[Invitation to Eden 22.0] Delicious and Deadly

by CC MacKenzie

  He’d been born one of the privileged few.

  In his choice of careers, both of them, he’d been surrounded by people who wanted to be the best. In Eden, he’d had a blast developing an exciting new menu and teaching new skills to a first-class team.

  Eden had also given him plenty of down-time to edit his cookbook. But more importantly, to think.

  Usually when Oscar had down-time he preferred to enjoy solitary pursuits; listening to music, reading, things that permitted his creativity to relax.

  He was anything but relaxed now.

  No one knew where she was, who she was.

  Emma Ludlow was not, apparently, a guest of Eden.

  The Master was off island and no one knew when he was due to return.

  Now Oscar strolled along the sand and wondered if he’d dreamed the whole fucking thing. Maybe the events of this morning had just been a figment of his overwrought imagination? His fingers fiddled with the hair tie on his wrist. The hair tie he’d found in his bed. She’d been no dream. She’d been real alright. He hadn’t dreamed the way she laughed, that mysteriously smoky sound that had flowed like molten honey over his heated skin. He hadn’t dreamed that he’d been burying his face in the glistening dark copper of her hair either, or the way it glowed in the sunlight that flooded his bed.

  God, she’d been so soft, so giving, as she’d whispered desperate promises in his ear as he’d filled her over and over. Promises that even now had tiny aches rushing over his flesh. He needed her to whisper those words, look at him, touch him, like that again and again.

  So where the hell had she gone?

  And how had she left the island since, according to Connie, no flights or boats had arrived or departed for two days.

  So like the good soldier he was, Oscar considered the facts.

  She was divorced.

  He found the reality of that fact hard to grasp.

  In his mind he’d imagined the beautiful Emma swanning around Washington, D.C. Hosting high-powered cocktail parties, intimate dinners, for her Senator husband. Pressing the flesh, working all the angles.

  Living the fucking dream... just as her mother had planned.

  If he lived to be a hundred, Oscar would never forget the way Catherine Ludlow had told him her daughter had married and was on her honeymoon. He'd never forget the triumphant malice in her polite voice, the sneer on her thin mouth, or how her grey eyes filled to the brim with a loathing she reserved purely for him.

  Bottom line - in spite of his background - he wasn't good enough for Emma.

  And all because his maternal grandmother had been African.

  Bigots.

  Oscar knew the world was full of them. But Emma's mother was in a league all of her own. A woman who faithfully attended church every Sunday, who quoted carefully selected passages from the Good Book, who talked about tolerance, diversity and inclusion. But at the rotten heart of her was a racist determined to do everything in her power to ensure no man of colour would marry her daughter.

  Oscar didn't like the darkness in his heart, in his soul. He wasn't a man who lived in the past, or a man who let it affect him in the present. He'd moved on and made something of his life, of himself.

  Heart pumping now with more than adrenaline, he shoved Catherine Ludlow from his mind and turned to stare out over the empty vastness of the ocean. He let the lace of the foam cool his feet and soothe the hurt in his heart. He'd loved Emma Ludlow. Totally. And because he'd done the right thing, fulfilled an obligation, a duty, he'd lost her.

  Now he frowned as another thought slid into his brain.

  Why hadn’t Nico, or more importantly Alexander, told him Emma’s marriage was in trouble?

  Then he winced, remembering how he’d refused to discuss Emma when the subject had been brought up by his friends, how he’d refused to even hear her name, refused to deal with his feelings.

  Oscar thrust frustrated hands through his hair, used her hair tie to hold his hair back.

  How could he have been so bloody stupid?

  Fuck it.

  Deal with it, he ordered himself.

  He spun around to jog over the sugar white sand to his cottage.

  He hit the power shower, set it on cold, then forced himself to concentrate on his plans for what was left of the day.

  For the next two evenings he was on duty in the kitchens, working with an excellent staff. And preparing whatever Eden's pampered guests desired.

  He couldn't wait to begin.

  She tried to sleep.

  Even closed the blinds, placed a Do Not Disturb sign on the door.

  After all, she’d just had six hours of hot monkey sex, orgasmed four... or was it five times. She should have been exhausted. But her whole body burned... all of it... inside and out.

  Abruptly Emma sat up, switched on the light, took a sip of water.

  The bitter sweet memories of how she and Oscar had come together, how he'd kissed her, touched her, the need in his deep voice and how he'd made her feel, weakened her now. And she fought like a tiger to beat those feelings back, to recover that sense of serenity she’d found on Eden.

  She moved to sit on the edge of the bed, wrapping her arms around her waist as she rocked back and forth desperately trying to keep gnawing desire at bay. But those feelings just would not be contained.

  A whimper escaped from her throat.

  How could she forget how good he felt under her hands, as he slid inside her, filling her in a way that had hurt so good. He’d tasted, all of him, so good. And she admitted she wanted more, much more. God, the way she’d rubbed her slick body against his, without restraint, made her whimper again.

  Stop it! Her mind shouted loud and clear as the fire deep in her belly flared to life.

  Stop it!

  She simply would not, could not, let this happen to her again. For three years she’d outsmarted, ruthlessly ignored, any desire, any need, for a man.

  Not now... now that need was set ablaze inside her too quickly, wrenching, writhing, in such a way that she couldn’t get a grip on her emotions, her feelings.

  She couldn’t get it to stop.

  With a despairing moan, Emma rolled to lay under the comforter, curled into the foetal position and desperately tried to lose herself in sleep, to calm her frantic thoughts.

  After all she'd been through, she’d only just found herself again.

  The problem was that she didn’t trust her heart.

  And she certainly didn’t trust Oscar.

  He’d walked away from her once.

  And his leaving had been the catalyst for the disaster that followed.

  Why had she let herself have sex with him... again?

  Had she learned nothing?

  Memories, unrelenting memories, spun into her mind with a speed that had her squeeze her eyes tightly shut. The moment she'd discovered she was pregnant with Oscar's baby. The intense mix of fear and a wild happiness. Her mother's utter dismay. And then the pain of loss weeks later, as she'd miscarried. Along with her mother's obvious relief.

  Emma knew there was no point in re-living the bad times.

  Oscar had moved on, forgotten her.

  Then they'd met this morning.

  And she'd lost her mind.

  Desire and a chemistry that could not be denied had overthrown common sense. But there was no doubt he'd been as affected as her, maybe even more so if that was possible. He couldn't seem to help himself.

  They'd made wild and passionate love.

  It meant nothing more than that.

  So she shouldn't read anything more into it.

  What was to stop him repeating the past, drawing her in and then walking away?

  She shook her head.

  Why hadn’t she asked him what he was doing here?

  What had happened to change him, the tattoo, the hair, like that?

  Too many questions and no answers now crowded into her busy brain.

  Emma didn’t know where to turn, what to do w
ith herself.

  Then a little voice whispered softly in her mind, told her to use these feelings, to write them down, to get them on paper and out of her head.

  She leaped out of bed, raced to her laptop and began typing.

  All her thoughts, all her fears, poured from her fingers.

  Hadn’t she learned the hard way that having sex, even hot sex, with a man meant nothing? Certainly not love, commitment or marriage. Three years ago Oscar, she reminded herself, hadn’t wanted a wife, or even a partner, he’d only wanted a booty call to scratch an itch. Emma had to hand it to him, he’d been clever. Three years ago she’d have done anything he’d asked. Anything. Even been an acceptable society wife, a woman who could juggle all the balls in the air expected of women today; wife, sex siren in the bedroom, earth mother, homemaker, career woman.

  It had taken her years... including marriage to a monster... to finally accept that taking every promise or compliment from a man literally had been more than stupid.

  Both Oscar and Richard had given her a clear-cut view of today's man. They could not be trusted. Once a woman handed them her heart, handed them the power to hurt, that woman was completely lost.

  Emma finished typing, her fingers stiff, her head pounding as she closed her eyes with fatigue.

  Oscar Zamani wasn’t looking for anything more than good sex.

  What had happened between them this morning had been utter foolishness on her part and an error of judgement on his that wouldn’t happen again. And even if Oscar was looking for a lover, she wasn’t.

  Emma Ludlow answered to no one, certainly no man. She answered only to herself and that was the way she wanted it. With a renewed sense of purpose, she clicked on her story file and got back to work.

  When she was deep in a story, it was easy for Emma to let worries and cares slip away, even thoughts of Oscar and hot sex.

  And when it came to plotting crime, Emma covered all the angles. With the psychopath in this story, she wanted something the killer could use that would be speedy, something that would be hard, if not impossible, to trace. Poison. A nice quick-acting poison.

  Hmm.

  Today she was introducing the killer to Cole, heaven help him. Georgia Bailey was a jaw-droppingly beautiful, sophisticated, sensuous, sexy bitch. A bitch who would tie her detective hero in knots. A bitch who, ultimately, needed to go out with a bang, rather than a whimper.

  But before all that, today's challenge for Emma was to find just the right poison.

  Something exotic.

  Something rare.

  Maybe something plant based.

  Emma was mulling over a couple of ideas when, without warning, her focus slipped.

  Her mind spun her on a sly little side-trip right back to her disastrous marriage. She hadn’t been in love with Richard. Maybe fiercely attracted, but attraction was not enough, so she'd had no business marrying him in the first place. It was all very well blaming her mother for steamrolling her into what had turned into an unmitigated disaster. But Emma had been a grown woman, for God's sake. A woman who should have done a basic background check on a man she'd known nothing about.

  How the hell could she have been so stupid?

  Emma thrust the heavy weight of her hair back from her face, and wondered where the hell she’d put her favourite hair tie.

  She'd paid for her mistake.

  In spades.

  And it was time to move forward, and put the past where it belonged.

  In the past.

  Now Emma used her own life experiences as she threw herself into how her hero meets the woman who would change his life, and destroy his trust in all women, forever.

  Night slid seamlessly into her room.

  Emma didn't notice it.

  She didn't notice the grey light of dawn hovering on the horizon.

  Nor did she notice that her shoulders screamed or her fingertips were numb.

  By the time she collapsed face down on her bed, eighteen hours had passed. But Emma couldn't give a hot damn. She'd burst right through the plot, given it a couple of surprise turns readers wouldn't see coming. Hell, she hadn't seen them coming herself. So it was a happy but utterly burned out author who sank like a stone into sleep. Blissfully unaware that by writing through the night and most of the morning, she'd set in motion a chain of events that would change her life.

  Forever.

  Chapter Eight

  The head chef stood in the castle of Eden’s state-of-the-art kitchen, long legs apart, muscled arms folded, a stony stare pinning Mika to the spot.

  It was eight-thirty in the evening and the young waiter felt as if he was about to pass out.

  A trickle of cold sweat slid down Mika’s back.

  His heartbeat hammered too fast against his ribs.

  On the whole, being part of the service crew and working for Oscar Zamani was a pretty good gig. Chef might be one big scary bastard with hands the size of a dinner plate, but he was a cool guy, usually. Chef was also passionate about food reaching dining tables and rooms piping hot. Customer satisfaction was key. So how the hell was Mika going to explain the return of not just one, but two trays, untouched, from a suite in the tower?

  "Just to be clear, Mika. You are telling me that the trays were simply left in the hallway?" Oscar wanted to know, his deep voice no more than a growl. His inflection was pregnant with disbelief, as if Mika had left a newborn unattended among a pride of lions. The tone had Mika's knees knocking.

  "Chef, the... the note on the door said, 'Please knock. Leave the tray in the hall.' So I did. Twice."

  "Note?" Mika jumped as Oscar barked the word, held out his hand.

  Thanking sweet baby Jesus that he'd had the bright idea to bring the note with him as proof, Mika dug his hand into his vest pocket. Placed the folded piece of paper onto Oscar's huge palm.

  Eyes never leaving Mika's, Oscar opened the paper, flicked his eyes down to read.

  Silence.

  With great care he folded the note and tucked it nice and safe in the top pocket of his crisp white chef jacket.

  Dark eyes rose and pinned Mika to the spot.

  "Name?" Oscar asked in a soft voice.

  Because his black bow tie felt too tight, Mika cleared his throat.

  "E.J. Byron."

  Oscar frowned.

  The name rang a very distant bell.

  "Man, woman?"

  "No idea, sir. Never seen him."

  Oscar turned to survey the staff manning a kitchen gone too quiet, all that could be heard was the steady drip, drip, drip of a tap.

  He raised his brows in silent query.

  Everyone shook their head.

  Oscar moved over to a tray, lifted a heavy lid of solid silver. He's never... never had an untouched plate returned to his kitchen. With a righteous fury burning his gut, he surveyed the congealed mess on a delicate plate of white china. His teeth ran over his top lip at the thought of how much planning and effort had gone into making sure the rack of melt-in-the-mouth lamb had been seared to a light pink... perfection. How the broccoli spears had been steamed to al dente... perfection. How the delicate reduction, using the finest claret from Eden's vast cellars and black currants flown in at great expense from the mainland, had excited the palate... perfection. The bowl of now limp green salad seriously annoyed him, too. But it was the mini baked Alaska, meringue made with handmade marshmallow scented with distilled rose water, that lay in a gooey mess of melted double cream ice-cream, which pressed his hot button.

  Under the wide-eyes of a staff holding their collective breath, Oscar untied his pristine white apron, folded it carefully, and placed it on an immaculate stainless steel worktop.

  He removed his chef's hat.

  Placed it on top of the apron.

  Turning on his heel, Oscar marched out.

  "Omigod," Mika whispered.

  The sous chef crossed himself.

  ***

  A distant drumbeat boomed out, like thunder, and then echoed from
far, far away.

  What the...?

  The struggle to open heavy lids made her groan out loud as Emma tried to kick-start her foggy brain. It sounded as if the heavy door to her suite was vibrating in its frame.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Emma stood, swaying on her bare feet.

  Stumbling just a little, she shoved her hair from her face.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  A mix of irritation and worry began to simmer in her stomach.

  She tripped over a pair of abandoned flip flops and nearly fell flat on her face.

  Sheer temper had her kick one out the way as she stalked through the disaster zone that was the sitting room.

  She yanked opened the door.

  "What the hell?" she yelled.

  The clenched fist in her face had her body react, arms lifting in defence, before her brain could compute. The trembling started in her feet, by the time it reached her knees, her legs couldn't hold her weight. The only warning she got was the roaring in her ears before Oscar was moving into her.

  The world went black.

  Thank God for quick reflexes.

  Not only had he nearly punched Emma in the face, but he'd caught her just before her head hit the floor. A mix of alarm that he’d all but hit her, combining with an elation that he’d finally found her, had Oscar's heart pounding in his chest. He carried Emma in his strong arms. His Emma. She smelled the same, of flowers, and a very warm and very sleepy woman. A woman who right now was passed out cold. After he'd tossed reams of paper to the floor, he laid her on a couch.

  Knelt at her side and just stared at her.

  What on earth was Emma doing here under an assumed name?

  It didn't make sense, unless... she was hiding from someone?

  She wore a short sleeved T-shirt the colour of sand, matching yoga pants slung low on her hips, showcasing a flat belly. Her hair was long, right down to her ass. The day before he hadn’t taken a lot of time to just look at her. Now he had plenty of time to soak her in. Oscar studied her carefully. Her wonderful face was just the same. His brow creased. Nope. Thinner and maybe a little bit sad. And was that a worry line between her brows?