by Everly, Liz
“What about the guy I shot?” Jackson suddenly remembered. “He looked like he was in bad shape.”
“The police found them both wandering in a daze on the mountainside, evidently. They are being questioned. So far, I don’t know a thing, except they were hired men of some kind. You and I are supposed to be on a plane to Italy tomorrow.”
“Does Alice know about all this?”
“I don’t know. I can’t reach her. I suppose I’ll leave without you and we can meet there, once you are healed.”
His mind felt as if it had cotton in it. Things were not really making any sense. Pieces were starting to click.
“But isn’t it strange that Alice is missing? That we were shot at? What the hell is going on?”
“We don’t know she’s actually missing. She may just be busy. Let’s not get paranoid. But I’ve been trying to piece it together, myself. Someone definitely wants something from us and whatever it is must be valuable,” Maeve said.
Jackson felt like shit, but he liked watching Maeve’s eyes light up as she tried to solve a puzzle—of any kind. One eyebrow lifted when she was really intrigued by something.
“Okay. What do we know?” Jackson asked.
“We know it started in Mexico.”
“Then in Hawaii and now this,” Jackson said.
“And there’s something else. I mean, there’s Alice. She’s been acting so strange. I’ve been feeling like she’s hiding something from us. But what?”
There it is—the eyebrow thing.
“She doesn’t want to upset us, probably. Wants us to stay focused.”
“Yes, I get that. But in the meantime, we are in something. I don’t know what.”
“I think this has to do with Chef’s murder,” Jackson said.
“But what? We have nothing of Chef’s, except—”
“The book,” Jackson said.
Maeve took a deep breath, then clapped her hands. Her eyes widened. “You know, you may be on to something. That book would be very valuable to some people. But would cookbook collectors be willing to kill for a handwritten book by Chef?”
Just then the nurse walked in the room and told Maeve she needed to leave. Jackson needed his rest.
“You need to catch the plane. Truffle season and all that,” Jackson said.
“Alone?” she said, her face pale, eyes watering. There it was, her carefully constructed shield was down. She was a tangled mess.
“I think it’s for the best,” Jackson said, as the nurse lifted his arm to take his blood pressure. But as he looked at her, Jackson realized he’d never seen her looking so vulnerable. He wished he could wrap his arms around her, protect her, but as it was, he couldn’t even protect himself.
Chapter 23
Man, another eleven hours on a plane. This business travel was wearing on her. The breakneck pace was one thing—the other thing was Jackson. Maeve hated to leave Jackson alone in Hong Kong, but she had no choice. Truffle season was fleeting. The man she was going to meet and stay with was expecting them—and he was an old friend of Paul’s and knew Alice well, too. Better that at least one of them showed up.
She sank into her seat and flipped open the lid of her laptop. She scrolled through her e-mails. None from Alice. Still. A few from Martin. Hmm. Here was one from Jackson.
M.—
You’ll never believe this. Your man Ji? He was working for Snake. I still don’t know what they wanted from us, but it’s clear they want something. The book doesn’t seem like it would be up Snake’s alley. And another thing about this Snake guy? He knew Chef. His guys up there on the hill are keeping it closemouthed. But they dropped Chef’s name a few times. I’ll tell ya, Maeve, I don’t like this. People following us around, shooting at us and shit. I think it has something to do with Chef. But what?
They are letting me out of the hospital tomorrow. Still not sure if I can fly yet.
—J.
Chef Paul, Maeve keyed in, then Snake. Was Chef a gambler? Did he owe this guy money? Okay. So, if he did. Why would they come after Maeve and Jackson? They didn’t inherit any money. Yvette inherited all of his money—or at least that’s what Maeve assumed. Should she e-mail Yvette? She felt kind of funny about that. She’d just lost her husband. How to approach this? Um, did your late husband owe a bunch of money to this Snake guy that he’s trying to mistakenly get out of Jackson and me? Nah.
But at the same time, they were in danger. She thought about Yvette and what a kind woman she seemed to be.
A man walked past her seat and headed for the bathroom. A woman’s laugh rippled out into the cabin. A baby squealed. Maeve stared at her laptop. Jackson was still in the hospital. Alice was unreachable.
Yvette,
How are you? I am on my way to Italy, where I’m staying with Giovanni, Paul’s old friend. Unfortunately, I’m traveling alone. Jackson is in the hospital in Hong Kong. I can’t seem to reach Alice. If you hear from her, please ask her to call me.
Best,
Maeve
Send.
She glanced across the aisle and made eye contact with a blond woman who was made up as if she would soon be appearing on Broadway. Her hair fell in soft waves around her face as her brown eyes searched the cabin, making eye contact with Maeve briefly.
The man who walked up the aisle was now heading toward them, back to his seat. She glanced up at him—their eyes met briefly before he snapped his face toward the other direction. Yowzah! Was that who she thought it was? Snake? The hair on the back of her neck stood alert and her stomach twisted. Was she on a plane with Snake? Or was she just seeing things? Did the man merely look like Snake? Or was it really him? Jesus. Now what?
A flight attendant walked by and Maeve grabbed her.
“Excuse me,” she whispered, suddenly sweating like a pig.
“Yes.”
“I need to know if you have a Sam Everidge on the plane.”
“I can’t tell you that. I’m sorry,” she said with a British accent and smiled in a condescending way.
“But I think I saw him, and he’s a dangerous man.”
Her smiled faded. “What exactly do you mean?”
“Well, we’re pretty sure he robbed my friend in Hawaii, and he followed us to Hong Kong, where we were shot at while we were at this really ancient site.”
“We?”
“My partner, Jackson Dodds, and I.”
“The Jackson Dodds?”
Maeve nodded. Gosh, was her partner that popular across the world?
“Just believe me. He is dangerous. Can you at least check on him? Like run a check, whatever you do when someone suspicious is on a plane?”
“Yes,” she said. “I can do that. Thank you. And please keep this matter to yourself. I’ll get back to you.”
Maeve never saw that particular flight attendant again. She e-mailed Jackson, Jennifer, and Alice about thinking Snake was on board with her. But she didn’t see him again, either. Maybe it wasn’t really him. Maybe.
Chapter 24
Hey,
I am in Italy, smelling the most magnificent tomato sauce I have ever smelled. The oregano and thyme frothing together in the pot. Oh man. The ancients believed the tomato had an aphrodisiac quality, and they called it the love apple. Now that I am thinking about it, I just don’t know of a more comforting, sensual smell than homemade tomato sauce. I remember Mom making batches of it every summer and canning it. What a treat in the middle of February in Virginia—fresh tomato sauce from the garden.
I am so glad to be out of Rome—talk about a crowded mess. I did get a chance to see the Coliseum, but that was only as we drove by it. It’s so frustrating, Jackson, there’s no time for anything but work. I am in Tuscany and tomorrow we hunt for truffles. I’ve not heard from you and am wondering if you’ll be here to take pictures. I’m hoping you’re on your way.
Maeve
Any thoughts Maeve had of a quaint truffle-hunting experience vanished when she saw the dogs. These folks took thei
r truffle hunting very seriously. It was October, the exact proper season for finding the fleshy white fungi—Italy was the only place in the world you could find them—tartufo bianco. The black ones could be found elsewhere in the world.
Maeve was staying in a large villa in rural Tuscany. It sat at the end of a dirt road driveway. On either side of the drive were rows and rows of grapevines, tinged in October’s gold. In front of the huge terra-cotta-colored brick building were two arches, leading into the front rooms. Small windows were on each side of the arches and four small ones were above them. From looking at the front of the home, you’d think it was dark and dank. But inside, it was filled with light. The other sides of the house were almost all glass—a new renovation to the home that had been in the same wealthy family for generations.
There was a third floor, smaller, which is where Maeve slept. Her windows and private balcony looked out over the fields of grapevines to the wooded mountains, which were reputedly filled with what she had come to explore: truffles.
As luck would have it, Giovanni, her sturdy, handsome guide and host, was serious about truffles and insisted on rising at midnight to hunt the delicacies.
“The dogs can smell them better in the moonlight,” he said.
But it was freezing. Freezing in Italy—great. Where were all those sunny beaches of the Mediterranean? Of course, there were no truffles in the sand. Maeve piled on the layers and borrowed a jacket and warm boots from Giovanni’s sister, Lucinda.
She trudged along with Giovanni and his crew of eight, each one tending a dog, which were so well trained they completely ignored her. She tried to engage with them—no takers.
“We send them to a special school for training,” he explained, as they watched one tear into the rich Tuscan earth and pull out a white truffle between its teeth, very carefully, not bruising the $3,000-a-pound delicacy.
They stopped working at about 5:00 a.m. and Maeve was tired and hungry when they stepped into the kitchen of the villa. She could smell frying butter and something else … earthy, musky. When they sat a platter of it in front of her she nearly fainted from the richness of the butter dripping off the truffles.
“This is the best way to have them,” Giovanni told her. “You can do all kinds of things with them—dress them up, add special sauces, but those of us who know will tell you. Plain. In butter,” he said with butter dripping down his chin.
He sipped his wine. Yes, wine for breakfast. It made Maeve giddy—the sheer hedonism, eating one of the most expensive delicacies in the world, drinking wine with a handsome Italian—all at 6:00 a.m.
“Well,” Maeve said, holding his gaze. “I am off to bed. I am so tired.” She yawned—her chest expanding and Giovanni’s eyes casually grazing over her breasts.
Maeve woke up around noon, took a shower, and found her table covered in delicious-looking pastries, jewel-like jams, and a crock of light yellow butter. She sat down to the treats in front of her. A light rapping came at her door.
Giovanni opened the door and walked in with a coffeepot and two cups. “Good morning. I thought we could both use this. It will clear our heads,” he said and looked sheepishly away from her. He was gorgeous in a classic Italian way—large, bold features, beautiful smooth dark olive complexion.
“May I join you?”
“Absolutely,” she said, fresh from the shower, still in her new blue velvet robe, feeling its softness envelop her body, just the way she had imagined. “This food is incredible,” she said, spreading apricot jam on a pastry, taking a bite, then eyeing the butter.
“Mmm,” he said, pouring the coffee, its sounds and smells filling the air between them. “Try the butter.”
She mused on the attraction she felt for him last night. This morning it was gone. The moment was past.
Her knife plunged into the butter and spread it on another piece of pastry. When she bit into it, she could feel her taste buds standing alert. It was the creamiest and sweetest butter she’d ever had. A slight touch of salt, perhaps? A giggle erupted.
“What?”
She could not stop laughing. Such heaven in her mouth. It was a taste of happiness. Joy. Unbridled flavor.
“Good, huh?”
She stuck a serving spoon in the tub of butter. “Do you mind?” she said, after calming herself down. He was going to think she was a crazy American if she didn’t get a grip.
He shook his head, an amused smile spreading across his face.
She scooped the butter and tried to maintain her composure. What had gotten into her? She felt herself yielding to this butter. She licked it delicately, savoring each sweet dip, her tongue quivering with the anticipation, until she could not stand it any longer—she wrapped her mouth around the large spoon and filled her mouth with it and felt it melt, sliding into her throat. She swallowed it and looked at Giovanni.
“Man,” he said coming closer to her. “You, ah, reall-l-l-ly love that butter.”
He moved closer to her and the next thing she knew his mouth gently kissed hers, his tongue licking her lips, then going further into her mouth, deep kisses full of fire and promise.
She did not even really believe in the idea of monogamy and so she shrugged off images of home and hearth. She was bound and determined not to be controlled by anyone—even Jackson. And yet, even as this gorgeous hunk of Italian manhood was in front of her, a whiff of a robe between them, she had no desire to sleep with him. And it worried her. This was exactly the kind of situation she loved before. The man was attractive, they had plenty of time to explore, and she’d be on a plane soon. No fuss. Just fun. But something just didn’t feel right. It was Jackson dwelling in her mind.
She pulled away from him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But I’m on assignment and—”
“It’s quite all right,” he said, hoarsely. “I understand.”
He sat back and soon they were talking about food and cooking. Chef was a good friend of his. In fact, it was he who had pulled the strings allowing Maeve to be there.
“You know, Chef used to say cooking is about control,” he said. “Eating is about submission. He said people who really enjoy their food are great in bed.”
The idea of submitting to food played in her mind. She knew she had submitted to this incredible butter—so pure and fresh she could not get enough of it. Still, Jackson’s face, his legs, his pitiful look as he lay in the hospital bed—all of it flashed before her, while Giovanni’s eyes moved over the curves of her body.
There was something about the butter that reminded her of … home. She thought it was ridiculous, of course. A little of Virginia in Italy? Or was it the other way around? But it reminded her of her childhood—but she couldn’t quite say how.
Sitting across the table from her host, gelling in the moment with the butter, something in her brain clicked.
“How well did you know Chef?” she asked.
“Very well,” he said. “We’ve known each other for years.”
“Did you know that he and his wife were in an open marriage?”
He smiled. “Of course. We were in some of the same clubs at one time. But I found the lifestyle unpalatable after a while. It ruined my marriage. But Paul and Yvette? They loved it.”
“Who would want to kill him?”
He shrugged. “Nobody I know. All of the women? They just wanted to sleep with him. Famous chef. There was one woman …”
Maeve’s head tilted. “One woman?”
“Yes, he began to prefer her. I can’t remember her name. Susan? Sarah? It doesn’t matter now, does it?”
Later, she was grateful for an extra few days in her schedule. She needed a little rest. She lay in a huge hammock on her balcony, the October sun spilling onto her body, as she gently rocked. The scent of wild rosemary filled the air. It was true what she had always heard about Italian men—they filled your senses. They knew how to eat, how to cook, and oh yes, she wondered if they knew how to make love. Once again, she wondered if she should allow herself the
indulgence of a lover while she was here. Maybe, she thought as she closed her eyes, once again, thinking immediately of Jackson. And when she opened them, he was standing there looking down at her.
“Hard at work, I see,” he said.
Chapter 25
Getting up at midnight didn’t suit Jackson. In fact, he wasn’t sure he liked being here at all. He was haunted by images of his experience in Hawaii and Hong Kong. The pock-faced man named Snake. The beautiful blonde and the strange look she had given him. And the open hotel door, followed by a fist to his already-bruised face. The unbelievably handsome Ji taking them off to the middle of nowhere and the shots that had been fired. The Italians on this estate seemed like something out of a dream, so hospitable.
He hoped for decent moonlight so he could get some shots of the dogs and people hunting for truffles, but as they traipsed up the hillsides, his camera saw only Maeve’s white facing shining out from beneath a mound of hats, scarves, and hoods. There she was, no makeup, bundled up as if it was the tundra instead of Tuscany, her cheeks red, her eyes glimmering as she followed alongside the dogs.
He wondered if she had had been sleeping with Giovanni. He caught their host watching her intently and once or twice he swore she looked back at him with longing. He felt an enraging, painful jealousy creeping into his gut. Why? Why would he even care if she were sleeping with anybody else? For some reason, he just did not want to think of Maeve sleeping with someone else. It was an odd sort of protective sensation.
He had never had a relationship in which he cared that much about fidelity. It was just sex, after all, and he knew that had nothing to do with love or emotions. His woman could sleep with others—as long as she kept coming back to him for more.
“What are you doing? Flirting with him?” he came up behind Maeve and whispered in her ear.
“What’s it to you?” she said. “And no, I’m not flirting with him.”
“Humph. I’ve heard that before,” he said. They had stopped under a huge tree. The dogs were taking a bit of a break—or so it seemed.
