by R. T. Wolfe
Duncan watched as the man who once attempted to intimidate him in the top office of his casino changed expressions. He saw recognition, then consideration, then fear and wondered how deeply all of this went.
The GM held up a hand to the approaching security. They stopped like obedient dogs and stood. "Well." The GM adjusted his tie. "Please do enjoy yourself." He gestured an arm over the partition to the large tables of men.
The area was busier than it had been the night before and was certainly due to the thinning of the tournament in its third of four nights. He didn't stop to play.
Speaking into his mic, he relayed what he saw. "Single hallway. Long and to the left. Possibly twenty doors. They look like offices. One man between each set of two doors, all Asian except the one in the back. It's your man, detective. The one from the Seneca police sketch artist. I'm going to see if I can get into one of the rooms."
He approached the first guard. "I have an... appointment." Duncan gave up Edward's real name. Let him deal with it. "Edward Singer set me up the other night." The man didn't check any clipboard as did the one standing as bouncer into the exclusive poker table area. Instead, he turned and walked toward the back of the hallway. Duncan followed.
The guard opened the door to a room halfway down. A young girl who couldn't be more than sixteen sat wearing lacey black lingerie in the center of a neatly made bed, her head swaying in an obvious drug-induced high.
"I'm good," she slurred, causing an involuntary twitch in Duncan's neck.
He dipped his mouth close to his lapel as the door shut behind him. "I'm in, detective. Get your ass in here. There are doors in the backs of these rooms."
"I'm good," the girl repeated as her eyes dropped.
He wanted to get his hands on the guard, any guard. He needed to pound on something. His lungs ached to scream. Instead, he walked with his arms up, palms out toward the girl. She was blond, small. Her hair had been made up but not her face. Slowly, he wrapped her with the comforter. She looked at him through glossy blue eyes, and he saw surprise, then understanding. Cautiously, she relaxed and curled into a ball on her side.
He decided he would give the detective and her Vegas cops about sixty more seconds to get in there.
As he reached for the knob, he looked over his shoulder at the door in the back of the room. Considering for a fraction of a second, his legs took him instead to the main hallway where the detective would be.
Three of the secret service wannabes turned to look at him. Perfect timing as the barely audible sound of several sets of soft shoes approached the end of the hallway. The detective came in low, the others high. One was missing. Evacuating the poker tables?
Duncan shrugged a single shoulder at the intimidating, questioning expressions on the guards' faces, then used the moment to wind a vicious hook to the side of the head of the one designated to his door. The skin on his barely healed knuckles gave.
"Shit." He heard the detective's voice. Weapon drawn, she yelled, "Nobody moves! Hands where we can see them."
And then chaos.
The first guard was sprawled on the floor. Duncan knew he wouldn't surprise another one enough to land such a solid punch.
Doors flew open, some slammed shut. There were screams of young girls, men ducking into rooms and johns out the back end of the hallway. The detective yelled orders, the Vegas police cuffed guards and johns. Thankful for each one who put up a fight, Duncan used his fists, his head and his body to take down anyone who wasn't female.
"The back doors!" a male voice yelled.
He and the detective worked as a team. He started kicking. A few doors swung open, one fell from its hinges. The detective pulled out who she could. He heard the familiar sound of cop ordering the line of men they'd collected in the hall.
Some scumbags made it out the back, but when he threw his weight into one of the doors at the end, he saw her. Lacey Newcomer dressed in lingerie. A heavy man pulled her drugged body along.
Duncan took one step and lunged. He didn't know if the man was a john or the hired muscle. It didn't matter. He flew over Lacey's head and close-lined him. They fell to the floor and Duncan straddled him. He knew his fists were becoming mush, but all Duncan could see was images of Lacey. Again and again, he let the adrenaline flood unleashed until he felt two sets of arms, one on each of his. The red haze lifted when he heard her voice.
"She's safe now, Duncan."
When the grips on his arms loosened, he held up his hands, palms out. Lacey leaned against the bed, pale as the white sheets behind her. He helped the detective pull her limp body into the hallway as the other officers lined up the johns and thugs. He could hear the backup coming. Too little too late.
They may not have gotten all the girls or all the guards, but they had Lacey Newcomer and as he gingerly placed her next to three other rescued girls, he spotted the man the brunette had ID'ed, sitting handcuffed along the wall.
His breathing had yet to return to normal, but he took advantage while he could and pulled out his picture of Brusco, showing it to each of the girls and the men. The cops had their cop work and he had his. They worked systematically as he made his way down the line.
At the end of the deserted hallway, he caught a glimpse of someone poking his head around the corner like a casino customer who just had to see what was going on. Gaper. Neither the police nor the detective noticed the guy. He had shiny black hair clipped short and wore a white shirt and black sports jacket, no tie. He must have found something that interested him because his gaze locked. Duncan headed down the hall toward him and watched a grin form from ear to ear. In an unmistakably Asian accent, the man spoke one word, "Savage," before he took off.
* * *
Duncan knew he should tell her, would tell her. For now, she dealt with briefing, questioning and bagging evidence. It looked like a well rehearsed dance, and he knew there would be more arrests dealing with those working the casino who were involved. He stayed out of the way, and refused medical assistance for his knuckles and the fresh bruise he earned on top of the yellowing one from the week prior.
He heard her cuss at the Vegas captain about the measly backup. "This is going federal, and it's your head that's going to roll," she said to him. Duncan didn't know if even he would have had the nerve.
Much like in the Seneca Casino, patrons were escorted out from every corner, table and barstool. He didn't imagine the owner would be too pleased when he finds out his GM had knowledge of what was going on. Then, he realized it was possible the owner was involved, too. What a complete fucking mess.
He understood the interviews, interrogations and paperwork would consume her time for the next few days. He had his own focus for now.
* * *
It was nearing dawn when Nickie realized Duncan was nowhere to be found. After a short pang to her heart, she shook her head clear, knowing it would be ridiculous for him to wait around. They had his statements and knew where to find him if they needed more. But she was flying high with both finding Lacey and catching the meathead of the group. She wanted to share the moment with him.
She had a full day of interviews and interrogations followed by a small mountain of reports to look forward to. First, she would grab a few hours catnap. Leaving the underlying smell of stale cigarettes and leftover alcohol, she walked the short way to the hotel. She pulled out her keycard, allowing the elevator to the sky loft floor, and took a deep breath, thinking this would be the last time she would likely stay in a room like it. It didn't matter. Lacey's parents were on a flight to LAS as Nickie rode the elevator. She would live. Lacey Newcomer had a second chance at survival. Satisfied, she let a vengeful smile spread across her face.
She opened the door quietly so not to wake him. Oddly, she felt comfort anticipating the sight of his makeshift studio. It made her flex her still-sore fingers from their marathon painting/playing evening.
But, the studio wasn't there.
Duncan's suitcases sat neatly near the hotel room door
. She could see him walk passed the door in his room. Why did that make her heart sink? Of course he would go back. He was busy. He had paintings to work on, his real estate and investment crap he did, and he would want to see his aunt. But she still felt the ache. She'd never even seen the inside of his room.
He stepped out in what she concluded must be his flight attire. Most of the free world would consider it cocktails and dinner attire.
"Good morning, detective. Congratulations on a job well done." His black slacks and leather shoes looked designer, and his burgundy shirt with thread-thin vertical black stripes looked dangerous. His hair was slightly wet, the curls dancing on his collar. He looked every bit the man who would be sought after by the paparazzi.
With a bag over his shoulder, he walked to her and set it on the floor next to his other things. "You look tired. I wasn't sure if you'd make it back. I took the liberty to order some scones and fruit just in case." He brushed his hand down the side of her cheek. "You were amazing. I've never seen anything like it."
"Were you going to tell me you were leaving?" Why was she asking? She straightened her posture and walked to the food. "Thank you for breakfast." To busy her hands, she poured a glass of the orange juice from the crystal carafe.
When she turned, he'd set a hip on the arm of the loveseat. Damn, it made her smile, thinking that Gloria would scold him for it. Certainly, Nathan would, too.
His non-answer didn't go unnoticed. "I heard rumor of the Feds coming in, taking over. They've already questioned me."
She sighed. "Yes, it's federal jurisdiction now. Crossing state lines. The local police will catch hell for not taking it more seriously, but honestly it was just a hunch." She held up a hand before he could comment about his opinion of hunches verses facts. "A good hunch, granted. But still, a hunch. Men got away." She contemplated that. "Some girls were taken." Looking up to him, she felt apologetic. "We didn't find Brusco."
Duncan didn't get up but shook his head. "I didn't expect to find him in Vegas."
He was keeping something from her. She could tell. She should be uncomfortable that she knew him well enough that she knew this.
"You will share pictures of him when you interrogate them, won't you? I have to assume my civilian consultant capacity is not going to hold up behind the one-way glass at the Vegas police station."
"You assume correctly. I'm lucky they're including me, and it's only because I'm the one who followed them out here and made the connection with the tournaments." She picked up a muffin and sat cross-legged in her blood stained pants. "How are your knuckles? Your eye looks okay."
"And again you come out unscathed. They're doing well, thank you."
"I'm quick. You're just damned scary."
He lifted from the arm of the couch and headed toward the door.
Politely, she washed down the bite with the orange juice and followed him. As a gesture for a job well done, she held out her hand. "Pleasure working with you, Duncan. You'd make a damn fine cop, even without the eidetic memory."
He held out his hand and wrapped it around hers, shaking once. "Nickie."
It was the first time he had referred to her by her name.
He looked at her long enough to wake every sleep-deprived muscle in her body. Tightening his hold on her hand, he pulled her into him.
Lips tangled. Teeth grazed. Tongues meshed. They rotated as his long fingers laced into her hair and took hold. Her mind lit into a chaotic symphony, her body into a crazed mix of want and need. "Say it again." She felt a rough hand travel to her lower back, pressing her body into lanky muscle. "Say my name again," she gasped between kisses.
Long and low, he breathed, "Nickie."
She fisted the back of his neatly pressed shirt, grabbing and pulling it from its tuck in his pants. He walked backward, pulling her with him until they tumbled over the edge of the couch. His body was long and firm beneath her. His lips ravished. He paused only to pull the blood red top of her pantsuit over her head. His hands, oh his hands. They cupped the matching red lace and the flesh that yearned to fall out of it.
Skin, she wanted to feel the skin that was underneath the crisp clothes, the man behind the cool, chocolate eyes. Impatiently, she worked his buttons as he moved those long fingers to just beneath the waist of her flared pants. Her arms jerked as she flinched, as she felt a catch in her breath. Instead of finishing with the buttons, she grabbed hold of his shoulders and rolled off the couch, taking him with her onto the oval Persian rug.
Hands groped, learned and aroused. His skin was warm, the muscles defined. Everything inside her sparked madly. "Duncan," she croaked as she finally maneuvered his shirt from his shoulders. The morning sun shone through the high windows onto the deep complexion of his long torso. He dug his hands into her lace and his lips along the side of her neck. Using his shoulder to keep her grounded, she set her teeth on the spot just above his tattoo of the dark water and held on.
She felt the freeing release of her button and zipper. Her head flew back in anticipation. But a cool rush of air came between them and caused her eyes to fly open. He'd propped himself up on his arms, one on each side of her, and was staring at her with his brows pressed tightly together. He slipped beneath the zipper. The dark caramel brown traveled from one of her eyes to the other. The peak was sudden and violent. She wanted to let her head dig into the rug and her eyes roll to the back of her head as they so desperately wanted, but she was locked in his deep stare. He watched her as she writhed, digging her hands into the lines of muscles on his sides.
Duncan noticed the cries coming from her beautiful alto voice were as smoky as her eyes. Her unflinching glare was a deep contrast to the reaction of his hands as he explored, probed and memorized her soft layers. The soft was a deep contrast to the short nails that were branding him on his sides. The smoky cry changed to a choke and turned his need into flames. He dipped his head to her lace and took hold of her through the fabric with his teeth.
She arched into him and pulled the lace down, exposing her to him. His arms shook slightly as her hand found him. He used his tongue and circled as he reached for his belt. She growled, pushed his hands away and flipped them around, pressing his back against the fibers of the Persian rug. Straddling him, she released him, worked him. She was killing him.
Nickie Savage. Her taste, the lavender scent of the smart and sophisticated. So different. So frigging complicated. There was no performance here, no script to be played. Just two people and primal need. The feel of her, soft and female. The feel of her hands, quick and thorough. She yanked his slacks over his hips and it was more than he could stand. He flipped her beneath him, did the same and dove in. She met him with just the right amount of resistance, and he was lost, sunk, desperate.
She shuddered beneath him and he felt her tighten, then explode. Their breaths came in short gasps and he nearly lost himself. Flesh on flesh, groping and grabbing like parched lips that had just found water. He wanted to be everywhere, to stay around her like this. His lips cupped her shoulder, his hand her healthy endowment as they moved, meeting each other beat for beat.
His body shivered, a small groan escaped. "Nickie." She'd barely come down before he felt her tighten again, flying over the top. This time he let himself go, fast and hard. She was so still, she felt paralyzed beneath him. He collapsed over her as her arms and legs shook with aftershocks.
He was warm, sated and didn't want to move as he felt her heart beat against his chest. Slowly, it came back to a normal rate. They were a mess. His pants were still wrapped around his calves, hers dangled from one foot. He hadn't even gotten around to removing her bra. Next time.
"I'm crushing you," he whispered into her ear.
"If you move yet, I'll arrest you." He felt her cheek lift in a smile as it rested against his.
Chapter 18
Duncan's chest expanded once against Nickie's in a deep, cleansing breath. "Is the Earth still rotating?" he asked.
"Can I just say, 'Wow'?"
"You should get some rest," he whispered.
"Mmm." When she could move her legs again. "You should get to the airport."
"I've already missed my flight."
She lifted her head. "I'm sorry."
His eyes said so much when he smiled. The fact that he so rarely did made it all the more striking.
He guided her head back to his chest.
She sighed heavily, tracing her hands around the raised squares of his stomach. "You need to get back to your aunt."
"Yes."
* * *
"So soon?" Duncan asked Brie. He paced in front of her as she carefully trimmed and arranged the daisies he'd brought with him. Rubbing his hand across the back of his neck, he realized the obvious tone of his pacing and sat.
"It's a good thing, Duncan."
He poured them both a cup of coffee from the carafe on the kitchen table. "Yes. Yes, of course it is. How do you feel?"
"I feel fine, really."
How does a woman deal with losing a breast? How does he discuss such a thing with the woman who's served as his mother for over two decades?
She took care of herself. Even with her teaching job and the landscaping business she and Rose's mother had on the side, Brie took exceptional care of herself. The few strands of gray that twined with her auburn brown looked more like she'd had her hair professionally lightened, rather than signs of age. "You look beautiful."
From the back, he saw the sides of her cheeks expand. "Duncan, you're very sweet."
Nathan came through the mudroom with Red. He was still a pup, and Duncan was impressed with the way he heeled next to his uncle's left side and sat when he stopped. "When will the ground be soft enough to clean up the arson mess back there? The soot isn't easy to dodge. Hello, Duncan. How was Vegas?"
