Saffron Nights (5 page)

“W
hoa,” Maeve said out loud as she watched them together on the beach. She thought about turning around, pretending she had not seen the beautiful Mulani standing naked in what she must have thought was a private cove. Maeve smirked. But how many opportunities did one get to witness such a sight? Them both naked, clinging to each other. She squinted to get a better view of Jackson’s front, but he turned around quickly and the next thing she knew all she could see was his ass—firm, with indents on either side, as if they were made for her hands to slide over.

She knew she should turn around and respect their privacy, but she was riveted. Her eyes would not leave from the back of him—especially after he slid into Mulani. The motion. The movement. It drew her in. She closed her eyes as heat spread through her.

Ah yes. It was a good thing that they hadn’t slept together the other night. She was getting hot just watching him, which had never happened to her before. What if they had slept together and it had left her only wanting more from him? Yes, it was good that they hadn’t, she told herself and sighed.

Maybe it was true what Mark had said: That she was a kinky insatiable bitch. She liked to watch. And she loved being watched.

It was probably best that her coworker didn’t know that.

She bit her lip, as the swirl of a strange feeling moved through her. Was it jealousy? How could she be jealous of Mulani and Jackson? Nothing had happened between them. She didn’t want it to. Or did she? And she’d never been jealous before. Heck, she’d even shared her lovers with other women.

So that feeling couldn’t be jealousy.

Her cell phone beeped.

“Jennifer,” she said. “Tell me you didn’t say anything to anybody about Jackson and me.”

“What? Of course I didn’t. I saw the tweet, though, and wondered what was up with that.”

“Well, if you didn’t tell anybody and Jackson says he didn’t, how the heck—”

“I’ve been thinking about this. I mean you guys are getting pretty famous. Maybe someone is spying on you?”

Maeve’s heart skipped a beat. “But we were in my apartment, and I keep the curtains drawn. Who could see us there?”

“Mmm. I don’t know. What about your landlord?”

“I can’t imagine,” Maeve said.

“People can be bought.”

“But it wasn’t like Jackson and I were talking about that kiss . . . it happened . . . um . . . rather quietly.”

“But you and I talked about it. Maybe your phone is tapped?” Jennifer said after a moment.

“Jesus. That’s absurd. It’s not like I’m that famous. It makes no sense.” The thought of someone invading her privacy at her apartment sent her heart racing.

“If you want, I can have someone look at your phone.”

“Who? The police? Don’t they have better things to do?”

“No. I was thinking a private detective,” Jennifer said. “I’ll check into it for you. Now. What’s the scoop in Puerto Vallarta?”

“Well,” she laughed. “You’ll never believe what I just saw.”

 

When Maeve woke up the next day in her room, sunlight streaming in through her blinds, she had that brief panic moment—where was she? Was she home in Virginia? New York? She sat up in bed, her heart pounding; she needed to get to a window. Damn. Where was she? Oh yes. On a beautiful, secluded island off the coast of Mexico, where she’d just said the final good-bye to Chef Paul—a more complicated and interesting man than she had realized. Damn. He was gone.

She reached for and clutched the book to her chest. At least she had this—obviously old, kind of beat up, and with recipes and notes clipped to its pages. Papers and envelopes were stuck between the thick, unwieldy pages. This would take some time to sort out. She smiled. This book was a lot like him—on the outside he was kind of unkempt, especially when involved with a project in the kitchen, but he was unbelievably knowledgeable and creative. Often, that original creative impulse in him wasn’t as pretty as the end product—whether it was the food, the table, or the book they were working on. But he was like a walking encyclopedia of food all wrapped up in a shiny, handsome package. He had consistently ranked among the top chefs in the world.

How could she feel so grungy and filthy in such a beautiful place? She looked out the glass door, leading to a balcony—the blue sky and water almost appearing one and the same on the horizon. She padded into the shower.

The water made her skin tingle, and as she soaped herself, she felt a heaviness as she thought about the funeral. Then she remembered her partner out on the beach with Mulani. She never fantasized about America’s “sexiest bachelor.” But she was curious about what other women had seen in him. He was not even handsome—well, at least not in any traditional sense. His eyes were a beautiful shade of blue, but they were really deep set and way too close together, which had always bothered her in photos she’d seen. But not anymore. He had a strong, square jaw, which she had always found unappealing, until . . . a few nights ago. Now, the deep dimples and square jaw were firmly, deliciously planted in her mind. Which was not a good thing. He obviously had gotten over the whole brief attraction thing quickly—and she sealed it by punching him out.

She stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel, smelling something cooking downstairs. She threw a robe on and walked down the steps. Jackson was standing at the stove, flipping pancakes. He looked at her and smiled. “Good morning,” he said, eyeing her in her robe.

“What are you doing?” she said, crossing her arms and trying to ignore the way her nipples were responding to his voice.

“I should think that’s obvious.” He held up a spatula.

“Smartass,” she said. “Is there any coffee?”

“Oh yeah, good coffee, too,” he said and gestured to the coffeemaker.

Maeve rattled around to find a cup and poured herself a hot steaming cup of coffee. She reveled in the scent.

“Well, it’s all set,” Alice said, coming down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Maeve turned around and saw their agent dressed beautifully in a caramel-colored linen suit. Her silver-blond hair was pulled into a nice classic bun. There was Maeve in a robe—with nothing underneath it, feeling exposed and silly for coming downstairs not dressed. Even Jackson was dressed—in jeans and a white T-shirt.

“Private moment?” Alice said with a sarcastic grin, not missing a beat.

“Of course not. I just came downstairs for some coffee and—”

“Never mind. Sit down. Or do you prefer to get dressed before our meeting?”

“We have a meeting?”

“Haven’t you checked your messages?”

“No, sorry. I’ve been sleeping. I’ve not heard anything.”

“Well, dear, we have a meeting in fifteen minutes. The publisher is in town and is coming over for breakfast. Then a press conference.”

“Press conf—”

“I’ve taken the liberty of getting you some new clothes. They are hanging in the hall closet. Please be a dear and get dressed,” she said.

“New clothes?”

“Yes. You don’t think I’m going to allow you to dress yourself for this press conference, do you? Wear the green silk. It’ll look fabulous with your red hair and amber eyes and that figure of yours.”

“What do my figure and hair have to do with anything?” Maeve said.

“Maeve, we are making a major announcement today. Your book deal has gone through because of the fact that Chef left you a book full of his recipes and instructions. Just the hook we needed. Most of the food press is already here for the service. We’re making the best of a sad situation. And Maeve? Bring Chef’s book with you.”

Later, shoveling pancakes into her mouth, dressed in her new green silk dress, freshly made-up, Maeve halfway listened to the conversation. She could see why Alice brought up her body—the thing barely fit her and she felt like she was spilling out of the top of it. Thank goodness for the jacket.

She wished she had a chance to at least look through Chef’s book. The thought of him being gone weighed heavily on her.
Everybody I love dies. My parents. Now, Paul.

“Maeve? Where are you, dear?” Alice’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Sorry,” she said.

“We’ve booked this house another week for you and Jackson to get started on the project, then it’s off to England.”

“Jackson and me? Here?”

“It seemed the expedient thing to do,” Alice said and shrugged.

Maeve could feel Jackson’s eyes on her. What a prick. She was certain he’d try to seduce her, once Alice was gone tomorrow. He could think again. She wasn’t that easily seduced—and maybe she was kidding herself, but she refused to look his way.

A
fter the day of meetings and press conferences, when Jackson and Maeve went to bed, they nodded in unison when Alice said, “Sleep in tomorrow. My plane doesn’t leave until four.”

The next day Jackson and Maeve saw their agent off to the States and went for dinner at a nearby beach resort.

“Scusi,” a waitress came up to them. “This pot of damiana tea was sent to you, compliments of the house. It’s perfect for after dinner.”

“Damiana?” Jackson said.

Maeve poured. “I read about it last night in Chef’s book.”

“Smells like chamomile, maybe mint . . .” he said.

Maeve sipped the tea made from a native Mexican plant, reputedly an aphrodisiac. Mexicans had been using it for years.

Jackson licked his lips. “It’s good.”

He still felt like shit—and looked like hell. His face was bruised from where Maeve had punched him. But as he sat there gazing at Maeve, he began to feel better.

“Warming,” Maeve said.

The sea was rushing in the distance, the sky was a perfect shade of blue, and it was beginning to cool on the veranda. The Mexican sun had blazed all day long and the dusk of evening was a relief.

Maeve closed her eyes, leaned her head back, and sighed. “I feel so grateful for this new gig. I wish that Chef—”

“I know,” Jackson said, trying not to think about her neck, there, exposed, or her breast peeking out of her shirt. He looked away, momentarily, then looked back at her face. So pretty. “Me, too. It sucks. For us. For him. I mean he’d been doing this work all along.”

“The book is so cool; full of interesting information—most of it written, handwritten, by him,” she said, her hand on the book while she looked off into the distance.

Nah, she wasn’t herself. She’d been taking Chef’s death harder than he’d realized. He was such a dick sometimes. All he’d been thinking about was getting laid—and trying to get into his partner’s pants. She was no Mulani. She was complicated, deep, and it was probably better that they never slept together. What would he do with a woman like her?

“Jesus, I really wanted to see Mark. I really need to get laid,” she said, nonchalantly, making Jackson choke on his tea.

“What?” he managed to say.

“What? Do you think men are the only people who have needs? Desires?” she sipped her tea. “What? Are you living in the 1940s?”

“What—”

“But just because I’m horny doesn’t mean I’ll fuck you. So let’s get that clear,” she said.

Did those pretty lips just wrap themselves around the word
fuck
? She, so beautiful and fresh looking and strong and smart, dropped the word
fuck
—as if it were nothing. As if it were not sending charges through him.

“Humph,” he said. “I guess Chef was right about you.”

“Indeed,” she said, placing her teacup down. “I don’t like to talk about my private life with my colleagues. But I do have a different attitude from most people, I suppose. I like sex, the kinkier the better. At this point in my life I’m not interested in a serious relationship. Just sex.”

Was she really saying that? Did she really mean it? He cleared his throat. “What about Mark?”

“We are, or were, lovers. But we were never committed,” she said, with one eyebrow lifted, as if she were intrigued by his question.

“Well, if you’re only interested in sex—”

She held her hand up to stop him. “Stop, Jackson. I’m going back to the house. I’ve got some writing to do about the tea. I’d like to have a blog post up by morning.”

He shrugged, “Sure. Let’s get a pot to go and I can get some pictures.”
I’d love a chance to photograph you again.

“Great idea. And I do want to get some of the plant and see what else can be done with it. Salad? Chef says—” she said and stopped herself. Suddenly her eyes were welling up with tears.

Jackson reached out to her and held her as a sob escaped from deep in her chest.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I miss him.”

“It’s okay,” he said softly, feeling the hardness in himself give way to something soft. “I feel bad, too.”

For a moment when he looked into her eyes, he saw a vulnerability, a deep longing. Then it was gone in a blink. He didn’t know what she wanted from him.

Jackson was not one to doubt himself. Not behind the camera and not in bed. He had plenty of experience in both areas. But real relationships? He avoided the issue. So many women offered themselves to him and a few years back, he had a different one every night. A rock star photographer is what Maeve called him. Now his offers increased because of the silly
TimeNews Magazine
“sexiest bachelor” thing. Recently, while with a beautiful young woman—he couldn’t even remember her name—he realized he was merely whacking himself off with her body and did not care at all about her pleasure. The same thing had happened with Mulani.

He figured Maeve thought of him as a clown. That’s what he became around her. He never really entertained the notion of making a pass at her because he thought she would laugh at him—or humiliate him in some other way. Or, worse yet—she would accept his challenge in her confident, sexy way, and he would never be the same again.

Jackson was shaken. He needed her. Writers were a dime a dozen, but not like Maeve. Most of them were so full of themselves you could not work with them. She was talented and had a self-deprecating humor that he loved—and she respected his talent, but was unimpressed with all the fame shit.

Whether they admitted it or not, mostly what women wanted from him was sex and usually he was more than happy to oblige, but lately, he was getting tired of it.

Until Friday night, with Maeve—and he could not seem to get her out of his head. Which was ridiculous. After all, she had punched him in the face. If that wasn’t a big hint to not even try, he didn’t know what was.

When they opened the door, Maeve gasped. “What the hell happened in here?” Their papers, clothes, and food were scattered all over the place—and the window was wide open.

A freshly killed chicken hung over the sink, its blood dripping all over the counter, feathers blowing around the room. The scent of the dead flesh filled the suite.

“So much for getting work done tonight,” Maeve said, voice shaking, her hand going to her mouth as she ran for the bathroom.