Authors: Alexandrea Weis
Recovery (3 page)
“May I ask one question before I agree?” I paused as Simon nodded warily at me. “Why are you doing all of this? It’s not for David. There’s more to this, isn’t there?”
He let a few seconds tick by before he answered.
“My reasons are very simple, dollars and cents, my girl. Having one of my more prominent specialists killed has hurt my affairs and my income.”
His words only confirmed the burning resentment I felt for the little man. “I knew you were a cold-hearted bastard under all that charm, Simon La Roy.”
He bowed his head. “You flatter me, Nicci. In my line of work being a cold-hearted bastard is a compliment.”
I turned and hurried away, leaving Simon basking in the glory of his newest acquisition, me. I was being used to help him remove the taint on his organization and improve his bottom line. It was just like finding out David had used me to destroy my family’s business all over again. Only this time I wanted to be used. I wanted to find out who had killed David. Quite simply, I wanted revenge. And the realization of that left me feeling strangely empowered. Love may give you wings, my father had always said, but only vengeance gives you courage.
I made my way back to the party, stopped here and there by critics who had read my novel. I did not know how interested they were in actually meeting me since their eyes never seemed to travel higher than my bustline. But I smiled, played the coquettish tease, and flirted shamelessly. None of the men seemed to mind, but when I bumped into Dora, I got an earful.
“Laying it on thick, aren’t you?” she asked just after a critic from the
Herald Advocate
had left my side.
I smirked. “I thought that was the idea.”
Dora frowned. “You are supposed to be a witty southern novelist. Not Scarlett friggin’ O’Hara.”
“I’m surprised you Yankees know the difference,” I countered, staring her down. “I would have thought ya’ll believed everyone from down South was either a redneck or a whore.”
“What the hell is wrong with you, Nicci? What did Mr. Hamper say to you?”
“Nothing.” I looked around the room until I found the bar. “I need a drink.”
“That is not a good idea. Mr. Hamper wants you to work…”
I waved her comment away with my hand as I started toward the bar. “Mr. Hamper won’t care. Trust me, Dora,” I said over my shoulder. Dora quickly fell in step behind me.
As I stood by the bar and waited to be served my sustenance, Dora glared at me with her dark eyes. Once my two screwdrivers were placed before me, I quickly grabbed the first glass and downed the drink in two gulps.
Dora shook her head and frowned. “I’m going to see if there are any more people you need to meet before you pass out.” She turned away from me and headed back out into the ballroom.
“Don’t worry about me, kiddo,” I called to her as I reached for my second drink. “I’m from New Orleans and we are known for our well-seasoned livers.”
I took in the crowd around me feeling very much removed from the people in the room. I had come here tonight thinking I was a writer, but in a matter of moments, I had been transformed into bait to tempt a killer. I eagerly finished my second drink, hoping the warm rush of alcohol would help numb my anxiety. I turned away from the party, waved down the bartender, and asked for another vodka and orange juice.
“You don’t need anymore,” a husky voice said behind me.
I spun around, about to reprimand the offensive cretin who would dare deny me my source of strength when I was greeted by a familiar pair of cold blue eyes.
My jaw fell. “What in the hell are you doing here!”
“Well hello to you too, Ms. Beauvoir.” The limousine driver from earlier that day gave me a sarcastic grin.
He was wearing a custom-tailored dark blue pinstripe suit that complemented his eyes and accentuated his lean torso. I was instantly gripped by a desire to slap the silly grin off his face.
He took the empty glass out of my hand and placed it on the bar. He then nodded to the bartender.
A gust of anger blew through me. “You’re here with Simon?”
He looked at the bartender and said, “Get her a glass of water and give me a Stoli vodka and soda.”
The bartender placed two glasses on the bar in front of us and filled them with ice.
I glared at his profile. “Who exactly are you?”
He turned his eyes to me. “You know my name. Let’s just dispense with the formalities and get down to the business at hand.”
“Ah, you’re Mr. August.”
He smiled and dipped his head to me. “Ms. Beauvoir.”
“Simon arranged for you to be here, so we could meet and plan our next move?” I paused. “Is that it?”
“There is nothing to plan. Everything is already in motion.” He glanced about the bar.
I sighed, resigning myself to the fact that I was committed to this adventure, despite my numerous reservations. “And when does this charade of ours begin?” I asked.
“Now,” Dallas August whispered as the bartender placed a drink before him.
He picked up his drink and quickly downed half the contents in one swallow.
A wave of panic coursed throughout my body. “What am I to do?”
He gazed over the rim of his glass, letting his eyes travel up and down my figure. “Act like you find me attractive, for one. Don’t look so damned scared.” He put his glass back down on the bar.
I took a breath and got a hold of myself. I had been raised under the critical gaze of New Orleans society and I had been pretending with that crowd all my life. This was an act, and I knew I could be a damn good actress when necessary.
Filled with a renewed confidence, I smiled, slowly looked up into his face, and leaned forward, letting my hand brush ever so slightly against his sleeve. I fingered the expensive stainless steel watch on his wrist.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“Very good,” he commented as he moved in closer to me, smiling radiantly. “In a few minutes I am going to take your arm and escort you out of here. Tell that little assistant of yours that you are done for the evening.” He leaned back and laughed a very fake-sounding laugh. “Then I will take you back to the bar in your hotel. We’ll have a very public drink, after which you will take me back to your room for the night.” He paused and his eyes went cold. “I want lots of witnesses to see us together tonight.”
I removed my hand from his arm. “I am not a whore, Mr. August.”
“If we’re going to look like lovers, Nicci, you’d better call me Dallas from here on out.”
I raised my eyebrows tauntingly at his bravado, but said nothing.
“As for sleeping with you tonight, we need to quickly establish the intimacy of our relationship to justify my returning with you to New Orleans day after tomorrow.”
“You’re flying back with me?”
“My ticket has already been purchased for the seat next to yours.”
The bitter aftertaste of anger burned in the back of my throat. “I only agreed to this a few moments ago. How could all of this have been already planned?”
“Simon knew, Nicci,” Dallas said, lowering his voice. “He is a master at predicting human behavior.”
“I don’t like being manipulated like this,” I mumbled so no one around us could hear.
“This,” he laughed again and his face came within inches of mine, “is only the beginning.”
Smiling sweetly into his eyes, I let Dallas
place his arm about my waist as we made our way across my hotel lobby to the Skyline bar. We took two stools next to the skyscraper-inspired bar made of glass and steel. A dark-haired bartender immediately came up to us and nodded. Dallas ordered a screwdriver for me and a Stolichnaya and soda for himself.
“So how much longer do I have to keep smiling at you?” I asked between my teeth. “My face is beginning to hurt.”
“You don’t have to lay it on so thick. Just pretend that you like being around me.”
“Very funny.” I stopped smiling and eyed the deserted bar. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone here to put on a show for.”
He quickly scanned the room and nodded. “It’s the staff more than the patrons that we need to impress. In case anyone questions them about us.”
I turned to him. “Why would anyone ask questions?”
“If a girl who had been madly in love with a dead painter suddenly shows up with a new man who starts asking a whole lot of questions, people might get suspicious.”
I thought of the inquisitive nature of the people I knew back home and nodded. “I see your point.”
The bartender returned with our cocktails. Dallas immediately picked up his and took a long sip. I noted the way his slender hands gripped the glass. He placed his drink down on the bar and looked over at me.
“You are not what I expected. The way David described you I thought you would be a bit less, how should I put this,” he grimaced, “reserved?”
A ripple of comfort coursed through me at the mention of David’s name. I eyed the man next to me with newfound interest. “You knew David?”
He reached to the bar and ran his fingers over his sweating glass. “We were,” he paused and smiled warmly, “friends. We met a few years ago and found we had some things in common. After he left Simon’s organization, we spent a lot of time together drinking and talking. He talked mostly, I just listened.”
I picked up my cocktail from the bar, feeling the sudden need for alcohol. “David never mentioned you. But then again, I’ve been meeting quite a few people David never mentioned.”
“Well, he told me a great deal about you.”
I held my glass inches from my lips, afraid to pose the question I was pondering. I had already learned so much about David today. I did not think I could handle any more ugly truths.
“What exactly did he say about me?” I finally asked without looking up from my drink.
“In those first few weeks after he returned from New Orleans, he said a lot. He told me about how you met and when he started painting you. You were supposed to be just another job and then…” He shrugged. “He was always going on about how he planned to get you back. Then one day, an older woman showed up at the gallery Flo had bought for him. She said she was your aunt and wanted to arrange a meeting for the two of you at a party she was planning. She told him about your engagement to another man…”
“Val,” I said without thinking. The thought of the round woman and her piercing blue eyes warmed my heart. She was my family’s oldest friend and my mother’s fiercest advocate among those in our society who felt my father had married beneath him.
“I remember he got so mad hearing that you were engaged to someone else that he punched a hole in the wall of the gallery.” Dallas laughed, a heartfelt laugh, and for the first time I thought I saw a glimpse of the real man. “I felt I got to know you pretty well through David.” He paused and looked down at the bar. “I didn’t hear about the shooting until almost a month later. I had been away on an assignment, and by the time I got back, I didn’t see any point in contacting you. I figured it was best to let the past die with David. That was until Simon approached me with his investigation into David’s death.” He glanced over at me.
I studied his face and, for a split second, I could swear I saw a hint of warmth flicker inside those icy dark blue eyes. Maybe there was more to this man than I first surmised. If he had been a friend of David’s, then perhaps he could be a friend to me.
“So you are doing all of this for David,” I inquired.
“I owe him. He saved my ass more than once.”
I put my drink down on the bar. “Really? I’d love to hear about that.”
“Well,” he cleared his throat, “we, ah, both got really drunk one night, after we had just finished this small job. The owner of the establishment we had, ah, ransacked while looking for some documents found us at this bar. The guy surprised us with a knife. David jumped in front of the man as he lunged for me. He sliced a piece out of David’s right cheek.”
“The scar on his right cheek,” I mumbled.
“Yeah, well, if David hadn’t been standing there the knife would have gone into my eye. After that we always sort of watched out for each other.” He took another long sip from his drink, draining the glass until the tinkle of ice filled the silence of the bar around us. He ran his thumb along the rim of his empty glass. “I want the bastard that shot him,” he whispered.
I picked up my cocktail again and sighed as I stared down into my drink. Since David’s funeral, my anger had eased some, or at least I had thought so until today. Now I knew I would never have peace until whoever had taken David from me paid for the crime. I looked up into his face.
“I want the bastard too.”
Two drinks later, Dallas put his arm around my shoulder and walked me across the red and gold painted lobby toward the elevators. He stopped before the crowded front desk and kissed me tenderly on the forehead. Once inside the closed doors of the elevator, I shimmied away from him.
“You’re enjoying this.”
He grinned as he folded his arms across his chest. “Yes, very much. I get a beautiful woman to fawn all over me for the next few weeks. Isn’t that every man’s dream?”
I stared at him wide-eyed. “What do you mean the next few weeks?”
“What did you think, Nicci? That I would waltz down with you to New Orleans, reveal the killer, and be home in time for New Year’s?” He scowled at me. “The person or persons who did this have been able to keep their secret safe for over two years. Flushing them out will mean jarring their confidence. Such things take time.”
I felt as if my body had become a puddle of mush. I took a breath and let my shoulders sag. “I don’t know if I can keep this up for a few weeks.”
The sly smile returned to his lips. “Well, there’s always the other alternative.”
“Which is?” I asked warily.
He moved closer to me and I could feel the heat from his body next to mine. “We do away with all the pretense. And become lovers.”
I pushed him away. “I’d rather be a lousy actress than your lover, Mr. August. One spy in this lifetime is plenty for me.”
“Well, there are spies, Ms. Beauvoir, and then there are spies.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“David was not what I am.” He paused and looked away as the doors to the elevator opened on my floor. He quickly put his arm around me. We walked out of the elevator and into the hotel corridor.
“And what are you?” I quietly asked as we made our way down the hallway.
He turned his head and bit down on my earlobe, just as the evening maid passed us in the hallway. “A man without a conscience, Nicci,” he whispered into my ear. “Remember that.”
Once inside the safety of my room, Dallas let go of me and turned his attention to inspecting the accommodations. “I’ll take the chair next to the window,” he said as he removed his jacket.
I then saw the gun holster against his chest.
“You’re armed.”
“Always.” He removed the holster from his shoulder and took the gun out. He checked the safety and placed the gun on the table in front of him. “I told you I was not like David.” He tilted his head to the side. “Does it bother you?”
I threw my purse casually on the dresser. “No. After Katrina, everyone in Southeast Louisiana carried a gun, including me.”
“Did you ever have to use your gun?”
I sat down on the bed and started removing my high heels. “Once. I heard someone out in the shed behind my cottage. I got off two shots before I heard the intruder running away through the brush.”
His eyes narrowed with interest. “Did you hit anyone?”
“I found blood out on the grass the next morning, so I must have hit something or someone.” I paused and watched his impassive expression for a moment. “You ever shoot anyone?”
“I was taught never to miss.” He smiled at me. “I worked for the FBI before I went into the private sector. When I left the agency, Simon’s little ventures seemed like a perfect fit for me.”
I got up from the bed and picked up my complimentary robe from the back of a nearby chair.
He followed behind me as I headed to the bathroom.
“I want you to know the cover was Simon’s idea, not mine. I didn’t want to bring you into any of this,” he stated over my shoulder.
“Does that matter?” I shrugged and then glanced down at the brown hotel carpet below my feet. “After everything I learned today, I would have wanted to be involved somehow.”
Without looking back, I walked straight into the bathroom, shut the door behind me, and locked it. Then I sat down on the tile floor, holding my white fluffy hotel robe to my chest, and fought back the urge to cry.
The next morning bright and early, Dora knocked
on my hotel door. Dallas answered dressed in a towel and still dripping from his shower.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, turning three shades of red in the process. “I must have the wrong room.”
Dallas smiled at her. “No, you don’t.” He turned to me, sitting on the bed behind him. “Darling, your friend is here.”
I noticed he accentuated the word “darling” when he spoke. I shot him a dirty look as I rose from the bed and went to the door.
“Good morning, Dora, ready for another lucrative book signing?” I quipped, completely ignoring the half-naked man standing beside me.
Dora said nothing. Her eyes traveled warily from me to Dallas.
Dallas was the first to break the long silence. “Go on, and I’ll meet you back here for lunch,” he said, and then kissed my lips.
As I stepped toward the door, he patted me on the behind. “Have a nice book signing,” he teased, and then darted back into the bathroom.
Out in the hallway, I could feel Dora’s dark eyes glaring at me. I adjusted the straps to my purse and laptop over my shoulder before I turned to her.
“What?” I asked casually.
She scowled at me. “That’s the guy from the party last night.”
“Yeah, his name is Dallas August.”
“At least you know his name.” Dora walked on ahead of me toward the elevator.
I followed behind her in silence until we came to the elevator doors.
“He’s a great guy,” I said to her back.
“Yeah, I saw his great body.” Dora angrily pushed the call button several times and then turned to me. “I have to admit, I never thought of you as a one-night stand kind of girl.”
I laughed, avoiding her eyes. “It’s not a one-night stand.”
“Then it’s a weekend fling?”
I gave her my best southern smirk. “Uh no. It’s going to be much more than that.”
She shook her head as the elevator doors opened. “Why don’t I believe you?”
I followed behind her into the elevator and watched as she pressed the lobby button on the panel several times. She turned her eyes to me and frowned.
“What do you know about the guy?”
I avoided her inquisitive gaze, suddenly feeling nervous about the direction her interrogation was taking. “It’s called getting to know each other, isn’t it?”
Dora leaned over and put her face in front of mine. “So in other words, you didn’t get around to too much talking last night.”
I just smiled sarcastically at her.
“Great.” She leaned back and looked away from me. “Please tell me you used protection.”
“Gee, Dora, I didn’t know you cared.”
She kept her eyes on the elevator doors ahead of us as the car descended to the lobby level. “I don’t care. I just don’t want you catching anything that can make your tits fall off before you finish this book tour.”
During the course of that morning, women came and went from my assigned table at the bookstore where Dora had arranged for me to appear. And as the readers of
Painting Jenny
asked me this or that about David, I found my mind not completely occupied by David. My thoughts kept creeping back to the elusive man whom I had left dripping wet in my hotel room.
“Was he as kind and genteel as you say?” one very round, older women asked me as she grabbed the autographed novel from my hands.
“What?” I asked, not sure to whom she was referring.
I felt a friendly stomp on my foot from Dora sitting next to me.
“She was asking about David,” Dora murmured as she leaned over my shoulder.
“Oh,” I smiled at the woman, “yes, he was. Absolutely wonderful.”
The older woman sighed, cleaved the book to her bosom, and walked away from my table.
“You need to focus, kiddo,” Dora scolded next to me. “Stop thinking about the Teutonic knight you left behind in your room this morning and start thinking about the dead guy in your book.”
I frowned at Dora. “You have such a way with words.” I turned my attention back to our table as another copy of my book was placed before me. “Amazing you didn’t become a writer yourself.”
“Didn’t have the talent, just the desire.”
“It’s never too late,” I said, raising my eyebrows encouragingly at her.
She shook her head. “No. I’ve got a much better deal doing what I do.” She paused and turned her attention to the small line of people waiting in front of our table. “Writing is something that can never be predicted or counted on.”
“But it cannot be ignored either, Dora. No matter how hard you fight it, the creativity in you will come through.” I paused, struck by a memory of David. “Shining like a new copper penny,” I whispered.
She knitted her dark brows together. “Didn’t you use that in your book?”
“Yes,” I nodded. “Well, actually it was something David once said to me. He told me never to stop writing.”
“And what does the Adonis tell you?” Dora’s voice was cold. “Or can he even read?” She held up her hand to stifle the chastising I was about to give her. “I just hope you’re not using him to fill the gap that David left in your life. Moving on with your life, Nicci, does not mean moving away from your past.”
“I’m not moving away. Dallas and I are just…” I laughed, trying to conceal the tension Dora’s stern gaze was creating inside of me.
“Just what?” Dora asked as she leaned in closer. “Do you even know what this guy does for a living, Nicci? Where is he from? Where did he go to college?”
I stared into Dora’s small, round face. “You don’t like him? Do you?”
She furrowed her brow and waited a few seconds before responding. “No,” she finally stated.
“Why?”
“He’s dangerous. I saw the scars on his body when he paraded naked around your hotel room. You don’t get scars like that from living a life on the right side of the law.” She paused and looked around the bookstore. “Why do you like him?”
I shrugged, trying to think of something reasonable to say. “He has a certain charm,” I finally offered.
“Just watch your back, kiddo,” she warned, leaning back in her chair. “Men like that never feel guilt or remorse when they walk away from someone.”
“You’ve had some experience with that kind of man?”
“Experience with men in general. There is no happily ever after with a man like that. Why do you think all fairy tales end that way? Fantasy gives us hope. Reality only gives us heartache.”
I eagerly wanted to get off the subject of heartache since mine still seemed so fresh. I turned away from Dora and reached for another copy of
Painting Jenny,
offered by a blond woman with brightly painted red lips.
“I just loved your book,” the blond gushed.
“I’m so glad,” I stated as I signed my name inside the front cover.
“Did David really die?” the blond asked as her big blue eyes scanned mine. “I mean,” she went on, “I thought you just wrote it that way for the ending. Perhaps he could come back in a sequel.”
“A sequel?” I laughed as I handed the woman her book. “I never thought of writing–”
“The next Nicci Beauvoir novel is on the way,” Dora quickly interrupted me. “The sequel to
Painting Jenny
.”
The woman smiled gleefully. “Oh, I just knew he wasn’t dead,” she squealed. She clutched the book with her pudgy hands and then stepped away from the table.
I turned to Dora filled with outrage. “Sequel? Are you out of your mind? How can I possibly write a sequel when—”
“You’ll think of something,” Dora assured, cutting me off again. “And you didn’t answer my question.”
I rolled my eyes. “Which one? There have been so many.”
“All right. I’ll stop the interrogation for now.” Dora shook her head and eyed the line of waiting autograph seekers. “You know you always struck me as the more cautious type when it came to men.”
“Women are never cautious when it comes to men, Dora.”
“I always thought you were, but now…”
I opened a book laid on the table in front of me by another eager fan.
“I was cautious with David. And all I have to show for it is a broken heart and a couple of expensive paintings.” I signed my name to the book.
I heard Dora sigh beside me. “But at least you have that. Lightning does not strike twice, kiddo. No matter how many times you make yourself stand out in the rain.”
After the book signing, I returned to my hotel room to find Dallas, dressed in a tailored gray suit and black tie, playing solitaire on my bed. I noticed the minibar had been ransacked and there was an empty glass on the bedside table with two small bottles of vodka next to it.
“You didn’t have that suit on last night at the party,” I said, nodding to his outfit.
“I went back to my place and changed while you were gone.”
I placed my hands on my hips and stared at him. “Then how in the hell did you get back in my room?”
“Maid let me in.” He rose from the bed and threw the cards down on the bedside table next to him. “About time you’re back.” He walked over to me and grabbed my hand. “Come on, I’m starving,” he mumbled as he pulled me toward the door.
Ten minutes later, we were seated at a cozy spot by the street in the hotel’s restaurant. A waiter approached our table, placed a basket of bread on the clean white tablecloth, and pulled out a pad from his dark shirt pocket.
“Our lunch specials are—” the very young man began.
“I’ll have the filet, rare,” Dallas barked, interrupting the waiter. “Russian dressing on the salad and a side order of new potatoes.” He put his menu down and waved to me. “The lady will have the shrimp and pasta, ranch dressing on her salad, and a screwdriver to drink.” He nodded to the waiter. “Bring me a Stoli and soda.”
“Any wine with lunch?” the eager-faced waiter asked, leaning in closer to our table.
“No wine,” Dallas replied. “Just keep the drinks coming with the meal.”
I smiled at the waiter, handed him my menu, and then sat back in my chair. I folded my arms across my chest and waited for the two of us to be left alone.
Dallas picked up a roll from the basket and reached for the butter plate. He buttered his bread and eagerly started to devour the small roll.
“Why did you order for me?” I asked, suppressing the urge to grab the roll out of his hand and smash it into his face.
He waited until he had finished chewing before he spoke.
“You like shrimp and pasta. You also prefer ranch dressing to any other, except for a Remoulade dressing, which you would not like since it is made in New York. You always prefer seafood to chicken. You don’t like meat and you never eat veal.”
I raised my eyebrows at him. “Where did you learn all that?”
“David told me.” He shrugged. “As for the wine, I’m not a wine connoisseur like David. I never really cared for the stuff.”
“Tell me, is the condescending male chauvinist attitude part of your cover or is this the real you?”
“No need to get testy, darling.” He smiled sweetly, but his eyes held their usual chill. “I’m just making it look like we’re a doting couple.”
“Next time ask.” I lowered my voice. “And don’t call me darling. Coming from you, it’s disturbing.”
“Then what should I call you?”
I frowned. “Just stick with Nicci.”
“That’s not endearing enough to be convincing.” He stared into my eyes for a moment. “How about cupcake, my little blossom, petunia, sweetheart, dear one. Any of those strike your fancy?”
I leaned in to the table. “I can see you are going to be a real pain in the ass about all of this.”
“Sweet cheeks it is.” He laughed jubilantly. “Oh yes, that one definitely works for me.”
“And what am I to call you? My little man, my wee wonder, peanut…”
“I get the picture,” he snapped as he bit into his roll.
I turned my attention to the bustling restaurant around us. An older couple smiled at us as their eyes casually traveled in our direction. At another table, a trio of businessmen glanced over at our table and then I heard their laughter. Either I was becoming paranoid or perhaps we were not as convincing as we needed to be. The waiter returned with our drinks, and Dallas eagerly grabbed for his. He took a long sip, nearly draining his glass.
“My associate from the publisher’s,” I hesitated as I picked up my screwdriver, “started asking a lot of questions about us this morning.”
Dallas stared into his drink. “And what did you tell her?”
“That we didn’t get a whole lot of talking done last night.” I took a sip from my drink. The vodka burned as it slid down my throat.
“Good answer.” He nodded as he looked around the restaurant. “Perhaps we had better come up with some particulars. You know the intimate details lovers share.”
I put my drink down. “I can’t wait to hear this.”
He focused his disconcerting eyes on me, making my stomach do a few uneasy leaps.
“All right,” he said as he put his drink down on the table. “I’m thirty-eight and live alone in an apartment on the Upper East Side. I drink my coffee black and can’t stand tea. My favorite color is blue and my birthday is November fifteenth. I hate onions, not crazy about chicken, but I like all forms of red meat. And I prefer the right side of the bed.”
