Saffron Nights (21 page)

M
aeve reviewed her notes and grew more and more frustrated. It was clear she and Jackson were just skimming the surface. She had never gotten to go into the woods to try the wild saffron, nor did she get to try the ginseng in India, or the truffles in France, or the garlic in Italy. While she was in Morocco, she learned of an aphrodisia deep in the African continent—yohimbe—but there wasn’t time to explore. She would not have known about any of it while living in her apartment in New York City. She felt like she could do only half a job on this stuff. Maybe it needed another book.

She read over Martin’s last e-mail and marveled. There was so much more to explore.

But she was too weary to think about it now. She couldn’t get Sasha off her mind. The officers they spoke with said she had no family—no person to inform of her passing. The only person she had ever been linked with was Snake—so her body was claimed by him. Once again.

She sighed—maybe it didn’t matter where her body ended up. After all, it was just a shell. But it felt sad and wrong.

That she could have and should have been lying next to Sasha that night poked at her, as well. Who were they trying to kill—her or Sasha, or both? The officials in Morocco assured her they had several leads on the bombers already.

And then she thought about Jackson sitting next to her, protectively watching her. He was going to have to get over that. But for now, it was okay and she didn’t have the fortitude to fight it. Did he really have feelings for her? Or was he just caught up in the emotion of everything? Was she?

She squeezed his hand. “Thank you,” she whispered.

He smiled. “For what?”

“For being such a good friend,” she said, lifting his hand to her lips, kissing it lightly. “It’s too much to think about. All of it.”

His hand cupped her face. “It’s a lot to take in. But there’s one thing I know. You and me? That’s a good thing.”

Jackson and Maeve? Could they? Would they? Interesting turn of events. Having gone from disliking him immensely to lusting after him and now—to what? Having feelings for him? It was like a strange, drug-induced, gluttonous dream. Something had slipped away from her—her thick skin was shedding. Was it a good thing or a bad thing? Was she ready for this?

“We are in the States,” Jackson said, after they landed. “We have a few hours until we need to be in that meeting.”

Maeve was overwhelmed with joy. She hadn’t realized until just that minute how much she had missed home. Yet, there had been no time to reflect, no time to take a breather, until this flight. She blinked back tears.

As soon as they exited the plane, they were whisked off by a group of people from their publisher’s office. Nice to not have to deal with customs—the publishers were dealing with it. Maeve and Jackson were guided into a white stretch limousine.

She felt out of place, dirty, in her jeans and sweater. Jackson looked sheepish. He was feeling awkward, as well. It was a shock to be sitting here in this clean, fancy car, when just days ago, they were watching bodies being dragged from their hotel. One of whom had been the lover of one of Maeve’s best friends.

T
his was not like any meeting Jackson had ever been to before. He looked at Maeve, who was as confused as he was.

“What’s this?” she said to Jennifer after hugging her, and sitting down at the long shiny table.

They thought this was going be a meeting about their book—but the room was filled with strangers—cops, if Jackson’s old cop radar was correct. Clean-cut. Stiff. Trying to look cool.

“Are we in trouble for something?” Jackson spoke up.

Ralph Jameson, the owner of their publishing company, laughed. “Jackson, what would you be in trouble for? “

“These guys are cops, right?”

“Yes, they are. Well, cops of a sort,” Ralph said. “Please relax. Sorry to bombard you with all of this right away. But we felt like we really all needed a debriefing on what’s been going on with you two. And with Chef and Alice.”

Jackson watched Maeve’s eyes as they carefully scanned those men in the room.

“You said these guys are cops?” she said.

“Oh, yes, these two here are from the FBI, those three over there are from the CIA,” he began.

“And I am Roger Ledford, from Homeland Security,” one guy spoke for himself.

Jackson whistled. “We must have stepped into something pretty wild.”

“I think it’s best if we start from the beginning. Just tell us what’s happened to you,” Ralph said.

Maeve and Jackson told them their story, including their theory about Snake.

“This is interesting,” one of the CIA guys said. “We’ve been tracking Sam Everidge for years, never figured him for murder.”

“In fact, he may have had you beat up or shot at, but we know he didn’t kill Alice or Paul,” another one said.

“Sasha thought it was Yvette,” Maeve said.

“One was a professional hit,” the man said, handing Maeve a photo. “Do you know this man?”

Maeve reached for the picture. Her face drained of all color. She nodded.

Jackson looked over her shoulder. “Holy shit,” he said. “Since when is Mark a hit man?”

“According to British authorities, he’s not even British. He’s an American expat. He’s a very dangerous man.”

“What?” Maeve managed to say. “I’ve dated him for three years. I never had any problems with him like that.”

“Until recently,” Jackson said. “He came all the way to Italy to see you because of Alice’s murder, remember? And he sort of pawed at you and didn’t want to leave.”

She nodded, still looking as if she had been deflated, drained of color.

“I had to step in and kick his ass out,” Jackson said.

“He beat Alice, raped her, tortured her, left her dead for days while he took the next plane to Italy to console you,” the CIA guy said to Maeve.

“How . . . horrid. And Paul?” Maeve managed to ask, while focusing on breathing. And calming her stomach.

“Mark hired someone to off him, tried to set up Paul’s wife. We still have her in custody, but it’s for her protection,” he answered.

“You seem to be the common denominator, Ms. Flannery. He seems to be killing people who know you. Any reason for it that you know?”

“We were breaking up,” she said. “He was concerned about Jackson and I being in Mexico together. He seemed kind of jealous, suddenly. He was never jealous before—and I did think it was odd. So . . .”

“All I know is the guy was freaky,” Jackson said. “Very possessive of her.”

“Any idea where he could be?”

“Absolutely none,” Maeve said. “His place in London?”

“He’s not been there in weeks.”

“Then I really just don’t know where he could be.”

“Maybe the asshole is in Morocco with Snake,” Jackson said.

The gentlemen in the room had no sense of humor and ignored him.

“We have someone watching your apartment,” one man told her, then turned and looked at Jackson, who was looking out the window. “We have someone watching yours as well.”

M
aeve just wanted to go home. She felt foolish, humiliated, and horrified that she knew the man responsible for the deaths of Chef and Alice. Not only that, but it appeared that she was the cause of her death in a strange and twisted way. How would she ever see her way clear of this? She had been sleeping with Mark for three years and never knew he wasn’t even British. What else didn’t she know?

Now he was wanted by the FBI and the CIA—and the NYPD for the murder of Alice. What the hell?

If she were to be honest with herself, it was his wildness that had attracted her. He was a little “off” at times and she told herself it was his artistic temperament. But how could she herself be so “off” when judging people? The boyfriend that turned out to be gay, now the lover who turned out to be a murderer? Now there was Jackson, who had already told her more about himself than she had even asked either of those other two men.

“Can we go home, now?” Maeve finally said.

“Certainly. Please try to get some rest, Maeve. You’ve done a great job on all the copy I’ve seen,” Ralph said.

“Thanks,” she said.

Jackson stood and followed her out the door, his hand touching her waist, registering with every person in the room—particularly their publisher, who tilted his head, pursed his lips, and looked away. They were a couple.

They walked to the elevator, and once they entered it, Maeve reached for Jackson, fell against him.

“Do you want me to come home with you?” he asked.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” she said. “I mean, they are watching us, right?”

“Screw them,” he said.

She shrugged. “I just don’t want . . . us in the tabloids, you know?”

“Maeve . . . I think that’s going to be unavoidable. Comes with the territory. Let me come home with you, just until you get settled in and calmed down. I know this has got to be weird for you.”

Weird was right. Finding out your ex-lover is a murderer is downright strange. Butterflies danced in her stomach. She took a deep breath.

They walked out of the elevator, surrounded by white marble floors and walls, potted plants and expensive paintings. The lobby glistened with class and success. Jackson grabbed her hand and pulled her into a stairwell. He leaned against the wall and pulled her into him. He cupped her face with his hands, sending tingles through her—the smoldering look he gave her caused liquid heat to shoot through her insides, to open wide for him, get down on her knees for him. Instead, she kissed him, leaned against his hip in the most excruciatingly perfect touch, the perfect place. Could she find satisfaction in a stairwell in their publisher’s office?

She wasn’t thinking about Mark at all as she felt Jackson’s mouth, tongue, hands moving along the sides of her body. His stubbled chin rasping against her face. Mmm. Not thinking at all, just feeling the rush of pleasure.

Voices interrupted. Someone was coming from upstairs. No. They slipped onto the next floor. The clatter subsided.

Maeve was exhausted, yet she felt alive and awake, as he placed her hand on him—so hot, hard.

“I want you . . .” he whispered. “I think you want me.” He reached for her breasts and thumbed her rubied nipples.

“It’s not that simple, Jackson,” she breathed.

“You and me . . . and this, it’s the most simple thing there is,” he said.

Confused. Blood rushing. Heat. Hard cold stairs and walls, Maeve slid down his body, gave in to wanting him, slipped to her knees, unzipped his fly with her teeth.

“Oh my, where did . . . you . . . learn that . . .” he breathed.

“Shut up, Jackson,” she said, thinking
some things are better not shared.
“Lemme . . .”

Another voice. Footsteps. Damn. She stood. He quickly situated himself and zipped his pants. They were coming this way.

Maeve tucked her hair back behind her ears, straightened her shirt, wiped her mouth with her finger.

“Let’s get together tomorrow,” she said. “My place for dinner.”

He was still leaning against the wall, as if he couldn’t move. His blue eyes were glassy with want. He nodded, just as they heard the footsteps come closer. She walked out of the door, knees shaking slightly, thighs trembling. One foot in front of the other.

O
kay , so he’d followed her home—at least until she was at her apartment building. Then he found his way home to his own apartment. Never mind he lived in Soho and she in the Village. It was quite a haul.

But he didn’t think Maeve was thinking clearly—which was a switch. He realized she was in danger. Mark was still at large. Who knows where he could be?

Jackson dropped his camera bags on his couch and walked into the kitchen—everything was neat and tidy, just the way he had left it. Was he more hungry than he was tired? And damn, of course, there was no food, after being gone for two months. But he opened his fridge to find a plate of cheese and salami, some fruit—with a card, signed by Lulu. Ah, Lulu, how thoughtful. She was one of the few people who knew his itinerary—a photography student who sometimes cleaned his apartment for him. Good kid. He knew she could be trusted with his key.

He pulled the plate of goodies out and ate—oh God yes, this is just what he needed. Um, er, along with bedding Maeve. He thought of Sasha, the beautiful addicted call girl; he thought of his mother in prison for drugs. He’d have to give her a call tomorrow. He’d not talked to her since way before they left so abruptly for Mexico.

His cell phone interrupted his thoughts.

It was Sanj.

“Hey,” Jackson said. “What’s up?”

“I’m coming to visit,” Sanj said. “It’s actually a research gig, but I thought maybe you and Maeve would like to join me. I’ve rented a house at Cape Cod.”

“I’ll talk with her about it,’” Jackson said. “Oddest thing. Cops are searching for her ex. They think he killed Chef and Alice. “

“Good God,” Sanj said. “She must be devastated. I know how much she cared for Chef. Hey, you know what, speaking of all the weirdness . . .”

“Yeah?”

“I looked at the substance again under the microscope and ran some other tests.”

“And?”

“It turns out it wasn’t coke at all.”

“What?’

“Yeah. It looked like it and it gave the same tingle to the tongue. But there was something not quite right about it. So I looked further into it.”

“Well?”

“It’s some kind of designer drug, something that doesn’t even really have a name at this point. It mimics coke, but supposedly, it’s like coke on steroids, but doesn’t have the bad side effects. “

“Aha,” Jackson said, thinking of his night of sex with Maeve. “Makes sense.”

“It’s up for approval in seven different countries right now to be used in drug rehab.”

“Interesting,” Jackson said, biting into a piece of salami. Sasha and Chef were on to something, then. They knew about it. She was being honest with them. That made Jackson’s heart hurt just a little. The memory of her death was still so raw. After what she did to Maeve, he didn’t care one iota for her—but nobody deserved to die like that. “I mean that’s sort of what Sasha said.”

“Hey, is Maeve there?”

“No, she went back to her place,” Jackson said. “I’ll see her tomorrow night.”

“Why is she alone with that asshole out there?”

“The cops are watching her place and mine, as a matter of fact. So we are pretty safe.”

“The cops? Are you an idiot? This crazy man, Mark, is out there somewhere and you know he’s going to want to see Maeve.”

“Yeah, but if she’s being watched, he can’t get to her.”

“You Americans trust the police much more than we do,” he said and laughed. “If that was the woman I loved, I’d not leave her until he was in custody.”

A chill moved through Jackson. “I, ah, followed her home to make sure she got to her apartment building. You know her. Ms. Independence.”

But after they said good-bye, the chill clung to Jackson as he ate the last of the food Lulu left for him. The one person he trusted with his apartment key. Who was the person Maeve may have trusted? Could Mark have a key? Could he have already been inside her apartment when she came home?

What was her home number again? He reached for the phone.