Dark Vengeance

by R. T. Wolfe

  She closed her lids and took a deep, cleansing breath. And realized she wasn't tired anymore. She tossed and turned for a few minutes, then sat up. Was he still drawing? Shaking her head, she tossed the covers to the side. She wouldn't have dared to walk without slippers across the carpet of any other hotel she stayed in, but it felt good on her aching feet. She took her cello case and set it on the bed. Taking out her old friend, she rosined the bow.

  How easy it was to forget how soothing she was to her. She pushed and pulled the bow across the strings, letting the wrist of her bow hand remain limp as her fingers held the end of it with just the right amount of elasticity. Her arm did the work of moving the bow across the strings.

  Her lids closed lazily and her head moved therapeutically to the rhythm of Georges Aperghis. She let her head dip, her cheek nearly brushing against the fingers that danced along the neck of her instrument. It wasn't until she was well into Degl'Antonii that she noticed her door had been opened. Why had he done that?

  She set her cello back in the case and contemplated, then walked out to the expansive area and over to him.

  "You stopped," he said without so much as looking up to her or pausing with his brushes.

  "I generally pick a first floor room at the end of a side hallway." She folded her hands in front of her and crossed one set of toes on top of the other. "And I don't usually share."

  At that, his eyes turned up to her and he smiled. It sent sparks across her arms, through to her heart. She may not have a photographic memory, but she would remember this image of him, sitting on the short stool, messy, working, and... staring at her. Oddly, she felt like he was memorizing her. His eyes didn't travel her body. He never did that, but it made her suddenly feel exposed. Her hair was a mess, she knew. Her baggy pajama bottoms and light blue cotton tank weren't exactly what someone would consider attractive.

  "Are you finished, then?" he asked.

  "Sure. I can be."

  "Please, don't. Come join me. I won't bother you." He stood now and moved to arrange a firm chair from the sitting area near his makeshift studio. Playing her cello next to Duncan as he worked could be inspiring and she couldn't resist. So, she obliged.

  They sat like that, in the middle of the night, with Vegas alive around their little cave of artistry. How long, she wasn't sure but time was unimportant. She felt a release and a peace she couldn't remember since... she couldn't remember. It had been a long time since her calloused fingers reddened from play and somewhere in her head she thought she might need to worry about that.

  Dawn began its ascent. She knew many patrons in party dresses would still be in the downstairs casino, smoking their cigarettes and drinking cocktails as they finished their night. Again, when she came out of her blissful trance, he was looking at her. Penny for your thoughts. She didn't put her cello in the case, but leaned it up against the chair, slid her feet along the floor and collapsed face down in a restful sleep.

  * * *

  Nickie woke after only a few hours. Duncan was gone. He'd put her cello away and leaned it inside her closet. A note was attached that read, "You purr when you sleep. It's sexy. I've gone to see the mayor of Las Vegas, Nevada." She smiled before she noticed the assorted muffins and some juices that set in ice on her bedside table.

  Her feet were sore and she could barely move the fingers on her left hand, but she felt more rested than she had in a very long time. His temporary studio was gone, all except the lights. He must be drawing outside today, she decided.

  Grabbing her suit and towel, she slipped on her sandals and grabbed a muffin.

  On her way to the elevator, she noticed a drying rack that faced the north windows. Three canvases stood like leaning soldiers. She considered for a total of two seconds before tossing her towel over her shoulder, sticking the muffin in her mouth and heading over to them.

  Two were obviously the beginnings of his paintings for the mayor. The yard was expansive and he'd started the lines for the manor.

  But she had a hard time keeping her interest when the third was... her. Was it finished? It looked finished, but how? The canvas was the size of her suitcase. She was sitting with her eyes closed, head tilted with her cello resting between her legs.

  Is that how he saw her? He'd painted her face soft, golden. Her hair draped around her shoulders and framed the instrument. She supposed she'd looked pretty in this painting. In this painting he'd painted. Without her consent. She wasn't at all sure how she felt about it.

  Never once had she noticed him looking at her. Did he need to? It was all confounding.

  * * *

  Duncan hadn't intended to earn the title of real estate mogul. But with the falling economy, opportunities kept posing themselves to him. The deals were too good to pass up and his property was becoming widespread. He thought of hiring someone who could manage the paperwork, except he loved juggling the complexity and didn't trust anyone else to be fair with sellers who suffered from the effects of hard times.

  A few hundred new ounces of gold, a few dozen investment trades and he was driving to finish his morning at the mayor's estate. He'd intended to get a better start on it the night before but knew better than to work against where the brushes took him.

  The warm desert wind tussled his hair as he drove in his Mustang rental. He turned up the long, winding drive that led to the manor. The bright sunshine would be a deterrent, but the temperature was the real worry. He'd hoped to stay into the afternoon, but expected he'd have to cut it short and work back in his makeshift studio in the hotel's air conditioning.

  Would she be there? What would she do during the day? Work on her tablet? Catch up on sleep? He thought of the small sounds she made as he watched her sleep when he'd left her breakfast on her end table. He was tempted to straighten up more than her cello, but had decided against it. He was able to get a closer look at the scars that peeked around the tank she'd slept in. He tried not to stare. Packing her cello didn't feel intrusive, but studying her back certainly did. He had many questions for her he knew he should never ask. Pieces of her life he wanted to dig into, but he knew better. It would be the ultimate break in the rules he had set long ago.

  As he pulled to the side of the circle drive, he looked at the mayor's home and thought it didn't look like a home at all. Small square porch. The stucco material used in this part of the country was painted white. Cast iron spindles and gates decorated the base of the many windows and served as a fence. Puffy flowers lined the garden beds like soldiers wearing yellows and reds.

  He heard the children before he saw them. Two adorable boys and a firecracker little girl came running around to investigate the sound of tires on the concrete. "Mista Weed! Mista Weed! Granpie! Mista Weed is here!" Although worn from his lack of sleep, the sound of their laughter rejuvenated him. This would be a good day.

  * * *

  Nickie knew it would be a long shot, but she had to try. She dressed in her detective garb, light beige slacks, a white short-sleeved, button-down blouse and lower-heeled light brown boots. Her hair was pulled back in a rare ponytail. Large sunglasses hid her eyes. She left her gun holster under the driver's seat of the sedan rental and silently thanked Duncan for saving the money on the hotel room to pay for the ride.

  On the outskirts of the low-income side of Henderson, she cased the stores. No one was talking to her, even if by chance they had seen Lacey Newcomer. And she knew it was extremely unlikely the men who kept her would have any cause to bring her out in public.

  But she read the faces of the people in this town close to Vegas—the one the brunette had directed her to. Their faces said they knew what she was looking for, knew what was happening, maybe even where it was happening. She wouldn't give up. She would keep moving, keep passing out her business cards and hope someone somewhere would show mercy over fear.

  Tired and knowing full well she would need more than a few hours of sleep if she was going to be on the top of her game that night, she entered a mom-and-pop grocery s
tore. The woman behind the counter had too many lines for her young face. She looked worn and gave Nickie a twinge of guilt that she'd been internally complaining about her lack of sleep.

  "Excuse me, ma'am, I was hoping you would look at a picture for me."

  The woman didn't look at her as Nickie pulled out the photo of Lacey. "This is a girl, a fifteen-year-old girl named Lacey who went missing over two weeks ago."

  The woman's expression remained emotionless, but her eyes dropped to the photo.

  "Do you have children, ma'am? Her parents are very worried."

  "Yes," she answered. "I got a twelve-year-old girl, which is why you need to get in your fancy car and drive right on back out of here."

  Fancy car? Nickie held out one of her business cards. The woman didn't take it. Setting it on the counter next to the cash register, Nickie said, "I understand, ma'am. I'll just leave this here for you in case you change your mind. Take care of that little girl."

  Chapter 15

  Duncan's door was closed when Nickie returned. The drying rack was missing.

  She went to her room, entered notes in her tablet regarding where she'd been, feelings she read on the faces of the people, and silently hoped Duncan wouldn't hack into them, seeing that she'd broken her own rule by using gut instinct rather than facts to guide her investigation. Why did the thought of him always make her squirm? Stupid.

  Their first impression wasn't a good one a few months prior. Well, several months prior, but neither had liked each other at that time. He did like her, didn't he? As a friend, as a temporary partner. He needed her to help with his aunt. He used her to help with his aunt.

  She sighed at that thought. And she was using him. Whatever there was between them was fueled by outside need and matter of chance. They had nothing in common. This wasn't some budding, potentially lasting relationship. Did she want to become another woman on Duncan Reed's list? She could kick herself for letting that cause her grief. She was a grown woman and long past the time she would let feelings for a man cause her much of anything.

  Exhausted, she toed off her boots, pulled the sheets down and fell asleep with her clothes on.

  * * *

  Duncan hoped he hadn't stepped out of some sort of Nickie Savage boundary. He supposed he could have called and simply asked her if she would be willing to be by his side that evening. But, the thought of spending it without her was disheartening and she would have been more likely to decline with nothing to wear. Miniskirts and leopard pumps wouldn't do for what he had planned. So, he'd gone shopping.

  The men he would play against would be older, some would have already lost the tournament next door. Mostly aged and extremely wealthy. He could use that. A few finger brushes of gel through his damp hair set the finishing touch and he was ready. Hoping she would dine with him, he knocked gently on her door.

  Sheets rustled and feet hit the floor.

  "Crap!" He heard from inside the room and he grinned. "Crap, crap, crap!" More rustling, then water from the shower. He decided on room service. After twenty full minutes, the water turned off. She came out in a towel and didn't hesitate to find him. Damned oversized hotel towels.

  "There's a dress in my room. Why is there a dress in my room?" Her hair was bound in its own towel and framed her face, creamy and golden without a touch of makeup. How had he ever thought she was anything but beautiful? Her eyes weren't too far apart; they sparkled like fire and looked like they were solving a puzzle as they glared at him.

  "I entered a high stakes game. It's a hunch. I'd hoped you stand as my good luck charm... on purely an investigative capacity, of course."

  She took a few breaths. "An ivory, sequined, tea-length dress is appropriate for the game you've entered?"

  He'd found the perfect shade of cream that would accent the tone of her skin, the shade of her hair. The young sales clerk who'd helped him found it in a style with a high back. He'd had to buy a new shirt and tie as the white he'd planned on would have clashed with the ivory, but what was one more shirt and tie? "A ten thousand buy-in attracts a different crowd."

  She stood in the doorway to her room in her bright white towels with her mouth forming a small 'O'. Yes, beautiful.

  Recognizing her expression, he explained. "It isn't by far the most expensive buy-in game that will take place this evening, but it's closed and secluded. Some of the men will likely recognize me, especially in this town. It would be... unlikely I would attend such a game stag. The men will be wealthy and older and if none of them have a... a date with one of the girls you're looking for, I'll have to assume they'll know someone who does. My main objective, however, is gathering information on this man." From his pocket, he pulled out a picture of Brusco.

  Her eyes traced the picture, then moved to him. "Okay. Okay, but I'll need to leave for a while. I have some solid leads to follow up."

  "Better yet." Resisting the temptation to run his fingers along her shoulders, he said, "I ordered dinner."

  "Oh. I'll dress quickly, then." She stepped back and closed her door. "You bought shoes, too?" He heard her through her door and grinned again.

  He prepared the table and kept the main entrées covered until she came out. He called Brie as he waited, then watched the ticker tape for the status on some of his larger investments. It took her a full forty-five minutes.

  He stood as her door opened to assist with her chair.

  Lines of satin bands wound around her feet. In contrast, she walked like a cop in the shoes he'd picked out. The dress hugged her healthy body and exposed the muscle in her swimmer's arms. The heels made them nearly the same height. Somehow, she'd twisted her hair up. He'd never known a woman who did that on her own. Wispy curls fell sporadically around her neck and face.

  She stopped before reaching him. He was learning what passed through her mind. At that moment it was reservation, arrogance, focus, and suspicion. And the more he learned the more he realized he didn't know.

  "I'm starved. Thank you for ordering." She accepted the seat he held for her.

  "Don't thank me yet. You don't know what I ordered."

  She shook her head. "Not picky. Just hungry."

  He lit some candles and poured the wine. Next to her plate, he'd set a box. He saw that she noticed it but didn't inquire. He'd offered gifts of flowers and jewelry to women before. This time, he was at a loss. "They're a loan from a friend who owns a store on the strip." He took the box, opened it and turned it to face her.

  Her reaction was new territory. She held her hands at her chest like the pearl necklace and earrings were dangerous.

  "I would act surprised that you have a friend who owns a jewelry store in Las Vegas, Nevada, but I'm past that." She didn't reach for the box.

  "May I?"

  When she didn't object, he pushed away from the table and walked around her. She'd managed to twist her mass of hair into a neat line in the back of her head. Lifting the strands of organized curls, he clasped the long strand of ivory pearls at the base of her neck. The line of small ivory spheres cascaded in size and dipped at the beginning of her hint of golden cleavage. Selfishly, he lingered the backs of his fingertips along her skin. The tendons near her shoulders tightened. He didn't understand and resisted his urge to replace his fingers with his lips.

  She removed her earrings and replaced them with the matching lines of pearls from the box. "You painted me."

  He sat without looking at her and shrugged at the new topic of discussion.

  "Do you often paint people without asking their permission?"

  "Generally, I only ask if I'm going to make money from it."

  "Are you planning on doing it again?"

  "I hadn't planned on it the first time."

  "See? You said first time."

  He smiled at that and watched as she blinked rapidly.

  "I'll... have to change before I follow up on my leads. I'll stick out like a sore thumb in this getup."

  Getup? "I highly doubt anyone would think of you as a
sore thumb, but you would definitely attract attention, yes. In fact, I'll likely be invisible at the game tonight."

  Between bites of rib eye and grilled asparagus, they went over his plan. They spoke of their day. She told him of her trip to Henderson. He shared the antics of the mayor's young grandchildren. It felt comfortable and... alien. "Why Savage?"

  She stopped chewing. Taking a moment before she swallowed, she answered, "I'm definitely not a Monticello anymore."

  "And yet you didn't pick the last name of your foster family."

  It bothered him the way the gray in her eyes turned from exotic to stone. He could see she was considering. "That's what they called me."

  He tried to process. Who? Why? And as he did, her armor came up. Her expression remained lifeless. Waiting patiently, he sat without eating as her chest rose and fell slowly, controlled and as her lids dropped ever so slightly.

  She must have decided to share, and he wondered how many people were privy to this information. "The men who took me. I fought. I fought for months. The other girls... were smarter. I wasn't going to win, but I fought none-the—. They called me 'savage'."

  His teeth ground, the muscles along his jaw straining.

  She shrugged and turned her fork over, Army style, and stabbed a piece of steak.

  His heartbeat rose and fired throughout him, but just as she had done, he kept the rise and fall of his chest painfully slow. "And you chose to change your name to Savage?"

  From the look on her face, he thought if she didn't have on the dress, she would swing her ankle on her knee, tough guy style. Instead, she tore off a piece of Italian bread and soaked up the drips on her plate before answering with her mouth full. "The day I turned eighteen I changed my name to Savage. It's a sort of tribute to the girls who didn't get away, and a way for me to remember them. Them and the girls who are taken every day. The stats are staggering. You about done?" She wiped her mouth and pushed away from the table.