by Everly, Liz
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, I was too busy watching Jackson, then exhaustively trying to get him out of my mind by sleeping it off. Sick bitch that I am.
“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.
Chapter 10
After 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 committ
ed,” 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.”
Are we never going to talk about that sizzling night in her apartment? Is this the way it is going to be?
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.
Chapter 11
“Anything missing?” the police officer asked.
“About $200 in cash,” Maeve replied. “And a photo of my family in Virginia.”
She recalled the image of her niece Carly and her painted toenails as clearly as she remembered the day it was taken. The Virginia landscape in front of her, her brother and sister-in-law grilling, feeling the sun on her skin, and Carly’s smile getting bigger as she painted her auntie’s toes. Gosh, had it been only three weeks ago that she took a few days off to go home? The nail polish still had not faded. Why would someone take the picture?
“I had about $500,” Jackson said. “Gone. And my iPod. But they didn’t touch any of my camera equipment. Odd.”
“Looks like it’s a simple robbery,” another officer said.
“Do all your simple robberies end with a bloody chicken over the sink?” Maeve said.
The officers looked at each other, shifty-eyed bastards who couldn’t keep their eyes off her chest. Jackson placed a protective arm around her. She sank into the crease, the scent of him—his deodorant, mixed with a salty undertone.
“Well, no,” the officer said, with slightly broken English. “That is a bit unusual. Probably some teenage pranksters.”
“Pranksters? There is a dead chicken hanging over the sink!”
“Calm down,” Jackson said.
“That’s rich, coming from you, Mr. ADD,” she said, shaking. “Calm down? There’s a dead chicken—someone was in this place, going through our things—”
Jackson steadied her by grabbing her shoulders.
“Let’s get the mess cleaned up,” he said to her, turning back around to the police. “Is there someone we can hire to watch the place while we’re here the rest of the week?”
“We can get you a list of private security corporations,” the officer said. “But don’t clean up until our photographer gets here. Should be any minute. He had to come from the city.”
After the photographer arrived and they cut down the chicken, the officer pulled out something from its beak.
“A mushroom,” Jackson said, eyebrows knitted. “Weird. Why would someone do that?”
“Why would they do any of this?”
“For money, Señorita. Money and a sick sense of fun?” The officers laughed.
“I fail to see the humor,” she said, looking at them blankly, which they ignored.
After the officers left, Maeve and Jackson busied themselves cleaning up the mess. Then they both grew quiet and looked out on their pristine view, the water’s rhythm pulling at them. Maeve sank into the couch, still trembling slightly.
“Let’s have some wine,” Jackson said finally.
“Great idea,” she said. “One glass will suffice for me. Then … I am off to bed. I’m not going to get any work done.”
He poured the wine and handed her a glass, the ruby-red color reminding her of the blood just cleaned from their sink and counter.
She drank deeply. “You know, I hate mushrooms.”
“Well, that was completely random,” Jackson said and smiled.
She smiled back and then they laughed. “It was!”
“But something bothers me about the mushroom. I don’t know. Maybe it’s silly …” Jackson said.
“What?”
“Maybe I’m paranoid,” he said.
She felt a chill and rose from the couch to close the window. It shut with a thud. The skies were getting darker and the ocean was churning. Maybe a storm was brewing. She turned to look at him—wishing he didn’t look as good as he did, right now in this moment, standing there in his khaki shorts and open cotton blue shirt, revealing a white T-shirt with tufts of dark curly hair peeking out of it—and firm pecs. The blue in his eyes jumped out at her—and in this moment she felt completely vulnerable. But she could not indulge herself, would not indulge herself. She wished Alice had stayed with them. It would be so much easier to avoid temptation.
“Well?” she said.
“Well, isn’t it an odd coincidence that they found mushrooms in Paul’s stomach? And then there are mushrooms in the bloody chicken?”
“Mmph.” Maeve curled up in the corner of the couch. “It is odd. But it doesn’t make much sense that the same person who killed him would be after us—for any reason. What do we have that anybody would want? We had nothing to do with Paul outside of work.”
“Yeah,” Jackson said, finishing the glass of wine.
Still, a strange tension hung in the air. Something didn’t feel right, Maeve conceded. She didn’t like those police officers. She suddenly didn’t like the fact that she and Jackson were alone in a big house that had a number of entrances and exits. Many doors. Many windows.
“Besides,” Jackson said. “They did take our money. That must have been what they wanted
. “
Maeve downed her last bit of wine. “We’ll have the damiana tea in the morning. Yes?”
“After coffee, of course,” he said, watching her as she left the room. She didn’t turn around and look at him as she walked up the stairs.
“Good night,” she said.
“Yep,” he said.
Maeve didn’t think she had ever been quite so tired—or so frightened. Here they were in a strange country, robbed, and toyed with, in a big, almost empty beach house. She was uncertain that she could fall asleep. But she stretched out on the cool linen sheets and felt every muscle in her body sigh. The next thing she knew, the Mexican morning sun was streaming into her room.
Chapter 12
“The damiana tea is lovely. It aids relaxation. I think it may be good in a salad of greens or sprinkled on some pasta. Not sure that it’s an aphrodisiac in this form—or if it just helps calm the nerves. I think its effects can be better felt in the liqueur.”
Maeve read aloud from the book, and took another sip of coffee.
“Well, then we need to hit a liquor store,” Jackson said.
“Hey, let’s get some pasta and olive oil. Salad greens. We’ll have a damiana feast tonight,” Maeve said, eyes slowly coming to life. She was not a morning person, Jackson realized as he watched her struggling to get it together at 10:00 a.m. He was up for the sunrise with his camera and thought he’d gotten some beautiful shots of the beach and the surf. After last night’s storm, there was a lot of driftwood on shore. Interesting shapes set off by a purple-sherbet sky.
