Today, I have a recipe to share from the fabulous Shehanne Moore . You know, Shehanne, you don’t have to behave on my account. I love people who like to misbehave! But I may have to battle Fury for Flint…just saying.
Firstly I want to thank the lovely Anne for asking me along here today. I always commend those who take risks and this is a risk. But I’m going to behave. I’m also going to talk about cooking. I mean cooking is a subject I know lots about. I know how to mistake icing sugar in the oven instead of the cake mix. Oh, and serve broccoli soup over steak. Thought it was mushy peas.
Sorry? Did I say I was going to behave? Well I am. But Anne likes cooking. How can I not come on here and talk cooking? Especially as food features quite prominently in my new book. The setting is Italy. Hmm… hot marinara sauce, melted mozzarella cheese, soft Parma ham. Sexy carbonara. Sure it is if you don’t dribble it down your chin anyway.
Bull cod soup is what I want to talk about. Okay, not an Italian dish but the backstory is the Caribbean and in it my hero invites my heroine to his cabin for supper I try to imagine what that meal consisted of because afterwards he made her a certain offer. You’ll get from the extract what that was. Then he threatened to chuck her overboard if she didn’t do it.
It’s certainly astonishing the amount of Jamaican recipes that are aphrodisiacs. But then there are also apparently all sorts of wild tales and tips there on how to become a sex supremo. What about Bull Cod Soup? Maybe it says cod- we are looking at a certain bit of bull here, cooked with bananas–saying nothing—and scotch bonnet peppers in white rum. Peppers themselves apparently having hot in the sack qualities. Then there’s Mannish Water made from various goat parts seasoned with herbs and spices, and cooked along with vegetables, yam, bananas and dumplings. Traditionally served—no less–to a groom on his wedding night. Whooo. Of course there’s oysters—not Jamaican exclusively but…. Finish up with some juicy avocados and bananas–thinking shape here–I reckon there’s the recipe for that night.
In the book Flint often asks for his favourite dish.
While Fury’s favourite dish, not that she will ever admit it, looks like this….
Oh alright… there is a mention about the fish being off, so plainly she eats that. There is also a menshie of the maid Susan’s roast lamb.
Widowed Lady Fury Shelton hasn’t lost everything yet. So long as she produces the heir to the Beaumont dukedom, she might keep her position and her secrets. But when the callously irresistible man she’d rather rot in everlasting hell, than bed, threatens to expose her, she invents bedroom rules to stop herself wanting the one thing she knows he can never give her.
Rule two… There will be no touching
Only when it comes to rules, ex-privateer James Flint Blackmoore is a master at making his own. Soon he’s playing with fire. Both know future happiness can only lie in keeping each other at arm’s length. Yet they’re torn by old hurts and the promise of new passion.
But some rules are made to be broken…
Why is she so determined to hate him? Will her secret truth make it easier or harder for him to abide by the rules? Or will Flint finally convince her he can give her the one thing he never has?
“No, docile’s hardly the word for you. It never was.”
“Why should it be?” She steadied herself. No. She would not debase herself before him. No matter how much he hurt her. “The things you did to me.”
He frowned. “What things?”
“Oh, please, allow me to spend the night telling you when I’ve nothing better to do. But since you’re asking, why don’t we start with the way you took my virginity?”
“Took it? Hell. You were giving it away.”
“So it pleased you to believe.”
“Never saw you refusing, sweetheart.” His gaze picked over her face. Then he narrowed his eyes seductively. “Leastways…” He stepped closer in that way that had always made him very dangerous. “I’m offering now to get you out this little hole you’re in.”
“I don’t need any shovel of yours for that. I’ve got myself out of more than one these past seven years, after you left me.”
“That’s not how it looks to me this time, which is why I’ve just about had enough of this. Now.” He yanked her closer, so she could feel the hard press of his body through the enveloping layers of satin and wool. “You want that heir or not?”
She almost fainted with shock. Straight to the point as ever. So straight she was appalled by what flamed in her blood, how he towered, and how his body—scent and strength—was pure, beckoning male. She had only to reach out and sweep the hair back from his face to let him take control, as he always had.
But not only did she not want her guests coming from their chambers to find him taking control against the banister or even the wall—the stairs, as she had learned last night, were not ideal—she remembered the last time he had issued a similar threat, about her wanting something or not.
Then her trunk, or rather Lady Celia’s, had landed with a thud on FishsideWharf, displaying its contents for all to see. She did not want the Beaumont heir following suit.
She cleared her throat—if nothing else, it was an action designed to remind herself his offer was outrageous. She refused to be tempted like this.
“No. Not particularly. I believe…I believe I have said all there is to say on that subject.”
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