A Taste of Passion

A TASTE OF PASSION

Sweet Temptation Book 1

Ashley Lister

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

More from Mischief

About Mischief

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

It was possibly the most wonderful thing that Trudy had ever found in her mouth. She was momentarily struck silent as her senses savoured the experience. The chatter continued around her. The clatter of cutlery and crockery was an ambient crackle beneath the muted murmur of conversations and the sound of people steadfastly dining. The world, she supposed, was continuing to revolve. But all Trudy could focus on was the sublime flavour that filled her mouth.

It was how she imagined heaven might taste.

‘Sweet Temptation,’ Charlotte and Donny said in unison. They clinked their champagne flutes together and then nudged them absently against Trudy’s extended glass. Neither noticed that she had been struck dumb by an epiphany.

‘Here’s to profitable trading in the first year of business,’ Donny declared.

‘To a business as successful as this one,’ Charlotte countered, gesturing with her glass to the restaurant around them.

Every seat was full. Waiters and waitresses, dressed in immaculate black shirts and pants, bustled hurriedly from table to table. Trudy, Charlotte and Donny had only managed to get reservations because Charlotte’s parents were wealthy, had influence, and possessed the foresight to have booked this table several months in advance. Despite the chintz of the décor, Boui-Boui had a deserved reputation for sophistication, prestige and culinary excellence that made it successful and popular.

Donny surveyed the restaurant with a contemptuous sneer. He had been blessed with darkly handsome good looks which he exploited to their fullest advantage. Some of Trudy’s friends described him as Machiavellian whilst others said he was merely attractive because he had a bad boy’s charm. Some had even been so bold as to suggest he had the cruelty to match his devilish good looks. But Trudy had only ever thought of him as Donny, one of her flatmates and an occasional study-buddy.

She didn’t believe she would ever think of him in any other way.

‘To our first Michelin star,’ Donny decided.

‘And our second,’ Charlotte added.

The pair of them finally noticed that Trudy was not participating in their extended toast. Her eyes were wide. She had her lips closed to jealously guard the prize on her tongue. Her cheeks bulged and she was aware that the condition made her features unflattering. But she was inwardly cataloguing the flavours, identifying the ones she knew and trying to deduce the identity of a fantastic and mysterious element in the muffin that her senses hadn’t previously encountered.

The constituent eggs were fresh and creamy and so obviously free range she was sure they had come from the handful of black rock chickens she had seen clucking and strutting towards the coops in the grounds around Boui-Boui.

The flour had the heady rasp of organic, hand-milled wheat.

She could tell little about the sugars involved. Their flavours were lost beneath the blend of citrus stings and blueberry zings that sat in the muffin’s heart and sweetened every light-yet-coarse crumb.

But there was something else.

It was something that elevated the flavour to an experience like nothing she had previously encountered. It was something so exciting and unexpected she thought it was like being an artist and discovering a previously unseen colour, or being a musician and hearing a previously unheard chord.

There were echoes of citrus and vanilla and …

‘Trudy?’ Charlotte frowned with obvious concern.

Whenever Charlotte frowned a small V creased the bridge above her retroussé nose. The V wrinkled her otherwise smooth brow and caused her dark eyes to narrow. The concern always accentuated the sharpness of her angular cheekbones. The expression, instead of making her look caring, made her look like a brooding brunette ballbreaker. The expression was the polar opposite of Charlotte’s sweet-natured personality.

‘Is everything OK, hon?’

Trudy shook her head. Everything was not OK. Her world had been turned upside down by this revelation.

She had spent three years studying food. This meal was intended as a celebration between her and her two dearest friends now that they had graduated with their culinary arts degrees. Yet this was the first time Trudy had experienced a taste as profound and intense as the one that now filled her mouth. Reluctantly, almost feeling bereaved because she didn’t want to part with the new flavour she had just discovered and was now savouring, Trudy swallowed. She glanced frantically around the restaurant. When her gaze fell on the maître d’ she beckoned the woman to join them.

‘Trude?’ Donny had a hand on her wrist. He looked worried. ‘Do the cakes taste really shitty? Are you going to complain?’

She stared at him in bewilderment. Donny’s question made no sense. How could he use the word ‘shitty’ to refer to the muffin she had just tasted? It wasn’t shitty. It wasn’t even perfection. It was beyond perfection.

‘Trudy,’ Charlotte whispered. ‘You’re freaking us out here.’ Her voice was a balance of urgency and concern. She remained in control but she was clearly worried about the excess of Trudy’s reaction. ‘What’s wrong, hon? Can’t you tell us?’

The maître d’ appeared at the table. She was tall, imposing and meticulous in her formal black business suit. Her thin features and improbable beauty suggested she might have had cosmetic work done to maintain her youthful appearance. Her smile conveyed professionalism and authority with a mild suggestion of approachability.

‘May I help?’

She spoke with the refined tones and clear articulation of a newsreader. If Trudy hadn’t seen that the woman was the restaurant’s maître d’, she would have guessed her occupation as an elocution teacher.

Trudy patted a knuckle lightly against her lips. After-echoes of the flavour remained in her mouth. The flurry of sensations was so rich and thrilling she had to swallow twice for fear of drooling her response.

‘Miss?’ The maître d’ was beginning to appear concerned. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘May I talk to the pâtissier?’ Trudy asked. ‘That muffin was …’

Her voice trailed off. The muffin was one of the most stupendous flavours she had ever tasted. Expressing the thought with those words, even though they were true, seemed somehow excessive and inappropriate.

‘I’d like to talk with the pâtissier,’ she insisted. ‘But, if I can’t talk with him or her, may I please have the recipe?’

‘The recipe?’ The maître d’ shook her head and laughed. The sound was soft, polite and only lightly underscored with scorn. Her words came out as though she was reciting an oft-repeated mantra. ‘It’s not the policy here at Boui-Boui to share recipes with customers. Whilst the management are obviously thrilled that you enjoyed –’

‘Please,’ Trudy broke in. ‘I’ve just graduated. I’ve been studying food for the past three years. But I’ve never tasted anything as exquisite. I need to learn more about it. If I can’t have the recipe then please let me talk with –’

‘I’m sorry,’ the maître d’ said. Her voice remained polite but it was now edged with a firmness that said the subject was no longer open for further discussion. ‘I’ve told you Boui-Boui’s policy on this matter. Unless there’s anything else?’

Trudy’s mouth worked silently for a moment.

Charlotte placed a hand on hers and spoke to the maître d’. ‘No,’ Charlotte said with measured politeness. ‘There’s nothing else at the moment. Thank you for informing us about the restaurant’s policy.’

Chapter 2

Trudy headed to the bathroom to freshen up. She left strict instructions that her muffin wasn’t to be touched and she told Charlotte and Donny that she would return shortly.

‘Do you want me to come with you, hon?’

Trudy shook her head. She was holding back tears of frustration and determined not to let them win. She wasn’t going to be defeated by a maître d’ and a muffin. She had never let herself be beaten by anything. ‘I need three minutes,’ she told Charlotte. ‘Then I’ll be right.’ She held up the three middle fingers of her right hand. Her thumb and little finger were curled together in her palm. It was such a commonly repeated action between herself and Charlotte the gesture had taken on the familiarity of a gang sign.

‘Three minutes.’

Charlotte blinked acknowledgement and returned the gesture. Three minutes.

Carefully, Trudy made her way through the rustic space of Boui-Boui’s dining area. The décor’s focus had been on the familiar tropes of an idyllic country kitchen. The woodwork was clean and clunky beneath gingham tablecloths and lacy chintz placemats. Trudy avoided waiters and inhaled the exotic and exciting aromas of a hundred skilfully prepared flavour experiences as she headed towards the washrooms. With her senses still reeling from the overload of the muffin, it felt as though her nostrils were cataloguing each familiar element they now encountered. She caught the thrilling bite of a smoked serrano chilli pepper that was both daunting and tempting. She was momentarily distracted by the blended bouquet of Herbs de Provence, smiling as she identified the delicate balance of thyme, basil, fennel, marjoram and rosemary. Every flavour was sharp, developed to its most efficient, and absurdly appealing. Every sensory experience in the room, save for one, seemed instantly identifiable.

Trembling from the excess of experience, Trudy hurried into the washroom and closed the door behind her. She splashed water on her cheeks and studied her reflection.

It had been a momentous day.

She had received her first class honours degree. The ceremony had been solemn but each commemorating address bristled with the prospect of the tremendous opportunities that now lay ahead. She was with her closest friends and they were discussing their shared plans to make a future together in the catering industry as a joint enterprise called Sweet Temptation. Everything before her brimmed with promise and hope and the potential for success and she refused to let the day be spoilt by the barrier of an enigmatic muffin and a stubborn maître d’.

Trudy stood over the restroom sink and scowled at her reflection.

Her short blonde crop had been styled to perfection that morning. It had maintained the majority of its shape, despite the fact that she’d been sat wearing a mortarboard for the best part of three hours. The light make-up she wore remained in place, accentuating the depths of her smoky grey eyes and drawing attention to the cranberry pout of her lips.

Her resolve hardened.

No one earned a first class honours degree by accepting refusals. No one achieved anything of worth by simply allowing people to stand in the way. She was going to make a success of Sweet Temptation with Charlotte and Donny and part of being a success would involve pushing herself to break artificial boundaries imposed by those around her. Standing a little taller than before, and making sure every step she took landed with powerful force, Trudy left the washroom and marched back across the dining room to take her seat at the table.

She had a plan.

‘Are you OK, hon?’

‘I’m OK,’ Trudy told Charlotte. She considered the remains of the muffin that waited for her. She tore off a crumb and contemplated it thoughtfully. ‘I’m OK. But I’ll say goodnight to you two now.’

‘Are you going somewhere?’ Donny asked. ‘We don’t mind going with you.’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Trudy told him. ‘I just figured you two might want to leave. I’ll be staying here until the pâtissier agrees to speak with me.’

Donny rolled his eyes. He glared at Charlotte. ‘Don’t tell me she’s going to make a scene.’

Charlotte shook her head. ‘No,’ she assured him. ‘Trudy’s not going to cause a scene. Not again. Not like the Wilkinson incident.’ Turning to Trudy she said, ‘Please don’t do this, hon. Not now. Not today.’

‘Please,’ Donny agreed. ‘Tonight of all nights, we should be out celebrating. I’ve got us tickets for Stanzas.’

Trudy set her jaw. There was no sense explaining that Charlotte and Donny were bringing money and business acumen to their proposed partnership whilst she was only able to contribute the same culinary knowledge they had all learnt whilst studying together. It was an argument they’d had before and she didn’t want to sit through it again. She simply wanted to talk with the kitchen staff and discover the identity of the mystery ingredient from the muffin. Once she knew what it was she would be able to work on reproducing something similar in her own kitchen.

It wouldn’t be an identical muffin.

She wouldn’t steal the recipe.

But she would be able to include that maddening, unidentifiable ingredient.

‘I’ll be waiting here until the pâtissier agrees to speak with me,’ Trudy explained. ‘I’ve got no intention of causing a scene. And once the pâtissier has told me everything I want to know, I’ll catch up with the pair of you and we can continue celebrating.’ She frowned and added, ‘Does it have to be Stanzas?’

Donny looked set to argue but Charlotte held up a hand to silence him. She reached into her purse and withdrew a series of notes.

Trudy allowed her friend to pay. This meal was Charlotte’s treat. Charlotte could afford the extortionate prices charged at Boui-Boui. Or, to be more accurate, Charlotte’s parents could afford the extortionate prices. As this really was a day for celebrations, Trudy didn’t mind taking advantage of their generosity.

Donny picked up Trudy’s mobile from the table and squinted at the screen. ‘You’re low on power.’

‘I have a spare battery in my bag. If there’s an emergency, if I need anything, I can give you a call.’

He squeezed her shoulder. The gesture was reassuringly fraternal. She caught the refreshing zesty scent of his CK1 cologne. It was a smell she knew and trusted and she caught herself smiling as she inhaled. The smell of Donny was always comforting.

‘Congratulations again,’ Charlotte said, pecking Trudy lightly on the cheek. ‘The first was deserved. You’re one of the most talented chefs I know.’

‘I will make this work for us,’ Trudy promised. Her gaze went frantically from Charlotte to Donny and then back again as she tried to impart the sincerity of her claim. ‘I will make this work for us. You know that, don’t you?’

‘I don’t doubt it, hon.’

And then Charlotte and Donny were gone and Trudy was alone at the table.

The maître d’ appeared by her side. If she was puzzled to find Trudy alone her expression didn’t register any surprise. ‘Will there be anything else?’

Trudy gestured at the plate before her.

‘I’d like to speak with the pâtissier responsible for this muffin.’

The maître d’ frowned. ‘I thought I made this clear before. The restaurant policy is quite specific on this matter. Patrons are not entitled to recipes or private discussions with members of the kitchen team. It’s simply not our policy here and I apologise if –’

‘I’ll wait,’ Trudy said. She put the final crumb of muffin into her mouth and then smiled against the thinly concealed glower worn by the maître d’. Chewing quickly before swallowing Trudy added, ‘Please may I have another of these citrus and blueberry muffins whilst I’m waiting?’

Chapter 3

An hour passed. The maître d’ paused three times at Trudy’s table. Each time she paused the exchange they shared was always identical.

‘May I get you anything else?’

‘I’d like to speak with the pâtissier.’

‘I’ve already explained that’s not possible. Boui-Boui’s policy is explicit.’

‘Then I’d like another muffin, please.’

A second hour passed. The world beyond the windows of Boui-Boui turned dark as the summer’s evening faded to night. The diners around Trudy finished their meals, paid and passed on complements to the chef, and then meandered towards the exits.

The trade, steady throughout the evening, began to falter.

Waiters and waitresses passing Trudy’s table eyed her with mixed expressions of pity, panic, bemusement and unease. They had clearly been discussing her in the kitchens. She was undoubtedly considered to be the mad woman on table thirteen. She clearly had some bug up her backside about muffins and recipes. She was a loose cannon worth watching in case she went properly crazy.

Untroubled by their opinions, Trudy closed her eyes and savoured the moment. Boui-Boui had an international reputation for excellence. William Hart, restaurateur, chef and culinary legend was the owner. Hart had delivered a seminar at Trudy’s university and she could still remember his dulcet tones as he reverently discussed the need for every chef to understand the core elements of the profession. He had spoken for an hour and it had been one of the most memorable lectures that Trudy had attended. To find herself sitting in Hart’s celebrated restaurant, trying to unravel the mysterious flavours contained within one of his kitchen’s creations, was almost like some form of surreal graduation prize. If she had been given a choice between this situation, or going out drinking with Donny and Charlotte at Stanzas, Trudy knew that she would have chosen a solitary seat in Boui-Boui every time.

‘We’ll be closing in fifteen minutes,’ the maître d’ announced. Her crisp voice cut through Trudy’s thoughts. It was sharp with tones of clinical authority.

The restaurant was virtually empty. Aside from herself the only other patrons were a solitary couple sat in one corner near a window. They held hands across a table decorated with empty plates, half-drained coffees and a single rose.

One petal had fallen from the rose to the floor.

‘The head chef has given me permission to lock the doors with you inside.’

Trudy glanced at the maître d’. ‘You’ve spoken with the head chef? May I speak with the head chef?’

‘No. As I might have mentioned before, that goes against restaurant policy.’

‘Then I’d like another muffin, please.’

The maître d’ sighed. Her shoulders slumped as she headed towards the kitchen. A moment later a smirking waitress appeared and placed another muffin in front of Trudy. She had fuchsia hair and the name badge over her right breast was written in italicised script: Nikki.

‘They’re good, aren’t they?’ Nikki grinned.

Trudy nodded. ‘I’ve never had better.’

‘My friend Kali makes them,’ Nikki explained. ‘She’s pâtissier here at Boui-Boui and she was the one who showed this recipe to Mr Hart.’

‘Really? Has she ever told you what goes into them?’

‘What goes into a citrus and blueberry muffin?’ Nikki repeated doubtfully.

Before Trudy could say that wasn’t what she meant, the maître d’ had appeared and the conversation was cut maddeningly short. She escorted the fuchsia-haired waitress out of the room and back to the kitchens.

Trudy was left alone in the restaurant with her single, enigmatic muffin.

Each citrus and blueberry muffin had been baked in a pastel pink paper case. Trudy slowly peeled the paper away before sampling the sponge in small, savoured morsels. Over the past two hours she had grown so acquainted with unpeeling the muffins from their paper cases that the action felt like a well-practised ritual. Primed by some Pavlovian response, she began to salivate in anticipation of the tantalising taste as soon as she was teasing paper away from the sponge.

Something about the flavour was maddeningly familiar.

Emotionally she was detecting excitement and hope – not things she often associated with flavours. Her tongue continued to identify suggestions of vanilla but that was a common ingredient in so many pastries that acknowledging its presence did little to help. Trudy was still trying to work out the identity of that missing detail when the maître d’ reappeared in the main doorway.

The solitary couple had crept quietly from the room. Their table had been surreptitiously cleared without Trudy noticing.

She was now the only customer in the restaurant.

The maître d’ wore an overcoat over her uniform. She had one hand on a light switch. There was something about her posture that suggested absolute determination. And, whilst Trudy could see the woman was resolute, she did not think the determination of the maître d’ could be as strong or resilient as her own will.

‘I’ll be locking the doors now,’ the maître d’ explained. ‘This is your final chance before you get locked in here for the evening. Are you going to leave?’

Trudy drew a deep breath. ‘I’ll leave after I’ve spoken with the pâtissier.’

The lights went out. Before Trudy had a proper chance to realise she had been plunged into darkness, a stranger took the seat next to hers.

Chapter 4

‘What do you want?’

Her heartbeat quickened. She had no idea who he was. Had she been left alone with the restaurant’s security detail? Her grand idea of remaining at the table, until the restaurant’s staff were forced to deal with her, no longer seemed like such a clever strategy. A slick sheen of sweat moistened her palms. Her mouth was almost too dry to talk. She started twice before finally finding the words.

‘These muffins,’ she began. It took every ounce of effort she possessed not to stammer. She willed herself to appear in control. Even though it was dark and even though she didn’t know who she was talking to, Trudy felt the need to exude an air of contained professional calm. ‘These muffins are delicious.’

‘I know. Everything I serve here at the Boui-Boui is delicious. Now, tell me, what do you want?’

It was too dark to see who he was. He was simply a suggestion of shadow against the blackness of the unlit restaurant. His voice had a northern twang to it that reminded her of the blustering heroes from hardy TV shows and gritty films. It was an accent that suggested the words were spoken by someone with no time to tolerate whimsy, artifice or fools. They were plain-spoken words from a plain-speaking man.