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Authors: Liz Everly

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Chapter 66
“I
want you,” she had said. “You.”
Jackson thought of her words as he struggled to get out bed, unwrapped from Maeve, to pee.
She admitted she wanted him—but did it mean she loved him? Or did she just lust after him?
“Just ask her,” Sanj had said, as if it was like asking her if she wanted another cup of tea. They had gotten a chance to talk a bit while he was in the hospital.
And Jackson had the time to really think—at least when he wasn’t in a dreamy drug-induced sleep, or when doctors and nurses were not poking at him.
When he came back to bed, he thought of waking her, asking her—what is this? Do you love me? This flawed man that I am. Do you love me? This man who doesn’t know how to love, who doesn’t know if he can love. Do you love me? He yearned to ask her. But instead he drank her in with his eyes. She was splayed under one sheet, with one breast visible. The jewel in her nipple sparkling in the dim light. Her hair fell over one of her freckled cheeks. Her dark eyelashes stood out against her white skin, looking like some kind of furry creature resting on her eyelids. He kissed her gently there and wrapped her in his arms. There she is—Maeve, so strong, so smart—yet, she yielded to him, gave herself completely. She wanted him.
“But do you love me?” he said out loud.
Maeve stirred. “Jackson. Are you okay?” she said sleepily.
He nodded. “I was wondering . . . can I ask you . . .” He was rubbing her back, stroking her.
“Anything,” she said wrapping her legs around him. He could feel the heat rise from between her thighs. She was insatiable—just as he had imagined.
“Do you . . .”
“Jackson,” she looked at him, her mouth open, tongue wet and shining, “I do. I love you.”
Jackson felt himself open—something deep in his chest, in his guts—he wanted to hold her, keep her to himself, give her everything she wanted. But now, in this moment, she was placing her legs on his shoulders, guiding him into her. He slid into her and it felt like home. God help him. He was home.
Chapter 67
“Y
ou said this ginseng is really potent. I can’t wait to try it in pancakes,” Jackson said, walking to the door and opening it to Sanj, Sherri, and Jennifer, who just happened to come along at the same time.
“Who is he?” said Sherri, with her usual gruff air. Sherri had been promoted and was now their agent since she was so familiar with their projects and had worked so closely with Alice.
Introductions were made all the way around.
“Well, Maeve, I am happy to see you at work,” Sherri said. Maeve had not even gotten out of her seat.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Sherri. I just needed to finish something up. We are having ginseng pancakes. The ginseng from China?”
“Certainly. You aren’t working him too hard, are you?”
“I, ah, don’t think so. He just got up from his nap,” Maeve told her, trying not to exchange a heated glance with him. “He seems to be fine, as long as we stop for rest. This book may take a little longer.”
“I want you both to know you have as much time as you need,” Sherri said. “We are already invested heavily in this project and are expecting perfection.”
“Perfection? That’s not too much pressure . . .” Sanj said.
“Who are you again?” Sherri said, pushing her glasses back onto her nose.
“He’s Sanj, one of my best friends. Would you like a cocktail?” Jackson said. “I’ve been experimenting with an aphrodisiac cocktail.”
“Certainly,” she said. “So you two are making progress and you’ve only been out of the hospital a few days.”
“Yes, sure. We got right to work,” Maeve added, sitting down next to Sherri.
Sherri pulled out a newspaper from her briefcase. “What do you think of this?”
Maeve gasped. It was a photo of her and Jackson kissing in Morocco.
“What?” said Jackson and Sanj together. Jennifer was flipping pancakes in the kitchen.
“A picture of us kissing . . .” Maeve said.
“So?” Jackson said, shrugging his shoulders. “So it’s out. We’ve got nothing to be ashamed about.”
“I certainly agree,” said Sherri. “Personally, I could give a rat’s ass who you’re sleeping with these days, Jackson—”
Maeve felt a reddening in her face and her heart pounding in her chest.
“Wait a minute,” Jackson interrupted. “You’ve got this all wrong.”
“For Christ’s sake, Sherri,” Maeve said. “Hello. I am sitting right here.”
“I know that, darling. But you know Jackson. How are you going to continue to work with him when he’s on to his next conquest?” she said.
“Or maybe he should be worried about how he will take pictures when I’ve moved on to my next lover?” Maeve threw at her.
“Wait a minute. Nobody’s moving on to anybody,” Jackson said, his eyes widening, brows lifting. “Sherri, Maeve and I are in love. We don’t know exactly . . . well . . .”
“We are just starting to explore a relationship. We don’t know where this is going. Does anybody ever?” Maeve said.
Sanj and Jennifer looked at one another and smiled as they brought in plates.
“I get that, Maeve,” she said, after a moment. “But the company does not.”
“What does that mean?”
“Mr. Jameson thinks the involvement could affect your work and the public perception of the ‘sexiest photographer’ in America. Also, you two are supposed to be doing serious work, serious inquiry into aphrodisiacs—”
“Look. I’ve gone along with this sexy photographer bullshit for way too long. It’s not going to ruin my personal life. I am where I am, not because of sex, but because of photography, because of years of hard work and sacrifice. I am really beginning to resent this fucking shit, this line of questioning into my personal business. I want to take pictures, and to be with Maeve, and I don’t give a shit if there’s another book, another tour, another article written about me. Do you hear me?” Jackson was shaking, his voice quivering with anger.
Maeve’s heart was on fire, listening to him, realizing for the first time how deeply he felt about her. But she felt a sinking in her stomach: this was her career, too. She knew how lucky she was as a writer to have this gig. So many others didn’t have this kind of opportunity.
Sherri looked at her, looked at him. “Please calm down, Jackson. We are going to finish the book, per the contract. It will be fine. Can we all take a deep breath here? I support you, both, we are talking about my boss here. In the meantime, maybe you two can be a bit more discreet?”
“Absolutely,” Maeve said, realizing the position Sherri was in. “We’ve not really talked about the next book. We have to get this one done and see how well it goes. But we’ve both known, for a long time, that there are other things we want to do. With or without one another. So we are willing to entertain any possibilities, right, Jackson?” She looked at him with pleading eyes.
“Yes,” he said. “I know Maeve wants to take some time and write more of her own personal stuff. I want her to do that. I am considering some other things, as well.”
“I think we also both know this is going to be messy. Whether we work together as a couple or not. We may not even want to do that. We’ll see.”
“How about those cocktails, Jackson?” she said and looked up at him.
“The pancakes are good, huh?” Sanj said, changing the subject, but Maeve could not take her eyes from Jackson. She’d had enough ginseng—she was so susceptible.
“Yes,” Sherri said. “I like the sweet pancake and the spicy ginseng. Who would have thought? You know, Maeve, I was thinking. Maeve?’
“Oh yes, I am sorry, Sherri,” she turned and looked at her.
“I was thinking about how frustrated you seemed.”
“Frustrated? Yes . . .” She looked at Jackson out of the corner of her eye. He was watching her, biting his bottom lip. Oh yes. Jackson wasn’t going to let a bullet in his hip stop him.
“You wanted to explore more. I noted it in each of your e-mails,” Sherri said.
“Explore . . . yes,” Maeve said. Jackson’s fingers were playing with something on the table, but he was still watching her. His head was tilted, the way she had seen it a million times when he was concentrating.
“I think we could do another aphrodisiac book . . . it seems we have only skimmed the surface. Are you game?” she directed her question to Maeve.
“Oh yes, I am . . . game.”
“Me, too,” Jackson said.
The warmth spreading through her body became unbearable—she wanted to take her clothes off and be with Jackson. Just Jackson. How odd. This feeling of wanting one man.
She pushed images of Mark and all of the others into another place in her mind, replaced them with Jackson. It was the easiest thing in the world to do—this thing called love. You just open yourself and say be damned with the pain. A deep knowing came to her: we are all born this way, to love and be loved. It’s a miraculous capacity we have.
Jennifer and Sanj scooted off—where had they gone? Sherri took her sweet time about leaving.
Jackson’s shorts were off before the door shut. “Maeve, you kill me,” he said to her, holding himself for her to see. “You were teasing me that whole time.”
“And what were you doing to me . . . sitting there looking at me . . . like that,” she said before placing her mouth on his, their tongues meeting in a soft frenzy. She tasted the ginseng on him, felt his hands on her sore nipples, cupping her breasts, ripping her top off with his teeth. Dropping her to the table, sucking at her breasts, taking her nipples and rubies in his mouth, swirling his tongue over them.
“Oh, Maeve, mmm—”
He grabbed her ankles, spread her wide, then lifted her legs on his shoulders. He entered her—she sighed in release—and rocked her hard, with her meeting him in deep, hard thrusts, the glassware on the table jiggling, the half-drunk glasses spilling, the mounds of pancakes and jars of exotic ginseng crashing to the floor. He was deep inside and there was no turning back now—their passions, their appetites, met there, spilled there, in exquisite relief.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS AND NOTES
Special thanks to comic Johnny T. Sollitto for permission to use his joke and to cookbook author Monica Bhide for answering my questions about Indian culture and food.
I’d also like to thank my agent Sharon Bowers for believing in this story and in me—and for connecting me with Martin Biro, my editor, whom I adore. Having you two in my corner has been a wonderful experience.
I had a fabulous beta reader for this book—Madeline Iva—and countless hours of advice and companionship from Joanna Bourne. Thanks, ladies!
Of course, I’d like to thank my family and friends, especially my husband, Eric, and my daughters, who I hope won’t read this book until they are at least, oh, thirty or so.
While I have you, reader, I’d like to note that many of the specific locations in the book are real, but there are several imaginary ones, like Ramsha. Also, the mysterious “mix” is a pure figment of my imagination, although my research did show that there are many new designer drugs like this.
I think of this book as a sexy culinary flight of fancy. I hope you’ve enjoyed it. Please visit me at my website
www.lizeverly.wordpress.com
or where I blog at
www.ladysmut.com
. Please feel free to e-mail at [email protected].
Until next time, stay hungry.
Liz
Turn the page for a special preview of the next delicious erotic romance by Liz Everly.
CRAVINGS
An eKensington e-book original on sale November 2013!
Chapter 1
“W
hat do you mean he’s not here?” Sanj said to the person Wbehind the hotel desk.
“I’m sorry, sir. We have his room. But he is not here,” she said in broken English. “I’m sure he will be along.”
He was supposed to meet Jackson here. And Jackson was a reliable kinda guy. The hair on Sanj’s neck pricked at him. Was Jackson okay? And where was Maeve? What mischief could they get into in Ecuador?
Something must have come up with a shoot. Jackson and Maeve were here working on a cookbook together. The only time Jackson had ever stood him up was when it was because of work, when he couldn’t pull himself away. He’d never even stood Sanj up for a woman. And Jackson had been quite the womanizer. Had been.
“Sir, might I suggest you refresh yourself in Sparkles,” the person behind the counter said. “I will leave a message for your friend.”
“Thank you,” he said. But a hotel bar and restaurant named Sparkles? He was in Guayaquil, the largest port city in this country. Nah, he needed to get outside and walk around a bit to find a decent meal. Maybe some good seafood.
But as he walked outside, a wall of sauna-like heat hit him. He looked around at the busy street, hoping to find a place not far from the hotel. He passed a pristine fountain; its pool looked clear and cool. He resisted the urge to take a plunge. His linen clothing clung to him. He was an Indian man, used to the heat—but this was a different kind of heat.
He sighed—tomorrow, the beach—with or without Jackson and Maeve. He kept walking until he spotted a yellow building that looked like an eatery.
When he walked into the tiny, dark, smoke-filled establishment, Cocina de Sol, he blinked, trying to adjust to the darkness. Was it a restaurant? A bar? He didn’t know. It was blessedly cool and he smelled seafood.
“English?” A host approached him.
Sanj nodded and was pleased to find the menu included translations. His Spanish was rusty.
After he was seated and had ordered a beer and lemon-spiced shrimp, he spotted an unusual looking woman standing at the bar. It was as if the smoke had cleared away just enough for him to see her white face.
She was the tallest woman in the place. And although her hair was dark, he was certain it was not her natural color. Her complexion was pale, the skin of a goddess. She almost shimmered. Where had he seen her before? Her large, heavy-lidded eyes met his gaze and she nodded, with a sultry smile. He smiled back at her. Two foreigners in this place? When you traveled, it was easy to sniff each other out.
The waiter brought his beer.
“Gracias,” Sanj said.
He sat back in his chair. Not wanting to think about the last time he’d been with a woman, he shifted his weight and tried to think of something else. Just one look at the woman made his balls tighten—what was he, eighteen again? For a man of his age, this was an unseemly reaction to a woman. And this woman was heading his way.
She walked with the bearing of a dancer—tall, slinky, confident. “May I join you?” She asked. British. Londoner. West Side?
“Please do,” Sanj said.
She caught the attention of the server, who brought her a drink.
“I’m Mary,” she said. Her lips were full and shaped like an old-fashioned doll’s lips, turned up. He imagined sliding himself right into them.
Calm down, Sanj.
“Pleased to meet you,” she said, and reached out to shake his hand.
Her deep brown eyes scanned him in a delightful, smoldering sweep. Sanj thought she liked what she saw.
Sanj smiled. “Sanj. I’ve just gotten into town.”
“Indian?” she asked, after sipping her cocktail.
He bit his lip and looked away for a moment. This woman was oozing sex. He was quite unsure what to do with himself.
He looked back at her and nodded. “You?”
“British, of course,” she said. “But I’ve been here a while. What brings you here?”
“Business,” Sanj said. Which wasn’t really true, but she didn’t need to know that.
She didn’t need to know that his friends were the famous husband-wife cookbook team here investigating cacao plantations to write a cookbook centered on chocolate. They’d invited him here because they said it was time for a break.
“You know we always need a little Sanj during our vacations,” Maeve had said to him on the phone a few weeks back.
But he suspected another reason for the invitation. He didn’t need their pity—and he was here to prove it. Fuck Jennifer. As he looked across the table at the stunning woman sitting here sipping her drink, he knew he was going to be just fine.
“Cacao?” Mary asked him.
He nodded. “Sort of.”
She smiled. “I get it. You don’t want to tell me too much. Okay. It’s kind of tricky in these parts.”
“What do you mean?” he said, trying not to look at her breasts, but they poked out of the red sundress she was wearing. It was a Vera Wang, he noted. His sister had the exact dress. His eyes wanted to rest there, but he resisted. He had a breast weakness. Jackson had teased him that he should get some help for it.
An indecent flash of Mary’s naked breasts played in his mind. What did they look like underneath that expensive dress? Would they have big nipples? Were they as round as they looked?
He crossed his legs.
Get a grip, man.
She looked as if she were holding back a smile. Those full lips, one dimple on the left side, and tiny scar across her cheek. Sexy.
“I mean you don’t want people to know you’ve got money. But I can smell it on you,” she said, leaning forward, sort of pressing her breasts together to reveal more cleavage.
He laughed. And tried not to look at the white orbs poking out. Prostitute, he thought. That has to be it.
He cleared his throat. “Well, I’ve never paid for companionship. And I never will.”
She sat back in her chair, eyebrows raised. “You underestimate me, sir.”
“Are you saying you’re not a prostitute? C’mon,” he said, as the server brought a plate of hot steaming shrimp to the table. The smell made him salivate. Damn, he was hungry. Then took a bite of it, which was so fresh and tender it almost brought him to tears. Remembering his manners, he gestured for her to have some. The plate was piled high.
“No, thanks, and I’m not a prostitute,” she said and smiled an odd, beleaguered smile. “Why would you assume that?”
Sanj shrugged and swallowed his bite of shrimp. “So what do you want with me?”
“Company,” she said softly. “It can be lonely here. Not many people even speak English, you know?”
She lifted the glass to those lips and sipped her drink.
“What brings you here?” He asked, trying to keep his eyes from her breasts—and her mouth. Focus on the shrimp, he told himself, or you’ll be so hard you won’t be able to walk out of here.
“I’m looking for an old friend,” she said. “I heard she was in town.”
Sanj finished his beer, suddenly exhausted, overcome by jet lag.
“Another one, sir?” The server appeared as if on cue.
“No, thanks,” Sanj said, turning back to the last of his juicy shrimp. He’d eaten too quickly, like a starving man. The shrimp was so good—and he’d endured days of horrible airplane and airport food. He could go for dessert, but suddenly thought of bed. He needed it. What time would it be in India? What time zone was he in now? Oh, bother, between the exhaustion and the beautiful woman, he could not think clearly at all.
He gestured for the check.
“Well, good luck with that,” he said. “Look, maybe we will see you around.”
“We?”
“I’m here meeting some friends, too,” Sanj said. “I’ve gotta tell you I need to get going. Jet lag and all that.”
“Please,” she said, grabbing his arm. “Don’t go.”
Chapter 2
S
he fucked up. She was not as beautiful or as young as she used to be. Men had always been putty in her hands. This guy was different. He had her pegged for a prostitute immediately—would she never be able to be anything else? God knows, she wanted to be shed of it.
Though she still hated the word
prostitute.
It seemed so nondescript for the services she once offered her clients.
She tried to play it cool, while letting Sanj know she was interested. She failed. She knew how to come on to them as a pro, not as a woman. And it had been years since she had to approach a man in any way. She had always had Sam, who sent clients her way. Then she was sought out. In any case, she felt like a teenager, trying to figure out her way again.
When he walked into the place, Sanj looked like a dark god and moved with the cocksure arrogance of Indian gentry. She knew it—she’d been to India, knew its men. His large black eyes pulled at her. The strong jawline, rough unshaven face, was framed by waves of black shiny hair.
Damn, she preferred her men dark, just like her chocolate and her coffee.
“What do you mean don’t go?” he was saying to her.
What could she tell him and still make sure she was safe? That he was safe? Could she tell him the truth? And
Mary? Seriously?
She couldn’t come up with a better name? But Sasha was such a distinctive name. How could she be sure he wouldn’t know who she was once she told him?
What could she do? She couldn’t let him go. She was attracted to him, yes, but she also needed his help, if only just for one night.
“Sanj,” she said after a moment. “Might we chat outside of this place?”
“I’m so tired,” he said. “You are beautiful and I’m sure you’re worth every penny. But tonight . . .”
“I told you I’m not a prostitute,” Sasha whispered. “I just need to speak to you outside.”
He paid his bill and stood up. “Let’s go,” he said, grabbing her hand.
His hands were strong, with gorgeous long fingers that she inexplicably wanted to pull to her mouth. What was it about this man’s hands? She hadn’t felt this warm—genuinely—toward a man since, since, well, since Paul died.
Sasha braced herself for the sweltering heat as she flung her bag over her shoulder. They walked out on to the busy, colorful, streets.
He stopped walking and looked at her. “Mary, what is going on?”
She pulled him off to a corner. “Sanj, I need a place to stay tonight.”
He cocked his head. “What is this about?”
“I’m sort of, um, broke. Between jobs,” she blurted. “I don’t want to be on the street tonight. And until I find my friend . . .”
She flung her arms wide and shrugged. His eyebrows creased.
Ironic. A couple of years ago, she had more money than sense. And more drugs. Along with the love of an incredible man. Now gone. Everything was gone. Except her sobriety, and her budding integrity.
“I don’t think so,” he said and turned to walk away.
Sasha grabbed him, hard. He freed himself easily from her grip.
“Do you think I’m an idiot? What kind of scam are you working?” he said, his voice low but forceful.
“No scam. Please. You have to believe me. I do have some money I could give you,” she said. “I just don’t want to register anywhere.”
He looked at her as if he were trying to read her mind.
“So are you hiding from someone?” Sanj asked her after a moment.
She nodded. “Yes. And he’s dangerous.” Her voice cracked. Jesus, what was wrong with her? Why was she blurting stuff out to this guy? “That’s why I need to find my friend. She needs to know . . . I’m still alive and . . . Please. I’m sure she will take care of this when I find her. I just need to get off these streets one night. I beg you!”
Tears ran down her face. How embarrassing. How desperate had she become?
“God, I just want a bath, a bed, and, and—”
“Okay, okay,” Sanj said, putting his arms on her shoulder. “You can come back to my room with me. There’s an empty bed. It’s yours.”
Sasha gathered herself and took a deep breath.
“Thank you,” she said and fell into his arms. Safety. Warmth. Heat.
“Not that I would not want to share a bed with you,” he breathed, pulling away from her, soaking her in with his eyes. “I’m exhausted and need to get some rest. Jet lag, I’m sure. Just my luck. A hot woman shows up wanting to stay with me and I feel like shit.”
She smiled and slipped her arm through his as they walked toward his hotel. Did he just call her hot?
“There’s always tomorrow,” she said, looking off into the distance. The slowly creeping sunset—crimson, purple, fire-orange—played out over the river.

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