Saffron Nights (14 page)

“Y
ou were out for three days? I think you better get to a doc-Ytor,” Jennifer said.

“There was a doctor on the mountain and Sanj is a doctor. He took a sample of my blood and everything. Now I’m away from the mountain, I feel okay,” she said.

The line seemed to be fading. “I’ll e-mail you. I just had to hear your voice,” she said, before the line went dead.

“Bad weather,” Sanj said, looking at his smart phone. “Your flight has been cancelled for tomorrow. There is a storm coming. I guess the landlines are out. I need to run to my office and may end up having to stay there if I can’t beat the storm. I’m sorry. But the staff is at your disposal, of course.”

Being stuck in a mansion in India was not the worst thing for a writer who had not had the chance to write since she had landed there. Finally, she wrote her essay on the durian and sent it to the publisher, with contacts for them to begin getting direct supplies of Indian durian into the states.

She hit the send button.

She scanned her e-mails—nothing from Yvette—oh, damn, one from Mark.

What the hell? A flash of anger shot through just as the lights flickered and a huge bang of thunder announced the downpour. Maeve wondered if they were ever going to get out of India.

Jackson was sitting in the library, cussing to himself, when Maeve found him. “What’s wrong?”

“I was trying to edit some photos when the lights went out.”

“I was just reading an e-mail from Mark.”

He whipped his head around. “You’re fucking kidding me, right?”

“No, and he doesn’t seem to want to give up.”

She sat down on the couch next to him. At least it was still daylight. She was hoping to find enough natural light to read Chef’s book—it was too gray and dark, but light, nonetheless. She hoped it would clear soon. She also hoped her head would clear. She and Jackson were in the same room together and all that she could think about was his ass, his arms, and oh yes, a few other delightful parts, too. This was so unlike her when she was working.

Sanj’s housemaid and butler scampered around, bringing candles into the room.

“I wonder,” Jackson said. “Do you think he could be behind some of the weird things that have happened? I mean, it’s clear the guy doesn’t like me. And all of it has happened to me.”

He hand scratched his chin. Strong, square bitable chin.

“Well, not the incident in Mexico,” she pointed out and cleared her throat.

“Hmm. Yeah. That’s right. But since then, I’m the one who was robbed and beaten in Hawaii and Hong Kong.”

An image of him in the hospital, looking so sweet and vulnerable, popped into her mind.

“We were both shot at in Hong Kong, and Mark was busy finishing his book tour, then. Snake, well, we’ve been seeing him around. In everyplace we’ve been.”

“Not here, or Italy.”

Italy. Where IT happened. She regretted that it had been over so quickly and that Mark had interrupted them. She had been undone by her need and rushed it. Where could that night have gone? Where could tonight go?

“No, but I’m sure I saw him on the plane to Italy,” she said, resisting the temptation to lean over and kiss him.

“But he couldn’t have gotten to us at Giovanni’s. Which makes me wonder how Mark pulled that off.”

“He can be very charming,” she said, leaning into him. “Besides, he’s loaded. He probably bribes his way around the world.” Did he not notice how close she was to him? That they were touching? Could he not feel the heat, the sparks?

“You can place a block on his e-mail.”

“I will if it doesn’t stop. I don’t really need to make another enemy.”

“Evidently, we have one,” Jackson said.

“I feel bad about missing Alice’s funeral,” Maeve said. “But I’m sure she wouldn’t have wanted us to stop our work.”

“We’re so far away from home, anyway. I’m not sure we could’ve gotten there in time.”

“We are,” she said, looking at him, after another pounding of thunder. “We are far from home, indeed.”

She bit her lip, leaned further into him, watched as his eyes drifted to her mouth, her breasts. His smoldering look made her tingle.

This was the first they’d been alone together since they’d gotten to India. The air charged between them, but as long as they kept talking, a sense of professionalism permeated. But how could he not know what she was thinking? How she was feeling?

The wind was blowing the trees nearly sideways. Slanted sheets of rain came down. Every few minutes a crack or a boom. BOOM! Another loud one. Maeve gasped and stood quickly, dropping Chef’s book.

“Wow,” she said. “I’ve never seen such a storm.”

“It’s okay; this house is built well. I swear it could survive a bomb,” Jackson said, reaching down to pick up the book for her, noticing a strange ripple on one of the pages. It was the way the light played on the page. Not quite flat.

“Hmm,” he said and picked it up. “Look at this.”

One of Sanj’s staff entered the room and told them dinner would be later than usual because of the storm. But they were both so mesmerized by the book that it barely registered with them.

He gently pulled apart a couple of pages to reveal a slight impression filled with a pale yellow powdery substance. He held the book up to Maeve.

“What is that?” she said, eyebrows lifted.

He sniffed it. The lights flickered on and off.

“Maybe saffron.”

“But that’s not quite the color of saffron,” Maeve said. “And I don’t know. I think I smells a bit of durian. But it might just be just my oversensitivity kicking in.”

“Well it’s not the color of processed saffron we’ve seen,” he said and reached into his camera bag for a plastic Baggie, which he always had on hand to protect his equipment. He scooped the stuff into the bag.

“Let’s see if there’s more,” he said.

“How strange that Chef would hide a substance in this book.”

“A book he wanted you to have,” Jackson said. “Must be special. Look, here’s another page.” He fanned through the book. “Christ, Maeve, whatever it is, it’s all through the book. “

A
fter supper, they went back into the library with tea. They had pulled apart all the pages that held the yellow powder in them and Maeve was determined to crack the code of what it was. She was certain Chef would have left some clue within the pages of the book. In the meantime, they decided to stir a little of it in their tea. After all, whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t harmful, or Chef would not have had it.

They were sitting on the floor in front of a lit fireplace, surrounded by candles, the sound of rain pelting the windows and the roof. The screech of the wind interrupted the gentle rain rhythm every now and then.

Maeve took the first sip. “It’s definitely saffron. Bitter.”

“But there’s something else in it,” Jackson said. “Something kind of familiar.”

“I kind of like the way it tastes in this tea. Maybe I can come up with some tea brews or something for the book. A new section. Hadn’t thought of that before.”

Jackson took a bite of his dessert—something between a cookie and a cake. “You know, it really blends in well with this. Here, take a drink of your tea, then take a bite of this.”

He held it up for her to bite. He lifted an eyebrow in a sexy challenge. She opened her mouth and allowed him to feed her. The cake was dense, and tasted of cardamom, cinnamon, and something else . . . but he was right, the flavors complemented each other. She played with the sensation of the flavors intermingled in her mouth and trying to separate them out.

“Good?” he asked, nodding his head. Jackson enjoyed it as well.

Maeve drained her tea to the last drop, placed her cup on the nearest table, then sank in to the pillows they had lying on the floor with them. Yeah, she should write this down, the way she was feeling—a rush of sweet relaxation, but not weariness. In fact, she felt alert—all of her senses suddenly felt sharpened.

In her mind’s eye, she was seeing Jackson naked, writhing around on top of her, his face contorted in passion. She would never forget the way he looked at her that night in Italy. So raw. She tried to stop the images from coming to her mind—but it was no use. In this moment, all she could think about was getting naked with Jackson.

He poured himself more tea and sprinkled more of the saffron powder in it. He was intent on the tea and cake, helping himself to her slice. “Do you mind?” he asked.

“Go ahead,” she said, lying back on a burnt orange silky cushion. She sank into it, arching slightly as she allowed her head to fall back. She lay there a while in the quiet room, listening to the storm and the crackling fire, willing sexy images away, even though every pore felt open and yielding.

“M-Maeve?”

“Yes?” she said without lifting her head, suddenly realizing how she loved Jackson’s voice—a deep timbre, yet somehow soft, and as she thought about it, it was almost as if his voice was reaching into her, and wow, right to the center of her, where she felt a familiar delicious pull.

One that maybe he was feeling, as well.

He wrapped his arms around her and lifted her to her feet. His mouth on her neck. Soft warm breaths played against her skin. “I’m afraid I have to . . .”

She pulled away. “What are you afraid of? It changes nothing between us, right?” She pulled his mouth to hers. And it was met with a hunger she’d only begun to taste.

T
hey ended up in her bedroom tangled in silk-smooth blankets, lust, bits and pieces of cookies and saffron.

He spread her out on the bed as he helped her out of her clothes.

Small appreciative moans and murmurs came from his throat as he cupped her breasts, kissing them with his soft, warm mouth and running his tongue around her nipples, gently nipping and sucking them. Circles of pleasure spread through her as she felt her body relaxing and responding at the same time.

He rubbed the rosy pink hardened nipples between his fingers as he slid further down. He worked his way down her body, kissing, licking, moaning. She sucked in air, then rose to meet his wet mouth, and he twisted and licked her with an abandoned precision, biting her with just the right tension, pulling away now and then, as if to tease her. He was building the tension with each lick, bite, and twist, until at last she exploded and he lapped up every drop of her.

Her hands in his hair, pushing him to the right spots, his slightly whiskered chin rubbing her thighs, sending rockets of fire through her center.

He was whispering to her. “I want you . . . is it okay?” He was hesitating.

She couldn’t stand it—needed to feel him inside her. She craved him.

She could barely nod, as she was higher than she had ever imagined. Was the feeling because of the mysterious mixture—or was it simply her passion? Sometimes it was all she needed to feel this warm and high—but never like this.

He spread her legs farther and looked at her—there was the raw eagerness in his eyes again. “Mmmm. So hot,” he growled.

He placed her legs on his shoulders and entered her, deeply, rode her gently, savoring the delight of entry. He was probing and hitting her G-spot, in agonizing well-timed rhythm. Then he arched his back and groaned as he pushed himself deeper, hotter, climaxing with a long, intense shudder.

They tumbled into each other, with the silky sheets surrounding their bodies, and drifted off to sleep.

Maeve awoke in the middle of the night. What time was it? He was reaching for her, pulling her head to his cock, which she gladly took into her mouth, as he gently pulled her hair. He lifted her head away and guided her to sit on him. She wrapped her legs around him and impaled herself on him. He held her lower back while she moved, arching back, feeling him deeper. She saw herself in the mirrors around her. He watched them in the mirrors, as well. She swirled around on him, then came in a wild pulse, sending him shivering. They drifted off, with her on him, him in her. Afterward they woke up in a mad frenzy. He pushed her on to the bed, fucked her hard and fast, turned her over, and plunged into her, harder and harder—until they both came and collapsed once more.

Was it morning yet? No. Not quite. Maeve woke up pleasantly sore and wondering where Jackson was. Ah, there. She was amazed by the utter longing she felt for him. The desire was almost uncontrollable. It rose in her like a wild madness.

“I want . . .” she managed to say.

“Mmmm,” he said, pulling her close to him and kissing her, his tongue probing her mouth. They wrapped around one another one more time. “You are a horny gorgeous woman. Mmmm.”

His eyes drank her in. “I think we could fuck forever, you and me.”

Maeve had lost track of the time, lost track of how many times they had sex, how many ways this man could pleasure her. Was she losing track of herself?

 

Jackson wanted to spread her out, fill her completely, over and over again. He was lost to her.

And yet, she was his. Her response. Her longing. Her opening to him. Her final, shattering climax, leading them both to tears and to utter abandonment.

She was wrong. This would change everything
.

He sighed, groaned. It was all he could do; words escaped him as her mouth begged to taste him. An intense spiral of pleasure he would never forget.

He knew where she wanted him, again, but he liked her straddled on the edge of ecstasy. He saw her craving in the smokiness of her amber eyes, the opening of her lips, the movements in her hips. He taunted her, touching all around her hot spots. He wanted to savor these moments.

“Tease,” she breathed.

He laughed a lover’s laugh, guttural, playful; he almost didn’t recognize his own sound.

Jackson filled her with himself, again, trying to hold back the tiger he felt within himself. He didn’t want to hurt her, or maybe he did. She responded to his every move. Harder. A delicious, sweaty pounding. They nearly passed out from the intensity, only to awaken a few hours later to more. He was so into her pleasure he almost didn’t realize how strange it all was. How enhanced everything felt. Was this her? This magic? This power?

Yes. Jackson Dodds knew his way around women. But now, what had it been—had he actually had sex three times with Maeve? Or was it four? And he was ready again. But well—the thought passed from him with the more than pleasant sensation of Maeve’s hot wet mouth kissing him, her strong legs wrapping around him, her breasts smashed against his chest.

His mouth found hers in the morning haze and he kissed her back with unabashed hunger. His fingers wrapped themselves around her breasts and then dipped into her. They were swept away, both feeling like they were nothing more than the pleasure of their body parts. He was everywhere on her, in her. She was so tight, so smooth, so strong.

She was as insatiable as he was—clawing at him, giving him everything he gave and more. Strong. Amazon of a woman.

Maeve, at last, draped herself over him, and they fell asleep cradled in each other’s arms.

He began drifting off in a sticky mess of sleep.
What exactly happened here? Was this passion the saffron? Was it more than that?

Ah, fuck it. He didn’t even care.