Jackson (10 page)

Jackson leaped up immediately. “You’re making me stay here?”

“I think it’s for the best,” Roth said.

“Bullshit! If you run into any of Nash’s guys, you want me there with you. I’m the fastest.”

“And you’re also the most worked up,” said Roth. “I need men who can keep their heads. Right now, you’re a liability.”

“That’s shit and you know it!”

“That’s still my order.” Roth’s eyes shifted past Jackson to where Charlotte stood. “Besides, we need someone here to babysit your girlfriend. So unless you feel like letting her fend for herself, I expect you to do as I say.”

That shut Jackson up. And it made Charlotte feel even worse.

A short time later, she, Leo, and Jackson were alone on the boat. Jackson hadn’t said a word since Roth and the big Russian had gone off, though he looked like he was ready to punch something at any second. He paced back and forth along the deck as the last light of the sun disappeared.

“Well,” said Leo finally, turning to Charlotte. “It looks like it’s going to be a long night. How about something to eat?”

They’d been snacking all day on the boat, but she suddenly realized how starved she was.

“Why don’t I run down there and grab us a little something?” he said. He pointed to the edge of the wharf, where a woman had set up a grill on the street and was cooking up some fish. “It doesn’t get any fresher than that.”

“That sounds delicious,” she said. Jackson didn’t say anything, but Leo didn’t wait for his response.

When she and Jackson were alone, the air suddenly felt a lot heavier. Jackson was still pacing, and he hardly even glanced at her. So she climbed across the boat to the front—the
bow
, as Leo had helpfully pointed out earlier—and when she felt like she could breathe again, laid down on her back.

It wasn’t quite like being on the open sea and having the wind in her hair, but as she looked up at the sky above her, she couldn’t help but let out a gasp.

She’d never seen so many stars before, not in person. The sky was so dark, so wide, that she felt like she was looking at a sea of twinkling diamonds.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” came Jackson’s soft voice.

She jumped. She hadn’t heard him come up behind her. But as he sat down beside her, he seemed to relax slightly—though she could still see the tension in his shoulders.

“It almost doesn’t look real,” she said, feeling like the stars were a safe enough subject for now. “You know, back at home, I handled the insurance for this local museum. I didn’t get to go in there often, but when I did, they’d usually let me sit in on one of their planetarium shows after all their paperwork was done. It was amazing.” She twisted her hands together. “That’s sad, isn’t it? That the only exciting thing about my job was that twice a year I’d get to sit in a planetarium.” How had she survived in that soul-sucking position for so long?

He leaned back on his hands. “You had your reasons for being there.”

He didn’t elaborate, but she knew what he was thinking—she’d had her mom to think about. She couldn’t run off on crazy adventures when she was the only support system her mother had in those last few months.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “If I’d known—”

“It wouldn’t have changed anything. You would’ve left anyway.”

She knew it was unfair to snap at him. He hadn’t been obligated to stay with her just because she had a dying parent. But her mom’s death wasn’t the reason she was so upset. If it had only been her mom’s declining health holding her back, she’d have no reason to feel so disgusted with herself. Deep down, she knew the real reason had everything to do with herself—she’d been afraid, plain and simple.

Jackson seemed to have sensed that her thoughts had fallen into a dark place, because he reached out and touched her shoulder. His fingers skimmed over her bare skin, stopping only when they reached the strap of her dress.

“There’s a reason so many sailors write about the stars,” he said, returning to their original topic. “You haven’t really seen them until you’ve seen them out here. One day we’ll have to go out at night and see them from the open sea—they really seem to go on forever.”

Her heart fluttered at the thought.

“Vincent Rinaldi wrote about them constantly,” Jackson continued. “I think he fancied himself an astronomer as well as an adventurer. His journals were full of sketches of constellations.”

“His atlas, too,” she said softly. She still hated that she’d had to give it up, especially if, as Roth had suggested, it might not have been much help to them after all. Still, she was grateful for the chance to have learned a little more about the previous owner, even if she hadn’t had much of a chance to have the same sorts of adventures.

Jackson’s hand slipped over toward her neck. She trembled as his rough fingers danced across her bare skin, but she wouldn’t let her body get distracted. Not this time. She rolled away from him and sat all the way up.

“What is it?” he asked.

His voice was low, breathy, and she knew the last few hours hadn’t done anything to dampen his desire. If anything, his hunger seemed to have multiplied with his frustrations. She could almost feel his need in the air between them, and it made it hard to breathe.

“Am I in the way here?” she asked.

He’d been reaching for her, but his hand froze. “Why would you ask that?”

“I’m not stupid,” she said. “I know Roth doesn’t want me here. And there’s a lot going on with you guys. I just showed up here and expected to be part of everything. I didn’t mean to get in the middle.”

“You’re not in the middle.” Jackson insisted, drawing closer. Even seated, he seemed to tower over her. “We work with other people on expeditions sometimes.”

“But you’re talking about people who actually contribute. Not people who slow you down.”
Or distract you.
She wanted to pull away from him, but she was finding it hard to do so. “And none of these guys know anything about me. Why should they trust me?”

“Because
I
trust you. Because I vouched for you.”

He said it like it was obvious, but it wasn’t that simple, and they both knew it.

“You trusted Tav,” she whispered.

She realized immediately that she shouldn’t have said that name. Jackson went rigid, then pulled away from her, jumping to his feet.

“That’s different,” he said, his voice suddenly hard. “You have no idea what’s going on with him. With any of this.”

“That’s the point.” She stood up beside him. “I don’t belong here. This is your world, not mine.”

“I never said that, Goose. I—”

“But you
know
it,” she countered. “You knew it all along. That’s why you left me in the first place. And you were right. Why are we pretending any different?”

Jackson didn’t get the chance to reply. At that moment, Leo returned, leaping across the gangplank with an armful of grilled fish.

“Dinner!” he declared, then stopped when he saw the two of them.

“That’s all right,” she said. “I’m not sure I’m hungry. I think I might go lie down for a little while.”

Jackson reached for her. “Goose—”

“
Stop
calling me that!” she said, slipping out of his grip. Her tone must have gotten through to him, because he didn’t try to follow her as she darted back across the boat and went down below.

Her eyes burned, and she hated herself for it. What did she expect, tagging along on this expedition? That by hopping on a plane and flying across the world she’d suddenly be an adventurer?

Her eyes fell to the small table next to the ship’s kitchenette. Roth had left out the atlas, along with the notebooks she’d assumed were Rinaldi’s journals. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she stepped forward and picked up one of the leather-bound volumes and flipped through it.

Rinaldi’s scrawl was scattered across the pages, along with tiny sketches and hand-drawn charts. She stopped and skimmed a couple of pages. As with the atlas, this journal bore the marks of love and wear. Many of the pages were stained or smudged with signs of use.

One day, Vincent, someone will figure out what you were trying to say.
She placed the journal back on the table and picked up the atlas. It still felt like
hers
, and she ran her fingers over the cover before flipping it open to the maps of the Mediterranean and surrounding regions. As Roth had said, there wasn’t anything obviously useful about these maps. They weren’t particularly detailed—she couldn’t even find the island of Vis in the scattering of dots off of Croatia’s coast, and Hvar was just a squiggle—and the stars sketched in the corner didn’t seem to form any recognizable pattern. Maybe the team had been wrong about Croatia being the place where Vincent met his fiancée. Maybe they should be looking somewhere else completely.

Charlotte glanced back up behind her, but Jackson didn’t seem to be following her. From the soft murmurs above, it sounded like he was talking with Leo. She knew she should leave the team to their investigations—Roth would probably be furious if he knew she was flipping through these books—but she couldn’t help herself. She was curious. She sat down on the bench next to the table and grabbed the closest journal.

For several moments, she just skimmed through the pages. Sometimes she’d let her eyes linger on a passage or a drawing—she found several more sketches of naked women to match the one he’d done in the back of the atlas—and in spite of all of Jackson’s comments about Vincent being loony, she found herself drawn in by his words and his obvious passion for life. More than once, she stopped to reread certain passages a couple of times, just to fully appreciate the man’s sense of amazement.

Then, toward the end of the journal, she stumbled across a section that actually made her tear up a little:

The sky is lovely tonight. I swear there are no jewels on earth as beautiful as the ones God put in the heavens. I wish I could pluck them out and put them in a necklace for my sweet Alyssa.

And a few lines below that:

If I recall correctly, there’s a myth about the sky being made entirely of light, and someone—a god?—placing a blanket across it every night to make it dark. But then some trickster came along and poked thousands of tiny holes in the cloth with a pin, trying to let the light through, and that’s why we have stars. Must consult with Holbrook when I get back to London. He’ll know the story I’m thinking of. But I like that image—pinpricks of light. I wonder if the rascal who made them intentionally created the constellations as signs for the rest of us? The more I stare at them, the more I’m convinced that they hold all sorts of messages for us lesser creatures.

Something in Vincent’s wonder and curiosity resonated with her, and she pressed her fingers against the page, trying to soak it in. Vincent
did
seem to have an obsession with the stars—maybe that was a hint.

She put the journal aside and opened the atlas again, flipping back to the map of the Adriatic Sea. This time she took a closer look at the stars drawn in the corner, but their meaning still evaded her.

Frowning, she continued her search through the atlas. He’d drawn stars on several of the pages, but her knowledge of astronomy was too limited to identify what they were or what they meant.

Finally, she reached the end—and the sketch of the naked woman on the inside of the back cover. She’d always wondered if this was someone the owner of the atlas knew, or just a figment of his imagination. Now, knowing what she knew, she was certain it was Alyssa, Vincent’s fiancée. For all that the sketch depicted a nude woman, it was not obscene or pornographic. It was clear to her that the woman was drawn in love, and she was depicted with her arms outstretched, lying in a bed of stars.

Charlotte studied the stars. Again, her lack of knowledge was frustrating, but she counted nine clusters of the celestial lights. Did that number have some significance? Or was there something more she was supposed to be seeing? Her eyes returned to the woman at the center of the sketch—to her flowing hair, to her gently curved legs, to the delicately drawn globes of her breasts. Eventually, her gaze drifted along those outstretched arms. One of the sketch’s hands seemed to reach lovingly for the nearest cluster of stars, while the other seemed to be pointing up toward the corner of the page.

Charlotte bit down on her lip as her finger traced the path indicated by that outstretched finger. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but when she reached the upper, inside corner of the back cover, the thick paper lining didn’t feel quite as smooth beneath her touch.

Almost as if there’s something beneath the paper
, she thought.
Like a spot of hardened adhesive. Like someone has glued the paper back down.

It seemed so silly, so unlikely, but something in her gut told her she had to keep investigating. She used her nail to peel up the corner of the paper lining, and sure enough, she found a hard, yellow dot of dried glue beneath it. But it was what was next to the glue that made her breathing stop.

Numbers.

Two numbers, scrawled in what she’d come to recognize as Rinaldi’s handwriting: 43.193 N and 16.374 E.