The Nicci Beauvoir Collection: The Complete Nicci Beauvoir Series
Page 83
My heart ached to be with them. It took everything I had not to open the door of our car and go running to be embraced by every last one of them. They were my family and so much a part of me that their absence during the happiest moments of my life had made the realization of my dreams seem bittersweet.
“Soon, Nicci,” David assured me, squeezing my shoulder. “Dallas said he’s making a lot of headway with Simon’s organization. Especially since Simon’s body was recently discovered in the Atchafalaya Swamp. He thinks it shouldn’t be much longer before we are able to come out of hiding.”
I rocked back in my seat and fought to control my tears. “When we come out of hiding, then what?”
“Well, I guess there will be your best-selling book to contend with.”
My sequel to Painting Jenny, Unfinished Business, had gone to number three on the New York Times Best Sellers list. Thanks in part to the national media coverage of Nicole Beauvoir’s tragic suicide. For weeks, the story of how David Alexander’s Jenny had murdered esteemed New Orleans businessman, Greg Caston, had been plastered all across the news. Even photos of my funeral, at the little graveyard in Hammond, had been a front-page exclusive in several local newspapers. My father and Uncle Lance had buried Jenny Ryan next to the unknown man in David Alexander’s grave. To the world, David and his Jenny would spend eternity together, but in reality the tragic love story was not a love story at all. It was simply a sad tale of two forgotten souls. Not long after the national press had put my death to rest, the tabloid press began to cover the supermarket racks with tales of torrid romances and jealous lovers in the life of Nicci Beauvoir. I had enjoyed all the speculation and gossip for a time. Soon, the death of Nicci Beauvoir was replaced by another story of a famed actress’s drug addiction, and the flurry of press slowly dried up along with my book sales.
“I wonder what the world would think if they knew the truth about us?” I said, pondering the possible headlines.
“They wouldn’t be interested in the truth about Mr. and Mrs. Dan Goldvarg,” David insisted, eyeing the disbanding wedding guests. “Nicci and David Alexander, however….” He raised his dark brows playfully.
“The publisher I sent my new novel to felt the same way. I think that’s why they want to publish it. I guess it doesn’t matter who writes about David and Nicci, as long as there is a good story, everybody still wants to read about us. Even if in my version I changed their names to Lionel and Rita, in the end.”
“I think your grandparents would be pleased. Seems only fitting that their story should become ours.” He started the car. “We can drive past the reception on the way to the gallery.”
I spied the paintings David had placed in the back seat. “How many are you bringing Russell this time?”
“He sold my other two and told me to bring three more for an interested buyer. So I have the two landscapes and the one I did of you on the porch at sunset.”
“Do you think anyone will recognize Jenny?”
He patted my expanding belly. “I painted the Jenny you will be in about five more months. Besides, no one will see Jenny. They will be too busy looking at the beautiful baby girl in your arms.”
“We don’t know for sure that it’s a girl yet, David.”
“It’s a girl. I only paint girls. So from now on they’d better all be girls,” he declared. He eased the car away from the curb and onto St. Charles Avenue.
“What if they’re not girls?” I posed.
“Then I will trade in my paints for drum sets, change our name to Van Halen, and hope we go deaf before they reach puberty.”
“What if they are artistic and handsome…like you?”
“God help us. I don’t think the world is ready for any more David Alexanders.”
He expertly maneuvered the car along the slick street. My stomach surged with happiness, or hormones, I wasn’t sure.
I brushed away the comma of dark, wavy hair that had fallen over his forehead. “The world is always in need of a few more dreamers, David,” I proclaimed, admiring his handsome profile. “After all, dreams are what make life come true.”
THE END
Dallas August returns in The Secret Brokers Series.
The Secret Brokers, Book 1 of The Secret Brokers Series.
Available now at booksellers everywhere.
Book 2: The Sins of the Shadow Man Coming in fall 2015
Head of an organization of elite spies, Dallas August is asked to uncover what secrets a reclusive woman, Gwen Marsh, is hiding about a mafia kingpin’s death. Dallas must pose as a bodyguard in order to get close to Gwen, but the stubborn woman wants nothing to do with her cool and contentious protector. Dallas soon learns that others are interested in Gwen when he stumbles upon the FBI monitoring her every move. Intrigued by the challenge of her analytical mind and aloof demeanor, Dallas has found his equal in Gwen. But with the FBI and the Mafia vying for the woman’s information, he can’t afford to lose his objectivity. The sexual tension grows between them until Gwen finally lowers her defenses and confides in Dallas. His job done, Dallas returns to his organization in New York. But an unexpected turn of events leads Dallas back to Gwen’s doorstep, where he discovers the Gwen Marsh he thought he was protecting, wasn’t Gwen Marsh at all. Determined to find out who betrayed him, Dallas must put his life on the line to search for answers about a woman he thought he knew. Dallas August is about to find out how dangerous life can be as one of …The Secret Brokers.
Alexandrea Weis is an advanced practice registered nurse who was born and raised in New Orleans. Having been brought up in the motion picture industry, she learned to tell stories from a different perspective and began writing at the age of eight. Infusing the rich tapestry of her hometown into her award-winning novels, she believes that creating vivid characters makes a story moving and memorable. A permitted/certified wildlife rehabber with the Louisiana Wildlife and Fisheries, Weis rescues orphaned and injured wildlife. She lives with her husband and pets in New Orleans.
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