by Ellis, Dee
Mariel shook her head so violently, her Louise Brooks bob flew from side to side.
“That’s just it. They didn’t fully identify themselves, not FBI, NSA, CIA, Secret Service, Federal Marshalls, Homeland Security, nothing. Mr Hopkins said they flashed Government identification but it wasn’t one he recognised and they wouldn’t allow questions. He said they were seriously scary. They didn’t exactly threaten him but the menace went unstated. He told them they’d need a subpoena if they wanted any information and, anyway, the newspaper was protected by the First Amendment. Get this, when he said that, they replied that there was no First Amendment, no amendments of any kind where they worked.”
“Wow,” was all Sandrine could say, sitting back in her chair and letting the information wash over her. Whatever it meant, she had no idea. “What’s your take on the situation?”
“Cause and effect. I’m ferreting out information on your new boyfriend and, in a distressingly short space of time, some humourless Government types who are so secret they won’t even mention who they work for turn up in the office. My search set off some big-ass alarms in Washington. To recap, who is your boyfriend and what exactly is it he does? Is he a good guy or a bad guy and why does the Government care?”
They went back and forth, examining various possibilities, suggesting alternatives, weaving the theories together until they were both thoroughly confused. In the meantime, Sandrine decided that she should bring Mariel up to speed on the entire story, in the process adding some more pieces to the puzzle.
She laid it out in detail, starting with the arrival of the Russians in the bookstore through to that day’s events. Mariel sat open-mouthed the entire time. By the end, the colour had drained from her face, leaving just a slash of bright red lipstick.
“Why didn’t you tell me all of this?” she demanded.
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
“You’re damn right I’d worry. This is dangerous. You should call the police.”
“I didn’t know what to do and Jack was been so protective. He’d never put me in danger, I know that.”
“And considering what we know, or don’t know, about Jack, do you still feel the same? Is it a coincidence he turned up around the same time the Russians did?”
Sandrine considered the question carefully. Mariel had raised an interesting point, one that hadn’t quite occurred to her.
“It has to be a coincidence. Couldn’t be anything else. Oh, and one more thing.”
“What else could there be?” Mariel demanded.
“I’m in love with Jack.”
“Oh, no. Sandrine, you must be kidding. Lust is one thing and a very therapeutic thing it is. But love, and in love, that’s so unlike you.”
“I know,” Sandrine nodded. “I’ve always been the one in control before. But with Jack, I’m helpless. I never thought I could feel this way and the realisation hit me suddenly but it happened.”
Mariel knocked back the last of her martini and signalled the waiter. He was at the table in seconds, with the happy expectant expression of a puppy being taken for a walk. If he had a tail, it would have been wagging. She ordered iced water; Sandrine went for another white wine.
“Can this story get any more complicated? You meet a guy who may or may not be what he says he is but who initially appeared to be a knight in shining armour. He’s impossibly cute, sexy and, I assume, very good in bed. But he’s also into S&M, has his own bondage room and is still in love with another woman. And you’re being threatened by a bunch of Russian thugs. Have I left anything out?”
“No, that’s pretty much it. And while the S&M thing revolts me, I do find the bondage side of things very erotic. There’s something about being helpless and completely in Jack’s control, that gets me very excited.”
The waiter skated back in record time, laying down the drinks and picking up the empties. Mariel continued on with the conversation as if he wasn’t there.
“Be careful. It’s like that song. There’s a fine line between pleasure and pain. One moment, it’s silk scarves and butterfly kisses, the next it’s burning candle wax on the nipples and electric cattle prods.”
“Mariel!” Sandrine exclaimed with an outraged tone, casting a quick glance at the waiter who was standing stock still, an empty glass poised half-way between table and tray, an expression that alternated between writhing embarrassment and morbid curiosity stealing across his features. He slowly skated away with a wistful look. Mariel failed to notice. She was in full flight.
“I’m serious. I know what I’m talking about. There was a stockbroker I once knew. Looked angelic, like arbitrage wouldn’t melt in his mouth but he was one sick puppy. He had a Berkley horse set up in his dining room and liked to watch submissives being flogged during dinner parties. Tried to talk me into taking part.”
Mariel sipped her water with a carefully arranged nonchalance that demanded Sandrine ask her what happened next.
“What happened next?”
She shrugged.
“Tried it six or seven times before deciding it wasn’t for me. He did make a killer soufflé, however.”
It was typical of Mariel. No matter how much they disagreed and how heated the conversation became as a result, she could diffuse any offence with a burst of humour and a raucous laugh.
“OK, maybe we’re over-thinking this. Maybe this really is fate and Jack came along just at the right time. What’s bothering me is that it doesn’t explain the government men turning up in my office so soon after I start a background search.”
“I just don’t know but it doesn’t feel right. I’m certain Jack is a good guy.”
“And maybe those government types were the Men In Black.”
“That would make Jack an alien and I’m pretty sure he’s not.”
“Wing-a-ding,” Mariel crowed. “Wouldn’t that be something? He might have two cocks.”
“The one he has is quite enough,” Sandrine shot back defensively, then instantly regretted saying it.
Mariel leered across the table.
“Go, girl. Tell all. What’s he like in the sack?”
“You know I won’t say. I don’t do that kind of thing.”
“Oh, come one, Miss Prim. What’s the harm in a little light conversation? Anyway, I’ve told you enough stories over the years.”
“Over-shared to be exact.”
“Oh, poo.” Mariel pouted. The young waiter suddenly returned, sensing a prized customer’s dissatisfaction. She waved him away. “No, not you, Hans. Not this time. I’ll talk to you later.”
“You know him? Another story to tell?” Sandrine asked.
“Wouldn’t want to over-share,” Mariel huffed. “So what do you intend to do?”
“There’s only one way to find out about Jack,” Sandrine mused.
“You can’t ask him,” Mariel appeared horrified.
“I don’t like to think he’d be hiding anything from me.”
“But asking him straight out will only alert him that we know something.”
“I can’t lie to him. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“You’re in a lot of danger. Keep it quiet for the moment. See what happens next.”
Sandrine thought this over. On one hand, she knew she owed Jack such a lot. He’s been there for me when I needed him most. On the other hand, there were so many unanswered questions. Mariel’s revelations had shaken her equilibrium. There is certainly something strange going on and there may be a lot he’s not telling me. He owes me an explanation.
“I’m not sure how long I can wait. I’m so worried. Maybe I’m foolish having fallen for Jack so quickly. I can’t explain why it happened.”
“I think it was just a matter of time before you lost your heart to someone. You’re the romantic type no matter how much you claim you’re not. You can’t go through life being totally in control of every relationship. Someone, some time, was going to make you forget those silly rules you live by.”
Sandrine loo
ked around the room. The evening was getting on and the lighting had been dialled down a notch. The music had also changed, from the lively jazz violin of Stephane Grappelli to lush late 70s disco. It was almost dim within the restaurant now, with the result that those around them had begun acting like a teenagers’ party when the adults were absent. Groups had broken up into couples, hunched together over their tables, speaking close, chatting, laughing, holding hands or stealing discreet kisses.
There was an undeniable air of romanticism and Russet & Brown’s had taken a step closer to recreating a singles bar atmosphere. The patrons didn’t seem to mind; in fact, they were embracing it enthusiastically. It was getting humid in so many ways; sex and desire was as overt as the clashing sensory symphonies of expensive perfumes.
It made her think of Jack although, in reality, pretty much everything made her think of Jack these days. Despite all that had occurred, including Mariel’s surprising and frankly unsettling story, she longed for Jack to be here. She needed to feel his quiet strength next to her. In her mind, she saw his green eyes flashing with humour and could hear his deep laugh vibrating through her as he told her it was all nonsense, there was a very simple explanation.
What it was, she had no idea but there had to be one. She and Mariel were just looking at it the wrong way. Jack’s the good guy, she thought, he’s the one in the white hat, the mysterious and enigmatic cowboy who rode into town just in time to save me.
That’s the great thing about Westerns, she reminded herself. The good guys wore white hats and the bad guys black hats. You could always tell who was who. Real life, as Mariel pointed out a little later in the evening, is never that simple.
Chapter Twenty One
Sandrine was relieved when she found herself on that golden grassy hillside of her dreams. She stood still for a few minutes, feeling the warm breeze on her skin and smelling the bright summer air, redolent of fresh grass and flower blossoms. The sun hung low and the air shimmered radiantly. She was filled with an ethereal reminder of hope and love and security. Her parents were near, she knew that with absolute certainty, although she couldn’t as yet see them.
There was no trace of the dark terror of the previous dream when the hillside and the city beyond the crest burnt to ash. Like the previous dreams, she was aware she was sleeping and this was all the work of her imagination. She thought with logic but saw with her imagination and she found it curiously fascinating that her mind maintained its restless probing, even in a dream state.
She whispered her parents’ names, which the breeze carried far, stirring the grass as it went, creating ripples and waves and disappearing far beyond the point she could actually discern movement. The gravity of the scene shifted irrationally and she started moving up the hillside. Although she wasn’t walking any faster, perspective seemed to stretch, in that way that dreams will sometimes do, and she was suddenly within the city, standing in a wide public square. An expansive fountain cascaded water from white marble figures and a cold spray speckled her skin, refreshing her.
Her mother and father waited, standing together on the ancient cobblestones. Around the sides of the square, tables and chairs were set up outside restaurants. Most held plates of food, bottles of wine, half-filled glasses, chairs pushed back hurriedly. The vividness of the detail was startling. It looked like a thousand people had been dining moments before she arrived but the square now held only Sandrine, her mother and father.
It wasn’t ominous in any way. It was a dream. That’s just the way it was.
Sandrine ran a finger along the edge of the fountain and looked at the residue of grime and dust and finely-powdered ochre that resulted. She scooped up a handful of the cold sparkling water and drank it down, noting just how fresh it tasted.
Her parents waited patiently, smiling, their expressions open and expectant.
“We’re here with you. We always have been,” her mother said, her eyes moist with emotion.
“We’re never far away. We’re in your heart. We go where you go,” her father continued and he, too, appeared overcome yet radiantly happy all the same.
“We all belong. Different places, different times, but together despite everything,” they said in unison.
Sandrine nodded, unsure of exactly what they were implying. Were they manifestations of the turmoil in her own mind, finding expression through the images of people she loved?
“What about Jack?” Sandrine asked. “Does he love me as I love him? Is he as genuine as I hope?”
A sombre expression crossed her mother’s face. She appeared to be mulling the question over, seeking the right words.
“We can’t tell you about Jack. The answer lies within you. If you believe Jack is the one, then he is.”
“You know yourself far better than you think,” her father added. “Listen to your heart. Don’t let your fears overcome who you are. Believe in yourself. What you have with Jack can be special beyond measure. It can be the most divine love you ever experience but it will take heartache to realise the potential.”
The words cheered her. A part of her knew – do I have to analyse everything, even in my dreams? – that she was probably hearing only what she wanted but coming from her mother and father made it infinitely more encouraging.
Sandrine wanted to ask more but the light suddenly faded, the sound of the splashing water dimmed and her mother and father retreated into the far distance as if pulled by invisible wires.
The next thing she knew she was twisting within the sheets of her darkened bedroom. She was naked and the bed felt enormously large and empty. The screen of her cell phone was lit, a message from Jack.
Where have you been? Tried calling you earlier but no answer. If you’re awake, please let me know.
She lay in the dark, clutching the phone to her chest, silently debating whether to go back to sleep. She was tired and still a little drunk, the after-effects of one too many glasses of white wine with Mariel. The dream had mellowed her and her mind wandered. She felt oddly fulfilled, soft and receptive. An image of Jack came to her and she felt that languid liquid shift in her core. It was all it took. Without much thought, her fingers darted across the keyboard.
So sorry. Met up with Mariel for a drink. Now in bed thinking of you.
A reply came back immediately.
I’ve been thinking of you all night.
What are you going to do about it? This was crazy, she thought, we’re texting like teenagers.
I’m downstairs. Would you like a late night visitor?
Come upstairs and find out.
She walked to the front door and opened it. She didn’t bother to dress at this hour. There wouldn’t be anybody in the hallway to scandalise and she didn’t really care if she did. She was warm, still a little sleepy and naked. Her nipples were hard and tight but not because of any chill in the air. She wanted Jack to be surprised, to instantly want her as much as she yearned for him, and imagined watching the slow extension of his hardness in appreciation.
Jack was waiting. He filled the doorway. Hungrily, his eyes caressed her body then he reached for her, lifting her up into his arms and slamming the door shut behind him. As he carried her into the bedroom, she clung tight, wouldn’t let him go and they fell onto the bed locked together. She continued to hold on, kissing him, moaning softly into his mouth, moulding her body as close as she could while she fumbled his jeans open and he pushed harshly inside her, spearing her roughly into the mattress.
Chapter Twenty Two
Sandrine drifted gently from the contentment of sleep to the surface of consciousness. Jack was nestled into her back, an arm gripping her firmly, the heat from their bodies providing a distracting comfort. Jack’s solid manhood pulsed lazily against her thigh.
The doubts that normally occupied her thoughts were welcomingly absent. There were no inner voices that would otherwise tie her into knots of uncertainty, fighting for attention. Sandrine so wished there could be a mute button on her subconscious, that s
he could silence the voices more readily.
They were the manifestations of irrational fear that made her doubt her appeal and brought forth the idea that she could so easily lose Jack if a more attractive, vibrant and confident woman came along. It was silly, she knew, but powerful as well.
Her friends continually told her she was a warm, intelligent and attractive person who any man would give the world to be with but she found it difficult to reconcile those views with what she saw in the mirror. Confidence was a quality she had never possessed in great measure.
When she was alone, she was a seething mass of insecurities. Being with Jack made her forget herself; she was besotted, maybe even obsessed with him, and that took her mind from other things. But how obsessed? she had thought in the last few weeks. Am I becoming like those sad pathetic creatures who end up marrying prisoners on death row?
It was one reason she didn’t take Mariel’s concerns of the previous evening too seriously. She needed to believe in Jack, almost as much as she needed him near her, around her and inside her. The physical connection kept all doubts, of him and about herself, at a safe distance.
So she lay in the half-dark, dawn beginning to seep around the curtains into the room, with their shared heat cocooning her and she felt safe. The warm wetness between her legs was a reminder of the hunger that had led her to their most recent bout of lovemaking. It was unprotected and she recognised how wrong it was but at the time her needs had overcome common sense.
As if in answer to the after-glow that swept aside any other hesitations, Jack stirred behind her.
“We shouldn’t have let that happen. I should have been stronger,” he said sleepily.
“Jack, darling, go back to sleep. It’s all right. I wanted it that way. Much more than you did.”
“We need to be sure what we’re doing.” His breath was hot against her skin. He kissed her bare shoulder and she shivered reflexively. Her hips moved lazily back against him and the wondrous feeling of his attraction to her, unmistakable, re-awakened her hunger.
“I’m equally to blame for what happened and I made no mistake.”
