Caress (17 page)

“Dashiel prepares the quarterly reviews himself. You might want to take it up with him upon his return,” the bulky woman said curtly, folding meaty arms over her hot pink chest. Isabelle had been Elphonse’s secretary before his promotion to the St. Thomas office. When he left she had then been assigned as secretary to Dashiel Duchesne, director of the Norfolk site. The office rumor, reported to Nya by Lysette, of course, was that Isabelle and Elphonse had had an affair and that Nyron’s decision not to relocate her to St. Thomas with Elphonse had made her bitter. From her behavior, Nya was inclined to believe it. Besides, Nya knew her childhood friend’s many predicaments with women who wouldn’t let go.

“Well, like I said, I think you can help me. I want to see your hard copy invoices from the past six to eight months.”

“They are all recorded on the computer system,” she said, answering the buzzing phone. “Any information you need will be there.”

Nya raised her brow and gave a glare that caused Isabelle to actually shrink back into her seat. When Isabelle put the phone down, Nya forced her lips to curl upward and grated out, “I am certainly aware of where files and information are stored. If you’ll recall I implemented the computer system in the first place.” Nya took a deep breath, wondering why she let Isabelle’s antagonistic attitude get to her. Maybe it was just the stress. “I printed my own copies in Birmingham, but I want to see the originals. The invoices, where are they?”

Isabelle eyed her slyly and Nya wondered if Dashiel had many problems with her. He got along with most people, being as humorous and lovable as he was, but Nya was convinced that this woman could try a saint. Though she’d never been one to throw her weight around, Nya considered asking the woman if she liked working for Hatsheput, because she didn’t seem to.

“I’m sorry, but you won’t be able to get to them today. When the workers redecorated the office, everything was basically stored any way we could. It’s all disorganized, and it’s going to take me awhile to pull all of that information. I can surely have it for you Monday, though.”

“Monday’s too late. You tell me where they’re stored and I’ll take them home and review them this weekend.”

“No, really,” Isabelle interrupted, “you couldn’t even begin to do that alone. I’ll see if I can get some of the stockers from the gallery to help. I’ll get them to you this afternoon.”

“No,
really,
I insist. I’ll go over there myself this evening and--”

“Nya!” she heard a deep voice boom behind her. She turned and gave her full smile to Dashiel Duchesne. She let herself be pulled into his strong-armed hug as he kissed her on the cheek.

“Hi, Dashiel, nice to see you’re just as loud as ever,” she said, laughing as he set her down.

“Nice to see you’re just as fine as ever,” he teased. “Hey, don’t tell Nyron I said that, either. He’ll have me for lunch.”

“Dirty old man,” Nya declared. “I thought you were gone for the day.”

“No.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’m not out until tomorrow.”

Nya stifled the urge to turn around and call Isabelle a bald-faced liar.

“What brings you to my humble branch?” He draped his arm around the back of her shoulder. “Surveying what will one day be yours?”

“Oh, please.” She glanced briefly over her shoulder. “You and I both know my father would choose anybody over me in a heartbeat. It’s more like what will one day be yours.”

“Not if these women keep putting me in the hospital,” he said and laughed.

“Dashiel, stop, I
cannot
hear this.” Nya laughed. “Let’s see that new office of yours.” They walked in, arm and arm, and closed the door on a glowering Isabelle Wilkins.

h

Nya walked from room to room in the dock warehouse late that evening, long after most of the staff had gone home. Even if Isabelle wouldn’t help her, she would find those invoices. Getting to the bottom of the problem would distract her from all of the things rattling through her brain. It wasn’t lost on her that all of her anxiety came from the men in her life: her father, Elphonse, even Michael. All of them had her in turmoil. Resolving this problem would give her at least a temporary reprieve from them.

She slowly moved from room to room, searching for anything that would get her closer to what she was looking for. She finally found the massive room where the archives were kept. Brand new, teal file cabinets lined the walls. Elphonse had certainly outdone himself this time. Nya traced her fingers along the cabinets, reading the dates and letters on all of them. There was nothing on the past six to eight months. Then she recalled Isabelle mentioning something about the more current files being stored because they didn’t have a place to put them yet. Nya had thought that ridiculously impractical at the time and still did. She came to a slate gray door and went down the stairs to the basement warehouse, where she felt around in the dark for a light switch. When she found it, her gaze took in the expansive room. Crates and boxes were stacked neatly all around, creating corridors and a grid pattern on the floor. She moved near to the crates, reading the sides. She recognized the names of nearly every artist—many of them were personal friends. Then she came to some boxes labeled Bernard French. Nya pressed a hand to her lips as a wave of sadness washed over her.

This was work by the fourth young man who had died as a result of corruption at Art Sentries, the one with no family, no anchor but Art Sentries. She gently placed her hands on one box as if she could feel him through the wood, through his work. Her heart thumped with fear then. As emotional as she had been in recent weeks, she didn’t know if she could handle looking at his work without breaking down.

But she had to.

Nya thought of the other lost boys and their families and how she had lost her way, just like El in some respects. She owed it to them all to look inside. Her search continued, but she didn’t care about invoices anymore; she only cared about finding the art of those four young men.

She didn’t have far to look; all four were a part of the same shipment whose number she recognized as the impractical one, the shipment with very little cargo. Nya dragged them to the center of the basement, where the lighting was best. After taking a deep, cleansing breath, she removed the top off of one of the boxes. The first piece created by Noah Rolle drew a gasp from her lips. The small, delicate painting of a brown-skinned Madonna offering solace to her newborn baby was riveting with its sharpness and brilliant light. It had been created not with oil or canvass, but with remnants of vice. The image was painted on hundreds of cigarette papers from partially smoked cigarettes with liquor and decadent candy. It had been treated in St. Thomas to preserve the perishable materials, but the message had stayed intact. The brilliant dichotomy touched something deep within Nya. She shook her head slowly, thinking of the waste.

The next box was another of Noah’s, a small mosaic of an old man drinking. It was made from shards of glass from beer and liquor bottles. The man’s eyes glittered with sadness and regret. The young man’s work was brilliant. She found nothing less in Lamonte MacPherson’s cartoons and caricatures. Vibrant and exaggerated, he captured island life in a way that was real and joyous. Even spending all her time steeped in the art community and understanding that a person’s circumstance and their art are not always readily accessible, she found it hard to believe that the one who had drawn these pictures had been selling drugs and enforcing for Rinaldo Mandolesi. Errol Stewart’s paintings were all pastoral landscapes. None looked like St. Thomas. Nya had to believe that he had drawn his fantasy.

When she returned to Bernard’s box Nya said a prayer over it, for his soul to be at peace. Nya stroked the top of it, then opened it. At first, she didn’t know what she was looking at; it was just a giant photograph. Nya wished the lighting were better as she stood to carefully drag the photo out of the box so she could get a better look at it. Nya went to switch on another light, then came back to stand over the piece. From a distance, it looked like a man’s face. Harsh, cruel, with slashing black brows, dark caramel skin, and tension around his nose. His mouth snarled. He looked oddly familiar. Nya leaned down to look at it closer and realized that the larger photo was comprised of several tiny photos. She’d seen this technique many times. She’d been impressed by the first few, but the technique had lost its novelty for her long ago. Granted, this one was exceptional. The man’s eyes bored into her even as she studied the smaller photos.

She leaned even closer… and her eyes widened… and her heart raced… and she could feel the blood rushing to her head.

Nya shot up, casting her gaze around, trying to figure out what to do, who to call. She had come to Norfolk to find evidence, but she had never expected this. She jumped up and down for a second, trying to expel some of the energy quickly building in her body. Then, she suddenly fell to the floor, knocked unconscious by a blow to the back of her head.

Michael was sitting in the St. Thomas airport again. He sat in the same spot where he’d first seen Nya, and half expected to see her come through the glass doors again with a radiant smile on her beautiful face. In his mind, that vision of her was everywhere he’d looked on the island for the past two days. Even now he conjured an image of her: sensual lips, long chocolate-hued legs, small waist, perfectly contoured breasts he could hardly bear not touching, the twists flowing down her back. He swore under his breath. Truly he had never known a woman to affect him the way she did. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quell the next vision that assailed his senses: a picture of Nya lying beneath him as he made love to her. Damn, he wanted her.

He was convinced any man would feel that way when looking at her. There was no doubt he was very attracted to her physically, but was that all? It was what he wanted desperately to believe, but couldn’t. Something about that woman had gotten under his skin. He had seen so many sides of her over the last few weeks. There was the no-nonsense businesswoman, doing any and everything she must to make her enterprise move forward. There was the regal, sophisticated woman who seemed to know exactly what to wear, exactly what to say in any situation. And then there was the sexy, sensual woman who got carried away in the beauty of a garden and who got carried away in his arms. All those sides of her made him feel… feel…he didn’t know what he felt. The only certain thing was that he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything.

And he knew she wanted him, too. No matter what she said to the contrary, she wanted him. He remembered the kiss in the hotel lobby, and her body melting against his. Her body had responded as if it was the most natural thing ever up in his room. And she had looked up at him and waited, anticipating his kiss. He felt his body stiffen as thoughts of that endless moment washed through him. And he remembered what Lysette had said. Nya was an artist, an artist and a beautiful person. Lysette thought he was the one for Nya. Michael didn’t want to think about that. He was a man who was always moving. His work took a lot of dedication. His work had to be the most important thing to him. And, most important of all, his work couldn’t reject him. Then he felt something warm grow in his stomach and spread all over his body. What had Lysette said? “It’ll take someone just like her.” Michael smiled to himself. That woman was proving to be wiser than he had thought. He wondered if her other deductions were correct. All he knew was that Nya Seymour, even in her absence, was making his body ache with longing.

He tried to focus on everything he’d learned in the islands. Marshall Ellis’s body had washed up on a remote beach. Until a couple of days before and a mammoth “clerical error,” Ellis had been in police custody. Using this as his first lead, Michael had gone to the police department to get some answers. Shortly after arriving, he found that someone had come to post bail for Ellis. Michael, inquiring about the identity of this person, had come up against a stone wall. They refused to tell him, saying that they could not release that information. After threatening everything he could think of and still getting nowhere, Michael had stormed out of the station aware that most of the people on the island knew each other and that the police officers probably knew who had taken Ellis, and with that, who killed him. But they wouldn’t want to tell him, an outsider.

He asked questions all over the island about Ellis. Where did he spend his time? Where was he spending his money? No one knew. It was possible that no one was talking, but Michael didn’t think so. It seemed that Marshall Ellis rarely spent time outside his house, a villa up on the east side of the island.

Michael had gone up to the villa to look around the property and found what he would describe as a bachelor pad. Ellis had reportedly stolen around three hundred thousand dollars, maybe more, but Michael couldn’t see any hint of extravagance inside the house. However, when he looked out the kitchen window that faced the ocean, he saw a small pier. Anchored there was a brand new sailboat, a white twenty-four-footer with a blue and white sail and the name
Marshall
on the side. Ellis apparently wasn’t a very bright man. How could he have possibly expected to get away with it? More importantly, how was he able to run such a smooth operation at the Hatsheput docks? Even with a mastermind like Mandolesi behind him, the guy didn’t seem swift enough to hold up his part of the bargain.

Still, what bothered him the most was the involvement of Elphonse Deklerk. He was positive that the man was as crooked as they came, but Nya was just as positive he wasn’t. She said that they had grown up together. But Lysette had also told him that the relationship had been strained over the past few years. If he had nothing to hide, why had he done that?