by Everly, Liz
Jackson reached over and poured a little olive oil on his hands and rubbed them together. He worked his way around her foot, rubbing with the perfect amount of pressure between her toes, then to the ball of her foot, then to her arch, where it tickled, yet burned with each pulse of his fingers.
A voice of reason kept jabbing at her. What do you think you’re doing? He’s rubbing … your foot, for God’s sake.
But his touch on her foot was tantalizing and tormenting. Pleasure and pain mixed with some deep pulsing tickling sensations. Oh yes, that voice of reason? Completely silenced by a loosening and moistening between her legs. He was rubbing her foot, yet she felt pleasure deep inside the middle of her. How could that be?
The rubbing. The fingers. Those fingers on her foot. Massaging her heel, moving away from the spot—she was poised between agony and ecstasy. If he pressed into her arch anymore, she was afraid of what she would do.
Could she really be getting this hot because of a foot rub?
“Oh,” finally escaped from her mouth. “This is heavenly.”
How long had she been holding that in?
“Good,” he said, almost breathless.
He moved on to the other foot … oh God, the other foot. He started slowly again, moving between her toes, moving with a faster rhythm to the ball of her feet. Maeve anticipated the arch-rub so much that she held her breath. It released with an audible sigh when he pushed into her arch. She was embarrassed for him to see her this way. Really, he was her colleague. She needed to get control of herself.
How much further could she let this go?
She sank back into the cushions, feeling more relaxed than she had in months. The last book tour had been so hideously stressful that she just wanted to forget about it. She was finally relaxed, but parts of her were lit. It was getting hard to deny—she was feeling turned on by Jackson. If he could do this to her by rubbing her feet, then what else could he do to her?
Maeve’s eyes caught his. Heat exchanged. She had never been on this precipice, her body craving, wanting, and her mind saying no. When she wanted a man, she went for it. As their eyes locked, she almost felt him move through her. She knew she could not stop what was about to happen. She didn’t want to.
She sighed. It was all she could do; words escaped her, she could not talk anymore. She wanted him on her feet, between her breasts, in her mouth, and shoved inside her deep. She knew she should be worried about making it with her colleague. She muffled the voice in her head, once again. The salivating voice between her thighs was much stronger.
Circular rubbing. His fingers found their rhythm. He was touching her feet. He could feel the heat coming from them, could almost feel tingling in his fingers—like they were ablaze with energy. She was responding to each and every move he made now.
She leaned her head back, almost arching her back, revealing more cleavage and the outline of an erect nipple. Was she as turned on as he was? How could this be? They had worked together for years, knew each other so well—and yet never a real attraction between them. It must be the stew. Was it really an aphrodisiac? They had both scoffed at the possibility. But he felt a familiar heat rise between his thighs. Usually he was not one to shy away from the potential of getting laid, but this time, his first emotion was fear. What if she turned him down? How humiliating would that be? How could they work together? What if she did not turn him down?
But oh man. He looked at her and she was so heated, so gorgeous, he couldn’t think. All the blood was gone from his brain. Jackson knew where she wanted him. He could see her craving in the smokiness of her eyes, the opening of her lips, the slight movements in her hips. He taunted her, touching all around her hot spots, now, rubbing the inside of her thick, muscular thighs. He lifted a leg and lightly bit one toe, sending her into writhing frenzy.
“Jackson, please,” she panted.
Exactly what he wanted to hear. He groaned in recognition.
His fingers found their way up her legs and inched up her skirt, hands pulled at her panties.
He drew in a breath. “So soft …”
He wanted to rip off her skirt, her underwear, and plunge himself into her, lose himself inside her. He kissed her thigh, trailed his way along the inside with his tongue, savoring her taste. But, fuck, he was holding back. He gently nipped at her, breathing in the scent of her.
She drew in a breath and lifted her hips for him.
Maeve was coming undone—she looked heavenly, high. Wild. She was everything he imagined, everything he feared, and tonight, tonight, he would finally taste her, the one woman he thought he could never, should never, have. He felt like he’d burst out of his jeans. Had he ever been this hard before?
Just then the shrill of a telephone ring interrupted. Maeve sat up, as if awakened suddenly out of a bad dream, and pushed him aside.
“Don’t answer,” he said, breathing in deeply. “C’mon.”
She looked at the number on the screen.
“I have to. It’s Alice,” she told him.
“Yes?” She said, then cleared her throat. “Well, yes. He’s here. Okay. I’ll put you on speaker.”
Maeve turned and looked at him, not a sheepish look, not an embarrassed look. It was hard to pinpoint exactly. Maybe it was an amused look.
Alice’s voice was quivering over the speakerphone. “I have bad news. The project is still on hold for now, until we find another chef.”
“Christ, Alice, Maeve’s almost a chef,” Jackson said.
“Yes, but she’s known as a writer. We need a food name.”
“England is also cancelled. We’re booked on an early flight tomorrow to Mexico.”
Maeve slumped over and pushed him farther from her. Her face became expressionless. There it was: the ice queen.
What the hell was happening? A moment ago, she was ready. Now this? She was completely shutting herself off from him.
He stood, wobbly, trying to will away his excitement. What a tease. What a bitch. Her whole attitude, posture, everything had suddenly changed before his eyes. What kind of a person could do that?
Jackson gathered his equipment and clumsily slung his bag over his shoulder.
He waited until the phone call was over to make his escape.
What had he almost done?
“Thanks,” he said, turning, not really looking at Maeve. “I better get going. Sorry to leave you with a bit of a mess.” He gestured to the yellowed dishes and empty wineglasses.
“Typical man,” she said, as he opened the door to leave.
He smiled when he shut the door. There was nothing typical about him. And she knew it.
Chapter 5
Abit of a mess? Well, you have that right, mister, Maeve thought. What kind of a foot massage was that? The kind that sent shivers right to the center of her. Do they all do that? Or was her reaction just because it was Jackson?
She began to clean up and called Jennifer as she was rinsing the dishes.
“Damn,” she said.
“Maeve? Is that you?”
“Yes,” she moaned.
“What happened? Did you sleep with him?”
“No, but I wanted to. Jesus. I don’t know what would have happened if we weren’t interrupted.” But she had enough of an inkling to be a tangle of emotions—regret, gratitude, fear.
“By what?”
“Our agent calling, which is one reason I’m calling you. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Can you check on my place and the plants and everything? We’re off to Mexico in the morning for Chef’s funeral,” she said, her voice cracking. She hadn’t had a moment to really process it. Paul was gone.
“Yes, yes, sure,” Jennifer said. “But what happened with Jackson ?”
“Well, he rubbed my feet,” she said, grimacing, realizing how strange it sounded.
“What? Rubbed your …” Jennifer said and laughed.
“And there was the kiss. And more. He was at my thigh. And I’m not thinking clearly at all,” Maeve
said. “I’m a mess. Chef. Jackson. The wine. The saffron, maybe. I dunno. I’ve had saffron before, but not this pure form of it.”
“He’s hot,” Jennifer said. “Why not give him a go?”
“We work together. We might be traveling together. It could get really awkward. And then there’s Mark.”
“Mark? You two aren’t exclusive. Why would he even matter?”
Maeve sighed. Jennifer would never get it. She didn’t like Mark and really didn’t understand their relationship. She was still stuck in the “exclusive relationship” paradigm that Maeve abhorred. She’d seen that fail over and over again when her friends were involved in “exclusive” relationships and most of the time it ended in cheating. Or because one partner was too controlling—like with her and Michael, who she lived with right after college and intended to marry. When she was offered a job in New York City, he made it very clear it was him or the job. She chose him, of course, later to find out he was cheating on her—with a man.
Maeve opened the dishwasher and started loading. “Damn, that saffron is some yellow nasty shit.”
“Saffron?”
“Oh. We were able to get some of the good stuff and try it here. But we’re also going to try it in India and Morocco. If the project rides. They’ve put a hold on it until we find a chef.”
“Jesus. You don’t need a chef. You’ve worked so closely with Paul.”
When Jennifer said his name, it hit Maeve in the gut. Paul was gone. She’d never be in the kitchen with him again, listening to him chide her about the way she handled knives, or her spicing the curry too heavily, or overworking the pie crust. Her stomach twisted.
“Yes,” she said weakly into the phone.
“Poor guy,” Jennifer’s voice lowered. “I don’t know anybody who disliked him.”
“I know. But Alice said something that I’ve been thinking about. She said he was more complicated than we knew. He had a life outside of work.”
“Hmm. I wonder what she meant by that. I know he and his wife liked to travel and eat. I’m sure he had friends, but he really had a packed schedule. So, of course, he had a family and personal life, but I’m not sure how much time there was for a hobby or just downtime. You know?”
Maeve poured the powdered detergent in the dishwasher and shut the door, clicked the button to “on,” and listened as the sound of rushing water filled the kitchen.
She recognized the clicking noises over the phone. “Are you on the computer?”
“Oops. You caught me. Just checking Twitter.”
“You’re so rude,” she said. “I’m getting off the phone. I need to pack and try to get some sleep before the flight in the morning.”
“Sorry I’m a bit addicted to my social media,” Jennifer said and laughed. “But I will check on your place while you’re gone.”
Maeve took a deep breath as she reached under the bed to get her suitcase. It’s a good thing she had that suit cleaned and picked it up this morning. It was the only suit she owned. Along with getting a kitchen table, she should probably make more of an effort in the clothing department. But she hated to shop.
“Mark?” She said into her phone. “It’s Maeve. Pick up if you’re there.”
Click.
“Hello darling. How are you? When will you be here? I miss you.”
“I’m okay. Bit of bad news, though. I won’t be in England next week. The project is on hold. I’m not sure it will go forward at all without Chef.”
“Damn.”
“I really need to go to Paul’s memorial and it’s in Mexico,” she said. “We’re leaving in the morning.”
“We?”
“Jackson and I are flying down together.”
“Sounds cozy,” he said.
“Yeah right, the great Jackson Dodds and me. Cozy,” she said, managing a weak laugh, holding the phone to her ear with a shoulder while she folded some T-shirts.
“I’m serious, love, I hear he’s a real asshole with women. So be careful.”
“Honestly, Mark. He’s my partner. I’m pretty immune to his shit.”
“But you’re only human,” he said. “I guess I wouldn’t blame you if—”
“Besides, we aren’t exclusive, right?”
“Well,” he said. “We aren’t exclusive. But I’d hate to see you involved with that cad. And besides, I was hoping to talk to you about this seeing other people thing. But since you’re not going to be here until God knows when … it’s kind of awkward over the phone. But I’d like us to be exclusive.”
Her heart sank. Damn. So much for the perfect relationship.
“Mark—”
“Promise me you will think about it and we can talk when we see each other.”
She agreed, but knew she was postponing the inevitable. Their affair was over. She wanted to shrug it off as she had countless others. But she had hoped that this would last for years. Mark had a way of tapping into her fantasies, like no other lover.
After she was finished packing, she fell into bed, exhausted. She slid her glasses off her face. Closed her eyes and damn if the image of Jackson didn’t keep popping into her head. Forget him. Coming to her apartment, kissing her, rubbing her feet like that, bringing her to the edge of near insanity and then just leaving. Who did he think he was?
Chapter 6
Jackson’s brain was still in a fog as he made his way to first class on the plane. The saffron had really affected him—or maybe it had been the wine accompanying it. Next time, he would leave the alcohol out of the equation. But he had actually kissed Maeve last night—he was certain if they hadn’t been interrupted, he’d have slept with her. Was it nothing more than a lost opportunity? He couldn’t get the image of her lying back on those pillows out of his mind, pulling her panties off her, the way her thigh tasted and felt. Damn.
The morning had been filled with checking luggage, standing in security lines, and boarding the plane. They really didn’t have to even look at each other, let alone chat. She was sitting with Alice and every once in a while he could hear them laugh. He didn’t want to talk. Not now—after making such a bloody fool of himself. All he really wanted was a real cup of coffee, which the flight attendant was bringing to him now. A privilege of first class. The economy passengers were getting the instant stuff. He breathed in the scent of it, thinking about Mexico and the last time he had been there. It was a romantic place. Some places affected him like this. He was a little concerned that things would get hot with Maeve again. They would be sharing a house in Majahuitas, which he had been to before. It was so secluded that you could not even hear the noise of the nearest city, Puerto Vallarta. In fact the only way to get to the cove where their villa was located was by boat. It was pristine and blue and, oh God, he’d love to have her on the beach.
Yes, right on the sand was where he wanted her, even if she was his business partner. He wanted to feel the Mexican sun on his back and Maeve writhing beneath him. He imagined her sweet face, hair falling on the white sand. He could almost hear her soft moans. Smell her. Taste her. Yes. There on the sand, with the water tickling their asses, Maeve wet with the salty sea, sand everywhere. Perhaps he could find a substitute while he was there. How would he manage with both his agent and Maeve sharing the villa with him?
Focus on the work, idiot. You are going to a funeral. Why the hell are you thinking about getting laid?
Jackson gathered his thoughts about the potential project and hoped that it would go through. To shoot temples and sites in India had long been a dream of his. Ever since he was a kid, he’d been fascinated—never had the money to go. Now that he did, he never had the time.
He forced himself to look out the window after he saw Maeve getting up to use the bathroom. No. He wouldn’t make eye contact with her. Not yet.
But the next thing he knew she was plopping her lovely ass in the empty seat next to him.
“What?” He turned to look at her.
“You’re so pleasant.”
“I�
�m sorry. I was deep in thought.”
“I find that hard to believe,” she muttered.
“Well, are you going to sit there and insult me or do you have something to say?”
“I received the oddest phone call a few moments before we boarded,” she said. “From Jack Wilson.”
“What does he want?” Jackson said, his stomach twisting.
“First, he wanted to say he looked forward to seeing me at the funeral and how sorry he was about Chef, that someone named Mulani sends her love to you,” Maeve cleared her throat. “And he offered me a job.”
“Aw, Christ!” Jackson said, ignoring the comment about Mulani, but wondering if she would be at the service in Mexico, which would definitely solve his potential horndog problem. “Did you tell him to kiss your ass?”
“I told him I am under contract with you and with our current publisher. I have a non-compete clause. That I can’t even entertain those offers until maybe next year,” she said.
“Well, good. He’s a real asshole, Maeve. I’d hate to see you work for him. We rock,” he said, feeling heat rise to his face. “Um. You know what I mean.”
“Precisely what I told her,” Alice interjected. She was leaning into the conversation from across the aisle. “And I have a good feeling about this project. I think it will happen. We just need to be patient. “
“Well, I hope you’re right,” Maeve said. “I do like Jack’s work. Have you ever eaten at one of his restaurants? And his first cookbook was divine. Gorgeous.”
“He’s pretentious. That what you want?”
“I agree, Maeve. I don’t see that working out at all.”
What Alice didn’t realize was that Maeve was goading him. He could tell she didn’t want to work for Jack—she was trying to get a rise out of him. He decided not to react anymore. He went back to looking out the window, and she went back to her own seat. Despite his cup of coffee, Jackson closed his eyes and drifted in and out of sleep.
He thought he heard raised voices. Was that Maeve? He jostled awake and tried to stand up into the commotion as Maeve headed straight for him, red-faced and angry.
