Biarritz Passion: A French Summer Novel (23 page)

Annabel gave a sn
arl.

‘I am not going to be rushed into things Caroline. A registry office! You
, Auntie M on her stick, Birdie sweating in her tweeds, and Julian’s parents all standing on the steps for a photo before going for a drink at the corner pub? Unbearable. I’m not doing it. If he wants to marry me he’ll have to wait. I want a proper wedding, like everybody else. And if he’s got to go to Frankfurt, he’ll just have to come over and see me every weekend won’t he. I’ve got my own life in London, the magazine, all my friends. No, I won’t do it!’

‘But he’s such a lovely man,
Annabel, you’re so lucky, you know, he absolutely adores you—’

They had argued for ages, each of them getting more and more angry until finally Annabel had
hurled a cushion at her sister’s head and stalked out of the room shouting that if Caroline thought Julian was that wonderful, she could bloody well marry him herself. There were plenty of other fish in the sea.

And, thought Annabel, standing in her bedroom gazing at her reflection, one of those fish was right here on holiday with them. And her big sister was not going to get in her way.
She would make sure of that. Her handbag was on the table. She found her cell phone, selected the number in her contacts, and dialled.

Edward, driving back to Biarritz on the A64, glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Not far now.

He’d had a tough few days at work, a problem that had arisen with a supplier and that set off a chain reaction which affected several different departments. He’d worked flat out and hoped everything was now on course, if not totally sorted out. He’d left the final details in the hands of
Gunter, his more than capable second- in-command.

Every day he’d been in at six
am, returning to his flat around eight in the evening. A microwaved a meal, a mindless TV show, and then bed, where he’d spent most nights tossing and turning, caught between the teething problems of the new plane and thoughts of Caroline.

His last fling had been with a sexy
Venezuelan air hostess, all heat and curves and mocha skin. They both shared the same philosophy, embracing life’s pleasures with all the relish of biting into a juicy peach. Easy come, easy go. No strings. She’d gone back to Venezuela, but there would always be others, to wine and dine and take to his bed at the weekend. He was a woman’s man. But each Monday morning he would return to his true love, the one with the gleaming curves and the swept back wings, waiting for him in the hangar at the Airbus site.

So how did Caroline fit into the picture?
Quiet little Caroline. She was no South American hottie, or the one before, the Uma Thurman lookalike who was so athletic in bed she’d almost put his back out. So why, when he had startled Caroline in her tranquil spot under the chestnut tree, had he taken one look and felt himself being reeled in like a fish? A very surprised fish. The expression in those dark slanting eyes, the turn of the head on the beautiful neck, half hidden under unkempt hair, the way she started to her feet, something, as the Beatles said, in the way she moved.

Admit it
Rayburn, he told himself. She reminds you of Alice.

He’d been 19, at the end of his first year at Cambridge.
When the exam period had been over, his tutor had invited a group of them round for drinks at his pretty cottage in Grantchester. In the company of his pretty wife, Alice. She’d been standing by a window, clutching nervously at a glass of wine and trying to make small talk to her husband’s students. She was wearing a grey skirt that was too big for her and a blouse with a high collar. The Jane Eyre look. Edward had moved over, the other students had drifted off. She’d listened to him for an hour, smiling as he recounted his exploits on the rowing team, his prowess on the cricket field and his love of aeroplanes. He was handsome, successful, in the full flush of youth, and steadily getting drunk. He’d fallen hard, with the whole-hearted passion of a romantic young man. And she too had not remained indifferent. Who knows how it would have ended had it not been for Julian, his best friend? He had sat up with Edward for hours, supplying coffee and whisky and a sympathetic ear. With infinite patience and tact he had managed to get him to see that throwing up his studies and running off to a farmhouse in Tuscany with a married woman could only end one way. Also, that he wouldn’t be the first starry-eyed undergraduate to have entertained such notions. And that there would be others, it was not the end of the world. Edward had tossed his copy of D.H. Lawrence’s love poems in the back of his wardrobe and gone off to Biarritz with Julian, where he did his best to forget Alice in the arms of a certain Brigitte, fifteen years older than he was, and a woman of infinite wisdom. But he hadn’t forgotten Alice, not entirely. Nor Brigitte either, come to that.

He’d thought he’d been pretty damn smart setting up the ‘accidental’ meeting at the Delormes
that Saturday. But it was Edward who’d been caught on the back foot. When Caroline had walked through the door he’d hardly recognised her. Correction, he’d recognised her alright. She was still the Caroline of the greenwood tree, but brought out into the sunlight like a cockleshell found on the sand, suddenly transformed when you turned it over and saw the pearly beauty inside.

He had been taken aback, more attracted than ever, but had held his instincts in check. This was someone he wanted, but in a different way from his usual women.
This was a farmhouse-in-Tuscany sort of attraction. He’d thought about her constantly until her arrival at the villa. There she was, standing on the steps, the seashell Caroline. The Caroline who’d stepped nervously into the pool that evening, her hair falling in a thick fringe in front of her eyes, who’d lost her shyness and become surprisingly competitive, joining in energetically with Annabel and Claudie’s efforts to give the men’s team a pasting. The Caroline whose hair had got soaked, whose eyes had sparkled with determination, and whose swimsuit had slipped lower and lower as she jumped up and down, the thin material outlining the swell of her breasts, the hardness of her nipples.

And then the Caroline of the
feria.

She had opened like a flower that weekend. The way she had fallen in love with everything, the food, the wine, the music. The way she had relaxed in his arms, had looked up at him, lips half-parted, eyes shining, as they moved around the dance floor. And then her ardour as they embraced beneath the tree, it had taken him completely by surprise, inflamed him to the point he’d lost his senses. If they hadn’t been interrupted...he blew out his breath just thinking about it.

He had decided, meeting her again at the Delormes, that if he wanted her, really wanted her, and not just for some passing fling, he would have to tread carefully. She was, he thought, like a half-wild cat, needing to be coaxed, to be won over. The softly softly approach. And once again he’d been caught on the back foot, bowled over by her response to him at the
feria.
Softly softly flew out of the window, Tarzan swung in with a yell and he had nearly ruined the whole thing.

Of course
, if it really did get serious, if it really turned out to be the Tuscan farmhouse, there would be complications. She had a career, job security, a life in another country. And he had a job he loved. More than loved. Of course there was always the Bristol end of things, a transfer would be possible. But could he really leave his beloved France to live in England? Look at what was happening to his best friend. Julian was being torn in half by his commitment to work, the new Frankfurt contract, and his obsession, there was no other word for it, with Annabel. The poor guy was literally being torn apart. Would the same thing happen between him and Caroline?

Whoa there,
Rayburn, hold your horses he admonished himself as he left the motorway and followed the signs to Biarritz. All you’ve done so far is kiss her. Though perhaps kiss was not the best description for that erotic mini-explosion in the park.

***

Just before five, Caroline heard the sounds of the villa starting to come to life. Stirrings in bedrooms, low voices in corridors. The sound of the fridge door opening, ice tinkling.

She left her armchair and stepped out on to the terrace.

‘
Aie aie aie.
’

Jean-Paul was looking at the thermometer, doing his one
-handed handshake thing.

‘Thirty-five degrees. Think it’s time for a dip. You
joining me Caroline?’

The blue of the pool looked too inviting.

She went upstairs to change and five minutes later was sitting on the steps leading down into the shimmering water.

‘It feels amazingly cold.’

Jean-Paul, floating on his back at the deep end started to laugh.

‘This is an English girl speaking? It’s 27 degrees.’

She inched down another two steps gasping as the water hit her middle, then took the plunge, paddling round quickly in the shallow end.

Jean-Paul swam lazily towards her, a graceful crawl.

‘Beat you to the other end.’

‘Oh thanks Jean-Paul, but I’m too nervous to go out of my depth.’

He looked at her in surprise.

‘But the other night, when we had the water fight?’

‘The girls were in the shallow end.’

‘Ah yes.’

He cocked his head speculatively.

‘You want me to teach you?’

Caroline laughed.

‘Take a number. I can’t tell you how many people have tried. I can sort of manage the strokes. It’s just psychological. If I feel that I can’t touch the bottom, I panic. But don’t worry, I’m very happy just splashing around in the children’s bit.’

‘
Ma chérie,
you forget that I am a professional. Maybe I can show you something the 2000 others couldn’t.’

He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

‘Grrr. Go on then. But I’m warning you, your pride will be hurt.’

‘Now, take hold of my hands. We’re going to start with the right position. No Caroline, put your head down. You’re going to get your hair wet. Accept the fact.’

***

‘Watch out for sharks.’

Caroline heard the words through the splashing. She’d been practising with Jean-Paul for a good fifteen minutes. He’d been giving her lots of encouragement, but privately she felt she’d made no progress at all. She’d still be in a panic if her head sank below the water.

Shading her eyes she looked up at the figure silhouetted by the pool.

‘Edward
mon vieux
! How was the drive?’

Jean-Paul splashed some drops at his cousin, who jumped back.

‘Hot sweaty and full of cars. I’m going to get changed and join you. I warn you, I’m feeling very aggressive.’

By the time he returned, the pool had filled up. Claudie was conscientiously swimming lengths ‘for my f
atty stomach’ she said. Julian had dived in like a star, provoking shouts and whistles from Jean-Paul.

Edward followed Annabel out of the French doors.

‘Eddie, darling could you just move that chair for me? Thanks.’

Edward positioned a sun-lounger at the far end of the pool. The shadows were lengthening and the tall pines offered a welcome patch
of shade. Annabel stretched out and flung her arms above her head. Her tan showed up well against the vivid pink of her bikini. Her very small bikini, thought Caroline. She shook the water out of her eyes. Was her sister putting on weight?

‘Be a darling and do my back would you?’

Without waiting for a reply, Annabel handed a bottle of sun lotion to Edward and rolled over onto her stomach, reaching behind her as she did so to unhook the top of her bikini.

For a moment Edward stood there, holding the bottle, looking down at Annabel’s beautiful back. Finally he raised one hand, his face expressionless, squeezed a little lotion on to his palm and bent down.

‘Mmmm that’s bliss darling. Only not quite so hard. And a bit lower down.’

He was rubbing lotion into her shoulders. Caroline could see his face in profile, see the muscles in his arm lengthen and flex under his skin. He worked his way down to Annabel’s waist. Then after a pause, his hand moved up and over the slender curve of her hips. Jean-Paul was floating on his back, eyes closed, Claudie was leaning against the side of the pool, talking to Julian. No one seemed to be paying any attention to Edward and Annabel. Except her. She couldn’t tear her eyes off those long fingers, circling and pressing.

‘My legs. Don’t forget my legs. They always seem to burn.’

An iron fist squeezed Caroline’s heart. A wave of emotion swept through her, leaving her feeling sick. My God, she thought, I’m jealous.

‘You getting out already?’ Claudie called out to her as she climbed the steps.

‘Yes, think I’ll take a shower, get changed. Is there anything you want me to do in the kitchen?’

Claudie made the shape of a gun with one hand.

‘Don’t you dare. Everything’s ready.’

Standing under the shower she felt shaken. Seeing Edward again had been a physical shock. He’d stood there, looking down at her, eyes hidden behind his dark glasses. What was he thinking? And then, watching him rub sun lotion on her sister’s back, her reaction had been so violent, she’d felt like getting out of the pool, snatching the bottle and throwing it at Annabel’s head. Oh God, jealousy. She was Caroline MacDonald. She didn’t do jealousy. Anyone would think that Edward belonged to her. Pull yourself together, she muttered aloud, towelling herself dry. What had happened on Sunday night was the result of too much wine, too much excitement. It had been a holiday kiss. Well, more than a kiss. More like being hung head down over a cliff. She had never felt that way with Liam. Never even dreamed she could feel that way. And while a part of her cried out for more, another part said stop. Desire and fear.

She found Jean-Paul and Claudie sitting in the shade of the big cedar, enjoying its fragrance on the warm evening air.

‘I like those shorts Caroline. Very pretty. Like something from Hollywood in the forties.’

‘Yes, they are nice,’ Claudie chimed in. ‘And covered in strawberries. Watch out Caroline. My brother may try to eat you.’

Claudie had showered and put on a sundress with spaghetti straps.

The three of them contemplated the view in silence. The sea was a molten dazzle far below. Ridges of rock broke its surface like the humps of whales. The sky was an odd colour, a mixture of violet and apricot.