by R. T. Wolfe
"I'm sorry for the delay. I won't be long. I wanted to tell all the people I love that I am officially in remission and cancer free." As her shoulders shrugged once humbly, the crowd erupted in hoots and cheers.
"Duncan." Nickie sounded distressed.
He jerked his head to her, then realized he was squeezing her fingers. "Oh." He released his grip.
She smiled as she flexed her fingers. "Congratulations. This is such great news."
He let his chest expand before letting out an exaggerated breath. "Come." He held out a hand for her. "I want you to myself now."
He led her passed Andy and ignored his brother's look of violation and his jeer aimed at him. "Hey! You never let me back there."
"You're not as pretty."
Her eyes grew large at the size of the explosives. "These aren't legal."
"Hardly." He motioned to the fire extinguishers. "Please remember, detective, that your partner attends this each year and has yet to arrest me."
A row of children had dozed off in the hammock under the deck. They crawled out at the sound of the first boom. He didn't feel that chill, the sweat from the cracks and fires, from the sounds and feel of the explosions. His aunt was in the clear and his Nickie was proving to be a kind of a therapy.
* * *
Nickie hadn't brought anything for her closet space. She hadn't decided yet how to handle it. As she towel dried her hair, she looked around for something clean to put on and grabbed the shirt Duncan had hung on the back of the door. She assumed it was the shirt he planned to wear on the plane in the morning. It looked like something he would wear on a plane.
Shrugging, she slipped in her arms. It was soft and smooth and was now her nightshirt. He had a few dozen extras in his closet.
She used the toothbrush he'd left for her. He never spoke of it. She wouldn't have known it was for her if it wasn't pink. He hardly asked anything of her. Closet space and a key. Knowing he was going to stay, knowing that he loved her, she could live with closet space and key.
Looking in the mirror, she contemplated. And he bought office space and presented it to her as a kind of a symbol.
Throwing the towel on the floor, she turned for the door. When she opened it, he was in his studio but unlike most times, he stopped mid-stroke and turned his eyes to her. The chocolate brown traveled over her body as if she were wearing a lacey teddy. He set his pencil down and walked toward her.
Just out of arm's reach, he dropped to his knees and sat back on his heels. He was a strange mix of lazy and casual and ignited. It sent a buzz of electrical notes racing through her insides. Shirtless, he sat on his bare feet in nothing but a casual pair of cotton pants that tied at the waist.
"You are amazing, Nickie."
Not something a girl hears every day. Not from someone she knows meant it. Enough. She lifted her foot and took a step to him. But he raised his hand, holding his palm out in a universal stop signal. She felt her shoulders fall.
Chapter 28
"You have on my shirt," Duncan said to her.
Nickie's chest began to rise and fall. "Yes, I—"
"Unbutton the top two buttons." His expression was deeply sincere and puzzling. But since this was moving in the direction she was craving, she obliged.
His eyes still traveled over her, making her feel like a prize he was memorizing. He tilted his head but didn't move closer. "Now, the bottom ones up to... wait."
He pulled himself up from the floor. Finally. She let her eyes fall shut and her head fall back as he tucked his magic hands beneath her wet hair along her neck. She felt a cool breeze where he spread open the collar of the shirt. A hot line of want remained on her skin where his rough fingers had traced. She sensed he'd stepped away and opened her eyes. Standing with no small amount of cleavage showing, shoulders exposed, he was looking her over again. What the hell? She could nearly tackle him and beat him to the floor.
"I want to paint you."
She knew what he meant and it wasn't with finger paints. "Now?"
His smile was pure evil. It was a mixture of knowledge and adornment with a touch of pleading.
"Can't you do that from, ya know, memory? Some other time?"
"I could."
"I have wet hair and a man's shirt and no makeup."
The same smile bore holes through her resolve.
She plopped down in front of his easel, crossed her legs and said, "Fine. Ten minutes."
Just like he'd done at the Fourth of July picnic that day, he held out a hand. And just like earlier that day, she took it. He led her to the small couch that sat beside his studio, a settee he called it. He arranged her. It was the most seductive foreplay she'd ever experienced. Although, she was pretty sure it wasn't foreplay. He carefully lifted her legs and rotated her body in a reclined position. He pulled her partially on her back, half on her side, then lifted her back knee higher.
Luckily, she'd at least stuffed a clean pair of panties in her purse, but they weren't even a thong. They were in bikinis with barely any lace, which were meant to be sexy and sweet for their night of love making that didn't seem to be happening.
He unbuttoned the rest of the buttons—all except the one that kept her breasts covered. He pulled the shirt down over and around her shoulders. Stood back, then released the final button. She figured out what he was thinking and he was right. She was well endowed enough to keep the blouse from falling open and exposing her.
He went to a stack of canvases and slid one from the middle. Setting it on his easel, he took more than his ten minutes preparing. But it was fascinating, as he was deeply into it. The way he studied her was intensely sexual but that wasn't all of it. Every so often, he trailed his eyes up to meet hers and smiled. He was enjoying painting her... her. It made her feel wanted and seductive. The buzzing going on in her body only grew. She felt her breath quicken before she swung her legs, let her feet plop on the floor and walked to him.
She took his brush and set it in the paint. Without cleaning it. Turning his swivel stool, she stepped between his legs and ran her fingers through his hair. It was growing back. He lifted his bushy head and let their lips touch once, then molded and meshed together like the Mass in B Minor.
She felt his rough, talented fingers duck beneath the shirt until they grabbed hold of her confidently. Her fingers curled in his hair and the breath left her lungs. He grabbed and molded before circling with his calloused thumbs. A small whimper escaped her throat.
Heat swept through her.
Duncan was surprised that he had gotten so much done in his ten minutes that turned into over an hour. The brushes had flown across his canvas faster than he generally allowed. He had been nearing the moment when he simply took her on his settee. She broke first.
She was soft and real in his shirt and perfect panties. He allowed one hand to continue its assault inside her shirt as he traveled his other along her female shape, down her small waist, over her hip, along her healthy backside to just behind her knee. With a quick pull, he lifted her leg and set it on the piece of stool next to his side. He trailed farther until there was warmth. The single leg she used for balance waivered under his touch. He loved this woman. He didn't stop.
She pulled away from his mouth as her eyes flew open and she sucked in a deep breath. "Duncan, I can't."
In what felt like a knee-jerk reaction, he let go and pulled his chin back in question.
Her sexy, pleading eyes flew to his. "No! I mean I can't stand."
The corners of his mouth lifted, and he swept her up from behind her knees and back. She pulled, grabbing his face, and lifted her mouth to his as he walked her to the bed. He released the drawstring of his house pants as she squirmed, running her feet along the comforter. Smiling at him in that way that made him see and hear nothing but her.
He'd barely finished with his clothes when she opened the shirt she wore. He nearly dropped to the floor, but kept his resolve. He lowered himself to her and gave them the pace that allowed each to
rediscover and explore. He was like a wooden match. Quiet and cold. One swipe of her hands and he would be a burning ball of flame.
"I love you," he breathed as he let his hands speak for him, his lips show her.
Nickie knew her brain wasn't working, and although she wanted to say it back, to scream it to the world, instead she focused on the now. His hands were indeed magic. They were everywhere with his lips, the sole reason she didn't lose her mind. He cupped between her legs, circling until her head flew back. She cried out his name as she went over, digging her fingers into his shoulders.
She shook as she opened her eyes to him. His had turned a glossy brown, dangerous and determined.
"More," he demanded in that way she knew she could trust.
A few more aftershocks, then she surprised even herself with the ability to maneuver her body over him. She sat and felt his need for her. They held hands with their arms outstretched, she still in his now crumpled shirt.
His eyes said what she still couldn't believe as she slowly lifted, lowering herself around him. Joined. She nearly choked but still couldn't stop staring. He squeezed her fingers just as hard as he had that afternoon, but now she welcomed the need and curled hers around his in return.
Together, they moved as one. He sank deeper into her heart, breaking any sense of sanity. She tried to wait, should have been able to after what she'd just experienced, but it was no use. She hung on and went over. The glossy brown turned opaque and when she could barely stand it anymore, he went with her.
Collapsing, she fell to his chest, noticing for the first time the way her heart pounded and her breathing labored.
"What. Was. That?" she whispered.
She felt his chest quiver. "Some call it making love."
His longer fingers ran from the top of her head, down her back.
Strangely, she felt rejuvenated. Setting her elbows on his chest, she traced his tattoo with her finger. "I think I'm in the mood for posing."
He lifted a brow.
She nodded and made a stop in the bathroom. In the mirror she saw tussled hair and rosy cheeks. Shrugging, she draped his shirt around her shoulders like a shawl and decided against replacing the panties.
In an obvious attempt, he craned his head to see beneath the draped shirt at her bare bottom. "You forgot something."
"I need to make sure I'm not going to find this hanging in one of your shows."
He scowled. "I'm only in it for the process. The product is yours."
"In that case I didn't forget a thing." She tried to put her body back in the position he'd had her in, but with the addition of a small arch of her chest and slide of her knee. Her attempt at looking sexy didn't feel foolish, not after what they'd just done.
She didn't let herself think about his declaration or the future. For tonight, she allowed herself to enjoy him. As he worked, as he used her for his 'process,' as he stopped now and again to meet her eyes and smile. She wasn't interested in the product at that moment. For now, she felt loved and beautiful and alive.
Duncan painted in a fury. The strokes wouldn't stop. The lines of her face, the curves of her body. It was like nothing he'd experienced. She'd fallen asleep, her soft eyes closed and her chin resting on her shoulder. Before he'd known it, it was too late for him to catch even a nap. He could do that on the plane. For now, he wanted this.
Sweat built around his hairline, cool droplets ran down his back. He allowed himself a short break. It was two-fold; enough time to shower and to rest his neck and arms.
The time was slipping away. Looking at the painting, he felt good about it even though it wasn't finished. It needed only a few touch-ups. That would have to wait until after some drying time.
So, he washed his brushes, set them to dry and changed into his flying clothes. It was nearing 4 a.m. He debated carrying her to the bed. They'd come so far. She slept in his arms on occasion and hadn't woke fighting in weeks. But he couldn't let her wake on his settee, either.
"Nickie," he whispered.
Groggy, she slithered her arms around his neck.
Cautiously, he lifted. She turned her head into his shoulder and he swore she smelled him. As he laid her on the bed, her eyes opened.
"There you are." He smiled.
"What time is it?" she asked as she rolled over and tucked the pillow under her neck.
"Just past four. Get some rest." He kissed her on the top of her head before turning off the light.
* * *
Each year the day after July 4th, Brie had breakfast ready for her guests. And she had plenty of guests. Every spare bedroom, couch, basement futon, and her guesthouse was filled. She loved it.
The piles of bacon, dozens of scrambled eggs and loads of ham would rest on warming plates, covered for whenever anyone woke. Before that, however, she would need to take Red for his morning run, and before that she would need to clean anything left from the night before. It was tradition and one she never minded.
But this year, the yard was clean. Spotless. Not one plastic glass, chair or table to be folded. It was one more reminder that Nathan couldn't quite let go of his worry. She'd been given a clean bill of health, she thought as she took their dog out the front door. Red wasn't ready to run without a leash. She could trust him 100 percent to stay at her left side... that is unless he spotted an opossum or rabbit heading home from its long night.
She should have leashed him in the living room, because he took off from the porch before she could catch him. "Red, come!"
She heard him scratching and reminded herself that you never scold a dog when they come. Even if they come after they had ran away. Scold a dog when they come, and they will definitely learn not to come when you call.
However, there's no rule about giving them a good scolding if you catch them. "Red, you bad—"
Her feet wouldn't move. Her voice, her arms, her body, everything. Including her heart. The dog was scratching and digging at a box. A box she'd never seen before. It had wires, leads and two small lights.
"R-Red, please," she croaked as he dug and scratched.
It took less than a second to think of her guests in her home. Her kids. The babies. Nathan.
"Red!" she yelled.
The dog whined and backed away.
She grabbed his collar and ran with him through the front door.
As they entered, she let go of the dog and carefully shut the door. Her legs shook as she took the stairs two at a time. Was it motion censored? The last one was motion censored.
She tore open doors as she ran down the long hallway. Everyone out! Should she say, 'bomb' and incite panic? Now was a good time to panic.
"There's a bomb! Everyone to the guesthouse!"
Chapter 29
It wasn't just the painting, Duncan thought. There was more pulling him back to his house. More that was unfinished. Although the painting was definitely part of it. He took the corner of the airport drive too quickly. It wasn't like he could miss his own flight.
His cell rang. It made him smile until he looked at the caller ID and saw it wasn't Nickie. It's for the best, he decided, as he rounded to the side terminal. She needed sleep.
But why was Andy calling at 4:30 a.m.?
"Brother, who died?" Duncan asked sarcastically.
"That's not funny. What the fuck is going on?"
Duncan pulled his Aston Martin into his parking spot and put her in park. "Whoa, little brother. What makes you call at this hour?"
"Where are you, man?" Andy yelled into the phone.
"At the airport. Is everything okay? Is it Mom?"
"No, turn around! I called 9-1-1. It's your house. We heard an explosion. Duncan, we felt an explosion."
Fear gripped his hands and glued them to the steering wheel. He heard the helicopter, heard his commander shouting orders at him, saw his platoon—
No. He slammed the car into reverse and spun his tires before taking off. Nickie. No. No. No. He dialed her cell. The ringing sounded like a gong inches fro
m his ears. He yelled, "No!" as he pounded the steering wheel.
Brie. Oh shit, Brie he thought as he fishtailed his car around the next turn.
He used speed dial and called his uncle.
"Duncan, I was just getting ready to call you."
His heart broke. He couldn't think straight. Too many sounds, too many images. "What happened?" he croaked.
"You've got to get everyone out of your house. And out of Andy's, too. Duncan, there's a bomb."
Duncan could hear shouts and the sound of his uncle's labored breathing.
"It's attached to the house. Everyone's okay. We're getting everyone out. They're headed over the creek to Aunt Liz's house."
The pause in conversation caused Duncan to squeeze his eyes shut.
"It's attached to the house, son. Dave has the bomb squad coming out ASAP."
At the sound of gravel, Duncan opened his eyes. He was headed for a guardrail. He swerved, skidded the back end along the metal and hit the gas. He couldn't stop the images: MollyAnne Melbourne swinging a bat at Brie's head, Melbourne with a gun digging into his temple, the shouts of his commanding officer, the blood... the blood.
The scars on Nickie's back.
He saw the smoke billowing out of the trees. It shone in the moonlight long before he reached his long asphalt drive. Nickie. The familiar circling lights from fire engines beat him there. He left a line of rubber from his tires behind him. The flames. Nickie. There were too many flames. They poured out of each window as the firefighters used axes on his doors and roof.
He knew. Somewhere inside he knew it was too late, but the thought was more than he could take.
He opened the door to his car before he'd skidded to a complete stop next to Nickie's unmarked. His head wanted to combust, his heart to shatter.
"Whoa," one of the firemen grabbed Duncan's arm.
Duncan turned, ready for war. He used his momentum to land a solid hook to the side of the man's head. He saw it was the chief just as he made contact and could have cared fucking less.
