Fiona Silk Mysteries 2-Book Bundle

Chocolate Kahlua Pound Cake

Chocolate has long been reputed to have aphrodisiac properties. But even if it didn't, you might still pick this over an encounter with any mere stud muffin. This cake is great on its own, but you can serve it with vanilla ice cream or whipped cream with another dash of Kahlua.

1 cup butter

½ cup shortening

3 cups sugar

5 eggs

2 cans chocolate syrup (284 grams each) or a 1 lb. can

3 cups plain flour

½ teaspoon baking powder

1 cup milk

1 teaspoon vanilla

Cream butter, shortening and sugar. Add eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Add chocolate syrup and beat. Sift together flour and baking powder. Add alternately to creamed mixture with milk. Add vanilla. Mix well. Pour into greased and floured tube pan or bundt pan. Put in a COLD oven. Set temperature to 325° and bake for 80-90 minutes or until done.

Meanwhile, fix the glaze as follows:

1 cup granulated sugar

½ cup water

2 tablespoons Kahlua or other chocolate liqueur

In a small saucepan over low heat, combine the granulated sugar and water and stir until the sugar is dissolved. Remove from heat and stir in the chocolate liqueur. Cool cake for about ten minutes. Remove from pan and pour glaze over. Take the phone off the hook and enjoy.

"They tell me I've been shot.” The whispered words slipped from the lips of the man in the hospital bed.

My book tumbled to the floor with a thud. I leapt to my feet and gripped the cool metal sidebars of the bed. I leaned over the pale figure and touched his face. His eyes remained closed. “Yes, you were.” My words sounded garbled, the result of the aching lump that squeezed my throat. After eight months of wistful visits to these mud-beige rooms, I had pretty much given up hope for a happy ending.

The poet Marc-André Paradis opened his eyes. They were still the same intense blue that had made my knees buckle the first time I'd met him. He tried to lift his head from the pillow and produced a small but incandescent smile. I patted his hand.

“I cannot say I liked being shot, madame.”

“Of course you didn't.”

He frowned. “Not that I can remember it. Nothing at all. It is all foggy.
Comprenez-vous?”

I'm a total patsy for a French accent. But I didn't care for the “vous”. We'd been well into the “tu” stage before that bullet had grazed the side of his skull.

“Maybe you are better off without that particular memory.”

“Am I?” he said, with interest.

“Absolutely. And you shouldn't try to get up.”

“I must move a bit. It is very boring and miserable here in
this...where am I?”

“It's the rehab centre. You were in a...” I hesitated. Was it all right to tell someone he'd been in a hospital bed for months? Should I mention that no one had expected him to survive the bullet that had grazed his head? Or that his memory came back but never stayed long? For sure I wouldn't mention the recent surgery that had set him back to zero.

“And lonely,” he said.

“Me, too.”

Small beads of sweat had formed on his forehead. They matched the ones on mine. He whispered softly, “It is very warm in here.”

“We're having an early heat wave. The humidity is unreal. These hospital rooms seem to be even worse than anywhere else.”

“An early heat wave? But it's September.”

“Um, June,” I said. “We're in June now.”

“Really?”

“Afraid so.”

He frowned. “June already.”

“Time flies,” I said with a smile.

We'd been down this road before. In April, May, and two days previously, also June.

“If it is June, then I imagine I will be able to go home soon. That will be wonderful.”

“Home? I'm not so...”

“Oui, madame.”

No chance of that. He still needed physio and possibly even more surgery. Home was not in the cards. Not now for sure, and maybe not ever. According to the medical personnel, there was a serious possibility that Marc-André Paradis would spend the rest of his days in a care facility.

“I miss using my hands. I am a very good mechanic. Did
you know that?”

I swallowed. “I do. You're the best in West Quebec, as well as a poet.”

“That's right. High-end imports. My clients must miss me. Are you one of my clients, madame?”

I hope someday you will remember our relationship,
I thought. But I managed to hang on to my smile and say, “Sort of. But my car isn't up to your standards.”

“I will be back at work soon.” He grinned before he sank back onto the pillow and closed his eyes.

“Let's hope.”

I whirled at the soft squish of shoes behind me. A burly residents' aide in purple scrubs and chunky white runners bustled through the door and scowled in my direction. Her glance softened as she looked down at Marc-André. A smile hovered around her lips, replacing the scowl.

I'd been visiting for months, and this was a new face to me. Her
ID
tag said “Paulette”.

“Time to let the patient rest.” She was one of the many francophones in our region who speak English as well as any anglo. Unlike Marc-André, she had not a trace of a French accent. Probably had gone straight through school in the English system.

I blinked. Had I just imagined her hostility? I'd never seen her before, let alone done anything to merit antagonism.

Her scowl returned full force. It showed off the lines in her fiftyish face.

On the other hand, I could understand. It only takes a few seconds to fall head over sensible heels for Marc-André. I speak from experience. Even so, I didn't want to get into any kind of competition with her. For one thing, she looked like she might toss the javelin for a hobby.

“I've only been here a few minutes.”

“Not my problem. Visit's over now,” she said.

“But he's speaking today. In fact, a minute ago he was telling me he's ready to go home.”

“I hardly think so,” she snorted. “Don't go filling his head with that kind of junk.”

“But...”

“The patient comes first.”

“Of course, he comes first. But he needs company, a familiar face. He says he's bored and miserable.”

“He said no such thing. He has been in a coma, and he's a francophone. Who do you think you are kidding?”

“Well, you're francophone and you...”

It didn't help my case that Marc-André was now sleeping, his breathing slow and even.

She rolled her eyes. “Do you really expect me to believe that his first words would be ‘bored and miserable'?”

“But they were. He always speaks English to me.”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “Oh, does he? I don't know what you're up to, lady, but as of this moment, you are out of here.”

Assertiveness is not my best thing. Even so, I stood my ground. “I've been visiting him ever since he's been in this facility. I'm here at least four times a week. This is the first time he's spoken about going home. It's an emotional moment. I'm not ready to leave yet.”

She crossed her well-muscled arms. “Oh, really?”

“Yes. Really.”

“Shall I buzz Security?”

“Security? For me?” I squeaked.

“You got it.”

“I'd just like to say goodbye.” So much for assertiveness.
Mine evaporated with a slight flushing sound.

She nodded. “Make it snappy.”

I leaned over and gave Marc-André a peck on his pale forehead.

He opened his magnificent deep blue eyes again.

“Goodbye,” I said.

“So soon, madame?” he whispered.

“I'll be back.” I squeezed his hand.

“I know that.”

Paulette gave no sign that she'd heard. She gestured toward the door. She mouthed “Security,” in case I needed a reminder.

Marc-André struggled to sit up. “Wait, madame.”

“Yes?”

“Please, don't leave without telling me your name.”

My heart contracted.

“Fiona Silk,” I croaked.

“Have we met before?”

I felt Paulette's smirk on my back long after I'd slunk down the hospital corridor. Despite the shimmering heat, I shivered for two blocks until I finally reached my free parking spot.

Before I began the long drive north from Hull to St. Aubaine, I'd opened all the windows of my overheated Skylark. Even so, my bare legs were sticking to the vinyl seat. The Skylark had recently developed a nervous tendency to stall at low speeds, especially while merging. I'd become pretty adept at a fast restart, but this time it wasn't speedy enough for the guy behind me. He laid on the horn of his hulking black Cadillac Escalade. The blast caused me to yelp and grab my steering wheel. The Skylark stalled again. After fast restart number two, I jerked forward. The driver made
an attempt to cut me off as the Skylark leapt like a startled rabbit. When that didn't work, he passed me on the right of the entrance ramp and shot onto Highway 5.

A few minutes later, as I approached the Tenaga exit, I spotted the Escalade again. He was stopped on the side of the road. He glanced up as I passed and made a point of leaning out the window to flip me the bird. I caught a blur of sunglasses and a flash of super-white teeth. He gestured again to make sure I hadn't missed it the first time. Not that I'm ultra-sensitive about road ragers as a rule, but this guy's reaction seemed excessively personal. Worse, there was something familiar about him. Of course, his oversized designer shades didn't help. In my rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse of blonde hair and a laughing red mouth as his passenger leaned forward. She shouted something stunningly unladylike.

I hadn't gone far when the horn blared again. I glanced in the rearview again and saw the Escalade looming right on my bumper. As it rocketed past at roughly twice the speed limit, the laughing blonde passenger tossed a lit cigarette out the window. The smouldering butt just missed my face and landed on the passenger seat. I grabbed it and tossed it into the ashtray. Not quite quick enough, though. The reek of singed vinyl filled the air.

“May you get what's coming to you,” I said. It's my favourite curse, although singularly useless.

I didn't know why I felt so shaken by that particular driver. I should have been used to horns blasting and rude gestures. After all, my shuddering old heap brought out the dominant urge in other drivers. It was worse on the highway, and especially with
SUV
s. This was Quebec, where no one tolerates a slowpoke. Anyway, I had plenty of other problems. I had no time to worry about a pair of jerks in a hundred thousand dollar status symbol.

I knew it was way past time to replace the Skylark, although my bank manager had nearly toppled off his leather executive chair laughing when I'd suggested it. But my mind wasn't on the car or the parts that tended to drop off it, or even whether it would survive the forty-five minute trip. My mind wasn't on any of my money problems or the fact that my writing career, for which I'd left a paying job, had stalled. Instead, I kept reliving the scene with the beautiful, bewildered man in the hospital bed. Was Marc-André back for good this time? Would he ever remember my name? For how long?

A police car with our regional logo whizzed past me. Too bad Mr. Oversized Cadillac Crazyass Jerk was already out of sight. I would have enjoyed seeing him taken down a peg. That kind of speed and the attitude he'd be bound to show would cost him serious dollars and points. The blonde lady wouldn't be much help.