The Nicci Beauvoir Collection: The Complete Nicci Beauvoir Series

by Alexandrea Weis

  We were talking casually about our shopping adventure and watching the people on the street when Dallas quickly sat up and tapped on the cab divider.

  “Pull over here,” he ordered.

  The dark-skinned driver nodded and pulled over to the first available spot by the curb. Dallas reached over to the door and then turned to me.

  He took my hand. “I want to show you something.”

  I eyed him warily. “What?”

  “You.”

  Dallas glanced over to the cabbie waiting patiently on the other side of the bulletproof divider. “Wait here. We’ll be a few minutes.”

  The cab driver nodded, put the car into park, and left the engine running while the meter on the dash ticked away the fare. Dallas pulled me from the car, leaving our bags of presents in the backseat. He led me past a few shops until we came to a rather small picture window filled with several paintings resting on easels.

  I looked in at the dark oils of the New York skyline casually arranged in the display and a nagging uncertainty started to creep up from my toes.

  With too much exuberance, Dallas walked over to the glass door at the entrance to the gallery and held it open for me, encouraging me inside with a flourish of his hand.

  We stepped through the doorway to be greeted by dozens and dozens of paintings either hanging on the walls, out on easels, or on benches around the gallery floor. Some were pictures of various New York attractions done in an array of bright oils and a few charcoals. Others were portraits of older, very well-established Manhattanites dripping with diamonds and dressed in the city’s hottest couture.

  “It’s the gallery Flo bought for David,” Dallas explained, coming up behind me. “She sold it last year to an art dealer, but there is something still here of David’s I want you to see.” He took my hand and dragged me through the gallery.

  We were halfway across the showroom floor when a tall, slim, and very graceful woman with dark brown hair approached us.

  “Can I help you?” the woman asked in a seductive voice.

  Dallas studied her for a few moments and I felt an unexpected twinge of jealousy grip me.

  “We are looking for your David Alexander paintings.” He smiled at her but never let go of my hand. “His Jennys,” he added with a fake-sounding reverence in his voice.

  The woman nodded to him. “Right this way,” she instructed. She led us away from the main showroom through a side doorway.

  As we entered the smaller exhibit room, I let go of his hand, overwhelmed by visions of the past. There on the walls surrounding me were at least ten of David’s works. Some were Jennys and others were of skylines and places in the French Quarter he had painted during his days in New Orleans. When I turned to the far wall, I found the very first painting I had ever seen of his.

  David and his paintings had been hanging out by the black iron fence along Pirates Alley behind St. Louis Cathedral. We had met before at several social soirees, but it was on that sunny day in June I had first discovered that the man I had taken to be a gigolo was, in actuality, a frustrated artist with dreams of finding his inner muse.

  The painting was of a dark-haired woman sitting at a black wrought-iron table on a balcony in the French Quarter. She wore a cream-colored robe and drank from a red cup of coffee. I smiled to myself as I remembered how David’s hands used to dart about the canvas. The way the paint would splatter across his face, chest, and hair. The way he used to look when he painted.

  “Like a man possessed,” I whispered to myself.

  “What?” Dallas asked.

  “I, ah,” I spoke up as I pointed to the portrait of the woman on the balcony, “that is the first painting I ever saw of his.”

  “And this one?” Dallas called from behind me.

  I turned to see Dallas standing beside a nude portrait of me, sitting in a claw-footed white bathtub filled with floating red flowers. Dallas was smiling and gazing from me to the painting.

  Flabbergasted, I pointed at the portrait. “How did that get here?”

  “Your Aunt Val sent it back to Flo after David died,” Dallas replied as he stepped away from the painting. “I’ve come here several times just wanting to admire the, ah, details.”

  The reason for our detour to the gallery was finally revealed.

  “Very funny,” I said, shaking my head. “Val gave it to Michael and me as an engagement present.”

  “And what did Michael think of it?” Dallas asked, raising his dark eyebrows playfully.

  I scowled at him. “He had a fit. Val unveiled it in front of all of the guests at our engagement party. So naturally Michael was concerned what everyone would say about seeing his fiancée naked in a portrait painted by another man.” I paused as I waved at the portrait. “Michael’s mother damn near had a heart attack when she saw it.”

  He admired the painting on the wall. “Now I can understand why your aunt bought it.”

  “Val was not completely to blame. My father and Uncle Lance were coconspirators in her plan to thwart my engagement to Michael.”

  Dallas laughed. “Must have been one hell of a party!”

  The tall woman stepped forward. “I didn’t realize you were his Jenny,” she said as she looked at me. “I read your book about him. It was very good.”

  Dallas grinned stupidly and came up to me, putting his arm around me. “She’s a great writer.”

  I shrugged off his arm. “Did you ever read my book?”

  “Of course.” He started to walk out of the exhibit room. “But not all of it. I’m not into chick lit,” he called over his shoulder as he headed out of the room.

  I turned to the woman standing beside me. “Do you have a gun?”

  She drew her dark eyebrows together. “What?”

  “Never mind. Thank you for showing us this.” I motioned my hand around the room.

  “You must have been very special to him,” she remarked in her sultry voice. “He painted you with such love.” I watched how her eyes lingered on a few of the paintings around the room. “You don’t see much of that these days,” she added.

  “No, you don’t.” My eyes then fell on the bathtub nude on the far wall across from me. “And do me a favor,” I said, pointing to the nude, “hide that in a closet.”

  I walked out of the gallery and found Dallas waiting out in the cold by the taxi. He opened the car door for me as I approached. I stopped before I entered the cab and glared into his deep blue eyes.

  “I always wondered, how did he get you to pose for that nude?” he asked.

  “He got me drunk,” I snapped as I stepped into the warmth of the cab.

  Dallas climbed in beside me. “I’ll keep that in mind.” The smug grin swiftly washed away from his face. He folded his arms across his chest as he studied me.

  “Tell me something, Nicci. Do you ever relax?”

  “What?” I yelled, fighting back the urge to throw him into oncoming traffic.

  “You!” he laughed. “You are wound up so tight with your Everest-sized principles that sometimes I cannot even fathom what David found so damned alluring about you.”

  “My principles! What are you—”

  “Yes, your principles,” Dallas cut me off and turned his intrusive gaze to the window beside him. “I can only imagine what it must have been like for you when David appeared on the scene. You, the perfect New Orleans debutante, and him, the attractive gigolo teamed up with your father’s biggest business rival. Must have been a real shocker for all your society friends to see you taking up with David.”

  “I didn’t give a damn what anyone thought!”

  He turned his eyes back to me. “How convenient for you and your reputation.”

  My mouth fell open as I stared at him. “Is that what you think of me? That I’m some stuck-up society snob who snagged David for what, some kind of diversion?”

  “Does it matter what I think?”

  “Yes, I mean…no.” I took a breath and calmed myself. I was trying very ha
rd not to let it show just how much the man’s words had gotten under my skin.

  “Which one is it, Nicci?” Dallas finally asked. “Yes or no?”

  “Think what you like, Dallas! I don’t care.”

  “Yes, you do. What everyone else thinks, however, is very important, Nicci.” He lowered his voice. “Never appear frustrated or confused with me again.”

  I laughed. “Meaning?”

  “This is not a game, and from now on what we do and say together matters. Once we get off that plane in New Orleans, we will be under a microscope. There can be no mistakes.”

  I flopped back in my seat and let out a frustrated sigh. “Great. Just what I always wanted, more scrutiny.” I folded my arms and glared at his profile. “Do you really think two people as different as you and I can really pull off this cover?”

  In an instant, I saw a flash of doubt darken his confident demeanor. Dallas looked ahead to the front of the cab, never uttering another syllable for the rest of the ride back to my hotel.

  Chapter 7

  I was finishing my shower when I heard the door to my hotel room open. I walked out of the bathroom to see Dallas coming through my door, carrying a long gray dress bag and a black suitcase.

  “How did you get a key?” I asked, furious that the last vestiges of my privacy had been violated.

  He grinned at me. “They gave me one at the desk. I guess they are buying into our cover.”

  I shook my head. “Now why doesn’t that make me feel better?”

  Dallas unzipped the dress bag and pulled out a long green ball gown.

  “What’s that?” I asked, eyeing the dress.

  He held out the gown to me. “Something for you to wear in New Orleans.”

  “But I already have quite a few ball gowns,” I stated, inspecting the dress.

  He sighed, sounding more than a little frustrated. “It’s all part of our cover, Nicci.”

  The gown was done in deep green velvet with a plunging neckline, a fitted pearl beaded bodice, and a form-hugging skirt. It looked very elegant and very expensive.

  I raised my eyes to Dallas. “How do you know if it will fit me?”

  “It will fit,” he assured as he handed me the gown. “Put it on.”

  I returned to the bathroom, shut the door behind me, and slipped out of my white fluffy robe. I stepped into the dress, pulled it on, and partially zipped up the back. I turned to the mirror and was stunned by what I saw. Not only did it fit, it felt like it had been fitted for me.

  “Very nice,” Dallas mumbled as I walked out of the bathroom.

  I showed him my back. “Can you zip me up?”

  I felt his hand pull up the last few inches of the zipper as the dress snuggly conformed to my figure. Then, without warning, the warm touch of his fingers brushed against my neck. The sensation sent an unnerving ripple of excitement through my body. I spun around and looked him in the eye. I quickly glanced down and ran my hands over the smooth velvet, hugging my waist.

  “This must have been very expensive.”

  “It wouldn’t help our cover if I bought you a cheap dress, now would it?”

  “How could you afford it?” I cocked my head to the side as I remembered something David had once told me. “Let me guess, you also have a bank account in Zurich.”

  Dallas furrowed his brows together. “David told you all about our private banking arrangements with Simon?”

  I nodded. “In his will, he left me his account in Zurich, along with the rest of his possessions.”

  “His will?” Dallas frowned. “He never told me about a will.”

  “He had it drawn up right after he returned to Louisiana. I didn’t find out about it until after his death.”

  “Well, David never struck me as the kind of guy who worried about having a will. Perhaps settling down with you changed him. He never planned for the future before he met you.” He ran his icy eyes up and down my figure.

  I quickly looked down at the brown carpet beneath my feet.

  “I’m glad to see I was right about the size,” he mumbled.

  I shook my head, feeling uncertain as to his meaning. “Size? This gown is fitted. How did you—”

  “I’m a man, Nicci,” he said, interrupting me. “I have your measurements burned into my memory.” He gently turned me around and undid the top portion of the zipper on my dress. “I’ll go downstairs and get us a table for dinner. Come down when you’re ready.”

  I turned back to him and nodded. “All right.”

  Dallas gave me warm smile and then promptly walked out of my hotel room. I waited until I heard the door close behind him before I reached out for the wall to steady myself. After a few deep breaths, I looked down at the dress. I let my fingers travel across the plush velvet and beaded bodice.

  “What have you gotten yourself into?”

  After an uncomfortably quiet dinner, I went back to my room and changed into my complimentary robe. When I emerged from the bathroom, Dallas was at the freshly restocked minibar, pouring a mini bottle of vodka into a glass. He added some ice and then downed the contents of the glass in one long swallow.

  “That’s your fifth drink in two hours. Is something wrong?” I went over and sat down on the bed across from him. “Nervous about the job?”

  He put the glass down on the table next to him and stepped back from me. “No. There are other things about this situation that make me nervous.”

  “Like what?”

  “Unpredictable variables,” he mumbled as he walked over to the window.

  There always seemed to be so much going on under the surface with him, but he never let it show. He never let anything show.

  “Care to elaborate?” I pursued, wanting more from him.

  “No,” he barked, sounding slightly perturbed.

  I let it go. I got up from the bed and removed my pajamas from the chest of drawers in front of me.

  “I, I mean we, have an early flight tomorrow,” I told him as I unfolded my pajamas.

  He did not say anything. He went back to the minibar and started to make himself another drink.

  As he poured his drink, I mentally started reviewing all the things I had learned about the man in the past twenty-four hours. I took in a deep breath filled with frustration as I felt the bite of the cold air between us burn my throat. Dallas August was a difficult person to read. Not like I was an expert at reading people, but this man seemed to put up more defenses than the rest. I could relate to that in a way. I had been putting up roadblocks to people all my life—until David had come along. Now it wasn’t so much a question of avoiding people, but more a lack of interest in them. The same lack of interest seemed to permeate every avenue of my life these days. Funny how grief could ebb away at you like a torrid sea against a sandy shoreline, until one day you wake up and find there is nothing left of yourself.

  “Can I ask you a question?” he finally said after fixing his drink.

  I nodded as my eyes cautiously observed him.

  He raised his glass to his lips. “Why did you write that book?”

  I shrugged and let out a relieved sigh. “When David was alive, when we were first together, he encouraged me to write. I had always kept journals about ideas for books, but then after he died I felt compelled to write our story. David once told me I would never feel complete until I became a writer.”

  “And do you feel complete?”

  “Writing that book helped me. It taught me a lot about myself, and it put my time with David in perspective. But complete,” I shook my head, “not quite.”

  “Maybe you haven’t found the right subject for your stories,” he suggested, never looking up from his drink. “Like David needed you to become an artist, maybe you need to find something that makes you feel impassioned as a writer.”

  “I don’t know if I will ever be as impassioned as David.”

  “Have you thought about your next book?”

  Questions about my next book had been plaguing me
for months. “Maybe Painting Jenny was a one-time fluke and that’s all I have inside of me.”

  “I don’t believe that. You’re a good writer, Nicci. Keep writing. It’s who you are.” He gave me a faint smile and then glanced back down into his drink. “Better get ready for bed,” he directed as he put his glass down on the table next to him. “Tomorrow is a big day.”

  I stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind me. I stood and looked into the oversized bathroom mirror feeling a little jittery. I stared at my reflection, willed my resolve to get a hold of my imagination, and pushed any thoughts of Dallas August out into the stratosphere. This man did not intend to make me anything more than what I already was: a means to an end.

  Chapter 8

  “Nicci!” my father shouted as I emerged from the airport terminal.

  He had not changed much over the years. His hairline was still receding, and the gray was more noticeable around his long face. But the dark circles and haggard look that had always haunted him in the past had disappeared with the success of his new plastics plant. Business had never been better for him, and it showed.

  “How was New York?” he asked me just as Dallas strolled up to my side.

  My father’s green eyes narrowed as they moved up and down the man’s long muscular frame.

  “And who is this?” my father demanded, glaring at Dallas like a hawk eying its prey.

  “Dallas August,” Dallas declared as he extended his hand to my father.

  I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

  “Dallas and I met in New York, Daddy.” I jumped in between the two men and smiled up into my father’s green eyes. “We, ah,” I stumbled, “got to be good friends and I invited him down here for Christmas.”

  Dallas smiled radiantly. “I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Beauvoir, but your daughter and I have become very close and,” he looked sheepishly at the ground, “well, I couldn’t refuse her offer.”

  My father’s eyes were all over me. “Interesting, Nicci.”

  Dallas turned to me and smiled. I could see my father was already sizing up the man’s real intentions.