Cravings (14 page)

Chapter 30

S
asha dressed after taking a little snooze after her romp with Sanj. She stretched, a pang of guilt moving through her. She was having such a luscious time with Sanj—and her friend Maeve was with Snake. The thing was, these people didn't understand him at all. She needed to think of something herself. Some way to ensure Maeve's safety.

But in the meantime, a little orgasm or two never hurt. Paul used to say she was insatiable. Maybe she was.

A knock sounded at her door.

“Yes?” she said, opening the door after straightening her blouse.

“Excuse me, ma'am,” the police officer said. “But do you know this woman?”

Here stood Yvette, Paul's wife, petite yet statuesque in posture and attitude, wearing a cocoa-colored Armani suit, trimmed in dark brown, one strand of pearls, and diamond studs in her ears.

“Yes, yes, of course, I know her,” Sasha said, flush with after-sex bliss, and startled by Yvette's presence.

“May I?” Yvette asked the officer. “I mean, you searched my bag. I have no weapons.”

“Please, yes, come in,” Sasha said abruptly, her heart racing. What was she doing here? How did Yvette find out she was still alive? If she knew and Snake knew, who else knew?

The officer nodded and Yvette slipped inside, opening her arms wide and encasing Sasha within them. She sobbed.

“It's true,” she said, finally pulling away from her. “It's you. I saw you earlier and couldn't believe my eyes. My dear,” she said and sighed. “I thought you were dead.”

Sasha could hardly catch her breath. Such a shock to see Paul's wife, then to be in her arms, with the sound of her sobs filling the room.

“I'm sorry,” Sasha said after a moment. “Come in and let me get us some tea.”

Yvette sat at the table and giggled as she watched Sasha in the kitchen rattling things around, lighting the burner.

“Something funny?”

“Well, if Paul could see you now. He used to say you were quite dangerous in the kitchen,” she replied.

Despite herself, Sasha felt a bubble of humor and laughed.

“So tell me, Sasha. What happened? How did you survive?” Yvette asked after they settled in with their tea. “I thought you burned in the fire.”

Sasha filled her in with some sketchy details. She didn't quite trust Yvette. She was Paul's wife—yes, she was a swinger herself—but she had refused to give Paul a divorce when he asked for it. He wanted to marry Sasha.

“It doesn't matter. We can still be committed to one another,” Sasha had told him. “That marriage certificate can be meaningless.”

“Yes, but I want to be yours legally as well as spiritually. And Yvette doesn't get that. She refuses to sign the papers,” he had said.

It was hard, impossible, for Sasha to forget all of this as she sat across the table from her.

“You know,” Yvette interrupted Sasha's thoughts. “I'd give anything if Paul hadn't gotten killed. I'd even have given him a divorce. Had I known.”

Sasha nodded, feeling sideswiped with anger—it was too late for Paul!

Yvette sighed and sipped her tea. “There was a time we both cared about you. But I guess I became so envious . . . as I watched him, felt him drifting to you. I couldn't stand it.” She laughed to herself. “And I fancied myself a swinger. Thought I could handle it—and I did, until you.”

“You're not in the lifestyle any longer?”

“No. I'm remarried and he won't hear of it,” Yvette said, sighing, pushing her brown pageboy-style hair behind her ears.

Sasha sipped her tea. Yvette had moved on, which made Sasha inexplicably happy. Could she as well? Was that possible?

“Why is a police officer at your door?” Yvette asked, after pouring herself another cup of tea.

Sasha hesitated.

“Are you in trouble? Can I help you?” She leaned forward.

“No. I'm not. It's Maeve.”

“Maeve?”

Sasha knew how close Maeve and Paul were, how highly he'd thought of her. Of course, Yvette knew her as well.

“I'm not sure if I'm at liberty to discuss this with you,” she said.

“Good God, woman. If Maeve is in trouble, you must let me know. Paul will be turning over in his grave!”

Sasha told her everything. Instead of swooning—as Sasha herself had done and might do again—Yvette sat motionless, steely, as if poised for attack.

“That fucking Sam,” she said. “I'm so glad you've gotten away from him. But Maeve . . .”

Sasha nodded.

“I need to think about this. It's you he's after, yes?”

She nodded again.

“But he can't have you back,” she said. “Tell me, do you want to go back to him? There must be a part of you that misses the life?”

“No,” Sasha said. “I don't miss him or the life.”

“I've known plenty of sex workers who tried to start again. None of them managed, unfortunately.”

“It is confusing,” Sasha found herself saying. “I've been a sex worker since I was seventeen. It's really the only way I've ever related to most men. So, I guess I can understand the impulse to go back to it.”

“You had quite the appetite as well, ” Yvette said. “How are you managing, darling?”

Sasha shrugged, her face hot. “I have a lover.”

“What? Who?”

“He's here. I'm sure you don't know him. He's a friend of Maeve and Jackson.”

“Does he know?”

“Yes. Doesn't seem to bother him.”

“Extraordinary,” Yvette said almost to herself. “Here we are. We both loved Paul. He loved both of us. And here we are.”

Her eyes reddened and glittered. Was she going to cry?

“Sanj and I have just met, really—”

“Sanj? Sanj Jain?”

“Yes. You know him?”

“Quite wealthy, you know,” Yvette said, nodding. “Also very traditional in his appetites.”

Sasha didn't want to ask her how she knew him. It was a small world. This she knew.

“And you are not,” Yvette said.

“I don't know what I am,” Sasha said. It struck her in that moment how true the statement was. She was finding herself at the age of thirty-five, still unsure of even the most basic thing about herself. She'd been pretending to be someone else for so long, she didn't know who she was.

“You are a dominatrix.”

“Am I? That's what I was told. I played the part for years,” she replied.

“Don't tell me you didn't like it. I've seen you play. I know a real dom when I see one.”

“Hmm,” Sasha said. “But I've also enjoyed myself with Sanj. Straight-up vanilla sex.”

Yvette shrugged. “Nothing says you can't enjoy both. I always have. Also, nothing says you can't teach Sanj to find his submissive nature. If indeed he has one. But he comes from a very strong culture. And you may have your hands full.”

Hands full of Sanj? Sasha smirked. She didn't mind that, not at all.

Chapter 31

“W
hat are you doing here?” Jennifer squealed when she saw

Yvette.

“I'm here for a holiday, a kind of a honeymoon,” Yvette said. “I ran into Sasha and she explained what's going on. Can I help, gentlemen?”

The PI and the officers swarmed around her.

“I know this Sam Everidge,” Yvette said. “And I saw him a few days ago, purchasing rope.”

“Where did you see him?” Josh said.

“At a little hardware and supply store. I can't remember the name, but it was near the cove on the other side of the island.”

“Oliver's Outfitters?”

“Yes, yes, that was it,” she said.

“How do you know this man?” Josh asked.

“This man owns some restaurants and casinos my husband used to have business with. Um, my deceased husband, Chef Paul Delvechio.”

It was as if all the air in the room had been sucked out as they all stood and stared at her. Sanj's eyes found Sasha's and quickly looked away.

Here was the woman who was married to Paul, the man his Sasha had loved, loved enough to give up cocaine, to change her life in drastic ways. She stood next to his Sasha.
His Sasha
. Why was he feeling a sense of ownership? They barely knew one another. And he had a feeling what he knew about her was only surface—she was a murky, deep sea, tugging at him. Wasn't he inside her a few hours or so ago? Didn't he want to be there again?

A delicious sinking feeling washed over him. Only if she wanted him. Her terms. Only.

Detective D'Amico was on his mobile ordering a search of the area Yvette told him about. An officer handed him a file. The hotel intercom system announced a volleyball game getting ready to start on the beach.

And Yvette knew Jennifer, he noted, watching the two of them huddled together in the corner. That gave him a weird feeling.

“So, here's what we are going to do, people,” D'Amico said. “We are still searching Mozingo's land. We are sending out a team to this new area. In the meantime, you all need to stay on the grounds. Inside, if at all possible. For your safety. Our officers will be assigned to each of you. This can be a dangerous situation for each one of you. We don't know if Everidge has infiltrated this resort—but he could have people here. So keep an eye out.”

Sanj's stomach twisted. He felt helpless. He racked his brain trying to figure out how he could help to find Maeve, his best friend's wife, and truly one of the best people he had ever known. He swallowed hard. No. He could not allow himself to think about losing Maeve. Or about the things she must be going through. She was tough. She'd get through it. They would help her—once she was out of Sam Everidge's claws.

He moved toward Sasha. She reached her hand out to him.

“They are doing everything they can,” he said. “What else can we do?”

“I don't know,” she replied. “I've been thinking. I'm not sure we could even get away from our guards.”

“Yep, I know,” he said.

The resort intercom came on and off announcing the activities for the day. It was a frequent disruption—not at all relaxing, which is what a resort was supposed to be, after all. But Sanj's shoulders and neck were pulled tight, hurt from the stress of it all. So when he heard about a chocolate tasting in the Mozingo Room, he perked up.

“Let's go,” he said to Sasha and pulled her off, with two officers trailing behind. Josh was already gone. He told Sanj he'd report back to him the minute he found anything worth reporting.

Sanj remembered what Maeve had told him about the belief that chocolate is an aphrodisiac. Casanova himself used to eat chocolate to help fire his libido. Sanj looked at Sasha and felt a rush of energy. He doubted he's ever needed anything but that from her . . . his eyes on her skin, on her face, lips, eyes. A rush and longing he'd really never known. Yes, he'd been in love. Or thought he had been. But whatever this impulse, this wave was, he wanted to lose himself in her. It was unsettling and exciting.

The room was cool when they entered and dimly lit.

“Right temperature,” Sasha. “Fresh chocolate demands cool temps.”

He knew that, of course. But he liked to hear her talk about chocolate. See the wistful joy come across her face as she spoke of it.

They sat together a table that held goblets of chocolate candles and chunks of chocolate. The crystal goblets, etched in gold, sparkled in the light of the room. The crowd settled into their seats and oohed and awed over the chocolate.

A man walked to the front of the room. Distinguished, with a paunch, but still attractive. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a chunk of Valrhona chocolate, you can see the gold flecks, yes?”

The chocolate shined with the Valrhona brilliance. Sanj knew this chocolate well. He'd learned about it from a chocolatier he took classes from in Paris.

“Palet d'or,”
Sasha whispered, reverently. Pillow of gold. Valrhona. Some say it was the finest in the world.

“When you bite into this one, take it slow. It's called Manjari and it's a single-source Madagascar cacao,” the man said.

“I love it,” Sasha said with her mouth half-full. “Raspberry rush. Peaking, then settling into a long luscious finish. Bravo.”

“Next is the Gran Couva, which comes from the plantation with the same name in Trinidad,” he said.

Sanj popped it in his mouth. Except for the cream inside, this was pure chocolate. Within the expected chocolate flavor, he detected flowers. Jasmine? Yes.

Trinidad. Hmm. Was that what Jackson had said before the connection failed them. If so what did it mean?

“Trinidad is one of my favorite places that grows chocolate,” the man said. “I prefer the floral undertones in much of their chocolate.”

“I knew it was flowers!” someone from the crowd said. Others laughed.

“Isn't that where the oldest criollo is?” someone asked in the crowd.

“Ah, yes,” the man said. “Let me say pure criollo goes into just one percent of all the chocolate worldwide. Now. And in Trinidad, a gene bank protects some of its oldest forms. Botanists are trying to revive the rich elusive taste that flavored so much of the Americas. We are hopeful about a small plantation south of Lake Maracibo that's experimenting with this now. Government-protected and very secretive. It's only plantation to have access to this gene bank.”

“That's odd,” Sanj said.

“Excuse me?” the man said to him.

“When we were in Ecuador I could have sworn we heard that the Mozingos were planting this variety.”

“Oh no, sir, I am certain you are mistaken,” the man said and turned his back.

But Sasha met his eyes in affirmation. He was not mistaken. Could Mozingo have gotten his hands on this ancient breed of criollo?