The Nicci Beauvoir Collection: The Complete Nicci Beauvoir Series

by Alexandrea Weis

  I stared at Simon, unsure of what I had just heard. “What do you mean not safe?”

  “My dear Nicci, after all the research I have done over the past two years, there is only one conclusion I can make.” He paused for a moment. My heart rose in my throat. “The murderer came from New Orleans. This was not about David’s past. It was about you.”

  “Me?” I shouted. I reached over and nervously grabbed for the arm of my chair. I was not prepared for this. I had come here thinking I would hear lurid stories about David’s past, not this. I had loved him, not killed him.

  “Simon, you’re wrong,” I said, trying to rationalize away the little man’s words. “David died because of his past, not because of me. You’ve made some kind of mistake, that’s all.”

  Simon La Roy stared coolly into my eyes. “I can assure you there is no mistake. There is no other explanation. I am convinced David was killed because of you.”

  My hands started shaking uncontrollably and the room began to spin. Simon had to be wrong. He had to be. But as I looked down into his small brown eyes, I felt somewhere in the recesses of my mind that he may be right. I had made myself believe that David’s intriguing past had been the reason for his death. I had held on so tight to every fragment of my memories of David to help me survive his death. Now I could feel all those happy images of him dissolving away inside of me to reveal the complete emptiness of my heart.

  “Nicci, you must come to terms with this.” Simon’s voice was firm.

  “Come to terms with this? How in the hell do I do that, Simon?” I yelled.

  Simon La Roy calmly folded his hands in his lap. “Find his killer.”

  I stared at him completely dumbfounded. “What?” was all I could think to say.

  “Find David’s killer, Nicci.” The coldness in his voice unnerved me. “See justice done.”

  * * *

  I never heard the rest of Simon’s proposal. I ran out of the apartment and made my way to the elevator. Gulping in quick gasps of air, I tried to calm myself as I headed down in the elevator to the lobby. I replayed our conversation in my head repeatedly. I had come to the man’s home looking for answers and I had been confronted with an unexpected possibility. If I had been the cause of David’s death, what was I supposed to do with that? How was I ever going to be able to live with the knowledge that his love for me had been his death sentence?

  As I ran out of the building and into the street, I saw a limousine pull up to the curb in front of me. A driver jumped out and ran around to open the door for me.

  I waved him away. “I need to walk. I have to get some air,” I mumbled as I turned and started down the sidewalk.

  “Ma’am,” a husky voice urged behind me. “You’re in no condition to walk the streets of New York alone.”

  Within seconds, I felt a hand on my arm, halting my progress. I spun around to face my attacker. A man dressed in a black suit was holding my arm. I looked up into the driver’s face.

  He had the most haunting dark blue eyes and his hair was almost black and cut very short. There was a scar above his right eye and his nose looked slightly crooked, as if it had been broken more than once. His cheekbones were high and his jawline square, but the effect seemed only to deepen the coldness in his eyes.

  I turned from the man and looked about the busy street. “Where’s the other driver? The one who brought me here?”

  I felt myself being pulled toward the limousine. “Get in the car, Ms. Beauvoir. Please.” His voice had turned colder and more insistent.

  I forcefully removed his hand from my arm. “Who in the hell are you?”

  He placed his hands casually behind his back. “Mr. La Roy asked that I see you back to your hotel,” he stated calmly.

  “You work for Simon?” I should have realized the manipulative little toad of a man wouldn’t let me walk away so easily. “What secrets are you supposed to get out of me?” I yelled.

  He grimaced and looked around at the people on the sidewalk surrounding us. His eyes then turned back to me.

  “Get in the car before you attract too much attention,” he snapped.

  “I’m not getting in that damned car!” I turned to go, but his hand reached out for me again.

  I was about to start throwing punches when I felt his breath against my ear. “Don’t cause a scene.” He tightened his grip painfully on my arm. “Now get in the goddamn car before I have to pick you up and throw you in it,” he growled as he let go of me.

  I turned around to face the man and then folded my arms defiantly across my chest. “Oh, I’d love to see you try that.”

  Without a word of warning, the man reached out for me, lifted me easily into the air, and brutally slung me over his right shoulder like a piece of worthless luggage.

  “You arrogant…” I began, but he wedged his shoulder into my diaphragm, cutting off my air and any further reproach.

  “I was told this method works best with you,” he explained as he walked over to the limousine.

  Seconds later, I was dumped into the backseat of the black car. As he pulled away from me, I reached up to slap his face, but he was too quick for me. He grabbed my arms and pushed me back into the seat, pinning me against the luxurious leather.

  “Try to be a little more gracious when someone is helping you, Ms. Beauvoir,” his deep voice hissed into my ear.

  “You call this helping me!” I struggled furiously against his powerful grip. I wanted to reach out to claw his face, but he kept my arms restrained against the seat behind me. After a few frustrating seconds, I gave up resisting and let my body sink deeper into the leather seat.

  “Does Simon usually allow his guests to be brutalized in such a manner?” I asked a little out of breath.

  The man let go of me and began to retreat from the rear of the car. Once safely back on the sidewalk, he looked back at me as he straightened out his jacket.

  “Simon does not care about the method, Ms. Beauvoir,” he said, adjusting his black tie, “only the result.”

  “Care to tell me your name so I know who to kill later?”

  He raised his eyebrows at me, seemingly amused by my comment. He glanced about the sidewalk and then placed his hand on the car door.

  “All in good time.” Then he quickly slammed the car door closed.

  “This just gets better and better,” I said aloud to the empty backseat. “Murder, revenge, and now a sadistic asshole with an identity crisis.” I shook my head. “God, I hate New York.”

  Chapter 3

  “Aren’t you ready yet?” Dora questioned as she stood waiting at my hotel room door. “It’s six o’clock. We need to get moving.”

  I was standing in the doorway wearing my warmest black cocktail dress, hurrying to apply the last touches to my makeup while Dora looked nervously at her watch.

  I ran back into the bathroom and left Dora standing at the door. “Two more minutes,” I called out over my shoulder.

  “You have one,” she barked back at me.

  As I looked in the mirror and tried to apply more powder under my red and swollen eyes, I thought back to all the things Simon had said to me. My stomach twisted with the memory of his words. How was I going to get through this evening? Suddenly the publicity tour for my book paled in comparison to the revelations I had received earlier that afternoon. I wanted to run away and hide from the world tonight, not go out and mingle in it. But I was here for a reason, I reminded myself. I was here for David, and it was for him I had to bury my feelings and pretend that my life had not just fallen apart.

  “Nicci!” Dora’s voice at my bathroom door brought me out of my stupor. “Come on!”

  Dora all but dragged me from my hotel room and down the hall to the elevators. I was still putting on my black heels, my coat, and trying to put my long auburn hair back in a silver barrette as she pulled me down the corridor.

  “Now remember,” she began at the elevator, “tonight Mr. Hamper wants you to meet several of the literary critics w
ho will be at the party. This party is a golden opportunity for you to showcase your talent.”

  I struggled pulling back my hair. “Are we showcasing my talent or my ass, Dora? Because how on earth can any of these critics possibly discern if I have any talent by looking at me?”

  Dora frantically pushed the button for the elevator several times. “Listen, kiddo, in any business sex sells.” She looked me over from head to toe. “And in your case, sex is going to sell a lot of books.”

  The elevator doors opened before us. She stepped in and I dutifully followed.

  I adjusted my coat around my body. “Gee, Dora. All this time I was under the illusion I was a writer, not a prostitute.”

  Dora raised her dark eyebrows at me, amused. “Is there a difference?”

  The elevator doors closed behind us.

  “Look, Nicci,” Dora frowned, “most businesses are run by men. The same is true today as it was in ancient Rome: a pretty smile and a good figure can help a woman go far.”

  “And her brains?” I asked.

  “Save it for MENSA, kiddo. Powerful men don’t want a smart woman, and they definitely don’t want a woman to act smarter than them. They’ve already got wives to do that.”

  “I’m disappointed, Dora,” I said as the elevator made its descent to the lobby. “I would have thought you to be a feminist.”

  She turned to me and smiled. “I am. I just like to play the game.”

  I frowned. “You lost me.”

  “I play like a woman when need be, but when I get cornered I fight like a man.”

  “You have a great right hook?” I asked, almost laughing.

  She didn’t even crack a smile. “No. I have a great network of informants that gives me everything I need to take out any challengers to my position.”

  “Informants?”

  The elevator doors opened before us.

  “What do you think secretaries are for?” She laughed, appearing amused at my naiveté. “And considering most of them are women, they are more than happy to share any little tidbits of information that can help me put some degenerate executive in his place.” She stepped from the elevator. “How in the hell do you think I got this job anyway?”

  “And I thought I came from a ruthless town,” I mumbled, suddenly feeling homesick for the simplistic backstabbing of New Orleans society.

  The party was at another hotel and held in one of the facility’s numerous generic ballrooms. As soon as Dora and I entered the grand façade of the gold-painted room, it was obvious that this was an event to not only showcase the writers, but the entire Hamper Publishing franchise.

  Dashing eagerly amid plastic Christmas trees were waitstaff dressed as elves trying to appease the small mob of over two hundred guests. I immediately spotted authors whose books I had grown up reading waiting in long lines to get to the buffet tables scattered about the room. Two bars decorated to resemble reindeer-powered sleds were located strategically in the center of the room next to a seven-foot-high champagne fountain. There was even a jolly fat man in a red suit going around handing out presents from a round red bag.

  As we descended the holly-draped staircase to the ballroom floor, Dora turned to me.

  “You’re going to be a hit tonight, kiddo,” Dora whispered. She watched many of the men in the room follow my descent down the stairs with their hungry eyes. “Just keep smiling, showing the cleavage, and telling them the title of your book.”

  I stepped nervously onto the grand ballroom floor. My body trembled as I fought to keep all the chaos raging inside of me hidden behind my fake smile.

  A waiter dressed in green tights and a red hat approached and handed Dora and me each a glass of champagne. A wave of relief flowed through me as I looked down into the cool gold liquid. I had desperately needed something to help get me through the night, having restrained myself from prying open the minibar in my hotel room earlier in the day. I had not even taken the first sip from my glass when Dora’s hand suddenly reached up and touched my arm.

  “You’ll need your wits about you. Keep that same glass with you this entire evening. You can get drunk after we get out of here.”

  She took my arm and began expertly maneuvering me through the black-tie crowd. The first person she ushered me toward was old Harold Hamper himself, president and CEO of Hamper Publishing.

  The wizened, gray-haired executive was dressed in all his Armani finery. He looked thin yet sophisticated at first glance, but one could tell on closer inspection that his bearing more closely resembled a wily horse trader than a top New York executive.

  I grimaced to myself as the CEO’s pale green eyes flickered with delight when I was pushed unceremoniously before him.

  “Mr. Hamper,” Dora began, smiling at her boss, “you remember Nicole Beauvoir, author of Painting Jenny.”

  The man extended a surprisingly strong arm to me and gripped my hand firmly while his eyes hungrily looked my figure up and down.

  An instant dislike for the publishing magnate settled over me like a dense fog.

  “Ah, yes, the story of David Alexander.” Mr. Hamper paused. “And you were his Jenny.”

  I tried to pull my hand away from his. “Yes, I was David’s model.”

  “When we first heard about your story, I immediately instructed my people to make you an offer you could not refuse,” he said as he let go of my hand.

  I raised my eyebrows to him. “Your people called me before I had even finished writing the novel. I always wondered how that was possible.” I cocked my head to the side, curious as to how the executive would respond.

  He frowned looking more irritated than dissatisfied. “You were mentioned in many articles after his death, my dear woman. And at the time, I was interested in publishing a book about Mr. Alexander.” He paused and nodded his head toward me. “You see, Ms. Beauvoir, I’m a fan. I purchased one of Mr. Alexander’s portraits of you before his death. It hangs in my living room to this day.”

  “I’m sure David would be very happy to know that his paintings grace the homes of some of New York’s most esteemed individuals,” I lied.

  Mr. Hamper laughed, a deep and hearty laugh, betraying his frail-looking exterior. “I can see you will go far in this business.”

  I smiled even wider. “Whether I have talent or not.”

  Mr. Hamper roared with amusement. Dora started fidgeting nervously at my side.

  “Oh, you will be a true delight for all of these stuffy old critics here tonight, Ms. Beauvoir.”

  Dora cleared her throat next to me and I smiled once again for Mr. Hamper. As I turned to go, he reached out for my arm and stopped me. He then looked sternly at Dora.

  “Why don’t you give us a moment alone, Ms. O’Rourke,” he ordered in a rather icy tone.

  Dora looked from me to Mr. Hamper, nodded her head, and then casually stepped away from my side.

  I glared at Mr. Hamper and retracted my smile.

  He took my elbow with his spindly hand. “There is someone here who needs to speak with you. Shall we?” He nodded to a far corner of the grand ballroom.

  I allowed Mr. Hamper to escort me through the crowd, smiling at the inquisitive eyes that followed our hasty stroll across the parquet floor. I thought perhaps I should be concerned about where I was being led, but then I figured by this point in my day, nothing should surprise me.

  Quickly we came to an exit door where there were no people or waitstaff milling about. A short man in a dark, tailored suit stepped out from the shadows, and I began to realize why I had been ushered away from the party.

  “Here she is, La Roy. As you requested,” Mr. Hamper said as he let go of my arm.

  I turned my attention to Simon La Roy. The sight of the little man did nothing to help calm my already frayed nerves. I raised my head proudly, not wanting to show the effect Simon’s presence was having on me.

  Simon smiled at the older gentleman. “Ah, thank you, Harold.”

  I could not help but notice that Mr.
Hamper did not share in Simon’s enthusiasm.

  “Don’t keep her too long, Simon,” Mr. Hamper grumbled as he stepped away from my side. “I’ve got books to sell.”

  Simon nodded. “Of course, Harold. I’ll have her back out there for you to exploit to your heart’s content in no time.”

  Hamper did not respond to Simon’s sarcasm. He simply turned on his heels and disappeared into the crowd.

  “Harold Hamper?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

  “A frequent customer. The publishing world has its needs as well, my dear Nicci.” He raised his cane deftly in his hand and admired the fine detail on the silver handle. “I knew when you went running out of my home today that I had upset you. Unfortunately, this matter requires us to put our emotions aside. I need you focused and ready to deal with coming events.”

  I felt my heart skip a beat. “Coming events?”

  “When you return to New Orleans, I want you to help us.”

  “Help us? Who is us?” I threw my hands up in the air, feeling the mammoth-sized knot in my stomach tighten. “Simon, what makes you think I could ever be of any help to you or anyone after everything I’ve heard today?”

  “But you are the key to finding out the truth about David’s murder. A truth that you and others need to know.” He paused, letting his dark eyes linger on mine. “Do you want to spend the rest of your life watching your friends and wondering what if? Because I think it will be very difficult for you to continue with your life in New Orleans after everything you’ve learned.”

  I knew Simon was right, no matter how much I wanted to deny it. I could never go back to New Orleans and live as I once had after his disclosures. The only way to get my life back was to find and destroy the person who had taken my life away.

  “What do you want from me, Simon?”

  He smiled triumphantly. “I have someone who will be making contact with you. He is a member of my specialty group. In fact, he is the best within my organization. A sort of precision instrument, if you will.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”