From Barcelona, with Love by Elizabeth Adler

hope.
    â€œWe’ll have to think about that,” Lorenza said.

 
    Chapter 13
    Malibu
    Sunny Alvarez lay on her stomach on the old Wal-Mart chaise lounge on Mac’s deck, listening to the roar and hiss of the waves while reading a travel brochure for Mauritius. Tesoro was curled very neatly in the small of her back, lifting gently up and down with her breathing, while keeping a slightly bulging eye out for Pirate’s return. And Mac’s, of course. It was Sunny’s belief that Tesoro secretly adored Mac, though so far the dog had done little to prove it.
    The fish soup Sunny had prepared earlier simmered gently on the stove and the aroma of the rouille she had made, a saffron and garlic red pepper mayonnaise that later she would spread on croutons and float on top of the soup, lingered temptingly.
    Her menu was inspired by the two books she’d been reading in bed the previous night: Patricia Wells’s The Provence Cookbook and Roger Verge’s Cuisine of the Sun . So inspired, in fact, that that morning, she’d gotten on the Harley, buckled Tesoro into the saddlebag, and sped off to Santa Monica Seafood to pick up the necessary fish. Everything had to be fresh. Cleaned, scaled, whatever good fish they had, plus a few shrimp for the broth. Mussels would have been overkill, though she was tempted, but an authentic Mediterranean fish soup contained no mollusks.
    She’d spent her afternoon chopping onions, tomatoes, and garlic, sautéing and seasoning. Saffron turned her soup yellow, then the tomatoes turned it coral, and now the whole was blending beautifully. Add a fresh baguette, a green salad dressed with a goodly slurp of light olive oil, Italian balsamic vinegar, from Modena of course and of course aged at least ten years, a twist of black pepper, and dinner was ready. A bottle of Mac’s good Montrachet was chilling in the fridge and she couldn’t wait for him to get home.
    A glance at her watch told her he was late, though her rumbling stomach had already informed her of that. It wasn’t unusual for Mac to be late, but what was unusual was that he had not called her.
    It was seven o’clock and the sun was already sliding down into the ocean. Time for a sweater. Time to dab Mitsouko behind her ears, brush out her hair, add a touch of her “evening” lipstick, the slightly bluer red Chanel she always used at night. Time also to light a romantic candle or two, because she had a brilliant idea that she meant to discuss with Mac over the special dinner, about a vacation in Mauritius, an island in the crystalline Indian Ocean, where the food was an enticing mix of Chinese and Indian and Creole. There were beautiful hotels, where she felt sure they would serve those delicious holiday rum drinks complete with little umbrellas. She and Mac could swim and snorkel; they could sit in—or more probably out of the sun, eat divine food, sip divine drinks and—she was sure of this—make divine love. All she needed was for Mac to take a week off—and that was the difficult part. Still, he hadn’t taken a break in months, and now she was working on it.
    She sniffed the soup and hoped the Mitsouko would win out over the garlic. She was looking forward to a wonderful evening.
    She dabbed on the lipstick—she never smoothed it on, you couldn’t do that with red, it looked gloppy—and took stock of herself in the bathroom mirror. Why, she asked herself, do women act all girly when they want something from their man—the perfume, the candles, the good dinner, the beautiful wine. Because we’re clever, she answered herself smugly.
    â€œHey, babe.” Mac’s voice was followed by the slam of the front door.
    â€œIn the kitchen,” she called, running back there because she knew it looked good when a man came home and found his woman busy at the stove. Grabbing a long spoon she began to stir the soup. She lifted the pan lid, burned