Savage Rendezvous

by R. T. Wolfe

  Taking an empty canvass, he prepared his best brushes and paints. He heard rustling on the settee and turned to find her pulling off her ugly slacks. He tried not to stop and stare, truly he did. He'd painted nude subjects dozens of times. And he'd seen her legs hundreds of times. Her endless, golden brown legs. He slid onto his wooden, swivel stool.

  Her smile was sweet and slight as she stood in her wooly socks and ugly shirt. It turned sly as she ruffled her hair and brought the waves around her shoulders. She stepped on one of the socks and pulled out her foot, balancing on one leg as she dangled her bright pink painted toes to him. She repeated with the other, then ran her hands from the outstretched foot, around her ankle, up her toned calf, and along the muscles on her thighs.

  His lips wanted to mention that she didn't seem embarrassed anymore, but his voice wasn't working. Something dropped from his hands. He looked and noticed his brush on the floor, but left it there and flipped his gaze back to his detective.

  She turned in a slow circle as her fingers worked the buttons on her shirt. The shirt that was too damned long in the back. The tail covered the majority of her round, smooth backside. The muscles in her legs flexed and released as she stepped slowly. Stopping front and center, she locked her knees, legs spread in a stance much like she was preparing to draw her gun.

  She continued with the buttons over her navel. The bra and panties she wore were far from ugly or khaki. They were the ones in matching blue jean material each with ivory-colored lace lining. His pants were becoming unbearably uncomfortable.

  The long string of linked silver hoops dangled between the healthy cleavage that always seemed to call to him. She slipped the ugly shirt from her flawless shoulders, exposing the soft lines along her collarbone and the hollow at the base of her neck, where he liked to nuzzle his lips and his nose. When she dropped the shirt to the floor, it took every ounce of willpower he had to keep his ass on the stool. He'd already clicked a dozen poses in his eidetic memory that he wanted to start painting, but this. His Nickie standing in front of him. Healthy female curves and smooth golden skin.

  Her face was flushed giving away the desires that matched his own. Leaving the brush on the floor, he stood but she held out an arm, palm facing him. He closed his eyes in defeat and sat back down. She turned her back to him and reached behind, grasping the clasp that held her prisoner. He barely noticed her scars as his eyes were glued to her backside that was no longer covered with an ugly shirt. The click of the clasp as it released was small but took the air from his lungs nonetheless. She held the bits of fabric to her body as she turned, two strong hands covering what he wanted to paint, needed to have in his hands and in his mouth.

  His breath quickened. "You're killing me."

  Her smile was pure evil and all his. She dropped her hands, letting the blue jean laced material drop to the pile of clothing that circled her feet. Her hair. Her honey-wheat waves covered all the wrong places. He craned his neck to get a glimpse as she laced her thumbs through the sides of the matching panties.

  To hell with her stop sign hand signal, he had to touch her and started to stand. "No," she said earnestly, her breath as ragged as his. "Paint." And with that, she dropped her last piece of clothing on the floor.

  Paint? Was she serious? She must have been, because she lay back on his settee wearing nothing but the lines of silver hoops. They dangled from her ears and down her neck, resting along the breast that wouldn't let them drop to the seat of the settee.

  She was right. Her face was full of color, her body warm and taut. It would be the perfect start to his painting.

  Painfully, he picked his brush up from the floor and began smoothing strokes over his canvas. The sight of her chest rising and falling beneath the silver links was as alluring as she was. Was this truly forever? He dipped his brush again and again. Time was moot as he worked. She fell asleep with the slightest of smiles on her lips. Her breathing slowed, and he painted.

  Hours passed as he worked, gaining momentum with time. The temperature from his automated furnace dropped, but he was warm, almost perspiring as his detective took form on his canvas. The process was a drug he couldn't get enough of. His hands threatened to cramp, but he continued. Sometime during his hours of work, he'd removed his shirt, his shoes, but he had little recollection of doing so.

  She slept like a rock, moving only slightly. It was simple to work around. He knew every inch of her.

  His gaze did a double take at her skin when she developed slight goose bumps in the chill. How long had she been cold? He abandoned his painting and approached her. He didn't remember to use caution in case she woke with fists clenched and swinging, but slid his arms around her shoulders and beneath her knees, lifting carefully as not to disturb her. She crooned and turned her face into his shoulder, her nose tucking into the fresh, pink scar from his gunshot wound. More than anything, he wanted the ring that rested in his pocket on her finger. Silently, he made the declaration that he wouldn't finish the painting until it was.

  He slipped her naked body between his sheets and tucked them around her. She moaned and turned away from him, exposing the scars on her back. His brows dropped as he studied them. They weren't pink as was the new scar on his shoulder. They'd turned nearly the same color as her golden brown skin, only a shade lighter. The pain that swelled inside of him was sudden and profound.

  Zheng would pay.

  Chapter 17

  Nickie's lungs threatened to burst from her rib cage. She threw her head back in triumph before climbing off Duncan and plopping on the bed next to him. She moaned. "That was much better than a workout in the pool."

  "Mmm," Duncan hummed but lay still like the dead. The rapid pace of his lungs was the only evidence that he was still with the living.

  She flipped the covers from them, making him growl and pull them back before rolling over. Unashamed, she made her way to the settee and the pile of clothes she left the night before. She reached for her shirt as she turned to the painting. She was speechless. Paintings took him days. Weeks. This one seemed nearly finished.

  Her hand covered her mouth. Is this how he saw her? The person in the painting was soft and... nice. She glanced down at her naked body, then back to the painting. The last time he painted her less-than-dressed, she'd worn a shirt and her underwear. She stifled a snort at the thought of the striptease she'd performed. What had she been thinking? Slipping into the shirt, she stood gazing at his work.

  And, at that moment, it didn't matter to her whether he ever officially proposed or if he ever gave her the ring he didn't know she knew was in his pocket. He wanted her. Forever. And this was how he saw her.

  As she headed for the bathroom—their bathroom—she realized he must have been up nearly the entire night to get so far on the portrait. The sheets over his body rose and fell slowly. He was already sleeping after what they'd just done? She smiled, revived and ready to take on her day.

  She stepped into the shower and turned the water to blazing. This case was becoming a permanent resident in her head and had gone on far too long. Either Tommy Marino found out his stepdad took interest in his special Sherie Douglas hooker, or else Mrs. Juracek discovered her husband's visits with the ruby red Sherie and killed him in a crime of rage. Did Mrs. Juracek want to get her hands on the inheritance before it went to her son? Did she know about his double life? Or did Sherie somehow think she could benefit from a dead William Juracek? Could Tommy have made empty promises of riches and inheritance? Tommy hadn't been officially made the heir of the deceased's half of the business yet. Maybe Tommy didn't know that. Maybe Sherie didn't know. She realized she'd just washed her hair a third time and decided she better move on to the conditioner.

  Every joint in her body was unhinged. Every muscle loose and taut at the same time. The hot water beat on her body, the combination making her alive and energized. She reminded herself to keep an open mind to the possibilities that might be outside of her circle of suspects.

  As she sa
t to spend her routine forty-five minutes on hair and makeup, she realized Duncan wasn't getting up anytime soon and her car was at the station. See? He should listen to her when she told him they needed to drive separately. She cringed as she texted Eddy for a ride. She would catch hell, but he was the one had to leave his car at The Pint last night, and she would shove the hell right back at him.

  She tiptoed to the dresser that now held nearly all of her belongings, then to the half of the closet that was hers. Even when she brought the rest of her clothes to this house, they would barely take up half the space of Duncan's.

  The rise and fall of the sheets never changed as she slipped out the door.

  * * *

  "I feel like we should have a spot in the garage," Eddy said as he pulled to the curb in front of the Juracek home. Nickie let him drive after he had to call a taxi to The Pint, then came all the way out to the house to pick her up. It wasn't exactly on the way. It didn't mean she had to like it.

  "I'm tired of coming out here, too. Maybe she'll confess," Nickie said sarcastically as she shut the car door behind her.

  The walk wasn't shoveled, and she'd worn her favorite damn boots. No one answered the bell for a solid five minutes. They almost left when Mrs. Juracek came to the door in a housecoat. Her eyes were swollen. It was the only way Nickie had ever seen them.

  "Good morning, Sylvia. May we come in?"

  She nodded and strode toward the same small living room off the foyer where they questioned her the last time. As they followed, Nickie noticed the place was beginning to look more like her town house than the tidy Juracek home. Nickie and Eddy took their spots on the loveseat. How could there be more snow than the last time? No yard lights today. The green of the bushes was completely covered, making them look like mounds instead of snow-covered plants.

  "Do you mind?" Nickie asked, placing her ancient recorder on the coffee table in front of the loveseat.

  "I give permission for you to record me," she said blandly. "Oh, and this is Sylvia Juracek speaking."

  Nickie turned it off. "Can I ask you something off record, Sylvia?"

  The expression on her face was the first glimpse at interest Nickie recognized since they arrived. "What is it?"

  "How are you holding up? Um, your house, your sidewalk... We can arrange for someone you can talk to."

  Sylvia waved her hand in front of her face like she was shooing a fly. "Cleaning ladies quit. I'll find new ones. What can I do for you, Detectives?"

  Nickie turned her recorder on again and asked, "Do you know about a place called The Guest House?"

  "I'm afraid I don't. Where are my manners? Can I get you anything to drink?" Sylvia pulled the housecoat closer around her.

  "No, thank you. What about T & A's?"

  Mrs. Juracek dropped her eyes. The tears were instant.

  "He's a good boy. He's just going through that college stage boys do when they get themselves into things they shouldn't."

  A twenty-five-year-old bar owner was a boy?

  "He'll come around." The tears that dipped from her eyes said she didn't completely believe that.

  For the record, Nickie prodded. "So, you are aware that your son, Tommy, is the owner or partial owner of Tommy and Angie's?"

  Sylvia nodded.

  "For the record, please."

  "Yes, I know." Her voice was rising.

  "Thank you, Sylvia. This is a difficult time for you."

  "What's difficult is that you haven't found who did this to my husband. The murderer is still out there. I have a daughter."

  Nickie sighed, then repeated the question she'd asked once before. "Do you know of a business named SS8?"

  Mrs. Juracek's eyes turned to blood rage. Interesting new reaction.

  Her hands shook as she pointed a finger to Nickie and said low through her teeth, "If I ever find a single SS8 employee." Spit sprayed from her mouth as she said the last word. "They're dead."

  Eddy stepped on Nickie's foot. She trusted him and scooted back in her seat a few inches.

  He took Sylvia's hand and patted the top of it. "It's a terrible place, we know, Sylvia. We want to catch the person responsible for the death of your husband. The murder might be part of that despicable SS8 place."

  'Despicable SS8 place?' Nickie had to work to keep a straight face.

  Sylvia nodded. "Tommy got mixed up there. He's going to stop as soon as he has some time to grow up."

  "Of course he is, Sylvia." Eddy was nearly singing her a lullaby. "What about your husband?"

  Mrs. Juracek blinked. "What do you mean by that?" She yanked her hand from Eddy's. "What do you mean by that?" she repeated hysterically.

  "Your husband went to see one of the employees of SS8 a few weeks ago."

  "You're wrong. You're lying. William was faithful. Oh no." She started rocking forward and back. "Oh no."

  He kept at her. It was painful to watch, and Nickie wondered if this is what Eddy felt when she was the one badgering a person of interest.

  "But you slept in different rooms. He was killed in the middle of the night dressed in a suit."

  "He snores. I can't slee—" She buried her face in her hands and bent over, nearly touching her face to her knees. "I don't know why he was out. Oh no."

  "We're going to call your father, Sylvia," Nickie said and sifted through some business cards, leaving one on the table. "Let's get him out here to help you with some things. And here is a number you can call. These people are good listeners. They can help you."

  "Get out," Mrs. Juracek whispered. "Get out. Get out, get out!" she said louder and louder.

  "We'll see ourselves out," Eddy said calmly.

  They trudged through the snow on the way down the path to his car.

  "A little hard on her, don't you think, Lynx?"

  "You mean the woman who said if she ever found a single SS8 employee, she'd kill them?"

  "She didn't do it."

  "Come on, Nick. You saw her reaction."

  "She may have her head in the sand about her son, but she did not know her husband had been cheating on her."

  "Do you ever go with your gut?"

  "Sure, but I'm careful my gut doesn't cloud my vision to the rest of what's going on. She knew about Tommy's secret bar owner life. I wonder if Mr. Juracek knew."

  * * *

  "Boss?" Nickie knocked on Dave's door.

  The door was open. Eddy would have just walked in, but that seemed rude. Dave nodded in recognition. "Come in, Nick. What's up?"

  "Remember the special agents I spoke with you about?"

  "Which couple of special agents? The first ones or the second ones?"

  She sank in his cushioned guest chair and slung a boot on her knee. "The second ones."

  "Hurst and Goodrich."

  "Yep. They're sort of on their way."

  "Here?"

  "Yeah. Sorry I didn't give you a heads up earlier. I just found out yesterday."

  "They want you on a case? You don't have to tell me specifics. I just need to know if I'm losing a detective and for how long."

  "No, I called them."

  "You called—" His expression softened. She could practically see Zheng register in his mind. "Oh."

  "Yeah."

  "They're coming here?"

  "I know. It's creepy. Wasn't my idea for them to come here, of course. Anyway, I wanted you to know."

  He nodded. "I noticed your car's been here overnight a few times this past week."

  What the hell? "Is that a problem?"

  "Of course not. I'm trying to pry into your personal life without prying into your personal life, but is it broken down?"

  Ah. "I rode with Duncan a few times." Awkward conversation both answered and averted.

  He jerked his head toward the commons area, then fooled with some papers on his desk. She turned her head to investigate and spotted Hurst and Goodrich hanging around the door to her office. They were dressed casually, much like the last time they were hanging out near h
er office. What did she expect? she wondered as she headed toward them without saying good-bye to Dave.

  Hurst was the bigger one. Tight, black hair. Clean shaven. Goodrich was lankier. Brown hair with a unibrow making his scowl look all the worse.

  They didn't offer a wave, a greeting or even a nod, but waited for her to speak. She held out a hand and shook with Goodrich first, then Hurst. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. Please come in. Can I take your coats?"

  She'd cleared off the chairs so they had a place to sit. Her office might be embarrassing, but it was still her office. Small and messy. They could very well get splinters from her chairs. It might be a bad thing for an FBI special agent to get a splinter in his ass, but she couldn't do anything about it now.

  They hung up their coats on their own next to hers on the freestanding, wobbly coat rack that stood next to her door. Then, they each took a seat in her only two spots for guests.

  "I appreciate your expediency. I have some information to share with you." And some questions.

  They looked at each other from the corners of their eyes. Oh, right. She'd forgotten special agent types did that.

  No sense beating around the bush. She peeled the picture of Jun Zheng she kept taped to her desk monitor and placed it in front of them. They looked at it, each other, then to her. Their expressions weren't nearly as easy to read as Mrs. Juracek's.

  "Thurmond Moody was highly involved in the sex trafficking ring we took down in January. The evening's illegal trysts may have been staged at the white house located on his property, but as you know, the girls were delivered all over the country for use at different events. What I'm trying to tell you is he was not the top of that food chain. I believe this man is." She moved her gaze back and forth between the two of them, studying their reactions carefully. She saw what she was looking for. Recognition.

  They didn't look at each other. Why did she think that was a bad sign? "We need a minute," Hurst said.