Cravings (4 page)

Chapter 7

T
hree cameras and one was a digital.

But Sanj knew there had to be more. When Jackson traveled, he lugged a ton of equipment with him and it took him forever to get through customs.

“We need to figure out how to get in his room,” Sanj told Sasha as he walked toward his laptop and connected the camera to it. “Is there film in those cameras?”

Sasha shook her head. “And this was it. All that was in the safe. No canisters of film. I think I can get us into their rooms.”

“It so odd. It's not like Jackson to leave his film in his room, even in the safe,” he said more to himself than to Sasha as she leaned over him, looking at the computer screen.

“Eureka,”' he said. “Let me print these out. I think this plantation is one of the ones on Maeve's itinerary. Mozingo.”

“Ah, yes, makes sense, big cacao name,” Sasha said.

He looked over his paper as the photos printed. He grabbed them.

“Can you carry these in your bag?”

“Sure,” Sasha said as he reached for her hand. She didn't even get to see the photos. He was in such a hurry. “Where are we going?

“We are off to tour a cacao plantation,” he said, pulling her along.

 

Sanj and Sasha stood with a group of about fifteen others to tour the Mozingo plantation. This plantation was last on Maeve's list, which, according to the dates, she should have visited three days ago. Had Maeve been here? If so, was this the last place she was seen? Why couldn't the consul tell Sanj any more about her? He tried to relax. Maeve is tough, he told himself. She'd been in some intense situations and handled herself very well. But he just could not shake the feeling the consul was bullshitting him. He was so frustrated with the lack of information. He was also frustrated by the hotel's lack of response as to whether he could get into their suite and poke around.

He stood in the courtyard of the visitor center, a tranquil setting, newly built, with the plantation home itself in the distance, looming large, gleaming white, as was the center. Sanj saw his reflection in the pool and then Sasha's coming up behind him.

“Pretty,” she said, admiring the lilies floating before them.

Sanj was more impressed with the mosaic tile. Deep blue and white, setting off the tropical foliage all around them. His eyes shifted to her. Who was this woman? Why did she unsettle him? Why was he thinking of her in the pool of water naked among the lilies like a garden nymph?

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to one of the oldest, most prestigious cacao farms in Ecuador, now home of the oldest criollo tree on the planet, ” said a short, squat dark-skinned man dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. “Most of our farms are just that, owned by families, not by corporations. The farm you will be touring is owned by the Mozingo family.”

“Are they the original owners?” a woman in the crowd spoke up.

“It is very rare that the original owners of these farms still hold them. It is the same family, but a different branch,” he said.

Sanj found the answer amusing. Family politics—a never-ending story, especially when money was involved. His own family had been the same way.

“Any other questions?” the guide said, as if he hoped not. He was met by quiet. He cleared his throat.

“Cacao was an important commodity in pre-Columbian Mesoamerica. A Spanish soldier who was part of the conquest of Mexico by Hernán Cortés relays a story about when Moctezuma II, emperor of the Aztecs, dined, he took no other beverage than chocolate, served in a golden goblet,” he said, grinning with a mouth full of gleaming white teeth. “It was flavored with vanilla or other spices, and whipped into a froth that dissolved in the mouth. They say he drank about fifty portions daily. Two thousand were drunk every day by the nobles of his court.”

Appreciative murmurs from the group.

“As some of you may know, chocolate was introduced to Europe by the Spaniards and became a popular beverage by the mid-seventeenth century. They also introduced the cacao tree to the West Indies and the Philippines, ” he went on.

“Here, in Ecuador, we developed our own variety, nacional, which is called Arriba, essentially a spicier and better flavored cacao.

“Now, if you would follow me. We'll split into two cars and take a drive around the farm,” he said.

They drove through lush tropical groves. Long golden cacao globes drooped from the trees.

“This crop will be harvested starting tomorrow,” their guide said. “At any given time, we are usually harvesting somewhere on the property. Because of the environment, we are able to grow all year long. We've just purchased some new greenhouses, as well, to ensure new growth.”

The van pulled on top of a small hill. “If you'd like to stretch your legs a bit, now is a good time,” the guide said.

Sasha gasped. “What is that gorgeous tree?”

A splay of red orchid-like flowers on waxy green leaves towered over a group of cacao trees.

“A coral tree,” he responded. “One of the oldest in the area, which is why it's so large. We've had a few caretakers who wanted to cut it down. But the cacao grows nicely under it, for the time being.” He then reached into his bag and pulled out a pod. It barely fit in his hand. It was already cut, and he lifted one side of it, revealing the beans inside a sticky-looking white pulp.

“You can eat it,” he said. “Please.” He held up the husk.

Sanj helped himself and took a bite, pleased by the flavor. “Mmmm, tastes like mango, a bit.”

“Yes, yes, exactly,” Sasha said. “Surprising.”

Sanj and Sasha walked away from the gathering crowd and admired the grove from this higher perch—long rows of trees, mostly green, with bits of gold poking through.

“Is it anything like you'd thought?” Sanj asked her.

She nodded. “I've seen photos in books. But it's interesting seeing it in person.”

She turned to him. He caught his breath. Even with the scar, this woman was exquisite. The sunlight caressed and caught her skin. She glowed.

“I'd like to kiss you,” he caught himself saying. He'd never taken such liberties with a woman he'd just met. But then again, he'd never reacted to another woman like this. Disturbing. Perplexing. Intriguing.

“Now?” she said, obviously surprised.

“Excuse me,” the tour guide interrupted. “We'll be leaving this area in five minutes.”

Sanj was reluctant to turn away from Sasha, but the man's voice brought him back to the reality of their situation. They were looking for Maeve. He still hoped and suspected she'd gone undercover for a story. But he had to find out.

“I wonder, sir, if you can help me,” Sanj said, reaching into his pocket.

“Of course,” he said.

Sanj pulled out a photo and showed it to him. “Have you seen this woman?”

“I am not certain,” he said, after a moment. “So many people come through here.”

“But she is an author and would have been asking a lot of questions,” Sanj said.

The man paused and considered the photo. “I'm sorry, sir. Maybe she was in someone else's group. But I don't remember her.”

“Can you do me a favor? Take the photo and ask around. Here is my card,” Sanj said.

“What is the situation with her?”

“Her husband is looking for her, you see,” Sasha spoke up. She looked at him with a knowing expression.

“Ah,” he said. “I see.”

Taken aback, Sanj tried not to show it. Why would she say that? What was she doing?

“Oh, look,” Sanj said. “It does look like you know her.”

He held out a photo of him. “She had this on her camera. We downloaded it today.”

The man stiffened and shuffled his feet as his face reddened.

“Her husband is quite livid,” Sasha said.

“We'll see what we can do,” he said, nodding his head.

“Thank you, sir,” she said.

“What are you doing?” Sanj turned to her.

“Trying to help. You see—Latin men? They will be much more willing to help find a woman if she is a runaway wife than, say, a journalist who doesn't know how to mind her own business, ” she told him in a low voice.

“That is—” Sanj started to chide, but then thought it over. “Quite brilliant. It's difficult for me to see things from a woman's perspective. I've been so privileged in my country. And even my sister is privileged—compared to the way some Indian women live.”

“I expect that's true since your family is wealthy,” she said. “But in some cultures it doesn't matter. Women still have no rights—even if the government says they do.”

Sanj realized Sasha was not simply beautiful and bright, but she was also worldly and cunning. Intriguing. She was nothing like Jennifer, who could care less about the rights of women around the world as she hobnobbed with only the wealthiest of publishers, writers, and editors in New York and around the world. Jennifer would assume the tour guide would be impressed with Maeve's credentials—and perhaps he would be. But it was more likely that Sasha was correct. He'd react more to a wife who had run away.

The skies over Guayaquil slipped into twilight as Sanj and Sasha drove back toward the city. It was only a forty-five-minute drive, but there was a world of difference between the rural areas and the city.

“I'm so hungry,” Sanj said.

“I'm exhausted,” Sasha said. “So much walking.”

“Aren't we a pair?”

Good God. When the man smiled, Sasha felt herself melt, just a little, even in the air-conditioned car. When she looked at him for any period of time, it made her ache.

It also made her ache when she thought about this Jackson, but in a different way. Was he Maeve's Jackson? Was the woman Sanj seeking the same woman she herself sought? She wanted to ask, afraid of the answer. She had thought several times to reach for the photos and look them over, but things were moving too quickly and she hadn't gotten a chance.

If the answer was no, she would be at a loss. She'd still have no idea as to Maeve's whereabouts. She'd have to begin searching for her again. Sasha knew in her heart Maeve would help her. She was with her the night she flushed the cocaine down the toilet. She recognized the respect in Maeve's eyes. She knew they'd be friends for life. But now Maeve thought she was dead.

If Sanj's friend Jackson was Maeve's husband, it might get complicated. Then Sanj would know everything about her past. Any chance she had at a friendship with him would be over before it started. Why would a wonderful man like Sanj get involved with a woman like her anyhow? A woman with a past?

Oh yes, she could see him bedding her. But having a relationship with her? Loving her?

She sighed. As she had with Chef Paul, she felt unworthy of this man, in any case. No hope of anything with him. So what was the point in not asking what Jackson's wife's name was? How would it change things?

“Was that another ‘we need to talk' sigh?” Sanj said as he pulled their rental car up to the hotel.

“I'm afraid it is,” she said. “Do I do that? Sigh?”

He laughed softly. “Yes. In the two days I've known you, I've heard you sigh twice. And I noticed that for such a beautiful woman you have a heavy burden.”

He leaned into her and kissed her softly on the lips—so softly, so quickly that he barely left a trace—except for the quick flicking of his tongue, which sent her pulse racing.

“You can unburden yourself, Sasha,” he said. “I don't think you have anywhere else to go. Do you? I'm not going to kick you out.”

The valet opened her door, then his, and took the keys. As Sasha stepped out onto the pavement, her knees wobbled a bit. Was this man for real?

He grabbed for her hand and led her through security and into the elevator. He brought her hand to his mouth, kissed it.

“Do you want to tell me before or after?”

“Before . . . or . . . after . . . what?” she asked, breathily.

“Before or after I take you to bed?” He smoldered, lit with passion. Oh boy did she recognize it. But her? What was she feeling? Something almost unnamable? It has been so long since she felt anything like this. Chef had been gone for two years—and even then, the feeling brewed from a gentle warmth to a hot passion. It had taken years to warm up to him. So unlike this immediate flush of attraction.

Did she have any breath left in her lungs?

Sanj opened the door to his suite.

“Let's have some supper, shall we?” she managed to say.

“After,” he said. He leaned into her, kissed her, parting her lips, gently flicking his tongue against hers. She swooned, almost breathless again. The room thrummed with a heated energy.

Did she have the strength to—“Sanj,” she said, pulling away from him.

He leaned back again the wall. “So it's before, then. Tell me whatever it is you need to tell me. It won't change my mind. Not tonight.”

Chapter 8

W
hat could be so important to her that she'd pull herself away from him? He couldn't think about anything except getting her naked. Cold crept through him as the heat of her body slipped from his. All except for one very hot spot.

“What is it?” he said as he followed her to the couch.

“Sanj,” she said. “I think . . . I may know your friends.”

“What?” His stomach seized as he sat down beside her.

“The friend I'm looking for is Maeve Flannery,” she said after taking a deep breath.

Did he just hear her correctly?

“Your friend Jackson . . . could he be her husband?” she asked.

Sasha knew Maeve and Jackson? These were the friends she sought? How did she know them? He leafed through his memory and thought of the name Sasha . . . there was a blond model, or prostitute or something, killed in Morocco. But it's the only Sasha he had ever heard them speak about.

“Sanj?”

“Excuse me,” he said, getting up from the couch. “I suddenly feel like I need a drink.” Something to clear his mind. Did the stocked bar have bourbon?

Who was this woman? What did she want with him? Should he have brought Josh with him? He always said Sanj was gullible. She was basically a stranger. He had let her into his hotel suite. What if she were a spy? An assassin?

Silence.

He poured the golden liquid in a glass and downed it, feeling the heat travel down. “I'm sorry, can I get you something?”

“No, thank you,” she said. “You didn't answer my question.”

He poured another drink. “Who are you, Sasha? How do you know my friends?”

“I met them a few years ago. The last time I saw them was in Morocco.”

He downed another shot. Okay. This must be the same Sasha. But she was killed in a fire. Could she have escaped?

Sanj recalled her words the first night they met. “She needs to know I'm still alive . . .” Despite the shots of whatever kind of whiskey he'd found, Sanj's head swam as he tried to make sense of everything.

“I wasn't with them on that trip,” Sanj said, finally. “But I recall a Sasha Barnes who died in a fire. Maeve was depressed for months about it.”

Sasha stood and walked toward the bar. “You have to understand. The way things went down that night . . . I saw it as a way to escape, to start again, where he would not find me. But the officials called him and he knew the burned body was not mine, even though he didn't tell anybody that. He had my medical records. So I'm stilling running from him.”

“And Maeve? You hurt her deeply. What about that?”

He thought of the months it took her to heal from the whole experience—not just Sasha's death, but everything. This woman could have helped. A ball of anger formed in his chest.

She sighed and sat down on the bar stool next to him. The bar wood gleamed next to her, the reflections of both of them shining from it.

“That's why I'm here. I need to make amends with her. And I hope she can help me shed Sam, um, er, Snake, once and for all. She mentioned a plan at one point. But she never got the chance to tell me what it was.”

She was redeeming herself—undaunted by following Maeve halfway around the world while being chased by a madman. This woman intrigued him. His heart cracked open, just a bit, but his mind fought it.

“Why not tell me sooner?”

She shrugged. “I didn't really know. And when I started to suspect, I wasn't sure telling you was the best thing. Once you found out who I was . . .”

“I'd throw you out? Turn you in?”

“I had no way of knowing.”

He was gullible, maybe, but he was an astute observer of human behavior. What he saw in her eyes was truth. Scared, beleaguered, Sasha was reaching out for help.

He slipped his arm around her, pulled her to him, feeling protective enough to stifle any misgivings. “It's going to be okay. I promise.”

 

Should she allow herself to feel this safe in his arms?

She found herself leaning into him and placing her head on his shoulder. He brushed her hair away from her face.

“It's difficult for me to see you clearly. You are so beautiful,” he said.

“Beauty can sometimes be a curse,” she told him. “I need you to see me as I am before anything . . .”

“Good God,” Sanj said. “What else can there be?”

“I told you I'm a recovering addict.” Her eyes traveled down to her fingers.

“Yes, well. We all have our demons, our struggles with the past,” he said with a momentary look of melancholy.

“Paul—”

“Chef Paul?”

“Yes. We had fallen in love. He was working on something for me that he thought might help me kick my addiction.”

“Ah, I remember. Yes, the substance was in my home,” Sanj said, his eyes wide as he connected the story in his mind.

“But I think Maeve was right—the only way for me to kick it was cold turkey. So far, it's hard, but I'm straight.”
But I could really use a line right now.
Sasha twisted her mouth.

“Good for you,” he said.

“Paul and I met at a party,” she said, walking away from him and looking out the window facing the harbor. “I was hired for the party, you see. He was a man with certain proclivities.”

“Hired? Catering? What?”

“No,” she said, turning to face him. “I was a sex worker.”

“Whoa!” he said, standing up, knocking his drink over. “Oh, damn.” He rifled through the kitchen for a towel, found one, and sopped up the whiskey.

She laughed. “First time I've ever gotten that reaction.”

“Yes, well,” he said. “Is this where Sam comes into things? What has he got on you?”

She nodded. “He was my boss, my lover, my savior at one point. But things changed. They call him Snake for a reason. He is a despicable human being.”

“And this man wants to kill you?”

She nodded. “I'm sure of it. But first . . .” she said, her eyes darting in another direction. “It will be torturous. Nothing short of rape. I want nothing to do with him.”

She walked toward him and reached for him, sliding up to him, wrapping her arms around him. She wanted to stay in his arms, for a while at least. She pulled away, finally, and found his lips, pressed hers against his.

“Let me get this straight,” Sanj said with a strained voice. “You had sex with men for money?”

“Of a sort, yes. Women, too,” she said.

“How many men have you fucked, Sasha?” he asked, pulling away from her.

She'd seen this reaction before. This is what scared her—the madonna complex. Some men just couldn't get over it. They couldn't understand the nature of the job—just sex for most sex workers. Oh, some sex workers got off on it, some found love through it, and some hated it. She was none of those.

“Humph,”
she said, rallying herself. She was good at this. Another mask for her to don. Cool. Collected. Detached. “Don't misunderstand, Sanj. I rarely fucked anybody, as you put it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was highly paid for what I did. The wealthiest and most powerful men came to me.”

“Okay,” he said. “Why? If not sex, what did they want from you?”

“Humiliation,” she said, with direct eye contact and an upward tilt of her chin.