Midnight Vengeance

by Lisa Marie Rice

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said and stuck his elbow out at an odd angle. She stared at it—was he going for a gun under his jacket?—and after a long moment realized he was offering her his arm.

  Such an old-fashioned gesture from such a rough man, she hadn’t even recognized it at first.

  She took it and she relaxed another infinitesimal amount. There was just something so incredibly reassuring about Jacko. Holding his arm felt good. Really good.

  She looked up at him and smiled and he flinched. Okay. She was relaxed, but clearly he wasn’t. Somehow she made him uneasy. But still, he wasn’t running away screaming, so she tugged him toward the west wall. She knew it was the west wall because it was painted blue with gilt letters in cursive writing on the top—West Wall. The east wall was taupe, the north wall salmon and the south wall mint. Gilt letters proclaimed each wall. Suzanne had chosen the frames according to the colors of the walls.

  They walked. Walking with Jacko in a crowded room was a very interesting experience. She’d bumped shoulders with about twenty people before. The room was full of people and everyone was intent on something else—food, drink or someone more interesting than she was. She’d been jostled and stepped on and shouldered aside.

  Instead, now, it was like Moses parting the Red Sea. Everyone somehow made way for Jacko, shifting out of his way as if that were the natural order of things. Those who didn’t instantly move got a glare that—once they saw it—made them scramble. No one jostled her; no one stepped on her toes; no one crowded her.

  “Have you seen the works already?” she asked.

  Jacko had been scrutinizing the crowd as if they were enemy insurgents, carefully and coldly. He looked down at her. “Yes, ma’am. Lauren. I helped hang them.”

  “So which ones do you like?”

  His dark eyes met hers. “All of them. Every single one.”

  She faked a smile. Wrong answer.

  “But the Morgenstern series is amazing,” he said. “And so is the Lachland residence. Never seen anything like it.”

  Okay. Right answer.

  “I’d really like to see up close what she did with the frames.”

  “Sure thing.” He looked down at her and if she didn’t know better she’d say that was a smile lurking in his eyes. Jacko smiling? Nah.

  But he walked her to the appropriate wall, people parting for them. Jacko snagged a couple of flutes of champagne off a passing silver tray and held one out to her. It was very deftly done, considering the size of his hands.

  It had amazed her during drawing lessons, too. The number 2 pencil looked like a stalk of straw in his huge hands, yet that hand sketched the most delicate images imaginable. He was an expert on hand-drawn maps, and his own were exquisite.

  They stopped in front of the Morgenstern series. Suzanne had gone all out in the presentation. Over the series was a long acrylic rectangle with Morgenstern residence—24 hours laser-etched across the top. The watercolors were framed with a gold passé-partout within an elaborate wrought iron frame holding the entire ensemble together. She’d had the idea of the Morgenstern series as she sat on a park bench across from the façade of the home. It was a Belle Epoque building and by some miracle of light and shadow, each part of the day—sunrise, noon, late afternoon and dusk—highlighted different parts of the façade.

  So she’d done watercolors of the four parts of the day, each a slightly different hue, each shift of the sunlight highlighting different aspects of the ornate façade.

  “Suzanne did a really good job framing them.”

  That earned her an odd look. “The works are yours. Not hers.”

  There was nothing to say to that.

  She sipped the excellent champagne, holding the flute up so it caught the light. The crystal felt good in her hand, catching the light of the overhead chandeliers, so fine it was almost as if the bubbles were caught in air instead of glass.

  She twirled the stem. Her family had had flutes just like this in Boston. Fifty of them. Three lifetimes ago.

  For just a fleeting second sadness descended over her. She’d trained herself, schooled herself against it. Thinking of the past not only did her no good, it was actively dangerous. She had to be present, fully in the moment, every second, because danger could come leaping out of the darkness at any time.

  The only way to survive was to be on her guard and to be grateful for every second, because every second could be her last. No past, no future, only the present.

  And if it hurt her, just a little, not to be able to claim the watercolors and drawings she’d worked so hard on, if it hurt her, just a little, to remember her charmed childhood in Boston that could never come back, too bad.

  That was life.

  “Let’s go look at the Agarwal house sketches over on the east wall.” She tugged at Jacko’s arm.

  “Sure. They’re beautiful. My compliments.” They were crossing the big room and he looked down at her and she thought she saw...again, could that be a smile in the depths of his dark eyes? Jacko was the most serious man she’d ever been around. His emotional tones ran the gamut from sober to grim and back again. Even the hint of a smile was extraordinary.

  “Well, it was thanks to you.” She gave him a sunny smile, straight up at him, and his face froze. It looked like something hurt.

  The sketches of the Agarwal house had come out well, she had to admit. It was thanks to Jacko that she’d been able to sketch the house at all. The Agarwal house was an extraordinary structure built by an Indian venture capitalist heavily invested in green energy. The house was built on a remote vast plot of land on the foothills of Mount Hood and had been designed to blend into the forest.

  Lauren had sketched it in fall and deepest winter and had extrapolated what it would look like in spring and summer. She’d spent three full days filling ten notebooks with sketches.

  When Jacko had heard through Suzanne—who’d received the contract to design the interior décor—that Lauren intended to spend a lot of time on the isolated estate he had insisted on accompanying her. The first time, Lauren had balked. She liked—no, needed—to take her time. She didn’t want to draw hasty sketches with a bored guy tapping his size 14 boot waiting for her to finish up. But it hadn’t been like that, not at all. Jacko seemed to have enormous reserves of patience. He found a bench where he sat quietly, simply waiting for her. Five minutes after she arrived in the morning, Lauren had forgotten Jacko’s presence and only came up for air in the early afternoon after an orgy of sketching to find him waiting in the exact same spot in the exact same position she’d left him in.

  Something told her he’d be able to do that for days and maybe even weeks, not just hours.

  And, truth be told, the fact that he was there, watching over her, allowed her to lose her sense of time and do it right. Without him, there was a bit of her that would have remained tense and alert.

  “You were very kind and very patient with me. I appreciate it.” She looked up and met his eyes and again smiled sunnily at him. He blinked and his face became even more wooden.

  “My pleasure, ma’am.”

  She rolled her eyes at him. “Lauren.”

  “Lauren,” he repeated dutifully.

  God it was fun teasing him. She tugged at the massive arm under her hand. “So come on, let’s go over to the blue wall.” They turned. “From what I can see of the frames, she did a magnificent—”

  And then it happened.

  And it cut her life in two.

  Chapter Three

  A bright light went off in her eyes, blinding her. Another light went off, then another.

  “Great!” a cheery voice enthused. “Great shot! You’re a fabulous, unusual couple!” The man holding the camera was tall, rail thin, dressed in a very tight lizard skin jacket with a crimson red satin shirt underneath. That Mick Jagger vibe, only in a young guy.

  Lauren’s knees buckled, the lights in the room dimmed and all sound was cut off, gone. She couldn’t breathe; she was choking. It
was exactly as if a huge invisible hand caught her around the chest and squeezed. Hard. She wheezed but no air came.

  She couldn’t stand. Her legs wouldn’t hold her.

  But she wasn’t falling either. Something strong, around her waist, was holding her up.

  A sound, close to her ear.—ren? She couldn’t make sense of it. The world was frozen, she was frozen, right down to her core.

  And then the world came back—brightly, painfully—in a nauseating rush.

  The kid taking shots looked at her as if she were a specimen in a zoo and walked off.

  No!

  Her lungs unlocked; she drew in a deep gasping breath. Jacko was holding her up but she needed to be able to stand on her own two feet. Now. Grabbing Jacko’s tuxedo lapels she leaned into him, keeping her voice low.

  “The photos,” she gasped. “Oh God. Get rid of those photos of me, please! Destroy them! All of them!” Her voice was shaking badly; her lips felt numb. Was she getting the words out right? She gulped in a deep breath, to explain—to find some kind of explanation that didn’t make her sound insane—but it wasn’t necessary. Because Jacko walked up behind the young Mick Jagger, took him by an elbow and in a second they disappeared from view.

  Lauren searched the crowd frantically, turning as she heard a cry. There they were, behind a pillar. Jacko’s big hands were quickly and efficiently manipulating the camera, eyes on the view screen, completely oblivious to the squawking of Jagger Junior. Jacko handed the camera back, leaned in close, and whatever he said must have been forceful because the photographer paled and nodded his head jerkily.

  Jacko watched Jagger Junior’s face for a long moment then he nodded and made his way back to her. Jacko had such a...presence. Partly because he was such a big man—not tall so much as immensely broad—and partly because he had the kind of face you don’t argue with, the crowd just parted for him again. Not scrambling to get out of his way but just making an opening for him to come back to her in the straightest, quickest line possible.

  Lauren stood, shaking, watching him.

  What had she done? Foolish, foolish woman. She’d let her ego and her heart get away with her. No matter that she knew it was a bad idea to exhibit her drawings and watercolors, that it could cost her everything. Suzanne had pleaded with her, and let’s face it, her ego had been stroked.

  And it had cost her everything.

  Jacko was beside her and she tilted her head back to look into his dark eyes. He wasn’t as tall as Suzanne’s husband or the man they called Senior, Allegra’s husband. But she was in flats and he was a head taller than she was.

  She looked around, mentally saying goodbye. It was an eclectic gathering, a good Portland mix of professionals and creatives. Friendly and welcoming, just like the city. She could feel the good vibes, feel the friendliness almost beating against her skin like a warm tide.

  The process that had begun with Suzanne—tying her to this place with silken ropes of pleasure and affection—began to unwind, spool out. It felt as if she were in some kind of experimental movie where alienation was shown by the camera zooming out.

  In the space of minutes, there was a wall between her and the happy crowd so thick she could barely hear their voices.

  Home. She had to get home fast.

  Then get out of Portland fast.

  But first—home.

  She placed her hand on Jacko’s arm. She rarely touched him. He froze whenever she touched him so she made sure she did it rarely. Now was one of those times. She needed his attention.

  “Jacko...”

  It was only when he bent low to her that she realized she’d practically whispered his name. She cleared her throat. Breathed out the pain. “Jacko.” There, her voice was almost normal. “Did you—”

  “Every single one, all the ones with people. The only photos left on the card are of the buffet tables.”

  She stiffened her knees. Thank God. She wanted to sag with relief but that could wait until she got home.

  She leaned into him. “Thank you, Jacko.” She hadn’t had to beg him or convince him in any way. For that she’d be eternally grateful because she’d have ended up sounding insane. She’d probably have followed young Mick around, trying to steal his very expensive camera with about a yard of lens, hung by a leather strap around his neck.

  “I, ah, I have—” Her mind shorted. What did she have? What was best? Sudden onset of blinding headache? Stomach flu? Uncle Elmer just passed away? “A headache. Migraine. I think I’ll say goodbye to Suzanne and grab a taxi—”

  “No,” Jacko said. His deep voice, his dark eyes were calm.

  Lauren blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re not taking a taxi, not if you don’t feel well. I’ll drive you.”

  “But...” Lauren waved her hand at the scene in front of her. The show was in full swing. Everybody who was coming had arrived and nobody had left yet. It was the best moment of any successful exhibit, people talking, eating, drinking. Happy. “I can’t take you away from the show. That wouldn’t be fair.”

  “I’m driving you home.” It was as if he hadn’t heard her. He was impassive, as if stating some kind of universal law. The only sign that there was some emotion was the slight Texan accent that became stronger. Draaaah-vin.

  Fighting him required more energy than she possessed. And a tiny part of her was glad. She was walking away from a life she loved. Her world had flipped in the space of a minute. It would have been almost more than she could bear to cut all the ties to her life here in the time it took a taxi to arrive.

  At least on the drive home with Jacko she could pretend she still lived here, just a little longer.

  “I need to say goodbye to Suzanne.” Lauren looked up at him, trying her best to keep her face expressionless when the idea of it was ripping her insides. “Then we can go.”

  He nodded and this time took her elbow instead of offering his arm. Thank God. Her legs felt rubbery, her head light. Her heart was pounding so hard it was a miracle nobody heard. She felt as if the noise should be bouncing off the walls.

  Suzanne was near the north wall, which contained Lauren’s sketches of Suzanne’s corporate interior designs, including the Lo Corporation’s glass lobby. Lauren had loved sketching it—all grace and light.

  Her heart gave another huge painful thump when she realized that she could never do this again. Never draw public buildings. Never, ever have a show, not even anonymously. That door had suddenly closed shut with a bang.

  She swallowed. Saying goodbye to that and to Suzanne suddenly seemed like too high a price to pay. Like saying goodbye to life itself.

  But it was what it was.

  Suzanne was talking to the corporate spokesman for the Lo Corporation, a young, spiky-haired woman dressed in black, head to toe. The woman said something and Suzanne threw her head back and laughed. Even her husband, who was standing with his arm around her, smiled.

  John Huntington, smiling. Wow. He was another one of the grim-faced brigade, the founder of Alpha Security and, like Senior and Jacko himself, a former SEAL. He was tall and broad and good-looking, in a slightly dangerous way, his dark hair silver at the temples, making him look like a distinguished pirate.

  Lauren had been astonished when she first saw the Alpha Security International website with its photograph of a dark-haired John, without a trace of white in his hair. John never spoke of his military service, but presumably as a SEAL he’d been in battle many times, which he’d apparently taken in his stride. He said that all the white hair came from being a husband and father.

  Oh God. Suzanne’s little girl, Isabel. The most beautiful baby on the face of the planet, absolutely adorable. She gave a huge toothless grin every time she saw Lauren.

  Lauren would never see Isabel again. Never watch her grow up. Not get to watch John freak when she started walking. He’d be snow white by the time Isabel started dating. It would have been so much fun to be a part of all that.

  But she’d
be far away. In another world, another life. Mourning this one.

  Suzanne held out a hand to her, smiling, as she walked up. She held out an arm. “Lauren. There’s someone I want you to meet. I was just telling him what a talented artist you are. He wants to see your portfolio.”

  Suzanne was visibly quivering to tell whoever this guy was the truth. Not letting Lauren take the credit for the artwork was driving her crazy.

  Sweet, sweet Suzanne. Funny, smart Suzanne. Loyal, affectionate Suzanne. She shimmered in the bright light of the exhibit space as Lauren blinked back tears. She looked at her friend, absolutely stunning in a pale peach satin gown, dark blond hair drawn back in some kind of complicated bun that on any other woman would have required three hours at the hairdresser’s. Suzanne had an innate style, a natural elegance. She probably scooped up her hair after the shower and styled it herself in two minutes.

  She was classy and smart and warm, a woman in a million, a friend in a million—and Lauren would never see her again.

  This was breaking her heart.

  Suzanne’s eyes honed in on Lauren’s face and her smile faltered. Oh God, Lauren had forgotten how incredibly perceptive she was.

  “Is something wrong, Lauren?” Suzanne looked around, as if there could be muggers lying in wait among the petit fours, ready to spring out and do Lauren harm. Her husband, who was rarely far from her side, picked up on the vibe and moved even closer to his wife.

  Lauren hesitated for a second. John—known for some reason as Midnight to the men he worked with—was frowning too as he studied her face. It was a characteristic of the Alpha Security men—John, Senior, Jacko—and their friend, Portland PD detective Bud Morrison. Most men didn’t notice much outside themselves but these men did. And being noticed was dangerous.

  Lauren found herself leaning heavily against Jacko, against that reassuring warm wall of muscle. She straightened, brought a hand to her head. “Suzanne, honey, I am so sorry, but I have this killer headache.”

  Suzanne frowned. “I can see that you’re not feeling well. You’re very pale. I’m so sorry.” She looked up at her husband. “Do you think you can drive Lauren home?”