Saffron Nights (2 page)

M
urder. Poison. Mushrooms.

Maeve’s brain rolled those words around in her head as her stomach twisted. What poisonous mushrooms were indigenous in Brazil? Hadn’t she read something about mushrooms in South America? Was it in Brazil?

She reached for her phone. “What are you doing?” Jackson asked.

“I’m looking up poisonous mushrooms in Brazil.”

“Why?”

“Just curious. You know how Chef was, he would not have eaten an imported mushroom. It would have had to be a local mushroom,” she said.

“Oh yeah. He was kind of a nut about that eating local stuff, wasn’t he?”

Maeve smiled at him. Of course he was. He had the utmost respect for farmers and the whole local eating movement. He said it made more sense than people knew and traveling Americans should just be quiet and eat what the locals were eating.

“Here’s something,” she said. “Green Spored Lepiota . . . sometimes occurs in large fairy rings . . . identified by its green spores . . . distinctly poisonous for some people and not for others. Old specimens contain more poison than the younger. And this poison is never fatal.”

“Well, that can’t be it then,” Jackson said, leaning into her shoulder.

She ignored his hot breath on her neck, the tingling sensation moving through her, despite herself, and looked at him out of the corner of her eye. She needed to see Mark soon.

“Well, I think they have the idea now,” Alice said, walking into the room.

Maeve and Jackson jumped, startled by her brisk entrance. Maeve dropped her phone; Jackson picked it up.

“What?” Maeve said.

“I just told the publisher I’m taking the project elsewhere if they are not interested.” The authority in her voice stood in contrast to the rumpled woman in front of them.

“Where?”

Alice shrugged. “It doesn’t matter where. They have the first option. If we can’t come to terms, we are perfectly within the contractual terms to seek another publisher.”

“Another publisher? But we love our publisher . . .” Maeve said.

Alice held up her hand. “Please, no whining, Maeve. I have a splitting headache,” she said, sitting back down in her chair. “This is business.”

Maeve was intrigued by Alice’s reaction to Chef’s death. She was a mess. Maeve didn’t know they had been close at all.

“Well, I’m sorry,” Maeve said. “But we already have a relationship there.”

“Yes. But don’t for a moment imagine they would be interested in you or your projects if you weren’t selling so well. Bottom line. You’ve made them money. Do they think you can make them more without Chef? What might save your ass is that while we’ve not quite signed off on the contracts, your sponsors have. Airlines. Hotels. Embassies. Food companies. And so on. Done deal for them. So it will take some time for them to round up the general consensus. “

“And in the meantime?” Jackson said.

Alice bit her lip. “My suggestion is we proceed with our plans. We have meetings set up over the next few days with travel consultants, embassies, and so on. Let’s keep on it, until we hear otherwise. And show up for the meetings,” she said, looking directly at Jackson, who raised his eyebrows and looked at a smirking Maeve.

Maeve had never been so glad to leave Alice’s office in her life. Between the news of Paul’s death and Alice’s reaction to it, the awry book deal, and her sexy-but-pain-in-the-ass partner, she felt as if she’d been through some kind of intense therapy. So now they were proceeding with their plans, but they were constantly fluctuating. And that drove Maeve a bit bonkers.

Also, now that they were proceeding, she and Jackson were getting different “aphrodisiacs” shipped to them to start things off. Saffron was supposed to arrive in Jackson’s mail tomorrow and they would try it out together at her place, which presented problems. It wasn’t as if she thought the saffron would make her get all horny and lose her mind over Jackson. It was that she thought she did not need an aphrodisiac to get horny over Jackson. She hated to admit it, even to herself, but he was just the kind of guy she liked to have in her life—successful, gorgeous, and wanting only sex. That’s why she liked Mark. It was never complicated with him. He didn’t get possessive at all—and that’s exactly how she liked it. Who said all women were after a wedding ring? She certainly wasn’t. In fact, the whole idea of marriage scared and annoyed her—because every woman she’d known who’d gotten married had slipped into a backward drive when it came to her career. Not for her.

When Maeve slid her key into her apartment doorknob, it opened too quickly. There was no click. No struggle to get the damned thing open. Had she forgotten to lock it? She opened the door slowly, an eerie feeling coming over her. Damn, the apartment was cold. One sweeping eye search of her tiny studio apartment told her there was nothing amiss—except the window was wide open. Odd. She didn’t remember opening it that morning, though she sometimes did, especially when she was cooking.

Her phone rang. She turned to reach for it, finding it wasn’t in the cradle. Had she left it in the bathroom again? It rang again. No. It was in the kitchenette, next to the stove.

“Hello,” she said into the phone.

Nothing but silence. And tonight, the silence sent shivers through her.

M
aeve lifted the lid of the pot and smelled the onions and garlic. She scraped in the carrots and stirred the brew with a huge wooden spoon. The smell of hearty stew filled Jackson with memories of an old Afghani restaurant he used to frequent. Was it the cumin?

Jackson watched as she took another deep whiff and wandered off to find some music to go with their Eastern feast. She was also dressed for the occasion, with a diaphanous aqua dress that fit snugly around her breasts and hips, but flowed and moved with her. It had little beads hanging off the hem that sparkled and clicked with each movement. He glanced around at the piles of magazines, mail, and books, and vowed to clean up his place this weekend before leaving for London for a shoot scheduled at some stuffy library—if it was actually going to happen now. How would the project go forward without Chef?

“Smells good,” he said, lifting the lid on the stew, steam pouring from it. “But it smells nothing like sex.”

“Guess not,” Maeve said, laughing, as she poured the saffron powder into a wooden bowl.

Powdered golden yellow and almost shimmering, the stuff formed a yellowish haze around them as she dumped it in the bowl. It was the purest saffron in the world, going for $2,000 a pound.

Jackson picked up his camera and zoomed in on Maeve’s hands and fingers as they preened over the food—her long fingers seemed to be made for art, playing the piano, or the craft of cooking. Click. Click. Click. He dropped the camera and let it swing around his neck. He couldn’t help but think of her fingers on him. That needed to stop.

Maeve glanced at the clock. “Okay, we have fifteen minutes.”

“Let me just grab the other camera,” he said, grateful for the excuse to leave her side. “The music is cool.”

“Thanks.”

The air was charged with excitement—both of them hoping to go forward with the book. Maeve could really sink her teeth into this project as a writer and a researcher, and Jackson was thrilled about getting to photograph India and was already thinking of potential shoots at temples and some sacred sites, if he could get permission.

The publisher thought it had great sales potential because of the sex hook, but both Maeve and Jackson were skeptical about any aphrodisiac affects of anything other than maybe wine. Chef had been even less amused by it. “If I was aroused every time I ate something that was supposed to be an aphrodisiac, I’d be walking around with a boner, like, all the time—as if I don’t already have plenty of them,” he’d sent in an e-mail to her probably a day or so before he had died. Maeve almost choked on her coffee when she read it, not wanting to think of Chef having a boner.

“Is this your boyfriend?” Jackson wanted to know, picking up Mark’s book on the British aristocracy, which sat on her table, next to the overstuffed couch.

“Not exactly a boyfriend, but yes, that’s Mark. He lives in London now.”

“Are you going to see him next week?”

“Oh sure, probably, if we actually go, ” she said, stirring the pot, Jackson snapping pictures of her.

“Hmm,” he stood and looked at her as if surprised.

“What?”

“The camera really likes you,” he said.
Way too much
.

“Oh yeah, right,” she said, turning her back to him and stirring. High cheekbones, large, heavy-lidded eyes, voluptuous lips. The camera loved the graceful slopes of her face.

“I’m surprised, too,” he said and kept shooting. The
click, click
of the camera was starting to irritate her.

She stopped and looked at him. “Now what is that supposed to mean?”

The camera came away from his face. “I mean I’ve worked with some gorgeous women who looked like shit on camera. You’re pretty and it comes through.”

He looked her square in the eyes. She quickly looked away. Was she actually blushing?

“Hey,” Jackson said. “I think it’s time.”

She poured the soup in two huge cobalt blue bowls—the yellow color of the soup looked spectacular against the blue. Plump chunks of potatoes and onion, garlic and celery, steamed. He inhaled the fragrant steam—it was dizzying. Jackson’s camera never left his eye. “Love the color of this stuff,” he said, setting his camera down. “Hey, let’s eat.”

“You know, you’re a food writer. You should probably have a table and chairs, like a dining set or something,” Jackson said, as he walked to the couch and gingerly sat down, so as not to spill the soup.

“I know. But where would I put them?”

“I guess you’d have to get rid of something or maybe move. You can afford a house. I know what you earn,” he said, taking a slurp of soup. “Hmmm,” he moaned. “I think it needs something. What do you think?”

Maeve took a bite of the stew and agreed it was wanting. “Maybe lemon?”

He was on his third or fourth bite. “Mmm. No. Eat more. It gets better with each bite.”

Jackson took another, but watched his partner in amazement. Her enjoyment of the food seemed to wash over her; blood ran to her face, giving her skin a peach-like glow.

“I was thinking it might need some olive oil. But no,” she said as she moved the bottle off to the side.

Jackson took another bite. Yes. It was luscious. He drank more Chablis to try to cleanse his palate. The soup was good: rich, creamy, and earthy-tasting all at once. He wasn’t sure what he tasted. Every bite unfolded into a different flavor. He was mesmerized by it and focused on the bowl of the brew, thinking of the vibrant colors, and trying to separate the flavors—potato with cumin, carrots with onions, and saffron.

After pouring more Chablis, Maeve kicked her shoes off and grabbed her pen and notebook.

“I’d say earthy and
rich,
” Jackson said, bringing the bowls over to her, and sat on the floor beside the coffee table. “Like us, darling.”

“Cheers to that,” she said, and after raising her glass, she joined him on the floor, laughing.

“Sweet, creamy, yet earthy. How can that be? It’s almost perfume-like. . . I can’t quite . . .”

“Yes, you can,” Jackson said. “If anybody can, you can. Hotshot wordsmith,” he said taunting her with something a reviewer had once written about her. “Really. Seriously, I am grateful for you, Maeve. I’d never be here if it weren’t for those words of yours.”

The words tumbled out of him. Damn. He immediately wished he hadn’t said that.

“Sometimes, I suspect there’s more to you than what meets the eye,” she said, not looking up at him, scribbling away in her notebook.

“Nah,” he said, smiling, trying not to beam. “What you see is what you get.”

She looked up at him, as if examining produce. Did she like what she saw? Jackson thought she did. But then she looked away, too quickly. Maybe he was wrong. His eyes wandered to her feet.

Jackson could not help staring at her toes. Why did she take her shoes off? He was already feeling warmed by the soup and slightly buzzed from the wine—at least, that’s what he told himself. This aphrodisiac stuff was nonsense, of course. Still, he had to admit that he was imagining what the rest of her would look like bare. After all, it had been at least a week since he’d slept with anybody, which was a record for him lately. Maeve’s pink toenails revealed an intriguing hint of femininity—one that she usually kept closeted from him.

She acted like she didn’t even know he was there. He watched her full lips curve around the spoon as she stared intently into the bowl.
What would they feel like on him?
She was not paying one ounce of attention to him, so he let his eyes linger on her toes. They were simply perfect toes, topped off with a splash of bright feminine pink, and her feet looked porcelain smooth and inviting. But he held back. Christ—what if a woman like this did respond to him and then it went horribly bad, as most of his affairs had? They might be stuck together on some godforsaken mountain in India or Italy and be miserable.

So, he held his breath while his heart raced, keeping his eyes on her feet and slurping the stew. After all, this was his career. He couldn’t risk it—even for Maeve. Especially for Maeve.

“What are you doing, Jackson?” She said and took another bite.

“Eating soup and, ah, looking at your toes. They, ah, look really good,” he said.

“Maybe you need some coffee, Jackson,” Maeve said, laughing.

“Sorry, I just never knew that you had such pretty feet,” he said and smiled.

“Well, you’re using that word a lot. Pretty. You’re barking up the wrong tree if—”

“We work together,” Jackson stammered. “You know, I should never have mentioned how pretty your feet are. Or how pretty you are, period. I’m sorry.”

What was happening to him? Usually so confident, here he was stammering around Maeve like a schoolboy.

He held the bowl up to his mouth to drink the last drop, his tongue licking his lips in utter abandonment.

He held up his fingers and wiggled. “You don’t know this about me, but I give an incredible foot massage.”

She slammed her bowl down. “Are you coming on to me?”

“No! No. Look, I can rub your feet without being sexual. C’mon, we’re partners, right?” His hand found her thigh, nonchalantly, spreading his fingers across it.

“Yes,” she said, moving his hand off her thigh. “I’ve never had a colleague ask to rub my feet before.” Her eyebrows lifted and her arms folded across her chest.

“I think you’ll agree that I’m no ordinary colleague,” he said leaning into her.

She folded her arms crossed and leaned away from him. Her crossed arms lifted her breasts a bit. He tried not to look.

“What are you doing? Really?” she said, twisting a tendril of her long auburn hair.

Like so many women that Jackson knew, her body language and her words said one thing—but her eyes said something else. Even though she would deny it, he recognized the glisten of a woman who was beginning to smolder. Should he? Just how far could he push this? And what the hell was he doing? He felt himself slipping into a muddled haze, almost a buzz, but he’d only had what? Two glasses of wine?

“Maybe it’s for the best,” he said and sighed, mockingly. “You know, I’m not sure you could handle it.”

She laughed, flicking her hair back off her shoulder. “C’mon. Get over yourself. You’re starting to believe your own press, dude.”

“Okay. Pass up the most incredible foot massage you’ve ever had because you think I’m trying to hit on you. Humph. Who needs to get over herself?”

She quieted and sank back into the sofa. “Okay. Jackson, I’m just not into someone—anyone—anyone—touching my feet. Sorry.”

He shrugged.

Maeve laid her head and back on some pillows and laid back, closing her eyes. She wiggled her toes and watched his reaction—both burst into a fit of giggles—and she picked up a brown checked pillow and threw it at him. He made a mental note to talk to her about her really bad taste in pillows, which should be one color and muted, perhaps silky. What was this country-gingham bullshit?

Still, the curve of her lips, the slope of her cheekbone, the way that necklace dipped between her breasts made his blood rush.
What the hell am I doing?
He stood abruptly.

“What’s wrong?” Maeve asked him, sitting up and taking another sip of wine. “What’s going on?”

“I think I better leave before, before—” he sat back down on the floor, placing a pillow over his crotch. He didn’t know what she was thinking—but he saw lust moving through her. It was almost as if her skin was steaming.

She sat up, looking a bit sleepy or maybe drunk. He joined her on the couch once more. She touched his face. “Jackson, why do I feel like this? All of a sudden, I feel—”

“Me, too. I wonder if it’s the saffron or the mix of the saffron and the wine,” he said, sitting down, looking deeply into her amber eyes. It was as if those words gave him permission to do what he really wanted. What the heck, he thought, it was worth a try. He would not be a man if he didn’t at least give it a try. The next moment, he pulled her closer to him, grabbed her face, and kissed her. Maeve met his kiss with a shocking passion, a swiveling tongue, which sent him reeling. Then she pulled away.

“Jackson, we need to stop,” she breathed.

But her erect, tense posture had vanished. He was getting mixed signals. She said one thing, but she was slinking, softening, and yielding. Jackson’s pulse was heightened, but his mind was sharply focused on lifting her skirt, getting his fingers, mouth, and tongue against that warm soft skin, licking her until she squirmed. But first, her feet. He reached for them.

“Okay,” he grunted. “Just let me . . .” And he cupped one of her feet in his large hand. This time, she hesitated, briefly, then allowed him to hold her bare foot.

 

Okay, so what could it hurt for her to allow him to rub her feet? He seemed hell-bent on it. At this point, Maeve thought it safer than kissing—which is what she wanted. But that would be a mistake. Another kiss and she was a goner. She couldn’t remember a better kiss, ever. In fact, she was beginning to not remember, um, er, think clearly about anything at all. She still was slightly uncomfortable about him at her feet, but it was skin on skin and right for this moment: she craved his touch, anywhere on her body. And her brain was having a hard time making sense of that, but her body was not.

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?