Saffron Nights (19 page)

M
aeve was falling.

Sinking.

Surrounded by cold water.

Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Her lungs were filling. Air! She needed air!

She awoke gasping in a dark room. Where was she? Was she dead? Could she move? She continued to cough and feel like she couldn’t breathe; her throat was blazing with pain. Her head was pounding. Was she getting sick? Or was this a side effect from the drugs being pumped into her?

As her eyes adjusted to the room, she saw she was alone. Untied. Free to go? Maybe they figured she’d be out longer. She tried to sit up and was met with waves of nausea, which she choked back, taking deeper breaths, now. As she sat, every bone in her body seemed to be pinching at her skin. Her skin actually hurt. Everywhere.

Her feet touched the floor. She still had her shoes on. Interesting. She could almost feel the fog in her brain as it cleared gradually. Where were her glasses?

She wasn’t going to get her purse back—nor were they going to hand her a phone. She had to figure out a way out of here. She breathed deeply and tried to stand.

She was in a room—hardly any bigger than a closet—that had no windows. One way out—the door. She surmised that someone was probably on the other side of the door.

Dizziness overtook her momentarily—but then went away.

She would have to wait for her captors. Afraid to try the doorknob in case it would alert them, she looked for a weapon— something she could use against him or her when they came back in the room. There were stacks of blankets and a few pillows in the corner. They had taken the glass and pitcher they used used when they gave her the drugged water. But they left the tray. She picked it up—it was made of some kind of pewter or silver. She didn’t know, but it was thick and edged in wood strips. She tried to get the strips off—she busied herself with it until she found a loose strip and worked at it until it was free—leaving a very jagged edge on the tray. Now that could hurt someone, give them a nasty gash.

She took a spot behind the door, and leaned against the wall. She closed her eyes and prayed—something she hadn’t done since her mother’s funeral. This is not my destiny, she thought after she prayed, I am not going to end up dying in a heap in a small dark room in Morocco.

She and Jackson were going to catch the next plane out of here, finish this project, and maybe do a few more together, then she was going to retire from cookbook writing and write poetry and fiction. Life was too short.

And as for Jackson . . . maybe she had been too hard on him. Maybe they could start to see one another. God knows, that is what she wanted. And yes, it was crystal clear to her, standing in the dank dark room, that Jackson Dodds might be the one. The one who could make her forget all other men. The one who she could let love her—and that she could love back. Why was she making it so complicated?

The tears streaming down her face startled her. It’ d come to this. Her standing there, after being chased halfway around the world, finding out she’d ingested an illegal substance—and carried it halfway around the world—to see what she really wanted. All she really wanted was to write and to love.

Suddenly she heard someone approaching. A female voice. A man speaking to her. He must be the guard sitting at the door.

A key went into the doorknob.

Maeve felt every muscle constrict.

The doorknob turned.

She took a deep breath as she watched the tall woman head for her bed and turn around in alarm. But her scream was silenced by Maeve’s tackle, and a deep cut across her face was just the beginning of it.

“My face!” she screamed and Maeve got a good look at her, a bloody gash across her face. Sasha!

Maeve grabbed her by the collar as she straddled her and slammed her into the floor.

“I’ll slash it again, bitch, unless you start talking.”

Sasha struggled a bit and tried to get Maeve off her. She obviously had no brother to wrestle around with as a kid. She was easily overcome by a scrapper like Maeve.

“What do you want from me?” Maeve screamed.

Maeve could hear the man coming up beside them, could feel his hands go around her neck as she pummeled Sasha. Then suddenly the man’s hands dropped. Maeve heard the click of a gun and a familiar voice coming from behind them. “Get out of my way. I’m here for Maeve.”

She couldn’t seem to stop shaking Sasha—until she suddenly went limp. Had she killed Sasha?

She looked up to see Jackson and Fatima, with some men on their heels. Jackson was smirking. “I should have known you had things under control.”

“F
atima, watch the door,” Jackson said, as he lifted Maeve off Sasha.

“I’m afraid you will have very little time before the police arrive,” she said.

He nodded. “Understood.”

“Jackson, how did you find me?” Maeve managed to say after she fell into his arms.

God, she was there in his arms and he was not going to let her go. Not ever again. Come what may. “Let’s not worry about that right now. We need to get Sasha up and talking.”

“Right,” Maeve said nodding her head.

She looked horrible—hair needed washing, black smears of mascara underneath her eyes. Blood all over her hands and clothes. But still, Jackson thought, her beauty is what he saw beneath all of it. They needed to awaken Sasha so she could tell them why she’d chased them halfway around the world. What was so special about the cocaine they had? The trouble was, Sasha was out—stone cold.

Jackson tried shaking her. Nothing.

Maeve smacked her across the face, leaving a bright red mark on it. Nothing.

Fatima knocked on the door. “We’d best be going,” she said.

“We’ll have to take her with us,” Jackson said lifting Sasha up. “Damn, she’s like a lead weight,”

“With us? Why?”

Clearly she wasn’t thinking.

“We can’t leave her here.”

“Why not? I just want to get out of here,” Maeve said. “Let’s just leave.”

“If we leave her here, there will be trouble when she wakes up. They will come after us, and we’ve not learned anything about what’s going on. Really.”

Maeve thought for a moment. “Okay, let’s get her up, then.”

Maeve opened the door. Fatima and her bodyguards had tied up the men who were guarding her earlier—and the piercing artist.

“Where are you going with her?” Fatima asked.

Maeve picked up her legs to help Jackson out with the body.

“In your car,” Jackson said.

“What?”

“Quickly,” Jackson said.

Fatima turned around and spoke harshly to the men and they took over—two of them helped Jackson and Maeve drag Sasha into the backseat of Fatima’s car, waiting along the curb. And the other two took ahold of Maeve and slid her into the passenger seat.

Jackson planted himself partially on top on Sasha. Fatima got into the driver’s seat.

“Where’s your driver?” Jackson asked.

“I’ve dismissed my men. The fewer people who know about this, the better. You certainly can’t take her to your hotel, can you? I know a place we can go,” she said.

Jackson sat back. “You are an angel, Fatima.”

She smiled, placed the key in the ignition and tore off the curb like she was on fire, nearly hitting a nearby bicyclist. “Get out of the road!” she yelled, swerving again to avoid a pedestrian.

An angel—but a devil behind the wheel of a car. Maeve caught his eye in her mirror.

“There are no seat belts,” she said.

“Hang on,” Fatima said. “You’ll be fine. It’s a very safe car.”

Jackson placed a hand on the door as she slammed on the brakes because a car pulled out in front of her.

Jackson’s heart was racing as he was jostled about in the backseat of the Rolls-Royce. He dared not look at Maeve, who was probably ready to have a nervous breakdown over the way Fatima was driving through the city, or else he might rudely laugh.

They went past countless shops, hotels, and restaurants as Jackson and Maeve tried their best to fill Fatima in—in between the swerves, near-misses, and honking horns. They began trekking up a mountainside and Fatima’s driving went a little smoother. An hour later—Sasha still out—Fatima pulled into a long driveway to her mountain home, where a bevy of servants were waiting to take care of them.

“Don’t worry,” Fatima said. “You two get some rest. We can deal with Sasha in the morning.” Jackson eyed-up the men who were taking Sasha away and he wasn’t worried at all. It could wait.

After Jackson had showered—Maeve and Sasha whisked off to different rooms—he lay down on the oversized bed. Silk sheets, he was certain of it. It would be okay now, he thought. They had Sasha. Maeve was okay. He thought to close his eyes for just a minute—the last image playing in his mind was of Maeve astride Sasha, beating the living shit out of her. Maybe having a temper wasn’t all bad.

M
aeve wasn’t able to sleep. She was too shaken. Hazy images. Whispers in Arabic. She didn’t want to be in her room alone and briefly thought of finding Jackson, but she wandered out to find the kitchen, where Fatima was standing over the cook staff telling them what she wanted for the breakfast meal in the morning.

“I’m sorry you can’t sleep. Can we get you something to help?”

“I think I’ve had enough drugs to last a lifetime,” Maeve replied.

“Not drugs,” Fatima said. “Herbal tea. It will calm you.”

“Well, I’ll try,” she said.

Fatima led Maeve to a veranda overlooking a mountain range. The night air was brisk and the stars were the clearest Maeve had ever seen them. They sat quietly together, listening to insects and night birds.

Maeve took a deep breath. “How much do you know?”

“Jackson told me everything. He had to. He was a man unglued. He cares very much for you,” she said.

Maeve smiled, lifting her teacup to her lips, her hands trembling. “Partners,” she said.

“Whatever you say, dear,” Fatima said. “How are you feeling?”

“The night air is helping and the tea is lovely. I don’t think I’ll feel better until we are safely at home,” she said. “But I have some writing to do. Now we’re a bit behind schedule.”

“We’ll question the woman tomorrow,” Fatima told her, sounding weary but confident. “Her story should be interesting. I don’t imagine we will have a hard time getting her to talk.”

A wave of weariness overtook Maeve. She wasn’t even sure she could make it to her room. Maybe she could sleep. Maybe.

“Excuse me, Fatima, I’m going to bed. Thanks so much for the tea and everything,” Maeve said.

She wandered the halls in a haze. She was certain Fatima hadn’t drugged her—but the effects of the tea were strong. She wanted a bed. She wanted safety. She wanted home. How was she going to write anything tomorrow? With two blog posts past deadline, she was going to have to get it together.

She needed to talk to her brother and Carly and needed to run barefoot in the soft Virginia grass where there was a certainty, an order to life. She needed to talk to her mother, her father, to sit on the porch swing and listen to the crickets on a warm summer night.

But instead, she knocked on Jackson’s door. He moaned, “Come in.”

When he saw her there, he lifted the blanket with his arm and she slid into the warmth he offered, where she slept deeply, restfully, safely.

J
ackson thought Maeve had been there, sleeping next to him, still and peaceful. But when he lifted his eyes in the morning, she was not there. He pressed the spot next to him, as if to assure himself. But no. She was not there. Had he dreamed it?

Never mind. Now, he just needed to get showered and dressed and see to questioning the beautiful Sasha, who was tied up in a room down the hallway. Had she awakened? What would she tell them? Anything?

He was still thinking the same thought, curling around in his mind when he opened the door and found Fatima just getting ready to knock on his door. “Breakfast,” she said. “You must start the day right.”

“Good morning, and thank you, but I just need coffee and toast or something. I really need to, you know, get to Sasha,” he said.

“Follow me,” she said and led him to the dining room, where there was a table brimming with food. “Please,” she said, waving her arm jangling with bracelets over the feast.

Maeve was already there, dressed in one of Fatima’s long dresses, he supposed. The ruby red color was extremely becoming against Maeve’s skin. A sudden image flashed in his mind of long strands of ruby red silk wrapped around those alabaster wrists—tied to his bedpost. Snap. Look at her now. The color reflected in her cheeks and mouth and the tips of her eyelids. She looked away from him. In just one glance he could see that yes, she was in his bed in the middle of the night. Was she beginning to trust him?

“Morning, Maeve,” he said, sitting across the shiny wood table from her. There was a place set for him. “Have you seen her yet?” Coffee was poured for him. He breathed in the steaming scent.

“No, but Fatima tells me she is awake and pacing.”

“Pacing?”

“We untied her. She can’t go anywhere. I have two men guarding her. She was very sick last night and I was afraid . . .” Fatima said. “There’s no need for us to add murder to our long list of illegal activities over the past few days.”

“Of course not,” Jackson said. “But let’s not forget what she did to Maeve, what she probably did to me, and may have done to Alice. Maybe even Chef. Let’s not forget we are in this situation because of her. She may be beautiful, but don’t let her trick you. She is dangerous.”

“Of course not,” Fatima said.

Maeve cleared her throat. “Thank you both for helping me. I still am not sure what they did to me. What drugs they used . . . but I’m feeling better this morning. I’m eager to see Sasha.”

An hour later, after everybody was fed to Fatima’s satisfaction, the door on Sasha’s room was being opened. Jackson grabbed Maeve’s hand, and she let him hold it. Sasha was sitting in a chair next to a window overlooking a garden. Beautiful flowers bobbed behind her. Jackson caught his breath—the deep purple flower next to her gorgeous face—even now. Well, damn, he’d forgotten how beautiful she was. The bandaged gash across her face just added an extra element of interest. She was graced with the perfect figure for a high-end call girl. Voluptuous, yet thin. Beautiful cheekbones and a mouth that made you want to . . . um . . . er. The air around her seemed charged with electricity as she met his gaze, lifted an eyebrow, her expression left no doubt. She liked what she saw. But all call girls knew how to make a man think she wanted him.

“Well, Sasha, fancy meeting you here,” Maeve said.

She just looked at Maeve, bit her full lip. She seemed young to be such a famous call girl. Yet, there was something old in her, something broken. It came through her eyes.

“You’ve chased us halfway around the world for Chef’s book. I think you owe us an explanation,” Maeve said.

Sasha laughed. “What an impertinent young woman. I don’t owe you anything.” British accent. London. West End.

“Well, unless you tell us what’s going on here, I’ll have to contact our embassy and tell them you kidnapped Maeve,” Jackson said.

“I didn’t kidnap her. I was helping her. She had infected nipples. From the piercing. I happened in the shop when she passed out from her fever.”

“Infected what—” Jackson began.

“I went into the shop to get a piercing,” Maeve said. “That much is true. But they are not infected, Sasha, although I remember the story bandied about while I was in my drug-induced state.”

Jackson cleared his throat. Pierced nipples. Jesus. He needed that image to be gone immediately, or he’d be walking around stiff as marble. He blinked his eyes slowly. When he opened them Sasha was giving him the once-over with her Bambi eyes.

“You make me sick!” Maeve said. “Flirting with Jackson, really? Do you think it will make a difference? He had a gun on you yesterday. Do you think he’d fuck you? Give him a little more credit than that!”

Jackson’s heart burst. He didn’t know how it happened, but Maeve trusted him. Had confidence in him. Several months ago, he’d have flirted back with Sasha. But today, standing with Maeve’s hand in his, he felt a gentle pull toward something else. He looked away from the world’s most expensive call girl.