Saffron Nights (23 page)

“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.

“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.

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

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An eKensington e-book original on sale November 2013!