Saffron Nights

by Everly, Liz

  “Oh really? Women in your past? More than just fucks?”

  “Yeah, sure,” he shrugged. “Let’s just say I learned the hard way.”

  Maeve cocked her head. “When was the first time you were in love?”

  The word love hung in the air like rain on a humid day.

  “High school—or at least that’s what I thought,” he said. “We were seventeen, hot and heavy.”

  What he didn’t tell her was that by that time, he was in a foster home, his mom in prison for drugs. He and his foster sister’s best friend became close friends, and then dated, and one thing led to another. At seventeen, he got the girl pregnant and was ready to give up on his dreams of studying photography to marry her. She aborted—without telling him first.

  Of course, with hindsight fifteen years later, he knew it was absolutely the right thing for her to do. Why have another unwanted child in the world with parents who could not provide and did not even know how to take care of themselves, let alone how to take care of a baby?

  But then, it hurt like hell. He carried that open wound for years. His foster parents gave up on him, couldn’t wait for his eighteenth birthday, when they gave him tuition for art school and said, “Please don’t come back.” By then, he had been caught several times with pot and cocaine and sleeping with his girlfriend. He couldn’t blame his foster parents for getting rid of him. He never could.

  He would never forget the look of betrayal his foster mother had when she held up a Baggie of pot she had quite innocently found when cleaning his room. It hurt to see that—especially after she had done so much for him. But he had grown accustomed to disappointing people. What they gave him was never enough. Truthfully, even the drugs and the sex were not enough—the only thing that soothed him was the adrenaline rush of a perfect photograph. Now that was fulfilling.

  What to do about Maeve? How to sort through these feelings? Lust? Friendship? Love? He looked at her as she moved away from him toward one of the dogs, brought his camera to his eye. Maeve and the dog. Great shots.

  On one level, it really didn’t matter what happened between them. They both had work to do. He hoped it would go smoother from this point on. But the mystery deepened. Where was Alice? What did he or Maeve have that Snake wanted? And what the hell had Chef gotten himself into?

  Chapter 26

  Could she work with a man who was in love with her? Was Jackson in love with her? Sometimes when he looked at her, she wondered. How could she maintain the distance she needed to work, to write, to breathe? What would happen to their partnership if it went bad? She could feel his eyes on her. His camera on her. And there was a change in his sarcastic, cocky behavior. Maybe it was the head injuries. Maybe she was just imagining his interest in her.

  In any case, they had work to do. She focused on the truffles. Working and relationships didn’t mix. One failed “working” relationship after the other in college taught her that lesson.

  Ah, youth.

  Now, here I am in Italy, safe and sound for the time being, living the dream of every food writer.

  “Hard to imagine these ugly little truffles are so delicious,” she said to Jackson, as they walked toward the villa.

  “Better than the jellyfish?”

  “Ah, no, I don’t think so. I was surprised I like them,” she said. Mr. Mei-Lei had carefully prepared jellyfish for her dinner on her last evening in Hong Kong. They weren’t fishy at all and she loved the golden-ink color of the gel and the way it felt, so smooth, on her tongue, all the way down into her throat.

  “I’m surprised you remember how much I liked the jellyfish,” she said.

  “Why?” he said, tilting his head just so and she imagined tilting her head the other way, just so. Lips on lips. Tongues twirling. The memories of their kiss tugged at her.

  “I just didn’t think you were paying attention,” she said.

  “You’d be surprised what I see when it looks like I’m not paying attention,” he said, moving closer to her. She could see, now, the faint pink tint around his nose and lips from the cold. He grinned. Don’t do that, don’t look at me like that while I’m trying to work. Don’t look at me as if you know exactly what I’m thinking, as if you know exactly what to do with all these body parts standing at attention, tingling.

  She looked away at the resting dogs.

  “Time to call it a day,” someone said.

  Maeve wandered away from Jackson, leaving him alone with his camera, but her thoughts lingered.

  When she was back in her room, she found herself wishing she could call Chef Paul and ruminate about the jellyfish. Perhaps she could add the ginseng mix and give the jellyfish a little kick. “Play with your food,” he always said.

  She made a note to ask Alice where she might find some jellyfish once she was back in the States—if she ever heard from her, that is.

  She dashed off an e-mail to Martin about the butter she had eaten in Tuscany—still so fresh in her mind yet having touched something in her past. What could it be? Was it a memory or a dream? A murky place, indeed.

  Chapter 27

  Maeve and Jackson sat together in the private library of the villa while Giovanni was in and out of the room. He had a drink with them and then left them to their work.

  Sitting near a window, Maeve was bathed in the orange glow of the fading sun. Jackson watched as the light played off her skin. From where he was sitting, a side view of her breast kept him happily occupied. She had just taken a shower. Her hair was still damp, and she smelled like coconut or flowers or something. Whatever it was, he liked it.

  His mind circled around the caftan she was wearing. He was almost certain she had nothing underneath it. When she walked in the room, her breasts jiggled slightly in a most unsettling manner. Okay, she had no bra on—but what about panties? As his eyes lingered on her breasts, his mind’s eye envisioned the night he had begun to pull off her underwear. The night he had been so close to having her.

  But then she had punched him the very next day, didn’t she?

  His camera went to his eye—she’d never know. Click.

  Did she have any idea what she was doing to him?

  Jackson’s cell phone buzzed, abruptly interrupting his pleasant thoughts.

  “Jackson Dodds.”

  “Alice has passed away,” Sherri said.

  “What?” Jackson wasn’t sure if what he heard was correct.

  “She’s dead,” Sherri said more clearly into the phone.

  “Whoa,” he said, heart racing. “What happened?”

  Maeve was writing on her laptop. He had just discreetly taken her picture. She liked to write as soon as possible after the experience so she could remember as many details as possible. This place was their favorite common room in the villa—they gathered there each evening after dinner and worked as they drank wine. Her head lifted at Jackson’s tone of voice. She turned to look at him.

  “I, ah, don’t know what to say,” Sherri said. “She’d been dead for several days when she was found. We’re still not certain what the cause of death is. “

  “Jesus!” Jackson said. “Man! What next?”

  Maeve was next to him, her fingers tapping on the shiny walnut table.

  “Calm down, Jackson. Another agent here will take you on. Just proceed with all of your plans. I know it’s a shock.”

  “What about the service?” he asked, but he was thinking about the last conversation he had with Alice. She warned him to stick to the itinerary in Hong Kong. They hadn’t—and look what had happened. She also told him not to tell Maeve that Chef’s murderer probably knew him, knew he was allergic to that particular mushroom.

  Maeve’s eyebrows knitted as she gestured with her hands. He held up a finger.

  “Will let you know. For the time being, e-mail me at my address. We can’t figure out any of her passwords and so things are pretty screwed up. I’m looking at her desk calendar and you two seem to be on schedule. Correct?”

  “Yes, well,
there have been a few minor delays.”

  “Well, everything okay now?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the photos of the truffles will get to the publishers?”

  “Tomorrow,” he said.

  When Jackson clicked his cell phone shut, he took a deep breath. “Sit down, Maeve.”

  He gestured to the big leather chair next to the roaring fire in the fireplace.

  “I’m not sitting down. What is it? You look terrified,” she said.

  Okay, have it your way. “It’s Alice. She’s dead.”

  Maeve clutched her chest. “What? Our Alice? Dead?”

  Jackson nodded and flopped down on the nearest couch. Red velvet, sofa, stuffy, but comfortable. Maeve stood, as if frozen.

  “Are you okay?”

  Her eyes widened and she shook her head. “No. I’m not okay. Jackson, that makes two people associated with us who have died within a month of one another. I am scared shitless.”

  “Well,” he said after a minute. “We’re safe here. Nothing has happened since we’ve been here.”

  “Yes, but we are scheduled to go to India. God knows what can happen there.”

  She sat down gingerly beside him on the edge of the red velvet sofa. She stared off into her own thoughts and then sank beside him. Her face suddenly found its way to his shoulder. His arms slipped around her as she began to cry.

  She pulled away momentarily. “If I knew what these people wanted, I’d give it to them just so they’d leave us alone. Do they want the book? What is it? Alice doesn’t have the book. We do. Poor Alice.”

  “Look,” he said. “Alice was older. I mean neither one of us know what kind of health she was in, right? It could just be a coincidence.”

  Jackson looked at her—such a devastatingly fearful look blanketed her face and it him made want to protect her, once again. He cleared his throat. Ah, Maeve didn’t need to be protected, he reminded himself. At least not physically. But emotionally? It seemed she had been dealing with one loss right after the other since he had known her.

  Oh, he needed to touch her face.

  He lifted her chin, her cheeks wet with tears, and kissed her, softly. A shock of heat spun through him. She was … she was … he didn’t have the word. A shard of light, of heat. How she was making him feel alive, every pore in his body filled, tightened, tingled, popped. He wanted to wrap her into himself, lie her down, drink her in, feel her writhe beneath him. Come what may. This he wanted. He no longer could deny it. Even if Maeve denied him, he had to try. And the rest of the world?

  Fuck them. Alice was dead. She wasn’t there to wag her finger.

  Maeve pulled away from him and looked at him with a smoldering confused lust. They hadn’t had any durian, ginseng, mushrooms, truffles, or wine. Yet, she leaned into him, kissed him back, with a firm, but yielding kiss. He felt his blood rush between his legs. He was … powerless. This was in her hands.

  It’s as if the decision has already been made.

  She led him to the cushions in front of the fire. He was already slipping out of his shirt. She leaned back, her hair spread across a gold shimmering pillow, and pulled him to her.

  The room stilled in anticipation.

  Is this really going to happen?

  After the years of knowing him? The weeks of denying him? Of denying this, this heat?

  They locked eyes.

  “Maeve, stop me. I am going to ravage you, if you don’t stop me, now.” His voice was a rasp now, his face twitching slightly.

  “Ravage me?” she managed to say, thinking he had no idea what he was unleashing. She was the ravager.

  “It will change everything between us,” he said, then bit his lip.

  She touched his unshaven face tenderly and whispered. “It will change nothing.” I have you here and I’m not letting you go. You are not the man I thought you were. You are so much more.

  She pulled him down to meet her, lifting her loose caftan over her head in one swift movement. No need for modesty here and now. Not between them. Skin to skin. Heat to heat. Him in the firelight. The light playing against his glistening skin. His blue eyes glowing with want. And she already slick with wanting—the need in her had been building too long. He pulled away from her and sat up.

  “Ach, Maeve, just let me look at you for a minute,” he breathed. “You are fucking … I don’t know … gorgeous. It doesn’t even seem the best word.”

  Maeve loved the look of want on his face. Pure lust. Tempered by what? Fear? Awe?

  His hands slid on her thighs as he sat there, naked, hard, and proud. Christ, when did he take his pants off? How did I miss that? So long and thick with that round head glistening, swerving off to the side just a bit. She touched the tip and it responded as Jackson drew in a breath.

  He reached for her, trailed his fingers up the center of her, oh, oh, oh—

  “So … wet …” he said.

  Goddamn it, she wanted none of this foreplay. She was seized by the need just to have him inside her, needed to take the matter into her own hands.

  Maeve sat up, pressed herself to him, and wrapped her legs around him. “Shut up, Jackson, and fuck me.”

  He drew a breath. “I know better than to argue with you,” he said.

  And she gently grabbed on to him and slid him into herself—already heated and ready. She savored this moment—the moment of piercing entry. She sat still, feeling the inside of her wrap itself around him, as her legs tightened around him. His thick lips. His tongue, his breath.

  He sighed, deeply. “Maeve … you … feel … so good.”

  She arched her back, her hair tangled in his hands as it draped over her shoulder and back, and he went deeper, tugging at her hair, slightly. Finally she moved on him—they found their rhythm. No game playing. No foreplay. Just fucking. That’s what she wanted.

  Where did he begin and she end? Where was she? Where was he?

  He was under her—watching him feeling her, all hands, mouth, tongue, and cock, hitting against the very end of her. With each thrust, she felt herself opening more, moving quicker against him. She felt an intense tingling pulled from deep inside and finally the delicious unraveling and she screamed in pure relief—wave after wave.

  They collapsed together on the pillow, she still astride him, lying draped over him, almost unconscious.

  “Maeve,” he whispered. “Are you okay?”

  He reached over and touched her cheek, pulled back his hand—it was wet with tears. It was then she realized she had been crying.

  “I don’t know what to say …” she said.

  “This is weird, right?” he smiled.

  She nodded.

  “But—”

  “Ssh—” she placed her fingers to his lips. “Let’s not analyze it. It is what it is.”

  He smiled, then kissed her, long, deep, tender, sending the center of her into a muddled heat. Bur her head was still clear.

  What have I just done?

  They were abruptly awakened from their reverie with a knock at the library door. They gathered and slipped their clothes on quickly.

  “Just a minute,” Maeve said.

  After they were put together, Jackson unlocked the door.

  “Sorry to interrupt your work,” Giovanni said, as he walked in the room.

  If he only knew.

  “There is a man here to see you, Maeve.”

  “What?” she said, standing from her warmed spot on the velvet couch. “Me?”

  “Hello, love,” Mark said as he entered the room. “Surprised to see me?”

  Great.

  Chapter 28

  The blood rushed to Jackson’s face as he stood to shake Mark’s hand. Maeve had never seen him blush. Was that steam coming out of his ears? She smiled.

  “What are you doing here?” Maeve managed to say in the midst of the turmoil of his bags being brought in. She rushed to politely hug him.

  “Well, I heard the news about Alice—”

  “Stran
ge. What? We’ve only just heard ourselves.”

  “It’s all over the papers and the Internet, darling,” Mark said wrapping his arm around her and leading her to the couch. “I immediately contacted your publisher to see where you were. I have a few days and wanted to check on you. This must be devastating.”

  Jackson rolled his eyes and plopped into a chair, deciding instead to make a pain of himself. “What have you heard, Mark? We are pretty much in the dark.”

  “Darling, you look dreadful,” Mark said, stroking her hair, ignoring Jackson, “You’ve lost weight. Your color is off …”

  “Christ, we just learned about Alice. Do you expect her to be a beauty queen, dude?”

  Maeve was dumbfounded. Mark. Here. She hadn’t given him much thought. Now, Jackson sat in the chair next to the pile of pillows on the floor where they had just been together. “Um, Mark?”

  “Oh yes, I’m so sorry. I’m just concerned about you. Are you eating?”

  She nodded. “Of course, I’m eating. But we’ve had some problems, Mark. I’m not sure you should be here.”

  “What? I can’t surprise my girlfriend?”

  She cocked her head and one eyebrow rose. “I’m not your girlfriend. We talked about this.”

  He shifted on the sofa, glanced at Jackson, who was smirking. “Look, bloke, do you mind leaving us alone a bit?”

  Jackson just sat there. Maeve inwardly beamed.

  “It’s okay, Jackson,” Maeve finally said.

  But Jackson took his good old time about leaving the room, gathering up his cameras, bag, lenses, and so on.

  “Finally,” Mark said, grabbing her, kissing her passionately, leaving her cold.

  “Mark, I—”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m just not into it. I’m sorry. I’ve been working really hard and now this news of Alice’s death and Jackson—”

  “Jackson? Oh, I see. He’s moved in on you. Are you fucking him?” he said. His face angry red; lips a thin, strained line.

  Maeve felt like she’d been kicked in the gut. Here was her perfect lover of three years. The one who only wanted to sleep with her and not own her, suddenly jealous. Anger welled up in her throat.