Page 18 of Scripted for Love and Poison (Sol and Luke Mystery #2)

S ol had plenty of reasons to be anxious and irritated.

Yet she found herself calm and almost cheerful.

She allowed herself to go over everything that had taken place in the last hour one more time as her Uber made its slow approach to her destination that morning.

She had more than a hunch that her present satisfaction had a lot to do with what had just happened.

He’d taken his index finger to his voluptuous lips, as if asking her to remain silent.

“Everyone just left,” he’d told her in an almost whisper. “But let’s keep it quiet. I don’t want more neighbors complaining. ”

“And why exactly should the neighbors complain?” she’d asked him insolently, a smile tugging at her lips.

“I thought you could do with a bit of relaxation.” He helped her rinse the shampoo from her hair in what had to be the sexiest gesture she’d ever seen. And she’d watched Robert Redford taking care of Meryl Streep’s hair in Out of Africa .

Of course, in that movie there had been no steamy shower scene, which was exactly what Sol had anticipated would happen next. And, for the first time in days, she hadn’t been disappointed. Not completely, at least.

“When I thought about this little escapade, I massively overestimated the size of this space,” Luke told her in a growly tone while he kissed her neck. He made a slow descent along her collarbone, finding one of her breasts and biting mercilessly at her nipple. “I’m going to have to improvise.”

He used his lips on her mouth, her earlobe, her nape.

But it was his teeth on her nipples. Had there been any room for it, she knew he’d have knelt between her legs and used his tongue.

But he had to do with his fingers at her clit.

He proved just as competent, relentlessly tugging, throbbing, stroking her core, sliding first one, then two fingers inside her.

“Love your improvisation skills,” she told him in a breathy moan.

“You sure?” His voice was pure insinuation. Rough and sexy in a way he sounded only when they were together and alone.

He had somehow gotten even closer to her, pressing her against the wall, his body against hers, his lips on hers, his fingers inside her. The warm water streamed over their skin, making everything feel hotter .

What was it about shower sex that turned on something in her body, blocking all her insecurities and just making her want to feel . She arched her back against the tiled shower wall and moaned—audibly.

It was his satisfied snicker against her breast, his mouth still there, his hand at her center, that pushed her to the edge. She panted with pleasure as the release shook her whole body. He silenced her repeated moans with his lips, kissing her as the two of them shared in the fleeting moment.

“My turn to play,” she’d told him, still breathless, when she came out of the dizzying orgasm.

A sly smile curled at his lips. “Would love to let you play ,” he drawled, his tone thick with implication. “But you’re going to be very late for Julie’s thing.”

“Fuck!” she’d groaned in frustration, getting a towel and leaving the shower and Luke’s body. She hadn’t even allowed herself a last look in his direction. She knew she’d probably decided to stay with him and, indeed, play. And was she regretting not having done it now?

That image of Luke’s naked loneliness inside a green-tiled shower was the reason Sol felt only halfway satisfied as her car dropped her off at the Hancock Park address. Not only had she left her partner naked and dissatisfied inside the shower, she’d lied about the nature of her appointment.

···

Twenty minutes later, Sol was comfortably seated on the ginormous modular sofa she could have sworn she recognized from a Roche Bobois catalog, where it retailed for more than twenty thousand dollars.

She was also brightly aware the living room where the not-cheap-sofa resided pertained to a six-bedroom, six-bathroom Colonial Revival mansion-like home that Redfin had told her was estimated to cost only shy of seven million dollars.

Did editors really make that much more money than writers?

Because, if so, Sol had clearly opted for the wrong profession.

Unless, of course, the house hadn’t been procured with Jason Zit’s money but his wife’s, Emily’s.

What was it again that she did for a living?

Something incredibly lucrative that still permitted her to be home on a Wednesday at 10:30 a.m., offering perfectly brewed tea and pastries to Sol.

Then again, Jason was also there. He’d grumbled about his working-from-home status and having to leave a meeting early even if Sol had been exactly on time, thanks to Luke’s foresight—and his resignation.

“I love your home,” Sol told Emily and Jason in what was probably the most genuine exchange she’d had with them. “It’s so tastefully decorated.”

“Oh, thank you. Nobody ever seems to notice,” quipped Emily, visibly pleased by Sol’s compliment.

“Really?” Sol said incredulously. She allowed her gaze to wander over the perfectly fluffed pillows, artfully designed bouquets of fresh flowers displayed in elegant vases, and the discerningly curated art hanging from the walls.

“Is that an actual Banksy?” Sol couldn’t help asking about a print depicting model Kate Moss, imitating the style and colors of Andy Warhol’s infamous Marilyn Monroe portraits.

“It probably is. Emily likes expensive stuff,” Jason Zit said exasperatedly. “So, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit? I was a bit surprised when you contacted me yesterday.”

“Julie asked me to talk to you,” Sol explained.

“Julie?” Jason asked .

“Julie McQueen, she’s an executive editor at Red Carpet and one of Simon Smith’s longtime friends,” Sol said.

“Ah, the obnoxious Brit who won’t leave me alone because she thinks I have something to do with Simon ducking out,” Jason seemed to recall.

“She’s very worried about Simon.”

“Is he still ghosting her?” Jason said, and Sol thought he sounded unnecessarily cruel.

“ Honey , please. The man has gone missing.” Emily seemed to echo Sol’s thoughts.

“Has he really?” Jason sounded genuinely surprised.

“The police can’t seem to locate him,” Sol offered.

“Have they checked the bars?” Jason continued, chuckling at his own attempt at humor and apparently finding himself hilarious. “I’m sure he’s just drinking his sorrows away with cheap chardonnay somewhere between the office and his home.”

“Was that something that he did often?” Sol asked, resisting the urge to get her notebook and take notes. She needed this to look like a friendly chat, not an interrogation.

“Let’s just say that he liked to drink,” Jason said.

“Oh please!” Emily protested. “Many journalists like to drink. He was hardly an exception, honey. ”

“So you also knew him?” Sol asked Emily.

“I know all of Jason’s colleagues. That’s how I met you as well, remember?”

Sol smiled demurely, because she still couldn’t remember Emily. And she felt a bit bad about it. Emily was a very nice woman, and Sol was well aware that she herself could hardly be described as such.

“And did he look distraught, more reserved, different these past few weeks?” Sol continued .

Jason leaned back on the sofa, pausing for effect. “He looked his usual curmudgeonly self.”

“Not really. Don’t you remember?” Emily intervened again, and Sol was starting to feel both aggravated by her but happy that she was there to jog Jason’s obtuse memory and keep him on a short leash.

“He was even more grouchy than usual. I think it’s because he was having a hard time finding a publisher for his book.

” She said those last words in a lower, compassionate tone.

“Could that be reason enough for him to do something silly?” said Sol hesitantly. She wasn’t equipped to deal with that kind of questioning. She should have told Luke what Julie had asked her to do, but he’d been so adamant about her not getting involved in the case ...

“Something silly? Do you even hear how you sound?” Jason barked. “It’s as if you were playing detective! No, he wasn’t so distressed that he couldn’t sell his book that he would have killed himself. If that’s what you were insinuating!”

“He’d poured body and soul into that book,” Emily said.

“To the detriment of his journalist work!” Jason threw up his hands, scowling.

“Do you mean that his reviews were getting worse?” Sol said.

“His reviews had always been bad!” Jason’s voice was rising. “But they were simply atrocious lately. Look at what he did with Haughty Horizons , which is a perfectly masterful film by a visionary auteur . He eviscerated it!”

Sol tried maintaining a calm tone, even if she realized Jason was getting agitated. “So you didn’t share his views on the movie?”

“Of course I didn’t! I’ve been complaining to our editor in chief for years about Simon. But does anybody listen to me?”

Did Emily roll her eyes at her husband’s last remark?

“The awards ceremony the other night was absolute agony,” Jason whined, no longer shouting.

“To be seated at the same table with Victor Lago. I wanted to tell him I didn’t share Simon’s views on his masterpiece of a film.

He pretended he didn’t care, but he was flabbergasted.

But then that unfortunate incident with Travis happened, and I could never explain myself to Victor. ”

Sol would have sworn that Jason was annoyed at Travis for getting himself poisoned and thus robbing Jason of his chance of fanboying with the filmmaker.

“That must have been hard, editing someone whose views in movies were so different from yours, I mean,” Sol said tentatively. She kept a close eye on both spouses. “And then having to interact in real life with the people who made those movies.”

“That’s literally my job as an editor.”

“So you didn’t resent Simon?” Sol prodded.

“What are you trying to say? Do you think I had anything to do with Simon’s disappearing act because I don’t like how he writes? Are you demented?” The editor was shouting again.

“There’s no need of calling Sol names, honey, ” Emily said, and once again Sol noticed the woman was using the term of endearment when she was clearly exasperated with her husband.

She did seem to be able to calm him, though.

“Julie asked her to come talk to you because she’s worried about Simon, and Sol did just that,” Emily continued in the type of high-pitched and exaggerated tone one would use with a bratty child.

“I’m sorry we weren’t able to be of more help,” she told Sol with her grown-up voice, cutting the conversation short.

“No problem,” Sol said. “And thanks so much for the tea.”

“Oh, I love having guests,” Emily said. “Let me see you to the door.”

The two women left Jason brooding at the couch and walked toward the house’s grand entrance.

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of Jason,” Emily told Sol in a whisper by the front door of her home. “But Simon sent me his manuscript.”

“He did?” Sol said, not sure what Emily was implying.

“I never told Jason, because I don’t think Simon shared it with him as well. They were never very friendly ,” Emily continued. “But I suppose I could share the book with you, see if there’s something there that could help you find him.”

“Would you? That would be great!”

“Sure, it’s in my office somewhere. Hold on a second,” Emily said.

The woman disappeared behind a door, and Sol waited patiently at the entryway, hoping Jason wouldn’t make his way there. The last thing she wanted was to see the rude editor again.

While she was waiting, Sol saw a recently delivered box from Cacao Vieille with the name Jason Zit as the recipient. She just hoped the gourmet chocolates would make the sour editor a bit less grouchy. Emily came back a mere two minutes later, holding a thick stack of copy paper in one hand.

“That must be at least five hundred pages long!” Sol’s eyes widened.

“Six hundred and eighty-seven, to be more precise.”

“Have you, by any chance, read it?” Sol asked .

“I did start but never found the time to finish it. I told Simon I was looking forward to the Meshflixx miniseries adaptation of it,” Emily said cheerfully.

“But it’s not fiction, right? I heard he wrote a first-person account of his experience in Hollywood.”

“I only read a few pages, but I think you’ll recognize a few people in it,” Emily told her, a note of insinuation in her tone.

Sol thanked Emily one last time and exited the Hancock Park home, ready to roam the neighborhood.

If she didn’t recall it incorrectly, there was a perfectly charming Café Gratitude on Larchmont Boulevard, where she could start doing some reading while sipping on some goddess green tea and nibbling on some vegan superfood or other.

She also needed to think about what exactly she was going to tell Luke.

She’d realized she’d lied to him so blatantly because she didn’t appreciate being told what to do—or not to do.

But she didn’t like lying to him. And there was no way she could hide that mammoth of a book from him for long. He was not going to be happy.