Sacrifice

by Alexandrea Weis

  Uncle Lance helped Dallas carry our luggage into Val’s spacious guest bedroom. The room was decorated in a creamy peach color with a king size four-poster bed set in the center of an oak hardwood floor. A wood-burning fireplace with an engraved oak mantle stood along the wall to the right, while an antique armoire with a plasma screen TV and DVD player was set against the wall to the left.

  “When Valie called from Rome, she told me she wasn’t crazy about leaving you two alone here,” Uncle Lance declared as he placed my suitcase on the bed. “She thinks you guys need to be around someone who can referee.”

  “We promise not to leave any blood spatters on the carpet or bullet holes in the walls,” Dallas assured him as he placed my garment bag filled with my gowns on the bed.

  “And why do you need all those extra clothes, Nicci?” Uncle Lance asked as he pointed at the long garment bag, “I thought you two came here to work things out, but this makes it look like you plan on hitting the town.”

  “I told her to bring them. I want to take Nicci out a little. We’re going to have some fun while we are here,” Dallas pronounced as he gave me a sly grin.

  I took my uncle’s elbow. “So tell Dad and Val not to worry,” I stated and ushered him out of the bedroom.

  We headed down the long second floor balcony to back stairs that lead to the kitchen on the first floor.

  “You sure about this, kid?” he asked as we walked into the kitchen.

  I looked over at my uncle. “Sure about what Uncle Lance? Staying at Val’s?”

  He shook his head. “No, staying with Dallas.”

  “Of course I’m sure about staying with him. Why would you say something like that?”

  “Because you don’t look sure. I know you, Nic. For years I have watched you buck the system, but something has changed in you lately. It’s like you’re going through the motions, but your heart isn’t in it. The old Nicci would have sent Dallas back to Connecticut without a second thought. Now you’re working things out? This is beginning to remind me of when you were engaged to the moron.”

  I paused as I thought of something believable to say. “You’re exaggerating, Uncle Lance. Dallas is not Michael. I want to work things out between us. I’m not ready to toss what we have aside and move on. And I think some time alone will be good for Dallas and me. Kind of like a little vacation.”

  “Now you’re crawfishin’,” he countered. “Back peddling just like a crawfish does to try and cover your ass. You’re not trying to save this relationship, because if you wanted to do that, you would have married the guy already.” He paused and folded his arms over his chest. “All right, lie to me for now. But don’t think I won’t find out what is going on sooner or later between you two.”

  “Stop looking for intrigue at every corner, Uncle Lance,” I said sharply. “Those days are far behind me.”

  “With you, kid, intrigue seems to be par for the course.” He shook his head. “Whatever you’re up to, be careful, and call me if you need my help. In the meantime, I’m still waiting on those hospital records on all the gunshot victims admitted to Tangipahoa Parish hospitals on August 27.”

  “Fine, Uncle Lance. Just call me when you’ve got something.”

  With one last worried glance, Uncle Lance reluctantly walked out the back door and made his way across the patio to the gate entrance that led to Royal Street. When I made it back upstairs to the bedroom, I found Dallas unpacking his clothes.

  “Lance say anything else?” he asked me as he put his tuxedo up in the closet next to the bathroom door.

  “Just that he suspects I’m up to something and that I’m not the same girl he used to know. Would you like me to put the rest in a typed report for you?” I went over to my garment bag draped across the bed.

  “No need to be flippant, sweet cheeks. I was just asking.”

  “That’s the second time you have called me sweet cheeks. You haven’t called me that since we moved to Connecticut,” I stated.

  “You haven’t acted like this since we moved to Connecticut.”

  I unzipped the garment bag. “And how am I acting?”

  “Just as Lance said. Like you are up to something. You remind me of the Nicci I met in New York last December.” He shook his head, smirking at me. “I’m glad to see someone else thinks that you’ve changed. I doubt even David would recognize you these days.”

  I looked over at him. “What makes you say that?”

  “When David returned to New York, after being with you in New Orleans, he told me all about you. But the woman he described is not the woman you are now. You’re harder. I guess all the grief, espionage, murder, and bloodshed did change you in a way. It eventually changes everyone.”

  I studied his features as I reflected on his words. “And how did it change you? After all the years of working with Simon, how different were you from the person you are now?” I eventually asked.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted with a shrug. “I guess I trusted people more. Instead of looking for the bad in everyone, I tried looking for the good in them. But sooner or later I think everybody begins to see the world the way we do.”

  Dallas unpacked some shirts, walked back to the closet, and hung them up. I noted the way he meticulously made sure each and every shirt hung freely from the next. His methodical nature seemed to seep into every aspect of our relationship. From the way he drove a car, to the way he made love, each action had been well rehearsed to appear effortless and graceful. But beneath the surface, there was always much more going on with him. Despite our time together, and the intimacy that we had shared, there was still so little I knew about the man.

  “Do you miss your old life with Simon?” I questioned as he removed the last of his trousers from his suitcase.

  He looked over at me and furrowed his brow. “Miss it? What are you talking about?”

  “You never talk about your time with Simon. I know what you did for him, but you never say a word about all the years you spent working for him. No stories, no asides about this time on assignment or that time you were working undercover. You’ve never really told me much about the world you lived in before we met.”

  He walked over to closet and hung up his trousers. “Maybe it’s best if I don’t talk about such things.”

  “Why?”

  He stood by the closet door with his back to me as he ran his hands through his short hair. “Nicci, I’m not very proud of what I did for Simon. It’s not like I was an executive or an accountant. People got hurt as a result of my actions. It’s nothing to brag about.”

  “But you liked it, right?”

  He turned to me and shook his head. “What kind of man would I be if I said I liked stealing secrets from people?”

  “An honest one.”

  A few seconds of silence passed as his face filled with uncertainty. It appeared as if he were debating the necessity of telling me more than I needed to know.

  “I miss…I miss the excitement of it perhaps. I thought I would like getting away from a life where you could not predict from one day to the next. And then there are days when I’m sitting at my desk at the boatyard, up to my elbows in invoices, and I will miss it a lot.” He gave an irritated sigh. “Is that honest enough for you?” he muttered.

  He quickly walked over to the bed and picked up his empty black suitcase. He struggled to zip the bag shut as he carried it over to the closet. He threw the offending luggage on the closet floor and slammed the door closed. Keeping his back to me, he stood motionless in front of the closet door taking in one deep breath after another.

  I longed to reach out and soothe his frustration, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good. During our time together I had learned that Dallas August was a man who preferred to keep his pain permanently locked away inside of him. I had never been allowed to reach beyond his cool exterior and explore the murky depths of his soul.

  “Maybe this business with Caston will be good for you. So you can feel that excitement again,” I sa
id, hoping to allay the tension between us.

  He turned and looked at me with his elusive blue eyes. “But I’m not the one going out there, you are. Which means we have some work ahead of us before the party.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “Homework on Caston.” He walked over to my computer case on the floor by the bed and pulled out my laptop computer. “You’ll need to learn everything you can about the man. First, we search the Internet on business dealings and public affairs. Find out his likes and dislikes. Ex-wives, children, relatives, anything you can use to deepen his interest in you.” He placed the computer on the bed and lifted the lid. “Remember, Nicci, this is a target. And you can never assume anything. Know everything and build your strategy on what you know. Never guess. It only leads to mistakes. Deadly mistakes.”

  I felt my stomach sink. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  Dallas grinned at me as he turned on my computer. “Welcome to my world.”

  Chapter Eight

  The Katrina Relief Benefit was at the Rue Royale Gallery on the five hundred block of Royal Street in the French Quarter. The three story square building dated back to the eighteen hundreds with its yellow stucco exterior and wide green shutters over the front doors and windows. Outside the entrance were life-sized garishly painted statues of naked men in an assortment of compromising positions. By the look of the statues, I suspected I was in for one hell of an interesting evening.

  “I’ll be close by if you need me. Just signal to me if things get uncomfortable,” Dallas whispered behind me as we approached the entrance. “And stop fidgeting,” he quietly ordered.

  I pulled the black lace shall around my shoulders closer to my body and then nodded slightly. I did not look back at him. Dallas had promised he would be there for me. He planned on remaining hidden in the crowds to avoid being seen by Simon.

  I watched as a slender figure dressed in a fitted black tuxedo darted into the entrance ahead of me. I smelled his spicy cologne and instantly knew it was Dallas. I smiled to myself and then took in a deep breath as I stepped inside the door.

  The gallery was a large room with exposed wooden beams in the ceiling above and brown stained cement floors. Around the room, hanging on the old red brick walls, were portraits of distorted faces of men. All of the portraits were done in an assortment of charcoals, oil paints, and watercolors. As I approached the registration table, just inside of the front door, I felt a hand gently take my elbow.

  “You look lovely my dear. Just as you did in David’s portrait,” a high-pitched voice said beside me.

  I turned to see Simon La Roy dressed in a black tuxedo, admiring my beaded black gown.

  “He will not be able to resist you in that,” Simon murmured as we slowly made our way to the table. “Dressing as Jenny to entice dear Gregory was very clever, Nicci. You are a very resourceful woman.”

  “Thank you, Simon. When did you arrive?” I nodded my head to him as my eyes quickly explored the room for Dallas. I hoped he was watching me enter the party with Simon.

  Simon smiled as he leaned on his cane. “I haven’t been here long. I thought it best to come early and keep tabs on our prey. I can’t have you waiting around all alone for your target.”

  I smiled graciously at him. “Simon, I didn’t know you cared.”

  He wiggled his finger at me. “Oh, you are a temptress. No wonder my boys could not keep their hands off you.”

  “Their hands?” I smiled devilishly. “That’s the easiest part of a man’s anatomy to control. It’s the other bits that tend to get the better of me.”

  Simon let out an unusual bellowing laugh that turned some heads in the crowd our way.

  “If I were a man who fancied women, I would not be offering you to another tonight, but instead keeping you for myself.”

  I dropped my smile. “Simon, I’m flattered.”

  Simon gave a dramatic flourish of his hand. “This should prove to be an entertaining evening. Dear Gregory will not know what hit him.”

  We waited in front of the registration table as Simon addressed an older lady seated across from him. He took out a piece of paper from his front pocket of his black tuxedo jacket and handed it to the woman. She opened the paper and raised her astonished eyes to Simon.

  “A contribution from Simon La Roy and Ms. Nicole Beauvoir,” he declared as he waved his hand to me.

  The woman’s large brown eyes flashed with a hint of recognition at the mention of my name. She looked me over with a renewed interest.

  “The lovely Jenny,”‘ she said in a rather deep voice that contrasted her delicate features. “It is an honor,” she added as she nodded to me.

  I smiled at her. “Thank you.”

  “Nicci is an admirer of Winston’s work,” Simon explained as he gazed about the gallery. “She insisted on coming tonight, but since we had not registered ahead of time, I thought a donation to the Katrina Relief Fund would help with our admission to the festivities.”

  “Your donation is greatly appreciated, Mr. La Roy.” The older woman gave me one more going over with her eyes. “Please enjoy the party,” she said as she waved us into the gallery.

  “We weren’t invited?” I whispered to Simon as we walked from the table. “And who is Winston?” I persisted.

  “I thought it best if our names did not appear on any guests lists. That way we could just surprise dear Gregory,” Simon replied in a hushed voice. “And Winston is the artist we are supposedly here to see. Very in vogue, very controversial, and very gay.”

  “That would explain the statues out front.”

  Simon frowned. “Winston is a bit too extreme for my taste, but with the artistic set in the French Quarter he is quite popular.”

  We took a turn around the gallery, inspecting some paintings and conversing with a few of the other guests in the main room. I noticed Simon made a point of introducing me as David Alexander’s Jenny, probably hoping to lure the attention of tonight’s fat fish. Every now and then I would eagerly search the room for Dallas, but I never could find his dark blue eyes hiding among the guests.

  It took another half an hour for the gallery to fill and soon Simon and I were elbow to elbow with an assortment of people dressed in anything from ripped up blue jeans to tuxedos and ball gowns. I was growing tired of being jostled by the crowds when Simon discreetly pulled me aside from the center of the room. He escorted me to a table being used as a bar in the corner of the gallery.

  “He’s here,” Simon pronounced as he took my elbow. “About ten feet ahead of us at the end of the bar. In the black jacket and gray slacks. He is standing next to the girl in the bright red dress. Do you see him?” he excitedly asked.

  I scanned the crowd ahead of us and immediately found the girl in red. She was slender, had thick auburn hair, and long legs. Her face was slightly rounder than my own, but her creamy coloring and high cheekbones mirrored mine. Her delicate features were very close to mine except that her lips were slightly fuller, and her eyes were blue and nothing like my smaller gray ones. I noticed she wore too much make up, her dress fit a little too snuggly, and dipped a little too low at her bust line. The man with his arm about her looked more like her father than her date. He was tall with thick brown hair, but when he gazed into the crowd and spotted me; his eyes took me a bit by surprise. They had a cruel quality to them. A characteristic Simon’s photographs had not revealed. His strong features appeared sharper in person, and gave his black eyes a more sinister quality. He looked like a man who did not like being toyed with or lied to. He was a man no woman should ever cross.

  “I think you have been made,” Simon whispered to me. “Play it subtle and sophisticated with Gregory. And when asks to see you again, reluctantly agree to his request. It will make him want you more”

  “Hello,” Gregory Caston said as stepped in front of me. “You’re Jenny, aren’t you?” He paused and smiled coyly. “David Alexander’s Jenny,” he added.

  I inspected the ma
n from head to toe, trying to make him feel as uncomfortable as his eyes were making me.

  “Have we met?” I inquired after a few strategic seconds.

  “Gregory,” Simon spoke up beside me. “It’s been too long,” he cooed as he held out his hand.

  “Simon La Roy. How the hell did you get in here?” Gregory Caston refused Simon’s hand as he cautiously stared at the small man beside me.

  Simon lowered his hand to his side and then looked down at his cane. “I made a contribution. How else would one get into a benefit? Seems everyone is trying to help out with the Katrina recovery these days. It has become the fashionable charity of the hour.”

  “If I’d known you were coming, I would have hired more security,” Gregory Caston said with more than a hint of irritation in his voice. He turned his eyes back to me. “I’m surprised to find you with the infamous Simon La Roy, Jenny. I would have thought David would have warned you about this man.”

  “David was always the soul of discretion,” Simon mused. He smiled triumphantly and turned to me. “Nicole Beauvoir, I would like you to meet Gregory Caston.” He waved to Caston. “An art dealer in your fair city and New York as well.”

  “And another in Dallas,” Gregory Caston revealed as his eyes found mine.

  I could immediately detect the desire within his black orbs. Normally, I would have turned away from such a crass man, but years of enduring such looks from the opposite sex had taught me to just ignore Gregory Caston’s leering gaze.

  “I will be opening my fourth gallery in Los Angeles later this year,” Gregory Caston reported as he eyed my dress with intense interest.

  “What an enterprising little monkey you have become, Gregory. All those art galleries in addition to your other little business ventures.”

  I held out my hand and flashed my best southern smile. “Mr. Caston, it’s a pleasure.”