The Scent of Mimosa

The hillside

Cassandra snuck a glimpse across at the concentrated features of the man sitting behind the steering wheel. It was yet another pristine summer day and a light breeze ruffled his thick hair as the car wound up through the scrub-covered chalky cliffs to the north of Grasse.

How good it felt to her not to be in the driver-seat today. She had almost forgotten how long it had been since she hadn't been responsible for absolutely everything. Others may have found inheriting a large historic property along with a perfume company a fantastic opportunity, but without the resources to care for and develop either, they had become, more than anything else, a noose around Cassandra's neck.

Now Vince, he was the kind of person who would have made the most of such an inheritance, she figured. She didn't know how he would have done it, but she would bet her bottom dollar that he could have pulled Guipard out of its financial trouble in no time. Oh yes, he was a man with a plan for everything: someone who never lost control.

Her eyes travelled down Vince's face and settled on the resolute line of his mouth. His top lip had an unusually decisive cleft. It hardly seemed to match its lower partner, which was full and pouted almost to the point of femininity. It was a beautiful mouth – artistic even, and such a welcome addition to his otherwise sternly masculine features. For a moment she closed her eyes and imaged those lips grazing across the skin of her belly.

Since their encounter at the hotel last night Cassandra had found herself slipping into similar reveries from time to time and it had her quite distressed. She didn't even like the man for goodness' sake, and she debated whether it was wrong to think of him that way when she knew that he was completely unsuitable?  But then even if it was wrong, could she help herself?  

Desire was desire, plain and simple and she could no more choose the way her body responded to him than she could alter the way her senses lit up to the scent of a night-blooming tuberose. Local wisdom had always warned young girls away from the tuberose after nightfall, when it was said to lead down the path to ruin. She found it an apt comparison.

''Why don't you pull over here?'' she said, snapping out of her daydream and pointing up ahead to where a patch of gravel at the side of the road was surrounded by several towering pines and a copse of cork oaks.

''Is this where we're going?'' he asked in surprise, checking around for any signs of habitation. 

''Why not?'' she replied casually. ''This looks to me as good a spot as any.''

He pulled over and assembled their belongings methodically while Cassandra leaped out of the car and bolted through the long grass. Surrounded by such beauty, she felt instantly like a child again. The cicadas were calling and the clean, earthy odors of pine, olive and limestone infused the air. Somewhere she could smell water – fresh, bubbling, running water and it made her feel alive and invigorated.

''This way! This way!'' she called happily to Vince as she caught the scent again and disappeared into the bushes. He ducked after her, his long legs keeping stride despite the collection of bags he was carrying.

Coming out into a clearing, he saw where Cassandra had been headed. They were on a hillside covered with waving fronds of grass and wildflowers, and not far below them the clear waters of a stream cut through the landscape, hollowing out rocky little pools here and there. Cassandra had already discarded her shoes and was careening down the hillside, her hair trailing behind her like a comet.

What on earth was going on? thought Vince. Wasn't this a working day? Hadn't they intended to have a meeting? He spread the old tapestry rug that Cassandra had brought with them and sat down to watch her.