by Grayson Cole
But she had to.
Nya thought of the other lost boys and their families and how she had lost her way, just like El in some respects. She owed it to them all to look inside. Her search continued, but she didn’t care about invoices anymore; she only cared about finding the art of those four young men.
She didn’t have far to look; all four were a part of the same shipment whose number she recognized as the impractical one, the shipment with very little cargo. Nya dragged them to the center of the basement, where the lighting was best. After taking a deep, cleansing breath, she removed the top off of one of the boxes. The first piece created by Noah Rolle drew a gasp from her lips. The small, delicate painting of a brown-skinned Madonna offering solace to her newborn baby was riveting with its sharpness and brilliant light. It had been created not with oil or canvass, but with remnants of vice. The image was painted on hundreds of cigarette papers from partially smoked cigarettes with liquor and decadent candy. It had been treated in St. Thomas to preserve the perishable materials, but the message had stayed intact. The brilliant dichotomy touched something deep within Nya. She shook her head slowly, thinking of the waste.
The next box was another of Noah’s, a small mosaic of an old man drinking. It was made from shards of glass from beer and liquor bottles. The man’s eyes glittered with sadness and regret. The young man’s work was brilliant. She found nothing less in Lamonte MacPherson’s cartoons and caricatures. Vibrant and exaggerated, he captured island life in a way that was real and joyous. Even spending all her time steeped in the art community and understanding that a person’s circumstance and their art are not always readily accessible, she found it hard to believe that the one who had drawn these pictures had been selling drugs and enforcing for Rinaldo Mandolesi. Errol Stewart’s paintings were all pastoral landscapes. None looked like St. Thomas. Nya had to believe that he had drawn his fantasy.
When she returned to Bernard’s box Nya said a prayer over it, for his soul to be at peace. Nya stroked the top of it, then opened it. At first, she didn’t know what she was looking at; it was just a giant photograph. Nya wished the lighting were better as she stood to carefully drag the photo out of the box so she could get a better look at it. Nya went to switch on another light, then came back to stand over the piece. From a distance, it looked like a man’s face. Harsh, cruel, with slashing black brows, dark caramel skin, and tension around his nose. His mouth snarled. He looked oddly familiar. Nya leaned down to look at it closer and realized that the larger photo was comprised of several tiny photos. She’d seen this technique many times. She’d been impressed by the first few, but the technique had lost its novelty for her long ago. Granted, this one was exceptional. The man’s eyes bored into her even as she studied the smaller photos.
She leaned even closer… and her eyes widened… and her heart raced… and she could feel the blood rushing to her head.
Nya shot up, casting her gaze around, trying to figure out what to do, who to call. She had come to Norfolk to find evidence, but she had never expected this. She jumped up and down for a second, trying to expel some of the energy quickly building in her body. Then, she suddenly fell to the floor, knocked unconscious by a blow to the back of her head.
Chapter 10
Michael was sitting in the St. Thomas airport again. He sat in the same spot where he’d first seen Nya, and half expected to see her come through the glass doors again with a radiant smile on her beautiful face. In his mind, that vision of her was everywhere he’d looked on the island for the past two days. Even now he conjured an image of her: sensual lips, long chocolate-hued legs, small waist, perfectly contoured breasts he could hardly bear not touching, the twists flowing down her back. He swore under his breath. Truly he had never known a woman to affect him the way she did. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quell the next vision that assailed his senses: a picture of Nya lying beneath him as he made love to her. Damn, he wanted her.
He was convinced any man would feel that way when looking at her. There was no doubt he was very attracted to her physically, but was that all? It was what he wanted desperately to believe, but couldn’t. Something about that woman had gotten under his skin. He had seen so many sides of her over the last few weeks. There was the no-nonsense businesswoman, doing any and everything she must to make her enterprise move forward. There was the regal, sophisticated woman who seemed to know exactly what to wear, exactly what to say in any situation. And then there was the sexy, sensual woman who got carried away in the beauty of a garden and who got carried away in his arms. All those sides of her made him feel… feel…he didn’t know what he felt. The only certain thing was that he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything.
And he knew she wanted him, too. No matter what she said to the contrary, she wanted him. He remembered the kiss in the hotel lobby, and her body melting against his. Her body had responded as if it was the most natural thing ever up in his room. And she had looked up at him and waited, anticipating his kiss. He felt his body stiffen as thoughts of that endless moment washed through him. And he remembered what Lysette had said. Nya was an artist, an artist and a beautiful person. Lysette thought he was the one for Nya. Michael didn’t want to think about that. He was a man who was always moving. His work took a lot of dedication. His work had to be the most important thing to him. And, most important of all, his work couldn’t reject him. Then he felt something warm grow in his stomach and spread all over his body. What had Lysette said? “It’ll take someone just like her.” Michael smiled to himself. That woman was proving to be wiser than he had thought. He wondered if her other deductions were correct. All he knew was that Nya Seymour, even in her absence, was making his body ache with longing.
He tried to focus on everything he’d learned in the islands. Marshall Ellis’s body had washed up on a remote beach. Until a couple of days before and a mammoth “clerical error,” Ellis had been in police custody. Using this as his first lead, Michael had gone to the police department to get some answers. Shortly after arriving, he found that someone had come to post bail for Ellis. Michael, inquiring about the identity of this person, had come up against a stone wall. They refused to tell him, saying that they could not release that information. After threatening everything he could think of and still getting nowhere, Michael had stormed out of the station aware that most of the people on the island knew each other and that the police officers probably knew who had taken Ellis, and with that, who killed him. But they wouldn’t want to tell him, an outsider.
He asked questions all over the island about Ellis. Where did he spend his time? Where was he spending his money? No one knew. It was possible that no one was talking, but Michael didn’t think so. It seemed that Marshall Ellis rarely spent time outside his house, a villa up on the east side of the island.
Michael had gone up to the villa to look around the property and found what he would describe as a bachelor pad. Ellis had reportedly stolen around three hundred thousand dollars, maybe more, but Michael couldn’t see any hint of extravagance inside the house. However, when he looked out the kitchen window that faced the ocean, he saw a small pier. Anchored there was a brand new sailboat, a white twenty-four-footer with a blue and white sail and the name Marshall on the side. Ellis apparently wasn’t a very bright man. How could he have possibly expected to get away with it? More importantly, how was he able to run such a smooth operation at the Hatsheput docks? Even with a mastermind like Mandolesi behind him, the guy didn’t seem swift enough to hold up his part of the bargain.
Still, what bothered him the most was the involvement of Elphonse Deklerk. He was positive that the man was as crooked as they came, but Nya was just as positive he wasn’t. She said that they had grown up together. But Lysette had also told him that the relationship had been strained over the past few years. If he had nothing to hide, why had he done that?
On the plane, Michael leaned back and closed his eyes. As always, Nya Seymour formed in his imagination. He could see he
r in that brightly patterned dress at Cold and Hot’s. He had seen her bare chocolate arms, neck, and back. His palms itched to touch skin he knew was soft. His mind was dizzy with her perfume all over again. He felt his body responding to the mere thought of her. He had to have her.
h
He was kissing her. She could feel his tongue blaze hot trails all over her body, kissing her everywhere, sending chills up her spine. His hands moved over her, squeezing her arms, caressing her breasts as his lips forged a path down the center of her stomach and up again.
And then he was over her, kissing her deeply again, drugging her with the taste of him. His hands were clenched in her hair. She could feel her own desire mirrored in his eyes. Her body needed his, the release that only he could bring to her. “Oh, God, Michael,” she moaned in her dream world. And suddenly, her sensual haze was shattered.
She opened her eyes, numb and dazed. She tried to focus them, but it took several seconds for the dizziness and the blur to subside. She tried to rise, and sharp pain pounced on her like a lion in the night. She tried to speak. Her voice came in a low, guttural moan. She again tried to sit up, this time successfully. She saw Elphonse leaning over her and attempted to rise. Her head began to pound more vehemently, daring her to try again. “El?” she moaned.
“No, Nya, don’t talk.” He took her hand in one of his and pressed his other to her forehead. “You took a nasty bump on the head. I found you lying in the warehouse.”
“I-I,” she stuttered struggling through the dizzying pain.
“Shhh, let me get you some water and some painkillers. I think that’s safe,” he said, standing and pouring a glass of water from a pitcher on the bedside table. He lifted her head with his hand and fed her pills before pressing the rim of the glass to her lips. Sometimes El was just like her father, not asking, commanding. She drank in deeply, savoring the cool current flowing down her dry throat.
“What happened?” she queried.
“I’m guessing you have a slight concussion. You have a little bit of swelling and some bruising, but you’ll live.”
“Okay, but what happened?”
El froze where he stood. “You don’t remember?”
Nya’s brain felt as if it were coated in dryer lint; she couldn’t get a clear picture of anything. The harder she tried to remember, the more her head hurt. “I’m not sure.”
El studied her. Then he pulled a chair over to her bedside and rested his chin on his clasped hands. “What am I going to do with you?”
The question was soft and rhetorical. Something about it, though, prompted her to try to sit up to get a good look at him. “What do you mean?”
“This is important: what do you remember from tonight?”
She reached up and gingerly tested the base of her skull with her fingertips. Her hair felt sticky.
“Don’t worry. The cut you have is tiny. More like you got scraped with something. You can barely see it. I cleaned it as best I could and put some antibacterial gel on it.”
“Why did you bring me back to the house instead of the hospital?” she asked as her thoughts started to clear. “Wait a minute. El, I just left you at home this morning. You were in Charlotte Amalie with me yesterday. What are you doing here?”
“Your father sent me.”
“What?”
“Your father sent me here to look after you because he said you were going to get yourself into some trouble. Isabella called.”
Nya let out a string of curses. “That sneaky witch. I knew she was up to something.”
“You do realize,” he said, “that I found you bleeding on the warehouse floor. Sounds like she was right to call Nyron.”
Really, he couldn’t expect her to comment on that.
“Speaking of your father, I need to give him a call and let him know that you’re ready to travel.”
“Travel?” Nya asked. She pushed her elbows into the bed, levering herself up into a higher sitting position. “What do you mean, travel?”
“You’re going back to Birmingham tomorrow,” he said wearily. Nya noticed that he had heavy bags under his eyes and that he wore the same clothes he had worn the day before. Nya did not let his obvious concern divert her from the issue.
“El, I’m not going back to Birmingham. I’m going to call the police and I’m going to find out who did this to me.”
“You can’t do that,” El hissed.
“Why not?”
“You can’t. I took the liberty of letting the FBI know what happened. I’m sure they have officers posted outside right now to ensure your safety.”
“Won’t they want me to describe the man who did this?”
“Did you see him?” El crossed his arms over his chest.
“No, but surely they would still want to interview me.”
“I told them everything I saw.”
“Which was what, El? Remember, I’m a little fuzzy.”
“I came here looking for you and you weren’t here. I called Isabelle to ask if she knew where you were. When she told me about your exchange, I figured you would be just stubborn enough to go down to the warehouse afterhours to look for what you wanted.”
Nya lifted one shoulder.
“Are you sure you don’t remember anything?”
“I don’t know. I think I just need to wake up, clear my head, and I’ll remember something helpful. Do you mind making me some of my mom’s tea in the kitchen?”
“No, I don’t mind. I’ll get it for you. You just stay there.”
Nya watched him go. Then she closed her eyes and slid back down in the bed. She felt as if she were going to black out again. In fact, she would welcome sleep once she sipped a bit of her mother’s tea. The strong smell of it, sweet and floral, had already reached her. She inhaled and felt her muscles relax.
Behind her eyelids, she found herself in the warehouse basement again. She saw the pieces of art from Noah, Errol, and Lamonte. Her emotions stirred again at the images. And then, as her muscles turned to syrup and she felt the pleasant sensation of surrender, she saw a photo. It was the face of Rinaldo Mandolesi, only his face was a composite of hundreds of tiny photos. Hundreds of tiny photos of horrible things. Murders, drug deals, sexual perversion, torture. Rinaldo Mandolesi, a man who went to obsessive, almost maniacal lengths to prevent himself from being tied to any crime with hard evidence, had been featured prominently in several. Her eyes popped open.
“Nya, princess, your tea is ready,” El called.
“El, I remember.”
“What do you remember?”
She told him.
“Are you certain you saw photos? You really did take a nasty bump on your head. You were calling me Michael twenty minutes ago, so I’m not sure you can trust your memory.”
Nya blushed. That dream, she certainly remembered. “It’s not the same. I’m sure.”
Nya mulled that over. Her eyes crossed from the pain in her head. “Fine if you don’t believe me, but what did you see when you found me?”
El cleared his throat. “All I saw was you lying there with a few opened crates. I didn’t see any photo.”
“It was huge. You had to have seen it!”
“I didn’t. And I’m still not sure you saw what—”
“I saw it,” Nya said, feeling out of breath. “I told you I was coming here to check on the invoices. I saw it and it showed evidence of Rinaldo Mandolesi’s criminal activity. That boy died because of the photos he took, because of his art he made. El, you have to go back.”
“Sorry?”
“You have to go back to the warehouse and see if it’s there. Maybe you didn’t pay it any attention.”
“Or the person who rendered you unconscious took it. Has that not occurred to you?”
Nya blinked. No, she hadn’t thought of that.
“I see that it hasn’t. Nya, we need to leave this to the people who know what they are doing.”
“But—”
“Girl, don’t you understand t
hat I can’t see another woman I love die?”
Nya winced as all the air seemed to be sucked from her lungs. He was scared for her. That was why he was hoping she didn’t remember and why he hadn’t called the police, why he’d brought her home instead of to a hospital. El was scared to draw any attention to her. She took a deep breath. “Listen, if there is a possibility that that photo is still there, one of us has to go back for it.”
“It wasn’t there. Can’t you just drop this?”
“No, I can’t. I get that you’re worried. I don’t want to worry you. But El, you have to see how important this is. Hiding won’t make me any safer. Not after what happened tonight. Can’t you see that?”
He stubbornly said nothing.
Nya made a move to get out of bed. “Fine, then.”
“Nya Sheranne Seymour! You get back into that bed now before I tie you down! You’re not going anywhere.”
Nya knew that it was no idle threat. She would have laughed had it not made her so angry. He was going to force his caretaking on her whether she liked it or not.
“Fine. I’ll go back. But no matter what I find, you are still going back to Birmingham and I will get to the bottom of this.” He said just as firmly.
“Thank you for caring, El, but I have to see this through.”
“Don’t make me call your parents,” he threatened.
Nya wilted. “Don’t do this to me,” she said, fighting the tea and the strong painkiller she’d been given.
“I’m not doing anything but saving your stubborn life,” he muttered to her as he smoothed the twists from her perspiring brow and she succumbed to a deep slumber.
h
Nya opened the door to her house, wishing that she hadn’t come home at all. Her father’s car was sitting in her driveway. She dreaded the confrontation. She’d already had a tough few days. Being assaulted, which El had made her swear not to report, was toxic icing on a poisoned cake. But none of that mattered just then. Her foremost worry at that moment was the man sitting at the dining room table with a fat Havana cigar between his teeth. She had never figured out how to ask her father not to smoke in her house or not to let himself in whenever he wanted just because he had a key. She probably never would.