and transported me into my nightmare. It had happened in winter almost a year ago, and it haunted my every sleeping moment and often crept into the daydreams, too.

  I had been disgustingly happy. I was a lecturer in the local college, and I enjoyed my job immensely. I was engaged to John, a fellow lecturer and one of the cleverest people I knew. Not only was he clever, he was kind, generous, witty and handsome. We lived in each other’s pockets. I spent the majority of my life at his house although I continued to pay the rent on the little flat which housed all my personal belongings and me on the occasional evening when our timetables didn’t converge.

  We’d been out for a curry with a bunch of other teachers around the festive period. It had been a great evening, and we’d all drunk a little too much. John wanted us to get a taxi, but I’d wanted to walk. I don’t know why I’d insisted. It was windy and bitterly cold, but as always, John had acquiesced to make me happy.

  We were laughing and joking, teasing each other like a pair of teenage kids. We kissed, and embraced. He told me he loved me, and I replied with a giggle and another kiss. I got silly when I drank wine, and I was still teasing him as we stood at the pedestrian crossing, waiting for the green man.

  I don’t remember much after the beeping started and the green man appeared. We’d walked out into the road hand in hand, and I’d heard a car engine and a screeching of brakes.

  “Em, watch out!” He’d pushed me, and I’d stumbled forward and fallen. Next moment, I’d woken up in hospital with a dull ache in my legs and a fuzzy feeling in my head.

  We’d been hit by a drunken driver. John had saved my life by pushing me forward, although my legs had been well and truly mangled in the ensuing crash. John had died instantly. He’d saved my life, and only moments earlier, I’d held back from telling him I loved him.

  It took me months to physically heal, but the mental and emotional pain had barely lessened with time. I couldn’t forgive myself for getting him killed, for not saying I loved him. Once I was physically well, I’d planned to go back to college but had found, to my horror, that I couldn’t walk through the gates. There were too many memories, too much of him. I’d been unemployed from that day on. I saw a shrink, as little good as that actually seemed to do. I tried hard to get well, but I only seemed to get worse.

  The walk to Jacques had become my therapy. It got me out of the house daily, strengthened my legs and made me more comfortable with being outside again. It might not be much, but to me it was my redemption. At first, it was a small triumph that I had gotten that far away from my home. Each day I made it, I felt better. Soon, the walk had become a habit and no longer an achievement, but that in itself made me feel good. I started to walk further, to go to different places. I enjoyed a walk around the park and a browse through the shops. I started to feel normal again.

  But it took only a moment to take me back to the quivering, shuddering mess I had been after John’s death.

  “Miss, are you okay?”

  I focused again and found a man in a black apron standing before me.

  “Erm, yes, I think so,” I replied.

  “You look so pale. Come on. I’m taking you inside.”

  “No, I’ll be all right.” I started to feel dizzy, and suddenly, a strong arm was around me, and I was being led forcefully in the direction of the door.

  “I’m okay,” I insisted, but the man would not listen.

  “Here you go, love. Sit down here.”

  I
bent my knees and sat on a hard wooden chair. My hands shook, and I laced my fingers together in an attempt to calm them.

  “I’ll just go. I’ll be okay—”

  “You’ll stay there,” he commanded. His tone of voice brooked no contest, so I stayed where I was. He moved away from me and I heard the tinkle of glass then the whoosh of water in another room.

  “Here, take slow sips of this.” He pressed a cool glass into my hand, and I took a small mouthful of water and swallowed.

  “Thank you.” I smiled, and he nodded. His wavy hair bounced and settled around his strong brow and asparagus-green eyes. I was overwhelmed by his smell for a moment. All around me was the comforting scent of vanilla and the tempting hint of chocolate and spice. But I could only smell him. He smelt like a spice cake, cinnamon and nutmeg blended with a musk that was purely masculine and, even through my shocked daze, I felt the shudder of arousal.

  “What happened? I thought you were going to faint.”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

  “Well, never mind, you’re okay now.”

  “I should go. You’re working,”

  “Oh no, sit there for a while. Truth is it’s very quiet this time of day. I could do with some company.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  My heart thumped in my chest, and it was not all due to the screeching breaks and painful visitation to the past. I’d never really seen him before. I’d just grabbed glances of his hands and his smile through the display in the window. Now that I saw him up close, I understood why so many women left the shop smiling, sometimes even giggling to themselves.

  “You’re the lady who comes and looks in everyday, aren’t you?”

  “You’ve noticed me?” I asked, horrified. My cheeks burned as the heat rushed back to my face.

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed you before. Why do you never come in?”

  “Erm, well…” This guy certainly didn’t mince his words, and in the fraction of a second, I decided honesty was the best policy.

  I sighed. “I can’t afford to.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame. At least, it’s not because you think I’m ugly or something.”

  “Oh no, nothing like that,” I gibbered. “You’re lovely.” I wanted to add that I’d be as happy to sink my teeth in to him as I would be to nibble on one of his cakes, but I resisted.

  “As are you,” he replied with a laugh and a cheeky smile that made me feel dizzy with pleasure. “Well, I tell you what. If you come in and spend some time with me in the afternoons, you can pick any cake in the shop you’d like as payment. How’s that?”

  “Really?” I lifted my brow in disbelief. Why would this handsome, confident man want me in his shop?

  “Really, I get a little bored in the afternoons—and a little lonely, if I’m honest. It’d be lovely to have someone to talk to for a while.”

  “But maybe I’m boring!”

  “You? No, I doubt it. You’re eyes are too bright for you to be boring.”

  I blushed again. I suspected I looked like a ripe Victoria plum, and I hoped he wanted to taste me.

  “And anyway, I talk way too much,” he continued. “You’ll just have to listen, mostly.”

  “Okay, then, you’ve got a deal.” I smiled, and he held out his hand. I took it in mine and was thrilled by the power and strength in his grip.

  “You’re fingers are so cold,” he said. “Let me get you a hot drink.”

  “I should really be getting home,” I said, a little bit overwhelmed by it all and needing space to digest everything that had happened.

  “Just stay for a brew, please. I’m not convinced you’re well enough to be walking yet.”

  And when I thought about it, he was probably right.

  “Oh, okay.”

  “How do you take your tea?”

  “Milk, please,” I said. “I like it creamy.”

  “Any sugar?” he yelled from the other side of the empty doorframe.

  “No thanks, I’m sweet enough,” I replied out of habit. John used to think it was cute. A stab of grief took me, and I felt a wave of guilt roll over me. How could I be lusting over another man so soon? I was just about to get up and make a break for it when a cup of tea came in followed by the gorgeous man who’d caused my panic.

  “Here you go. This will warm you up.” He passed me the cup, “Now, you can’t have a cuppa without a cake. What would you like?”

  I looked down at the display shelf before me and hmmed.

  “Decisions, decisions.” I wrapped my fingers around the warm cup and leant further forward to get a better look. “I’d love one of those meringues actually,” I said in the end.

  “A great choice,” he enthused as he picked up a light, creamy shell filled with fluffy cream and decorated with berries. He laid it down on a paper bag and pushed it to the end of the counter by me.

  “So, who bakes the cakes, Jacques?” I asked as I put down the warming tea and tried to work out how to approach the meringue. In the end, I split it into two halves with roughly the same amount of cream and fruit on each.

  “Well, yes, sort of. I do. I bake them all, but I’m called Jack. I Frenched the name up a bit,” he replied.

  “I’m Emma.” I smiled. “You must work really hard if you bake and sell all these cakes.”

  “I get up at four am every day. When I close at three-thirty, I go upstairs and pretty much go to bed. It’s a long day.”

  “Wow, you could do with someone to give you a hand.”

  “Well, once the business is on its feet and making good profit, I plan to hire someone to help me out.”

  “It seems like business is booming to me.” I made a whimpering, appreciative noise as I bit into the meringue and was enveloped in the scents of summer and the tastes of heaven. “With meringues like this, I’m not surprised.”

  He blushed a little then regained his composure.

  “Oh, it is, but one has many overheads at the beginning of a business. I’m just starting to clear the backlog of debt from opening this shop in the first place.”

  “Have you always baked?” I asked as the tea and cake loosed my tongue and made me feel more and more relaxed.

  “Yeah, I’ve always loved baking. My dad thought it was a girly thing though and made me go to business college. I was a banker for a long while, then one day, I decided I couldn’t face another piece of boring paperwork, and I quit. I started this place.”

  “Are you happier now?”

  He sighed. “Considering it lost me my fiancé and the respect of my father, yes I am.”

  “Oh, I’m sure your father will come around. Has he seen this place?”

  “No.”

  “You should invite him. He’d be proud of you, I’m sure.”

  “That’s very sweet of you to say, but I’m not sure it’s true. I’d not change my life now for anything, though. I wake up to do what I love to do. It makes each day a joy.”

  I missed that. I used to have that when I taught. Every day was a pleasure. I felt hollow once more and put down the last morsel of my cake, suddenly unable to eat any more.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “You’ve gone pale.”

  “Yes. I had your joy once. It’s gone now, that’s all. “

  He squeezed my shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll find it again, or it’ll find you.”

  “Thank you.” I pulled myself off the chair. “Now, I have to go. Thank you for your kindness.”

  “You’ll come in tomorrow, right?”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Okay, cool, see you tomorrow.”

  * * * * *

  I thought of Jack all the way home. His scent lingered, that spicy masculinity that overpowered every other smell seemed to be stuck in my system, I could not escape it, and I didn’t want to. I thought of his meringue, how it tasted and how its fresh vanilla and cream scent excited me before even a crumb hit my lips, but mostly, I thought of Jack. It seemed strange that, in all the time I’d spent outside his
shop, I’d never seen him properly before. I’d never taken notice of him, but now that I’d met him I couldn’t think of anything else.

  I needed a shower when I got home, I still felt the clammy panic on my skin, and I needed to clear my mind. I switched on the shower then quickly jumped back. I took off my clothes and waited for the water to warm up.

  I really had thought I was over the public panic stage of my grieving, but the screeching brakes and near fainting fit proved that was not the case. If Jack hadn’t come out to my rescue, I’d probably be in Accident and Emergency now, my face covered in scratches and my mind being prodded by on-call psychologists.

  As I slipped under the water, I moaned. I needed the cleansing heat, and it soothed my body. The sting of the powerful droplets impacting my skin massaged me, and I stood beneath the fake rain and just enjoyed the sensations for a long moment.

  John would hate how screwed up I was over all this. He was a sensible man, and he just could not understand how emotional I could get at times. He’d be mortified to know I had gone to pieces over his death.

  I remember once we were talking about a particular incident that had upset me. I don’t remember exactly what it was now, but at the time, I was a complete wreck.

  “I don’t want you ever to get like this over me, Em,” he said, “I’d hate to do that to you.”

  Oh well, it’s not like you can stop the way you are, is it? You can’t exactly divorce yourself from your emotions, or at least I couldn’t. John would shake his head and hold me tight until the tears stopped. Then he’d tell me he loved me, to pull myself together and to smile. He’d strengthen my resolve.

  A tear rolled down my cheek as I wished for the millionth time that he waited nearby for me, that I’d be able to get out of this shower and into his arms. I remembered then a time when he got into the shower with me and took me in his arms then and there.