Savage Deception

by R. T. Wolfe

  Sitting back down, she crossed her arms, not caring that it was childish. "He says I don't like hunches, and he didn't want to bring something to me that was a hunch." She ran her forefinger in circles near her ear. "Men. Who could have known how much drama and confusion a relationship could bring. I feel better already."

  Gloria patted the top of her hand like Nickie had lost a beloved pet.

  "He keeps calling," she added. "Leaving messages, emailing me. He even mailed me a large envelope. I've ignored them all. Cold turkey. It's better this way." As much as she tried to avoid it, a chill formed at the base of her heart. "It's better this way," she repeated. She suddenly felt tired. It wasn't the lack of sleep over the past several days. It wasn't the interview with the college girl. "I can't be with a man I can't count on, one I can't trust." A small tear threatened to fall over her lid. She blinked it away.

  Gloria was pretty. Even at her age, her skin was still the smooth color of caramel candy. She had the biggest, rounded, deep brown eyes Nickie had ever seen.

  "If you don't mind, I think I'm going to rest in the guest room for a while," she said, and rinsed her mug in the sink.

  Chapter 13

  Other than the small Northridge museum, The Pub was the oldest building in Northridge. The wood floors were splintered. The tables for four were too small for two. And Nickie loved it. People of all ages came for clean, honest music and spirits. They had their share of fights, some prostitution and the occasional drug sale. But for the most part it was a place to sit back and get away.

  The stage was small and in the shape of a triangle. She was surprised Gilberto could fit his drum set back there and still have room to play. In front of him sat his wife on a short, swiveling stool. Teresa had a clear soprano voice with a hook so saucy, they were asked back time and time again. Since this wasn't Ireland, people didn't bring their kids to a bar. Gil's brother had the twins—both sets of them—for the evening.

  At one of the tables, Gloria sat on one side of Nickie, her grandmama on the other. As usual, Gloria's biological children trickled into the bar every half hour or so. It was what Nickie needed, a comfortable evening with the people who took her in without blinking an eye. Not that anyone would dare to blink anything at Gloria. Nickie caught the few times Teresa glanced over her shoulder, winking at her Gil.

  So, why was the gaping hole in her heart still here?

  "The art show is tomorrow." Gloria hadn't asked her an actual question, but Nickie knew better than not to answer.

  "I'm not going, of course," she responded respectfully.

  "He is counting on you."

  "No, he isn't." That didn't come out at all respectfully. "What I mean is that of course he isn't expecting me. We haven't spoken in over a week. It's over." The impact of hearing those two little words aloud was worse than any street fight she'd been in. In the midst of loud music and the smoky haze that wafted in from the front door, her eyes instantly burned. Tears threatened, but she was strong. She would survive this like she survived everything else in her life. It was simply a new kind of pain.

  "He is counting on you," Gloria repeated.

  Nickie expanded her lungs completely before emptying them. He didn't need her. But arguing with Gloria was moot. He said six of the twenty or so portraits were of her. She hadn't remembered him painting more than a few, but with his memory, he really didn't need her to pose.

  She was to be the guest of honor, so to speak. What if the art show was the subject of his voice mails? Or his emails? Or the envelope he sent her through the mail?

  This was crazy. It had to stop.

  "No." It was more of a declaration than it was an answer. "No, this has to stop," she repeated from her thoughts. "I've had secrets kept from me most of my life. I can't be with a man who keeps things from me. Things that pertain to me."

  Gloria placed her soft hand over hers, then leaned close to her ear. "You are not the only one with history, my child. Against your will, you've had secrets kept from you. Against Duncan's will, he's lived his life forced to keep secrets. It's all he knows."

  * * *

  Nickie sat behind the wheel of her 'piece of shit oversized town car' as Duncan called it. Damn if that didn't make her smile. Her police issue Smith and Wesson was locked in her glove box. The piece she bought to use as a spare rested under her seat. Her badge, cuffs and cell sat next to her as she drove the 90 to Rochester.

  What the hell was she doing?

  In her dented, tainted, rusted, unmarked, she wore the flowing ivory dress Duncan had bought her months ago when they cased the ten grand buy-in poker game in Vegas. Purposely, he chose one with a high back to cover her scars. Sitting alone in her car, the thought of the personal gesture meant more to her than it had that evening in the casino. The shoes were ridiculously tall and ridiculously spiked. Nickie had ankles of steel, but this was, well, ridiculous.

  She'd gone home alone from The Pub the night before. Nothing new there. She hadn't had the strength to hear his voice on his voice mails. But she did bring herself to open the envelope he sent her. The one that sat on the tiny table in her tiny foyer for days, burning like a beacon each time she had passed it.

  In it were photos of the personal assistant to the governor. One of the photos was a zoomed shot of a bracelet he wore. The bracelet. Duncan didn't need to send that one. She would have spotted the bracelet in the full-body shot he'd included.

  The bracelet.

  She wasn't sure if it was seeing it on his person or if it was the photo of him standing at the back of the press conference announcing her teenage coming home. But it was the bracelet. The bracelet of one of the men who had been involved in the kidnapping of countless young girls.

  Her heartbeat rose in direct correlation with the closing distance to the museum. Letting the GPS on her phone tell her where to go, she worked on coherent thought. "What the hell am I doing?" she said aloud this time.

  She wasn't about to have any part of valet parking. She knew how to walk. Instead, she parked her car in the lot, facing away from the museum. She sat with both hands on the wheel, ten o'clock and two o'clock. She could go home. No one would know. She could count it as a nice drive through scenic upstate New York.

  Wimp. She checked her lipstick and decided against a purse. No gun. No badge. She didn't know exactly what she wanted, but she did owe him this. Standing, she stretched the hours of road from her back and shoulders, then remembered she was in an evening gown. Straightening, she brought back her Maryland Monticello family training and turned for the entrance.

  She didn't have a coat to go with the dress. Hadn't needed one in Vegas. Since there was nothing in her closet that would come close to matching an ivory, sequined, tea-length dress, she wore her brown leather jacket that hung below her hips.

  As she climbed each of the dozen steps, she forced her mind into survival mode. It was her specialty. Step, step. She wasn't Nicole Monticello anymore. Step. She was Nickie Savage. Step, step. Survivor. Cop.

  Thick pillars flanked the entrance and corners of the enormous concrete porch. A host waited at the door like this was a funeral home, opening the massive piece of wood as soon as she neared.

  The doorman was dressed in a three-piece tailored suit. He held out his hand and offered, "May I check your coat and bag, miss?" At least he didn't call her, 'ma'am.'

  "I didn't carry a bag today, thank you." She slid out of her coat and handed it to him, impressed with the way he didn't blink an eye at the leather. He tried to hand her a ticket. "Oh, I don't have a purse." She turned her eyes down to her dress. "Or pockets, of course."

  He bowed his head. "I won't forget you, miss."

  She glanced in one of the many planes of mirrors along the entrance walls. Makeup was never a problem. And her hair had stuck. She chose an updo similar to the one she wore for the Vegas undercover stint. A meticulous French twist with a few strategic dripping curls.

  She followed the voices to an area off to the right and stopped when she
turned the corner. In front of her was a life-sized portrait of herself. In the ivory dress.

  As if she wasn't going to stand out as it was. Her feet begged her to turn around and head for the highway.

  Survival.

  Pulling her shoulders back, she strode into the room. How could she be this nervous to see him? She wasn't a child. She hadn't been a child even when she was a child. Expertly, she flipped on her Monticello charm and strolled in.

  The portraits were amazing, of course. Duncan painted like a photograph. That's what everyone said. She found one from the set he made for the Vegas mayor. It made her smile. Three of the mayor's grandchildren tumbled in endless green with the massive estate behind them. Clumps of organized color dotted the landscape in the form of roses and other flowers she couldn't name.

  "You're the one in the portraits." The voice was familiar, and it brought Nickie from the memories of the weeks Duncan had worked on the mayor's paintings.

  She turned to find a goddess. A woman that could be Aphrodite. Tall, thin, sun-kissed blonde hair with the most beautiful eyes Nickie had ever seen.

  Bebe Lyons. This was the woman Duncan had gone to visit weeks before when they were in Nevada.

  Bebe must have assumed Nickie knew who she was because she offered no introductions. "You have got to be the reason Duncan won't paint me," she said as she placed an arm around Nickie's shoulder.

  Nickie had no idea what Bebe was talking about and politely turned to face her. Smiling quaintly, she responded, "I'm afraid I don't understand, Mrs. Lyons."

  Bebe pulled her along like longtime friends browsing a clothing store. "You're that girl."

  It wasn't the first time someone had said that to her, although it was usually said as an insult.

  "You're the girl in the paintings."

  They turned a corner, and it was as if the walls were covered in mirrors. She knew the paintings would be here. But she didn't remember they were this big. It was unnerving.

  "I'm sorry Duncan turned down your request. I'm sure he was just busy." Nickie used her most enunciated speech.

  "Oh no. It's quite all right. Johnny and I made terrible fools of ourselves. I'm embarrassed just thinking about it." Bebe pulled her along a little farther until they stood in front of a painting of Coral Francesca, Best Supporting Actress Oscar winner. Ah, yes. Nickie remembered this one. Coral stood naked surrounded by angry colors and sharp lines. She wore nothing but a snake, strategically covering areas of her model-perfect body.

  Bebe shook her head. "This is what I asked him for."

  So? "Maybe he'll have time in the coming months." Nickie honestly didn't know how to handle this woman or how to read her.

  "You don't know, do you? He won't do it." Bebe slid her arm in the crook of Nickie's. "I took it personally at first. How self-centered of me. I'm not used to being told no. You can imagine."

  Yes, she could. The woman was Bebe Lyons. Super star who married super star. She was one of those people who went by a single name only. Bebe. It was easy for her to take Johnny Lyons's last name, as she'd never used her own.

  "Johnny and I got to wondering why. We did some digging and found... you."

  It would be repetitive to say she didn't understand. So instead, Nickie smiled.

  "Coming here confirmed our suspicions. You see, he told us he wasn't painting nudes anymore. Now I see why. You're completely lovely, Nickie Savage." Bebe kissed her on the cheek, leaving her more than a little stunned.

  Not painting nudes anymore? Was that true? She watched as the woman walked and found her star-studded husband.

  Duncan knew she wasn't the jealous type. It was his business. Now that she thought of it, she hadn't noticed a nude on his easel in the months they were dating. Dated.

  * * *

  She was here.

  His reaction to the sight of her was more than Duncan could have prepared for.

  Wearing the gown he bought her months before in Vegas. Gliding across the marble floor as if she were made for this. He wasn't sure what Bebe Lyons had to say to her, but the way the two of them carried on, he would have thought they were friends.

  It seemed like months since he'd seen her, and she was more beautiful in the flesh than even his eidetic memory recalled. The way she moved was disconcerting. The graceful slide of her feet, the poised movements of her shoulders, her neck tall, her hands slightly bent. It wasn't real, of course, and he reveled in the fact that he was the only one in the room who knew it.

  She was here. How would he ever live without her?

  Browsing his work as if she were window-shopping, she stopped and responded to everyone who recognized her from his portraits. He leaned against a supporting pillar, covered in white wainscoting. She spoke to Louie Star, quarterback for the enemy. He kept his hands off. Smart man. Smoothly, she placed her fingertips on his forearm as she turned to browse further.

  She stopped when she spotted him. Her expression softened. Her shoulders relaxed.

  And his heart fell out of his chest and landed at her feet.

  They didn't speak or move. The world went on around them. The tiniest of smiles beckoned the corners of her mouth. No one would notice. But he noticed. He knew every inch of Nickie Savage and didn't have the first idea how to make this right.

  Straightening like she might roll right over him, she strode his way, her poise painfully matching that of the dress she wore. As soon as she got within whispering distance, she kept her poise but spoke in the voice of his detective. "You're not doing nudes anymore? What do you take me for? I work side by side with my ex. I trust you. You trust me. Where did this shit come from?"

  "There you are," he said as he realized she spoke to him in present tense. It nearly made his knees give. "I don't want to do nudes anymore."

  His comment seemed to take her aback. He took the moment to move a step closer to her. Close enough he could smell the slight breath of lavender that seemed to forever flow around her. Smart. Sophisticated. "I'm so sorry." A burn crept into the backs of his eyes. He knew it would be evident to anyone who paid attention. He didn't care. She would know he wasn't referring to his change in painting guidelines.

  "I know," she said softly.

  He took the sides of her face and brought her to him. Her lips were warm and forgiving. Her beautiful arms twined around his sides, burning a trail all the way to where they landed on his back. He didn't know what happened to change her mind. It didn't matter.

  She was here. And she was his.

  Her cheek was warm beneath his thumb, the lower of her back soft. Their lips moved together in a conversation meant only for them. Slowly, they heard it. It wasn't the hoots or jeers they may get from friends who might suggest they get a room. It was a refined clapping that soon turned into the kind of applause one hears at a golf tournament.

  He pulled away and smiled, moving his focus from one of her gorgeous gray eyes to the other and back again. She blinked rapidly before taking his hand and dipping her head in polite embarrassment. Glancing forward, he spotted Johnny and Bebe Lyons blowing them a kiss as they wrapped their arms around one another.

  The clapping dissipated, and the circle of friends and strangers went back to browsing, or eating or drinking his complimentary glasses of celebratory champagne.

  All but one pair of guests. A couple who appeared to be in their late fifties or early sixties stood statue still with what Duncan judged as an aura of arrogant condescension. The woman was nearly as big around as she was tall. The man only slightly trimmer. Duncan could spot the best of clothes, and these two didn't hold back. They seemed familiar in a way. His instincts told him he didn't want to know how.

  He nearly stepped forward to introduce himself if not for the way Nickie stiffened as she turned. Jerking his head to her, then back to the couple, he knew why they seemed familiar. They looked like Nickie.

  Chapter 14

  "Nicole," the man and woman called, walking to Nickie as their eyes traveled down their noses from the top
of her head to the bottoms of her feet.

  He could sense the contrast between the unrefined detective who wanted to show her teeth and the woman dressed as hostess for an elegant art show. He preferred the former.

  "Hello, Edward. Ivanna. What brings you this far north of the border?"

  It seemed to be a stab meant for only the three of them.

  Their smile was slight and as phony as Coral Francesca posing with the snake.

  Edward answered. "We came to see if the rumors were true, darling."

  "Rumors?" He could hear the vile in Nickie's voice.

  Edward leaned his head from one side to the other, overtly judging Nickie's dress, her hair. "The rumors that our Nicole has finally embraced the upbringing she was provided."

  Her lungs expanded beneath Duncan's hand as it rested on her back. After a painstaking silent standoff, she responded confidently, "I'm not playing this game with you, Edward."

  Edward smiled. It was evil. It was cruel. And it washed Duncan in sadness.

  "At the very least you could introduce us to the infamous Duncan Reed." Edward held out his hand.

  Infamous? Duncan waited before accepting, working to take Nickie's lead with this.

  "Duncan Reed, Mr. and Mrs. Edward Monticello. Edward and Ivanna, this is Duncan Reed."

  Duncan shook once with each of them before sliding his hand into the pocket of his pants.

  "See, dear?" Edward turned to his wife, who may have been a mute for all Duncan could tell. "She's dating a man who holds company with our kind of people. Exquisite upbringing."

  Our kind of people? Did they honestly mean those in the crowd who were wealthy or famous?

  The muscles in Nickie's jaws flexed and released.

  Duncan stepped slightly between the trio. "It's nice to meet you, but my agent would like to see us now. Good day."

  Her fingers dug into his palm as he took her hand and led her around a square beam the width of a dining table. "We can go," he said as they walked, only loud enough for her to hear.