Savage Deception

by R. T. Wolfe

  "Fuck that. They aren't running me out of here."

  He understood her need to pull a street-smart Nickie Savage retort. It made him proud. The contrast in her language to the way she glided across the floor, even more so.

  "Twenty minutes tops, then," he bargained. "I think you've spoken to everyone in the museum already."

  She turned to him, and he watched as her face relaxed one muscle at a time. "You were watching me."

  Bringing his lips to her ear, he whispered, "I always watch you."

  He kept an eye on the clock. He would give her twenty minutes to save face before he would take her out of here. He'd never seen her so unraveled. Like a pro, she smiled and thanked guests for coming. Several of the pieces that were for sale dangled sold signs drawn in gold letters in the bottom corners. The prices were ridiculous. His agent must be dancing all the way to the bank. Duncan had given away a number of business cards with promises of calls for appointments.

  Graciously, Nickie accepted the compliments from his guests. Quite differently than she had from her parents. Her parents. Were they truly here to see if she cleaned up well? He suspected there was more to it.

  * * *

  Exhausted, Nickie dragged herself down the steps of the museum. Her arms and legs were heavy. It seemed like two in the morning, yet the sun was only beginning to set.

  Duncan carried much of her weight. If she didn't have her pride, she would crawl into his arms and let him carry her to the car. She dreaded the thought of the drive home without him.

  When they turned to the parking lot, she kept walking but he didn't.

  "You drove that?" He gestured with his chin toward her unmarked. "In that?" His glance moved to her dress.

  How could he make her smile at a time like this? She'd spent the last week on the biggest emotional roller coaster she'd experienced in her life. More so than the wretched home she grew up in, more so than the time she spent in captivity.

  "What else would I drive?"

  He exaggerated a headshake, then caught up with her. Pulling the belt of her leather jacket tighter around her waist, he held out his hand. It's what he did when he insisted on driving.

  "What about your car?"

  "My agent is having one of his people drive it to Northridge for me."

  "You're letting a stranger drive your car?"

  He shrugged and caught her before she leaned her backside on the metal.

  "Don't touch the car with that dress." He pulled her into his warm body. She turned her head and let it fall on his shoulder, both literally and metaphorically. As she did so, he dug in her pocket for her keys. She didn't argue.

  There was so much to say, much to talk about. He didn't ask a single question. Instead, he let her lay her head on his lap and sleep as he drove her piece of shit, oversized town car home.

  * * *

  The drive gave Duncan the necessary time to process the events of his evening. His Nickie slept on his lap. Her beautiful face contorted in grimaces as she dreamed. He knew better than to wake her when she was like this. They could crash.

  What made her change her mind and come to him? Pity? Duty? Was it that he would... No, that he could never paint another naked woman because of how he felt about her? Was that why she let him take her in his arms, why she was sleeping on his lap at that moment?

  Or was it the pictures of Thurmond Moody? Had she seen them?

  And her parents. He didn't know where to begin. All he could piece together was the disdain she carried for them and the lack of parental nurture they held for her.

  She must have sensed the climb up his drive because she sat up, startled, and sucked air.

  He held up his free hand in a sign of surrender.

  "Oh." She sighed and slouched in the dress that likely cost more than her car. "I feel like I haven't slept in days. We're in Northridge? This is your house."

  "Yes."

  "Where are the trailers? The equipment?"

  "They're done."

  "They're done?"

  "Mostly. A few touch-ups. Don't be too impressed. Other than the third floor, the home is empty."

  He parked in the garage and turned to see her deep in thought, brows tightly together. It was the most defeated expression he could remember on her beautiful face. He walked around the car and opened her door. Extending a hand, he said, "Come. It's getting late."

  Willingly, she held out her hand and leaned on him as they climbed his steps.

  When they entered, he picked her up beneath her knees and back, and carried her the two flights of stairs to the top floor. Ignoring the burn in his legs, he kissed her forehead as if she were breakable before she tucked her head into his shoulder.

  He kicked open the door to the third floor, and instead of letting him lay her on the bed, she slid down and wrapped her arms around him. Painfully, he pulled her away. "We should talk."

  She shook her head. "I don't want to talk."

  Normally, a comment like that would send them tumbling to the floor. But not tonight. "We need to talk."

  "You're right. I know." Instead of complying, she set her fingers on his lips. Her gaze was sincere and pleading and held for the longest of moments. One at a time, she stepped out of her shoes, then tugged the shirt from his pants.

  This would be different. He was determined. He was different. They were different.

  He took her forearms and brought the palms of her hands to his mouth. Closing his eyes, he took in her scent before trailing a line with his lips down the tender skin on the inside of her wrist. Replacing his lips with his fingertips, he slid them lightly along her forearms, inside the crook of her elbow and up the sensitive skin of her inner arms. As he crossed her shoulders, her eyes drifted closed.

  "Look at me." He hoped it sounded like a request. He needed to see her, to see inside her.

  His thumbs made a line over her jaw and around to behind her neck. There he found the top of her zipper, and as painfully slow as he could, let it sink. The zipper didn't catch until well beneath her lower back. The skin exposed was smooth and firm. It melted into his hands as if it were made for him.

  She unbuttoned his shirt and teased the flesh beneath his tattoo with her fingertips. He kissed her once, carefully, gently, before dipping his lips across her cheeks. Lazily, he trailed a line under her jaw and down her neck. Tugging on a strap of her dress, he slid it off her shoulder, letting his lips follow the exposed skin one painful inch at a time.

  The air cooled the sheen of sweat that had formed on his chest as she pulled his shirt from his shoulders and let it fall where they stood. Like a dance, they released each piece of clothing, exposing themselves to one another as their garments dropped to the floor in a circle around them.

  They didn't plunge to the carpet in a frenzied need, and he didn't lift her into his arms. Instead, they walked together, hand in hand, to the enormous bed he bought with no one in mind except his Nickie.

  Pulling the covers away, he placed his hand behind her head and led her to a pillow. Her head turned and she crooned, moving in response to his hands. She lifted her knees, and he tucked himself between them. Her eyes were the color of steel, strong and solid. They turned to him with tenderness.

  Nickie welcomed his gentle affection. Her insides melted with liquid need. Her eyes willed to roll to the back of her head, but his were unwavering, staring at her, in her. She was exposed in a way that created a net of safety and a melody of want.

  Their hands explored as if it were their first time, releasing the last pieces of clothing serving as a barrier between them. His glorious lips danced over her skin in the moonlight that shone through the skylight windows. A small tug with his teeth, then a pull with his lips and she purred in a warmth that shivered through every inch of her.

  Her fingers clasped his sides, muscles flexing beneath her touch. His hand traveled, explored and stopped dead center. She fought nature as he moved in circles. A little quiver. It was too soon. He paused.

  She g
asped and lifted her head. "Don't stop." Her brows dug deeply together.

  "Come to me."

  She arched and lifted, her legs quaking like a volcanic eruption. Not the kind that explodes, but the kind that pours over the sides of the mountain, long and hot. Rocking into him, his words echoed in her mind and through her body until he brought her down, slow and easy. Her cries were a mixture of the old and the new. Her body wanting both, all. Until she realized all the want was him. She led him to her.

  "Not so fa—"

  She couldn't stop herself. She led him to her until there was nothing more between them. She heard the choke, the gasp followed by his moan. They were joined, united. Together they moved as one, slow and purposeful. It was the calm before the storm. Still, she wanted both.

  Slowly, they arched to each other, gaining rhythm, gaining momentum. His hands grasped chunks of the sheets on either side of her head, his arms trembled.

  "I love you." It came out of her as a breath, but it seemed to take his control. They quickened, then quickened some more, working to get the last bit closer, the last moment of need to release. Safety nets were gone. They flew over without restraints. Natural, instinctual. Like the sounds erupting from their lungs. She was nearly spent but couldn't stop, neither of them could. They grasped and moved, clinging and arching until their muscles gave out completely.

  Her arms and legs might not be able to move for hours. For the first time in ten days, she smiled, truly smiled. He lay across her like a protective blanket, unwavering and unmoving. Irony.

  "I love you too." The words were a whisper, and she kissed his shoulder in response.

  * * *

  Nickie slept like the dead for the first half of the night. Duncan had never remembered her so still. As he feared, it didn't last. The small twitches, the minute whimpers had brought him fully awake long before the sun.

  He showered quickly, then watched her carefully as he booted his computers. She lay on her stomach, her long, honey-wheat hair resting over her shoulders and back. With the blankets tucked around her waist, her scars peeked through the blonde waves. He'd seen them dozens of times, but for some reason, this time sent a new vengeance through him with which to find the ones responsible for putting them there.

  Wet hair and unshaven, he'd barely pulled on a fresh shirt before it hit.

  The tears she would never shed when conscious turned to growls as he walked over and sat beside her.

  "Nickie." He was ready for it, but she was lightning quick. His ability to block the twisting left uppercut was mocked by the returning right hook that landed soundly on his left temple.

  Chapter 15

  "Duncan."

  He held up his arm, partly as a sign of surrender, partly as a signal he was okay, and partly as protection in case Nickie wasn't fully awake. It was the first time in months she'd woken swinging, and his heart hurt worse than his left temple.

  Her face dropped into her hands. "Why do you insist I stay the night?"

  Head throbbing, he took her hands and pulled them from her face. "Because I'm in love with you." He let his glance drop. The blanket curled around her hips, her hair not much of a cover. "And for other reasons."

  Whipping the blanket to the side, she stormed to the mini-fridge. "How can you joke at a time like this?" She opened the tiny inside door and took out the ice tray.

  He leaned back against the headboard and watched as she walked to his fridge, unashamed, making an icepack for his head. It damn well made the slug worth it.

  "Here." She held out the ice. "Let me grab a shower."

  Accepting the ice, he placed it on the sizable bump forming on his head.

  Well aware the phrase, 'grab a shower,' meant at least forty-five minutes, Duncan finished dressing and set to work in his studio.

  * * *

  Nickie had been seeing Duncan for eight months. Or was it nine? Ten? She might not be sure when they officially started seeing each other, but she never remembered him using a hair dryer. And yet there it hung, next to the pink toothbrush that had shown up around month two. Or was that month four?

  She hadn't planned on staying the night. His art show. Their reunion. They were perfect and full of love. Only to be predictably ruined by her past, by her issues. She shouldn't have stayed the night. That was apparent from the red circles around each of the knuckles on her right hand. And the thought of Duncan's head. She didn't want to think about it. She simply wasn't made for this kind of relationship.

  But he was in love with her, she thought, as she began the slow process of drying her hair. He moved his downtown office here to be with her. It was surreal. How did The Taste of L.A. end up involved with a cop who carried her kind of past?

  And yet she didn't want to think about the idea of running into her parents without him. She hadn't seen them since she was sixteen. They looked old. He was there for her. Exactly how she needed him. They worked like a team, each knowing when to speak, when not to. He let her stay at his show long enough to keep her pride, yet took her away when she couldn't hold it together any longer.

  On the other hand, she would never have seen her parents if not for Duncan. He was the reason they showed up. It was like they were telling her the reason she landed someone of his stature was because of their upbringing. Turning the hair dryer off, she dropped her forehead to the granite counter.

  The house key to his place was more of a trick. Make her fall in love with him, then at her weakest most swoon-worthy moment, stick the key in her hand.

  She lifted her head to eyes of steel that stared at her in the mirror. She knew she acted unreasonably, possibly childishly, but that was the whole reason she didn't get involved with men and certainly didn't allow herself to fall in love.

  She had no makeup, no change of clothes, not even a clean pair of underwear. It was Sunday. If she didn't get a call from her captain it might be okay. Except, she would have to wear that dress back to her place. It made her almost start laughing. Almost, except she knew she had to tell Duncan about Jun Zheng and what it would do to him.

  She finished drying her hair and made sure to hang the dryer back on the brass hook he so intentionally placed next to the outlets. Her stomach growled as she readjusted the oversized white bath towel that wrapped around her. First stop, fridge.

  The image of him made her feet falter. He sat in his absurdly uncomfortable swivel stool with a thick, black drawing-something in his hand. His hair was tied in a low tail, his eyes thoughtful. He was beautiful.

  His head didn't move, but his eyes did. They met hers in a sort of a conversation, much like their lips had the evening before.

  "I should have chosen smaller bath towels," he said.

  Her lips curled and she decided to skip the fridge. She sauntered to him, sat in his lap and let her lips slide across his. "Good morning," she mumbled. Breaking from him, she craned her neck. "You're um... awake." She let her eyes drop south.

  "I have a beautiful woman in a towel sitting on my lap."

  "What are you drawing?" She turned, inadvertently swiveling his stool. Except there weren't paintings of famous people or the landscapes he often preferred. It was a list. A list written horizontally in dark pencil across the top of a huge sketchpad.

  It contained the names James Spalding, alias Slippery Jimbo; former Northridge Police Department's Captain William Tanner; his accomplice, incarcerated ex-Fire Chief Brian McKinney; the personal assistant to the governor of New York, Thurmond Moody; and the words, 'Asian Man.'

  Her head turned back to him. "We need to talk." They were his words from the night before.

  He nodded.

  "I think I need to borrow a pair of your work out pants and a T-shirt."

  "You can, of course, but you have a drawer."

  "I have a what?" It took everything in her to keep her composure. She wasn't suited for a drawer, and she hadn't agreed on a drawer. "What's in it?"

  He shrugged and stood, causing her to stand or fall. "The stray pieces of clothi
ng you leave when you stay."

  So much for the effort of hanging the hair dryer. It was true. She was a slob. He was the opposite. One more example of how different they were and one more reason to proceed with caution. The taste she'd gotten of what it was like to lose him while they were still casual was hard enough. She didn't want to think about losing him because of a drawer. "What? Where? Which one?"

  He moved toward his coffeemaker. "Left side of the bed, top drawer."

  "The top drawer?"

  He kept walking away from her, but responded flatly, "It's a drawer."

  She stormed toward the designated dresser. "It's a toothbrush. It's a key. It's a hair dryer." She didn't know if he heard her grumbling.

  "A hair dryer?" he said as he poured.

  The clothes were neatly folded and stacked. "Don't try to tell me you didn't put that hair dryer in there for me." Her words echoed in her head. She sounded like a sixth-grader. Less than twelve hours ago, they were twined in passion and a mutual understanding. And there was the sweater she'd been looking for. Her sweater and a large stack of neatly folded underwear.

  Thankfully, he ignored her childishness, but she had an inclination he wouldn't do so forever. Cross that bridge when...

  She had an entire outfit, mismatched as it was, including a pair of sneakers she remembered trading for her work boots the morning after riding Abigail. Then, riding Duncan. Her head dropped, and she smiled at the thought.

  It was too bad she hadn't forgotten some makeup on his floor. Since she wasn't in sixth grade she said, "Thank you."

  "That had to hurt."

  "And, I'm sorry."

  "Ouch."

  "That's not funny."

  "We have much to discuss. Let's cross that bridge when—"

  "What did you say?"

  "I said we have other equally important matters to discuss that are more time sensitive."

  That was not what she meant, but the classic Duncan-Reed-formal-grammar made her smile. "Okay." She grabbed a yogurt and a Diet Coke from the fridge, adding them to her mental list right under, 'drawer,' and pulled a bar stool next to his short swivel stool.