Chapter Fifteen

Somewhere in Morocco

Hammers pounded in her brain, but Margo resisted the urge to open her eyes. She sensed daylight around her and the brightness gripped her skull and squeezed. She buried her head under the pillow, eliminating the light, but the hammers persisted. It took her a moment to remember she was either in Rabat or Marrakesh—she wasn’t sure. This was strictly a turnaround layover and she was focused on their departure for London later that night. Morocco was merely where they’d dumped an entire contingent of wealthy oilmen, most of whom were tied to the country’s royalty.

They’d taken up all of first and business class and she’d spent the entire flight feeling all thirty eyes undressing her each time she served a drink or brought a pillow. Most of them were middle-aged and gray, except for Mass. She’d learned his name much later in the evening, but their introduction had occurred minutes after the plane had departed from JFK when she’d reached over him to serve a drink to his seat companion—and felt his hand on her ass. She’d jumped slightly, but not enough to spill the drink. She glared at him and he stared back, entirely unashamed. His hand traced the curve of her buttock once more before he removed it.

He was incredibly handsome and much younger than the other men. His father was sitting two rows ahead of him, but she didn’t know that at the time. Throughout the rest of the flight their eyes met constantly, and more than once Mass caught her staring at his incredible physique which was accentuated by his tailored dress shirt. He’d waited for her when she got off the plane and offered her a ride in his limousine to her hotel. She said yes to the ride and much more. He’d taken her to dinner, got her drunk, felt her up and taken her to bed.

“The universal pattern of seduction. It knows no international boundaries, ” she said to the pillow.

He’d departed at some point, leaving her with a splitting headache and tenderness in several intimate places. Mass is definitely an appropriate name for him.

Her cell phone chimed, and her hand emerged from under the pillow to search the nightstand. She flicked the phone to the floor and swore. By the time she’d retrieved it from under the bed, there was a voice mail from Grace.

She smiled as Grace rehashed the last day in an excited voice she’d never heard. The smile vanished by the time Grace described the pool orgy.

What had she done? What had Logan done? Grace certainly needed to spice up her life, but she’d crossed so many personal boundaries that Margo wondered how much therapy she’d require after she drained the vial and the Root of Passion was gone. Clearly there was some sort of drug in the potion and she was losing her mind. Would Dina ever want her, or would she scare her away?

Margo held her head in her hands, trying to think through her hangover, realizing there was little she could do from nearly six thousand miles away. There was a seven hour time difference and since it was after eight a.m. on Sunday in Morocco that meant Grace and Logan were enjoying primetime in bed. She could call Michelle and tell her she needed to retrieve Grace, but by the time she got a flight to Sin City it would be late Sunday morning and whatever debasing activity Logan had planned would be well underway. And the likelihood of Michelle finding them would be slim.

“Hell, she’d probably join in, ” she muttered.

Doubts about Logan’s judgment and integrity surfaced and she automatically hit Grace’s cell number on her speed dial while she went to the desk and opened her laptop. After several rings, a giggling voice answered.

“Grace, is that you? ”

“Hey, Margo. What’s up? ”

There was more laughter over a sound she didn’t recognize. She heard Logan’s voice but couldn’t understand what she said.

“Grace, what’s going on? I got your message. Is everything okay? ” Grace squealed and didn’t answer. “Honey, what are you doing? ”

“Marg, I really can’t talk right now. I’m covered in whipped cream, and Logan has made me her personal ice cream sundae.”

From thousands of miles away, she distinctly heard Logan say, “I really want to eat your cherry.”

She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Grace, I think we should talk. When can I call back? ”

“Well, I’ll be home Sunday. Or Monday, ” she quickly added.

“Monday? Don’t you have work? ”

“Yeah, but I could get Dr. Sayers to cover. He owes me. God, everybody in that hospital owes me for all the times I’ve covered for them. Poor little Grace. Always the one everyone turns to for a favor. She has no life. Let’s ask Grace.” She finished her speech and snorted. “I’m not worried.”

But I am. “Grace, honey, I really do want to talk to you later, okay? I’m in Morocco right now and I won’t be home for another four days. What I’ve got to say can’t wait that long. When can I call you? ”

But her phone had obviously fallen out of her hand, for Margo could hear her distant laughter. Grace had floated away and she wasn’t sure what person had taken her place. She called her name three more times, but when Grace didn’t answer, she hung up on squeals that were rapidly turning into moans.

This was all her fault. She threw on her robe and paced, glancing absently around the room. The empty pomegranate vodka bottle was responsible for the hammers in her head, and her underwear, ripped in half, lay near the doorway. Mass had wasted no time taking her to bed.

She crossed her arms and looked down. What was the difference between her and Grace? How could she sit in judgment of Grace’s whipped cream delight when she’d bedded a complete stranger? Despite any concerns about Logan, Grace seemed to be having a great time. And if Logan offered Grace any drugs, she wouldn’t accept them. She knew Grace would be heading to the airport—furious—not playing ice cream parlor in bed.

Remembering why she’d booted up her laptop, she typed in Logan’s name and was amazed by the number of hits. Logan Brown was indeed a world-renowned photographer whose pictures were breathtaking. She admired the woman’s talent as she clicked through several Google entries. Not finding much text about her, she scrolled through several pages, avoiding the photojournalistic spreads. After eight pages, almost ready to give up, she found a story about her near arrest in nineteen ninety-five. It was an AP wire story that had appeared in the Los Angeles Times.

According to the small blurb, she and another female passenger had been stopped by customs and questioned for several hours when she arrived in L.A. from a trip to Borneo. Apparently a baggie of herbs, roots and bark was confiscated, and only after a scientist confirmed that none of the substances constituted an illicit or illegal drug were she and her companion allowed to go. It was fishy, but it certainly wasn’t a smoking gun to share with Grace. Still, it prompted her to hunt further into her past. There were three other articles about her on that page from the early nineties. She was mentioned as a constant partygoer at the swankiest clubs in New York.

She’d unwittingly clicked her way into the archives of a Manhattan gossip rag. Logan was mentioned often, her name bolded along with many other customers at the various clubs. There were a few pictures and the twenty-something Logan was a knockout, and she looked the part of the wild child, complete with skimpy miniskirt and drink in hand. There was a glassy look to her eyes, a look Margo had seen throughout her twenties in her contemporaries. Having spent time in New York, she was familiar with the club scene and she knew which ones were known for the free-flow of drugs. Eva’s story seemed much more plausible to her now.

She tried a different angle and searched Root of Passion. She was surprised when several entries appeared, most of which mentioned the Valerian root and the Passion flower. She quickly learned that both were used as sedatives, and the Passion flower helped with imbalances of serotonin. She searched her memory of high school science. While she’d managed to pass Mr. Weaver’s chemistry class by displaying an inappropriate amount of cleavage, she’d actually paid attention anytime the word sex had been mentioned and she remembered that serotonin levels could affect sexual drive.

She punched in Joseph’s cell number, knowing he was at work in the hospital’s lab.

“Hey, sweetie, ” he answered over several other voices. “Is this my Sex Samaritan checking up on me? ”

“You know I’m always here for you if you need me. Look, I’m worried about Grace and the Root of Passion. You wouldn’t believe what’s going on in Vegas.”

“Honestly, Margo, I doubt very much that it has anything to do with that potion.”

She heard the skepticism in his voice. Whatever belief he’d had in the bar had fizzled when he stepped into the lab.

She scanned the Web page she’d pulled up. “What do you know about serotonin? ”

“Serotonin? Why would you need to know about that? ”

“I was doing a little research, and I’m beginning to wonder if the potion affects a person’s serotonin. I mean, I can’t really explain it, so that’s why I’m calling you.”

He sighed knowingly. “I got it. You’re asking if somebody swallowed a drink, say a magic potion, and it greatly increased serotonin levels, could it alter that person’s behavior? ”

“Thanks. That’s exactly what I’m asking. I’m glad you’re fast. These international charges are killer.”

“Um, well I’ve never heard of anything having that much power. I mean, there’s been talk in the last decade about female pheromones affecting male serotonin levels and increasing sexual drive. That’s obviously a straight thing, though.”

“What about gay women? ”

“It’s funny you should mention that.” She heard a door shut and imagined he’d sought out a quieter place. “There was one study done recently that suggested homosexual women and heterosexual men have similar brain responses to certain sexual chemicals.”

Margo snorted. “And we all know how strongly straight guys respond to anything sexual. So, it wouldn’t be beyond the realm of possibility that a lesbian’s serotonin levels could be affected if she swallowed an incredible amount of pheromones? ”

“Well, that’s a huge jump, honey. I’ve never heard of any chemical that had that sort of effect.”

“What about something natural, like a root? ”

“Ah, I see. Well, there are some herbs and roots that are supposed to be linked to pheromones in other animals, but we’re not talking about humans. I’ve only heard of the perfume they’ve tried to make from some different types of pheromones. I think you’re climbing up a ridiculous tree here, and you’re freaking me out. We never talk about this stuff. I’m the scientist, and I’m telling you to let it go. Your mystery shop was probably a joke shop. Okay? ”

She sighed. “Okay. I’ve gotta go, honey.”

She hung up, her mind swirling. Could the mysterious Root of Passion be controlling Grace’s sexual drive? She pictured her best friend slathered in whipped cream, an image that she couldn’t have fathomed a week ago. She thought of innocent Grace and worldly Logan, a woman with a racy past, a woman that Grace barely knew, spending another day in one of the raunchiest cities in America.