Dark Vengeance

by R. T. Wolfe

  "I haven't seen you naked in nine hours." Dipping his head, he rested his lips on hers, lingering long enough to make her forget about the dress.

  "We'll mess up my hair," she mumbled. Sex was a bad idea at that moment. She was convincing herself more than she was explaining to him.

  "True," he said as he pulled her shirt aside to kiss her collarbone.

  She shivered and stepped back. Pointing a finger to him, she said, "You stay away. Let me get this thing on. I have red pumps. The color will match."

  "I bought shoes." He gestured to a box next to his overnight bag near the front door.

  "Of course you did." Taking a cleansing breath, she walked to her dresser, dug around until she found the red thong and matching Victoria's Secret bra, then took the dress and the shoes and went into her bathroom.

  As she stripped, she heard him through the door. "I've seen you change clothes before."

  She smiled ear to ear. "Then we'll end up having the sex."

  Duncan nodded his head in agreement. And that was a bad thing?

  Through the door, he heard her squeal. "The price is still on the shoebox. I could almost pay rent with these shoes."

  He'd gone with the ones that had rows of straps that twisted around the ankle and foot. The salesperson said the color and style best suited the dress. He bought them because they were advertised as the easiest to walk in. "You'll be on your feet for hours. I want you to be comfortable."

  When the door opened, he found himself in a rare moment. He'd never been in love before.

  She walked to him in her usual Detective Savage stroll. Purposeful, masculine. As he reached to touch her, she turned. "Zip me?"

  Resisting the urge to slip his hands inside the fabric, he zipped her slowly, leading with his fingers between the zipper and flesh so as not to zip her skin in the tight fit. The back went to the base of her neck and covered her scars. All but the end of one was concealed. Running his fingers along the exposed, raised flesh, he considered.

  She didn't flinch at the feel as he traced the line. "It's fine," she said. "No one will know what it is."

  He let his hands travel over her waist and brush the sides of her breasts. Before she had a chance at a sensible reaction, a small purr escaped her throat. He imagined her eyes dipping as he touched her.

  Then, the sensible reaction. She was soon out of his arms and turned to face him, pointing the short nails of her forefinger at him. "Hair, makeup, dress. No sex or nibbling or... touching."

  "Mmm. The plane is waiting."

  "Plane. Right."

  Chapter 24

  The minute Nickie stepped from the plane at LGA, she changed. Her purposeful strut turned into a glide. Shoulders back, head tall, she walked like... like Coral Francesca. She sat stiffly in the limousine, speaking little. They arrived at the show fashionably late as his agent always advised.

  "You don't approve the set up of the show beforehand?" she asked as she took the stairs like she was on a red carpet.

  "No, I trust my agent. He knows what he's doing. You seem different."

  She stopped and tucked her shawl tightly around her shoulders. "Is it bad? I want this to be a successful night for you."

  "Bad? No." Yes. "And it will be." He touched his lips to hers and felt better.

  He wouldn't say the place was packed. The Whitman Museum of Art could hold hundreds. But it was busy and that was good. His work had replaced the lighted displays throughout the foyer and the first display room of the building. Wide pillars held his paintings on each of the four sides. Spotlights protruded above them.

  Taking her arm, he looked for one painting in particular. They'd barely made it a few steps before he was stopped. He provided introductions again and again. The dress worked like a charm. She worked like a charm. Nickie was the center of attention. Cameras flashed and eyes followed her. Curious eyes, nosy eyes. She handled the questions and the prodding as smooth as if she'd done it thousands of times.

  And he didn't like it. He wanted his detective back.

  He dodged an assistant to the governor as he looked for his damned painting. Maybe his agent was getting him back for turning it in at the last moment. Maybe he didn't include it. Turning to check on Nickie, he noticed she had been stopped by a middle-aged woman he didn't recognize. It was uncomfortable watching as she primly addressed the woman. He realized how easy it was for her to come by her Maryland Monticello side.

  He understood at that moment the Detective Savage persona wasn't necessarily natural, but purposeful. The way she would sling her leg over a chair, her tight pants and large earrings. Her big, loose hair and leather boots. It was a part of her he felt determined to analyze. After he found his painting.

  He'd asked her to come with him that evening. She looked amazing and turned herself into the Maryland Monticello to fit in. For him. As he rounded a pillar to check the other side for the painting, he saw it. And he saw her. She stood statue still looking at his last-minute piece. His painting of her.

  And next to his Nickie stood... Coral Francesca.

  * * *

  Nickie stuck her chin out and let her brows drop to her eyelids. Was she looking at a painting of herself? It was definitely the same dress. She recognized it as the one she wore the night she and Duncan worked the casino in Vegas. Tea length, ivory, high back reaching to the neck. Is that what she looked like from behind? What awesome calves. The face was slightly turned. She could barely see the edge of the profile. The hair was just as she'd done it. Twisted and tucked with loose strands hanging in dripping curls.

  Reaching up, she touched her head. She'd done the same thing for tonight. Leaning to the side, she strained as if she would be able to see more of the profile if she peered far enough. She bumped into a woman and turned to excuse herself.

  Next to her was an Amazon goddess. Her satin black dress hugged her model thin physique with large holes cut in designer spots. Cleopatra eyes with flawless skin and sharp cheekbones waited for Nickie's apology, but Nickie was too stunned. She was a heterosexual woman, but even she had a hard time keeping her gaze from the enormous globe breasts that nearly sat on the woman's shoulders.

  Finally, words left her mouth. "I apologize. I was just admiring Duncan's work. Do you come to many of these?"

  The woman looked familiar, but there was no way Nickie could have met her before and forgotten. She stood like she was posing, bringing her champagne flute to her candy apple red lips, lips that definitely had implants. Nickie had to work not to stare at them or the boobs.

  Without answering her question or offering introductions, the woman turned to the painting. "That's you, isn't it?" she crooned.

  The voice. Damn, she couldn't place it. "I'm not sure, actually."

  "Does it bother you that there are nudes here this evening?" The woman didn't look at her but at the painting. "Did you know he has sex with the women he paints?"

  Coral Francesca. Duncan's tabloid ex. Nickie wanted to hit her palm to her forehead. Better yet, she'd like to hit her palm to Francesca's forehead.

  Instead, she would respect Duncan's show and try formal introductions. "My name is Nickie Savage. And yours?"

  Coral laughed and looked at her from head to toe. "I suppose he's taken you on Abigail? Foreplay."

  Nickie froze. And Nickie Savage wasn't one to freeze. She was completely off balance in this damned dress and dainty sparkling earrings. For the first time in over a dozen years, she was speechless.

  "You know the longest he's ever stayed with a woman is two months?" Coral brought her boney fingers to her mouth to smother her laugh.

  Nickie spun on her just as she heard the click of male shoes. Didn't matter. She was tired of pretending. Stepping inches from Coral's face, she smiled wide, "I suppose I have that record beat already, then. And if you get in my face again, I'll stick that champagne flute up your bony ass."

  A rough hand with long fingers rested on her lower back. Possessive, protective. She wanted to tell Duncan there was no
need.

  "Nickie." He kissed her cheek and gestured to the painting. "You found it. What do you think?" He didn't give her time to answer before he turned to Francesca.

  "Good evening, Coral." He took her empty flute. "It's so nice you could make it this evening. Let me refill this for you."

  Turning Nickie, he led them toward the hors devours table, dropping the flute on the tray of the nearest traveling waiter. "Are you okay?"

  "You painted me." She kept stride with him to the other side of the expansive room. "Again."

  "Are you angry?"

  "I'm fine. I think. I was caught off guard, that's all. From seeing me in a frame and from Coral."

  "Did she hurt you?"

  With the sweetest smile and gracious walk she could muster, she answered through her teeth. "Well, she didn't take a swing at me if that's what the hell you mean."

  He stopped then and leaned in. "There you are." Was he going to kiss her on the mouth in the middle of his art show? She tried to remain tall, but she felt her eyes inadvertently scan from one side of him to the other. His lips were warm and just the right amount of moist. She probably shouldn't have, but she closed her eyes and took him in.

  He lingered for a moment, barely touching. Tease.

  "I broke our contract and our relationship in the same day," he said. "But it followed some shattered glass and... flying fruit. I was justified."

  "So, it might not have been smart that I threatened to shove her drinking glass up her bony butt?"

  He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, stifling a laugh. "I was worried I'd lost you." Taking a tiny plate, he set four crackers in a circle.

  "Because of her? Not that she didn't try, but—"

  "Try? I was referring to this—" He gestured to her dress. "You've not been yourself this evening. What do you mean by 'try'?"

  "She tried to spook me." She resisted the urge to shrug her shoulders and instead set a small spoon of caviar on each of the crackers. "All about how you have sex with the women you paint, how you don't stick with women for more than a few months, about Abigail—"

  "Abigail? She's never seen Abigail." His eyes roamed everywhere but to her. "It's true." He spoke like he was in confession.

  "What's true?" She took a bite, then lifted the rest of the cracker and offered it to him.

  He was so serious. Gently, he pushed her hand away. "I have had sex with some of my subjects."

  She almost snorted frigging black caviar through her nose. "Duncan, do you think I didn't know that? This is your show. Have fun. Go... mingle, or sell paintings or whatever it is you're supposed to be doing. She just caught me off guard. That's all. I'm out of my element here. But I found myself. I hope she doesn't quote me to the reporter."

  He looked pained now. "Reporter?"

  "Yes. You owe me big. She took my picture."

  He wasn't laughing.

  "That's not normal?"

  "Not generally, no."

  This time, she took his hand. "Come. Show me around before you're taken away again."

  * * *

  Duncan sat at his desk fully dressed, reading through online newspaper clippings and public police reports on James 'Slippery Jimbo' Spalding. The moon was nearly full and shone through the skylight windows in his master bedroom. His detective slept soundly in his bed. Her back rose and fell slowly, her hair draped over his pillow.

  In between articles, he answered, deleted and sorted through pages of emails.

  They hadn't found James since he'd called Nickie and that had been weeks ago. Duncan assumed he was at the bottom of Seneca Lake.

  He judged him to be a low-level criminal. He'd been arrested his share of times, but convicted only twice. The first was a three-month visit to the county jail for possession of a quarter pound of marijuana with intent to deliver. The second, a two year sentence in the state prison in Ithaca for the same, except the heroin he'd graduated to earned him the upgrade.

  He was a middle man. Never caught on the streets. No direct hand-contact to users, or at least none on record.

  So, what did he want with his detective?

  She stirred as she often did. This time it included a whimper. It crushed him. Knowing better, he pushed away from his desk and went to sit next to her. This time, he was ready for any backlash. He placed his hand on her back. She didn't wake. The whimper turned into crying, something he'd never seen her do. It was more than he could take. Gently, he pulled back the sheets, lowered himself alongside of her and wrapped his arm around her waist. The backlash would just have to come.

  But it didn't.

  She grabbed his wrist, hung on and pulled his arm around her, tucking into him. The strongest feeling he'd experienced washed over him.

  Lifting his arm, she looked at it and turned to face him. "You're dressed. I hate it when you do that." Then, she plopped her head back on the pillow and tucked her feet between his calves.

  "I moved some things around and gave you some space in the closet." He felt her stiffen.

  The long silence spoke volumes.

  "I should get dressed." Without answering his non-question, she kissed his hand and walked to the bathroom.

  * * *

  Nickie had left her car at the station. Duncan didn't generally mind driving her to work, but the silence was disheartening.

  She'd skipped her swim. It was still dark with the sun just beginning to shed its light, casting long shadows on the buildings in downtown Northridge. He slowed down as a man in a light brown jacket crossed the street. Walk of shame, Duncan assumed.

  "Holy frigging shit." Nickie put both hands on the dash. "Stop the flipping car."

  Chapter 25

  Before Duncan had a chance to completely do so, Nickie had opened the car door. In her snug detective's slacks, black boots and light blue blouse, he saw her yell to the man as she walked around the front of his SUV.

  He pulled to the side as he noticed the man didn't try to run, but held his hands up in mock surrender. Maybe it was sincere.

  As Duncan shut his car door, he heard him.

  "Okay, okay, okay," he said like a barking dog.

  She hovered over him, slowly gaining ground and backing him up to the sidewalk.

  "I've been busy. Legal busy, no funny stuff. You hung up on me, dude."

  "That's detective dude to you, Jimbo. And I don't too much like being blown up." She grabbed the front of his jacket and pushed him against the glass door of the barbershop he'd been heading toward.

  Jimbo. He looked different from his mug shots, Duncan thought.

  "Hey, hey, hey. I didn't try to blow you up." He looked from side to side, clearly considering an escape. "Why would I do that? I tried to help you, remember?"

  "You called to tell me... weeks ago... that there was talk on the streets about me. Then, nothing. You're gone. Not very helpful, Jimbo."

  "You hung up on me, dude... detective. Look, I heard he was Asian, about this tall." James was short, probably five-foot-ten. He held his hand above his head at right about Nickie's height. That is, Nickie's height when she wasn't wearing heeled boots.

  "Word is he had a picture of you and everything. He was showing it..." James looked around like he was making this up as he went. "...in this barbershop even. Wanted to know what you were, ya know? Cop or what?"

  Duncan and Nickie looked at each other, then back to James.

  "Hey, can I, ya know, have something for the information? I'm going honest now, ya know. I could use the dough."

  "Do you have a name? A photo? Have you even seen this guy?"

  The look on James's face was pitiful.

  "I didn't think so." Nickie let go of him with a small push. "Call me when you've got something for me." She reached in an inside pocket, then handed him her card.

  * * *

  Duncan sat across from his aunt and uncle at her favorite downtown bakery. Nathan rested one hand on the back of Brie's chair and the other held his tall coffee. School was out and his aunt had decide
d against teaching summer school. The only other time Duncan could remember her doing that was the summer Melbourne tried to kill them.

  Her hair was growing back. It looked like his when he was in the Army.

  "Good morning, Duncan. Let me get you something to eat."

  "I can get it." He pushed out of his chair.

  "Don't even start with treating me like I'm breakable. I took Red on the full five-mile loop this morning. I think I'm going to pick out a second donut while I'm up there." She laid her hand on his shoulder as she passed.

  Nathan leaned in. "This not doing anything is taking its toll on me."

  "That's not true," Duncan responded, "and you know it. You're serving as her protector, her bodyguard. I only wish Nickie would let me do the same."

  "She's a cop, Duncan. I suspect she can take care of herself."

  Duncan shook his head. "That's what she says."

  "I feel like I've done nothing, then and now," Nathan said.

  "You saved her life. She would have frozen to death or bled to death when Melbourne clothes-lined her with the bat. I was no help. I just stood and watched."

  "You were eight."

  "That's what everyone keeps telling me." It was Duncan's turn to lean in. "I've got some leads and hunches on how the explosions could be connected."

  "Tell me—"

  Brie stepped back with a small tray. "Jelly-filled for both of us, plus one tall, black coffee for you."

  Duncan recognized the pained expression on Nathan's face and knew Brie would, too. "Nothing for me?" Nathan asked.

  "You didn't run the dog this morning." She tucked her hand beneath his as it lay on the table.

  Nathan didn't bring up the possible leads again. Duncan knew he would get a phone call sometime that day from him. And he would be honest and give him everything he had. Conversation turned light. Brie spoke of her landscaping business and how good it felt to be back full time, digging in the soil of her newest client's yard.