Saffron Nights (4 page)

“J
esus, Maeve!” Alice said, pulling her across the aisle into her seat as a shuffle of activity began surrounding Jackson. “What are you doing?”

“The bastard had it coming Alice,” she said, as the flight attendants brought ice packs and leaned over her partner, who was beginning to stir.

“What do you mean?” she said, eyes lit, face bright red.

“Look,” Alice said, holding up her laptop. There was Jackson’s latest tweet. “Had a grooV time w/ sexy partner last night. Lovely feet. Even better tongue.”

Alice’s mouth dropped, then formed a thin line.

The flight attendant pulled her back so as to get a better view of Jackson. “What happened here?”

Alice, thinking quickly, shrugged. “He hit his head.”

A loud moan came out of him.

She turned back around to Maeve. “What exactly happened between you two? Honestly, I thought you were more professional than that.”

Maeve’s heart sank and her stomach clenched. “Well, I—”

Alice held her hand up. “We’ll talk about it later. Right now, our star photographer has had a bit of an accident.” She looked at Maeve with raised eyebrows.

“Okay,” Maeve said. “I won’t say any more.”

But she was shaking. How dare he go online and write about what happened between them? Just imagine if she had actually slept with the man. She was not a woman who believed that sex between consenting adults was a sin or immoral. But she certainly didn’t want her private business all over the Internet. What was wrong with him?

What was wrong with her, punching him like that? She’d totally lost it. She hadn’t hit anybody in years and forgot how hard it was on the knuckles. Stinging, slightly bloody. She covered her right hand with her left and placed them in her lap, breathing deeply so that her shaking would stop. But Alice saw her hands, the shaking. Good thing she couldn’t hear her shrink’s voice in her head:
Ms. Flannery, you failed to manage your anger—once again.

“Have some water?” Alice handed her a bottle of ice-cold water. “Calm yourself down.”

Maeve watched as the flight attendants walked away. Now she could see him, with an ice bag behind his head and one over his face. He turned to look at her.

“What the fuck?” he said. “Did you do this to me?”

She glared back at him.
Hold your tongue
said the good doctor.

“It was an accident,” Alice said, loudly.

He knitted his brows, glaring back at Maeve.

Now that she was a bit more calmed down, he almost looked pitiful. His eyes were a bit cloudy, face swollen, a void, vulnerable look. He leaned back into his seat, turned away from them and looked out the window.

Alice took Maeve’s computer and moved over to sit next to Jackson. She placed her hand on his, a comforting gesture, then showed him the tweet.

He shook his head. “I didn’t write that. I don’t manage my own social media. You know that.”

“Who does?” Alice asked.

“That’s not the point,” Maeve whispered across the aisle. “Whomever is doing it knows my personal business and I don’t like it.”

Jackson looked at Alice sheepishly. “I’m sorry. Things got out of control with the saffron last night. But I swear I told nobody, Maeve. Who do you think I am?”

Maeve and Alice both gave him the same look, as if to say, “We KNOW who you are.”

He cracked a smile. “Okay. I deserve that.”

“Look,” Alice said. “I don’t care who is sleeping with whom. But you two? That’s a problem. You have work to do. Sensitive work. If you don’t think you can handle testing this stuff and being together alone without . . . you know, I think you better tell me now and I’ll stop working on the deal. I do have other clients.”

Maeve and Jackson looked at each other, then looked away, embarrassed.

“I wouldn’t sleep with him if my life depended on it,” Maeve said, folding her arms. “It would be plastered all over the news the next day.”

“No need to worry about it. The feeling is mutual,” Jackson said with a biting tone.

“Good,” Alice said. “Now, let’s find out where your Tweeter—or whatever you call it—gets his information, shall we?”

 

By the time the plane landed, Jackson had fired his social media manager because he wouldn’t tell him who his source was. The only person Maeve had told was Jennifer, who was a bit of a gossip, but given the circumstances, she couldn’t see Jennifer telling some social media guy. But she would place a call to her when they were settled, which was several hours away from happening. They were taking a small plane to Puerto Vallarta, then a boat to this island. Jeez. Chef’s wife was expecting a lot out of people to travel all the way to this remote area.

But maybe that was the point. Maybe she didn’t want a lot of people around. That made sense. They were an extremely private couple. All of the years Maeve had been working with him, and she’d never met his wife, although he talked about her and the kids sometimes.

Who would want to kill him? Such a nice family guy. Could he have skeletons in his closet? She couldn’t imagine. But there was something about Alice’s reaction to his death that gave Maeve pause.

J
ackson scanned the room of the chapel like he always did—watching the light, colors, and shadows play, with faces of beautiful women in between. And this service had more than its fair share of well-preserved, well-dressed older women, dripping in pearls, gold, and diamonds. It was clear Chef had some wealthy friends.

Of course, Chef had done pretty well for himself. He was a good twenty years older than Jackson and had been an established celebrity chef way before he partnered with him and Maeve. Paul never hung out with them and rarely even worked with them. He had worked the kitchen with Maeve, but he rarely had anything to say about Jackson’s photos or even Maeve’s writing. He was all about the kitchen. Which is one reason the crowd here floored Jackson. And there was more of a crowd lingering on the outside of the gates. This service was by invitation only. Family, close friends, and a few colleagues.

The redhead with the steely blue eyes glanced at him, then at Maeve, who was sitting next to him, and smiled slightly. He nodded. He noticed a blonde with beautiful voluptuous lips sitting on the other side of her, nervously looking around. Her nose was a bit too perfect looking, slightly turned up. He wondered if it was a nose job. Her twitching manner was a giveaway for Jackson. He knew she was looking for her next fix. Sure enough, within the next few moments, she left the room—probably to do a line in the bathroom. Damn. He was good at spotting cokeheads.

Jackson heard the voice of the preacher, but didn’t pay attention at all. He was busy looking at the black lace on one woman’s shawl, thinking about its texture, pattern, movement, and wondering what it would feel like between them in bed.

After the memorial service, Paul’s widow, Yvette, approached them with a book in her hand. Jackson had met her briefly at the International Culinary Association Awards, where Paul was honored last year.

“I want to get this taken care of before the book is misplaced in all the activity. God knows things are crazy. I’ve had to hire security guards around the clock. The media is driving me nuts. My poor kids,” she told Alice, Maeve, and Jackson. “Come with me,” she said and led them to a tiny office vestibule, which was off to the side of the church where the service was held.

The blonde, now back from the restroom, stood near the doorway and watched Yvette, before nodding at her. Yvette smiled politely and kept walking.

“Please shut the door,” she said to Jackson, who was the last in line to enter the room. As Jackson shut it, the blonde glared at him. He shrugged.
Cokehead.

A man sat there behind a desk. “Yvette,” he said.

“George, this is Alice, Maeve, and Jackson, Paul’s agent and partners,” she said. “George is our family attorney.”

“I know this must seem odd to you,” she said to them. “But this was very important to Paul, and so I arranged to take care of this now.” She took a deep breath.

By this point, Jackson’s head was aching. He needed something more than the aspirin he was popping. Damn. Maeve had a mean right punch. Where did she learn to hit like that? He was struggling to pay attention.

“I know this proposed project of yours is new to both of you, but, as Alice knows, this has been a pet project of Paul’s for many years. He was a skeptic, but intrigued. So, aphrodisiacs became his hobby and his passion. We planned our vacations around his research.”

“When he was dying, he told me to give this book to you, Maeve. It’s his research, recipes, experiences.”

“Me?” Maeve exclaimed.

“Yes. He thought highly of you, my dear, thought of you as a student and good friend,” she said handing Maeve the book. “I needed witnesses here to show that I indeed handed the book to you.”

“Oh,” Maeve said.

“Before you delve into it, I think there’s something you should know about Paul,” she said and glanced at Alice. She took a seat next to Maeve.

“He was a very sexual man,” she said without a trace of embarrassment.

If Jackson had been a dog, his ears would have perked up then and there. Paul? Hmmm. The mention of the word
sex
made Maeve’s kiss pop into his mind. He deliberately looked in the opposite direction. God, he couldn’t afford to get a hard-on then and there. And why would he even still be attracted to her—after she had punched him? Talk about a blow to the ego.

“We had an open relationship and belonged to many clubs around the world. His research into all this”—she gestured with her slender fingers at the book—“was fueled by his love of sex and food.”

Maeve squirmed in her seat. Jackson had to keep from laughing. His “modern” woman of a partner was blushing and looking quite uncomfortable, now, with the book in her hand. For all her brazen sexuality, and her kinky British boyfriend, she was certainly uncomfortable with the topic at hand.

“He was going to share this with you, both, at some point during the project, especially you, Maeve. He was not a show-off about any of this,” she didn’t look at Jackson, but they all knew her point. Who was the big playboy in the crowd? “But he thought that you had similar leanings and would have an open mind.”

“I don’t believe we’d ever even discussed sex,” Maeve said after a few moments.

“You really didn’t have to—he was a very perceptive and intuitive man,” Yvette said, with tears forming. “He will be missed.”

Now, Jackson thought back to the fact that the service was filled with mostly well-tended, beautiful, older women. He’d never seen so many older beautiful women in one room. Oh yeah, there were some younger ones, like Mulani. And he was grateful for that. He was already planning to meet her at the beach later that night. But some of the older women were delicious.

He smiled thinking of Mulani, now Jack Wilson’s personal assistant. When he first met her at a gathering of cookbook publishers and authors, she was a paid escort.

“You’ve come a long way,” he’d said to her earlier in the hallway outside the restrooms.

“So have you, ” she said. “You wouldn’t have to pay for it this time, you know.”

He grinned. “I never have to. I’ll see you later.”

His thoughts wandered between Mulani and Maeve as he looked over the intimate gathering. Maeve was clutching that book as if she were afraid someone would take it from her.

As they left the vestibule, Alice hugged Yvette, and Maeve pulled the book to her chest. She walked to their car, through the hordes of photographers and press, as if in a slight state of shock. Some of them were already asking questions about the book she was holding.

All Jackson could think about was getting away from Maeve and Alice and all this depressing funeral business. He was thinking of his date with Mulani on the beach.

 

Hours later, she stood in front of him, with her black hair loose and falling around her shoulders. She grabbed his hand and led him to a cove. He was not surprised by it—he knew it would be like this with her, as it was with all of them.

Jackson stood in front of the most beautiful sunset he had ever seen. The red sky melted into the golden sun with a velvet strip of gray blue reflecting in the water. The waves were like pure crystal blue washing over his bare feet, warming his toes.

Mulani slid closer to him, touching him, licking his nipples, licking his stomach, biting him gently. She slipped out of her sundress. She was brown, thin, and curvy with sparkly black eyes. He couldn’t have asked for someone less like Maeve. Yes, this would do. No complications here. Just sex.

“I’ve been with all the major photographers in the world, Jackson, now I am going to do you,” she whispered, reaching between his legs. He thought he might explode right into his bathing suit. Whoa.

Um, yeah. Okay. Did it matter why she wanted him? Swept away by the rush of the heat of moment, he lay down with her on the sand.

God, she was beautiful, with her long black hair, and that gorgeous pinkness surrounded by smooth brown skin between her legs, and those small breasts with big nipples. He pinched them, twisted them, and she squirmed.

“Jackson, please . . .” she pleaded with him as he slid himself between her hips, bucking intensely, her thighs quivering.

He turned her over, spread her, probed his fingers into her and spread her juices around and on himself. She writhed under him, wanting relief, wanting him inside. He slipped into her, and she groaned into an orgasm. One stroke. Two. He exploded into Mulani, but thinking of Maeve.

He stood, pulled up his shorts, took one long look at her splayed on the sand, and walked away.

The photographer thing again?

Okay, a few years ago that had been a real turn-on, but he had sex with so many women in every imaginable way. He now wanted the sex to be because it was him, not because he was famous. He surprised himself with this revelation as a pang of fear shot through him.

Nothing would do now, until he had Maeve.

And that was not going to happen.