Recovery (6 page)

Dallas smiled. “I’ll just meet you two at the baggage claim.” He then quickly departed, turning back only once to grin at me.

My father waited a few minutes until Dallas was out of earshot before he spoke again. “You’re gone for four days and you have already picked up some weirdo,” he began. “Who in the hell is this guy, Nicci? He looks too old for you.”

“Dallas is no older than David was, and you never thought he was too old for me.”

“Is this the beginning of some kind of rebound thing? You take up with this guy to make up for losing David?”

“Dad!” I hurriedly thought of something to say that I hoped would sound convincing. “Dallas is a great guy. We have a lot in common, and I invited him to our house for Christmas because he was going to spend the day at home alone watching football.”

“So what?” he raised his voice. “Every male in America spends Christmas day watching football.”

“You know what I mean.” I squared my shoulders. “I can’t spend my entire life grieving for David, Daddy. I have to move on. Maybe you should too.” I turned away and started for the stairs leading to the baggage claim area.

My father came up beside me. “You can’t fool me, Nicci. You’re not glowing.”

“Get over the glowing thing, Dad.” I watched as he walked ahead of me toward the stairs leading down to baggage claim. “I don’t remember you glowing with Mom!” I called over his shoulder.

“I glowed!” he shouted back. “You were just too young to remember.”

Once we reached my father’s house in uptown New Orleans, I began to relax a bit. The old white mansion, with its four smooth antebellum columns reaching up to the third floor, had been a wedding present for my parents from my grandfather. They had spent years renovating the run-down home into a showplace. My earliest memories of my mother had been of her working beside my father as they painted, stripped, rewired, plastered, and renovated every inch of the historic building. Her spirit was a part of the old house in a way, enveloping me with her arms every time I passed over the threshold.

The house had survived Katrina dry and intact with only some downed tree limbs, a few missing roof shingles, and a couple of broken windows. But all the devastation of the storm had long since been swept away, and my childhood home looked as I had always remembered.

As I gazed over the façade of the mansion, I longed to retreat to the safety of my old room. I wanted desperately to isolate myself from Dallas and my father’s scrutinizing gaze.

“Where do you want to put Dallas?” I asked my father as we began unloading the luggage from the trunk of his gray BMW 750i.

My father slowly grinned. “Why, in your room, of course.”

“My room!” I quickly tried to recover my composure. “I thought you were a strict father who wanted to protect the virtue of his only daughter.”

“And I thought you were over twenty-one?” my father winked at me. “Besides, Lance is coming. I had to put him up in the big guest room since he will be staying with us for a few days.”

“What about the other large bedroom?” I asked.

“Being used to store boxes from the office,” my father replied.

“The small guest room?” I persisted, dreading the prospect of having to share a room with Dallas.

“I still haven’t fixed the broken window from the storm in that one.” He nodded to Dallas. “You don’t want your friend to freeze to death at night.”

“He’s from New York, Dad. He’s used to freezing.”

“No, we can’t have that.” My father placed a friendly arm about Dallas’s shoulder. “You two will be fine in Nicci’s room. Give you a chance to be alone.” My father turned to me and gave me his best smirk.

I didn’t pursue the conversation any further. I noticed Dallas remained very tight lipped during the entire affair, even though I could swear I saw him grinning beneath his scowl.

We entered the grand foyer with its wide mahogany staircase, Waterford chandelier, and old oak floors. Dallas took in the stairs and the plaster-inlaid ceilings.

“Beautiful place,” he said over his shoulder to me.

He walked into the living room, and his eyes immediately found the portrait of me hanging over the fireplace. He seemed to take in every detail of the Jenny that David had painted so long ago.

He abruptly turned and saw me standing behind him. He seemed instantly sad for a moment and then gave me a half-hearted smile.

“Come on,” my father called behind us as he carried our suitcases in the front door. “I’ll help you two get these bags up to Nicci’s room.”

With our bags settled on my bed, I nervously set to emptying a drawer for Dallas in my dresser. I could feel the smug grin rising on my father’s lips as I hastily removed some old T-shirts and jeans from a middle drawer.

“Well, I’ll leave you two to get settled,” my father commented from the doorway. “Then Dallas, why don’t you and Nicci come on down to the den and have a drink and we can talk some more.” My father closed my bedroom door behind him and I listened for his footsteps as he made his way down the stairs.

I plopped down on the bed. “He doesn’t believe us.”

Dallas crossed his arms over his chest. “No, Nicci, he doesn’t believe you.”

I laid back on the bed feeling completely overwhelmed. “I’m not cut out for this spy stuff.”

He gazed around my rather spartan bedroom with its numerous overflowing bookcases, thick burgundy-colored curtains, and plethora of candles. “Nice room. What are you, a bookworm?”

“I like to read,” I said, not moving from the bed.

“So do monks.” He came over and sat down on the bed beside me. “Where are the posters of rock stars, the trophies from high school competitions, and the pictures of childhood friends?” he continued as his eyes searched my bare walls.

I sat up and shrugged. “Never was into rock stars, never took part in any high school activities, and don’t have any friends.”

“What were you, one of those reclusive caterpillars that grew into a beautiful butterfly? Or were you just weird as a kid?”

“Would you stop dissecting me? We have a big problem here.” I turned and met his eyes. A faint tremble moved through me. It took me a moment to collect my thoughts. “What do you do on these assignments? How do you make people believe you?” I finally asked.

“If you believe we are what we say we are then everyone else will believe it too.” Dallas paused as he nudged me with his shoulder. “You’re a writer; you should be used to blending fact with fiction.”

I rolled my eyes at him. “I don’t think your theory will work on the caustic pack of piranha that we are about to tangle with. These people are experts at ripping lives apart. We have to do more than just believe we are…intimate.”

“David told me a great deal about the people he dealt with in New Orleans. You come from a pretty tough world where perceptions matter. The right house, the right car—”

“The right wealthy boyfriend,” I interrupted.

“Exactly.” Dallas nodded at me. “So just think of us as another of those pretentious pretty couples trying to fit in with the right crowd.”

“But I never tried to fit in, Dallas, that’s the point. When David met me, I was studying nursing and I was done with the whole debutante lifestyle. In the beginning, yes, I was concerned about what people would think about my taking up with a gigolo, but then I got to know David. I knew then that I did not give a damn about what other people thought of our being together. And once we settled into his house in Hammond, no one else really seemed to care either.”

“Except the killer,” Dallas said. “And that’s the only person you need to worry about convincing, Nicci.”

When we made it downstairs to the bar we were greeted by my Uncle Lance, drink already in hand. My uncle never seemed to age and always looked younger than my father, even though he was the older brother. He still had that mischievous glint in his green eyes, his square face still looked tanned, and his thick, dark brown hair held not a hint of gray.

“So,” Uncle Lance began with his usual candor as he studied Dallas over his glass of scotch, “you’re the new guy.”

I groaned as I headed over to the bar.

Dallas walked over to my uncle and the two men shook hands. “Dallas August. You must be Uncle Lance.”

“Good guess. How long have you two been an item?” Uncle Lance asked, cutting right to the heart of the matter.

“A few days,” Dallas stated coolly.

“That’s kind of fast for our girl here.” Uncle Lance patted me on the shoulder as if I were a lineman for the Saints. “She is usually pretty selective about her men. Find it a bit hard to believe you swept our Nicci off her feet in a few days.”

“Well,” Dallas raised his eyebrows teasingly at me, “I’m still working on the sweeping part.”

“Lance, leave him alone,” my father insisted from behind the bar. “Dallas, what can I get for you?”

“Stoli vodka, if you’ve got it, and soda.”

Dad looked at me. “Nic, the usual?”

I nodded my head and took a seat on the stool across from my father. My eyes wandered nervously back and forth between my father and Dallas.

“So you’re both vodka drinkers.” Uncle Lance was back to misbehaving. “At least you have that in common.”

I was just about to berate my uncle when the doorbell rang.

“That’s probably Val. She said she would stop by.” My father walked around the bar. “I’ll get it.”

“So you’re sleeping in Nicci’s room?” Uncle Lance continued once my father had left the room. “How did you get the pope,” he nodded after my father, “to agree to that?”

I rolled my eyes at my uncle.

“Well, Nicci and I have been—”

But just as Dallas was about to address the sleeping arrangements, Val walked into the den, out of breath and carrying two large brown shopping bags filled with Christmas presents.

“Auntie Val!” I yelled as I ran to her side. She put the bags down and I hugged her. “Oh, it’s so good to see you.”

I gazed up into her face and was disappointed to see that the trials Katrina had brought to the city were sadly etched there. She appeared older than I remembered; her hair was a lighter shade of gray and she had lost weight. She was no longer the round, happy-go-lucky woman from my past. She seemed worn out and haunted, but then again, so did everyone else in the city these days.

She kissed me gently on the cheek. “Hello, pet.”

I scanned her blue eyes worriedly. “You all right, Auntie Val?”

“Fine, Nicci, just tired. I’ve finally gotten settled into my place in the French Quarter and the movers gave me hell about getting my new furniture here from Houston. And Emeril is giving me crap about my housewarming party next month. I want him to cater it but he’s insisting…” I suddenly saw her eyes rise above me and focus on Dallas.

“Auntie Val,” I took her hand and led her toward the bar, “this is Dallas August. We met in New York and he is here for the holidays.”

Val looked Dallas up and down. “You’re not a gigolo, are you?”

“No, architect,” Dallas answered, seemingly amused.

“Do you paint?” Val probed.

“No, I’m an architect. We tend to draw.”

“Do you like women with fake boobs?”

“Val!” I raised my voice to her.

“Well, somebody has to ask,” she remarked as she waddled her way up to the bar. “Silicone Sammy will want to get her hooks into this one as soon as she sees him with you. He’s too good looking for her to resist”

Dallas smiled at her. “Yes, but am I too good looking for you to resist, Val?”

Val cackled as she slapped Uncle Lance on the shoulder. “Oh, I like this one, Lance!” she howled. “Keep this one around, Nicci,” she added as she turned to me.

“Oh, I’m planning on sticking around,” Dallas said, grinning at me.

I peered down at the floor and tried to keep myself from blushing.

My father entered the room with four bottles of champagne in his arms. He saw Val and Lance giggling uncontrollably. He looked over at me and shrugged.

“What did I miss?”

That night as I lay in my queen-sized bed next to Dallas, the close proximity of his body made me very uncomfortable. He was dressed in blue cotton pajama bottoms, leaving his bare chest uncovered. I preferred our previous arrangements back in the hotel where he slept in a chair a discreet distance away from me. But once in New Orleans, Dallas insisted sharing my bed would add to the authenticity of our cover.

I searched around the room for something to distract me from him. I spied his suitcase by my bedroom door.

“Where did you hide your gun?” I asked, suddenly remembering his holstered firearm.

“I can’t travel with a gun,” he stated curtly. “I’ll get another one here.”

“How?”

“You don’t want to know,” he mumbled, sounding more than a little aggravated.

I stared up at the ceiling, feeling my uneasiness rise and fall with each breath from his naked chest.

“Could you at least put on a shirt or something?” I finally asked.

He nudged me. “You’re lucky I put pajama bottoms on.”

I turned onto my side facing him. “Very funny.” I decided to change the subject. “You have a lot of scars on you. Are they all from your job?”