Biting Nixie (3 page)

Julian's eyes narrowed. “Mr. Kaufman. ‘Little' Nixie is not, nor has ever been—”

“—happier!” I wrapped my hands around Julian's arm, batting my eyes at him. Willing him to go along with the ruse just a little longer. “But we haven't been married long, almost newlyweds, in fact. And I want to spend every spare moment with my hubby—”

“Great! I'll show both of you the mayor's beer can collection. Right this way—”

“Alone! So if you'll just excuse us…”

Lew pouted. “I
was
going to show you the Records Department.” He added coaxingly, “The file cabinets are Real Steel.”

“Next time,” I hurried to reassure him. “But now Suitg—
Julian
and I want to be
alone
.” Tugging on Julian's arm, I edged away from Lew. “Right, honey?”

Julian, bless him, was quick. He came, even going so far as to put a possessive hand over mine. We escaped into the stairwell.

Once out of sight though, I was in trouble. I felt it before I saw it. Waves of displeasure rolled off Julian like tides of doctor bills.

The man had
no
sense of humor.

“Look, I had to say something,” I said desperately. “Lew's like a freight train. Once he gets an idea between his teeth, he's a tornado in a china shop.”

“Your metaphors are execrable.”

I didn't understand that, but it didn't sound good. I put fists on hips, stuck out my chest. “Yeah? Well, same to you, buster.”

For some reason that made him smile. Not a full-out smile, just a kind of lifting of one corner of his mouth. Julian had a spectacular mouth. Bronze lips, not too full. Sleek. Built for kissing.

Seeing my expression, which probably looked like I wanted to eat him, his eyes darkened.

Whoa. So not going there. Not with Suitguy, Defender of the Stodgy. “Well, thanks. For, uh, rescuing me from vice-principal Schleck. And coming out after and, uh, being nice. But, gotta go.”

He let me escape. I ran down the steps and out into the night. My heart was pounding way faster than the exercise merited.

On the sidewalk, I paused a moment to catch my breath. The cold November air swirled around me, cooling my strangely aroused body. What had almost happened there?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing happened. And it was going to stay that way. I was absolutely, positively, not turned on by Julian Emerson. By
Suitguy
. Suitguy, I rationalized, was probably as seductive as the moan-track of a grade-Z porno flick.

It wasn't working. I started picturing those to-die-for lips shaped around a good moan. Damp thong rapidly became soaked and steamy thong. WTF!

Since a cold shower wasn't handy, I decided to walk my squishy off. I struck out, headed west. Walking was a national pastime in Meiers Corners. You could get anywhere by foot. For example, I lived about a mile from City Hall. Nine blocks west, seven blocks north. Elena O'Rourke's old place, actually, before she married Bo Strongwell. Elena was a cop, but that didn't stop us from being friends.

Of course, Elena and I were friends like an Irish wolfhound and the Taco Bell dog, but looks weren't everything.

A strong hand grabbed me by the arm, yanked me to a stop. “Just
what
do you think you're doing?”

I reacted without thinking. Pivot. Cock back an arm. Strike with the heel of the hand. Smash the nose. Done at the right angle, it drives bone shards into the brain.

Except my hand never got past my shoulder. Vise-like fingers spun me. Arms stronger than bands of steel wrapped around me. I was yanked back against a chest as solid as a concrete wall. Hot breath stirred the hair on top of my head.

I struggled uselessly, until recognition broke through. That deep, cultured voice. Those haughty vowels.

Julian Emerson.

I jerked against him, trying to pull loose. “Emerson! What the hell do you think you're doing?”

“I asked you first, little girl.” Julian released me suddenly and I stumbled. His strong hand on my arm steadied me briefly.

I glared up at him. My glare hit his old-school tie. Thirty seconds since I'd seen him and I'd forgotten how
tall
he was. My breasts would rub against that flat belly. My nipples would harden… I readjusted my eyes one foot up and glared fiercely. “I am
not
a little girl.”

“I know.” He sounded resentful. “But you're not very big, either. You shouldn't be out alone.”

“Oh, please! This is Meiers Corners. The worst crime we have is shoplifting.”

He glowered at me. “You have gangs.”

“
A
gang.
One
gang. East of here, in the bad part of town.” As if Meiers Corners
had
a bad part of town, compared to any other city.

“Nowhere in town is safe any more. Especially not for a hu…female.” Julian blew a frustrated-sounding breath. “This issue with the Chicago Coterie has upset the balance.”

“Upset the
balance
? Well don't you sound all crunchy.”

His glower morphed into puzzled annoyance. “I beg your pardon?”

“All feng shui guru-ey. Thanks for the warning, Emerson.” I lifted my chin. “But I can protect myself.” On that line I swept away, a perfect haughty-yet-dignified exit.

Only to be grabbed and spun back. “You can defend yourself against
normal
adversaries. But not against evil.” Julian's blue eyes glowed, burning almost red violet in the yellow street lamp.

“Evil?” I glared back, but it bounced off a stare hard as rubies. So I redirected my glare to Julian's hand, wrapped securely around my arm. And was exceedingly surprised.

Given his long, lithe build I expected long, slim fingers. An ele-gaunt, artsy-fartsy hand.

But Julian's fingers were square, his hand strong. The same bronze as his face, dusted by small black hairs.

His hand would be powerful and sure between my thighs.

Appalled with myself, I shook Julian's square hand off. “Evil?” I repeated. “That's pretty extreme, Emerson. Hitler was evil. Pol Pot was evil. Gangs are bad, yes. But evil? As far as I know no gang has wiped out millions of human beings as if it were their right.”

“‘Wiped out millions of humans as their right.'” Julian's lean jaw worked, as if he were fighting for restraint. “Yes,
evil
is exactly the word I want.”

He
really
needed to lighten up. “And this Coterie is evil. Uh-huh. Are you always wired so tight, Emerson?”

He blew a frustrated breath. “I fail to see what's wrong with being careful. The Coterie is extremely dangerous—”

“An evil and dangerous bunch of
suits
. You're feening, Emerson. I don't like lawyers and bureaucrats either, but I'd hardly call them evil. Well—maybe the lawyers.”

Whatever Julian had been about to say in retort died. He gave me a strange look. “Nixie. I should tell you—” A loud pop cut him off. The street light in front of us died.

Chapter Three

As the light died, Julian's jaw kicked up. His eyes narrowed to slits. His nostrils flared like a beast scenting prey.

Suddenly Julian Emerson looked nothing like a suit. He looked like—a hunter. A dangerous, deadly hunter.

“Get behind me.” Not waiting for me to obey, he pushed me behind him with sure hands. My fingers wrapped automatically around his waist.

Beyond him I caught the impression of movement. Blurs, three of them, coming in
fast
. I couldn't see much, sequestered behind Julian. He was lean, yes. But big. His chest was solid and his shoulders broad. His waist was easily as big as my hips. That lean, flat waist.

“Get him!” someone shouted.

In front of me, Julian's arms jerked. Cut through the air, hard. His hands almost whistled with the force he used. If he'd held knives, whatever he hit was now sliced, diced, and julienned. I smiled at the image.

Until twin arcs of dark liquid sprayed out on either side of him.

It all happened so fast. I couldn't be sure what I really saw. But the
sounds
sent ice through my veins. The liquid spattered onto the sidewalk like unnaturally thick rain. Plop-plop-plop. Like the sick crunch of car metal, it's a sound I will never forget.

In front of me, Julian's arm went forward, then pulled abruptly back.
Digging something out.
The image was so strong I even heard a sucking, as if whatever it was had resisted coming out. My fingers fumbled under his suit coat, found his belt. I clutched that belt as if it were a lifesaver.

With a sharp motion, Julian threw—something. I cringed, listening for a crunch, or a splat. A sound to tell me what he'd thrown. A sound to confirm he'd…killed…something. Or…someone.

Nothing.

I found my voice. “What…what just happened?” The words were shaky. Under my hands, his belt felt fuzzy.

Not only my voice was shaking, I realized. My vision was going wonky. Julian's broad back blurred, almost as if I could see through him. I blinked.

An instant later he was reassuringly solid. The belt felt fine in my hands, smooth and normal.

He reached behind him, found my fingers. Gently he worked them open. I seized his hand. I must have squeezed his fingers white but he did not protest. Holding my hand securely, Julian turned.

I expected to see dark spray on his shirt. But it was pristine. I looked beyond him, to the sidewalk on either side. Dark dots of thick liquid glistened like oily rain. Nope, I hadn't imagined it. “Emerson. Why is there blood—”

Julian seized me by the shoulders. Skewered me with a stare so intense, I could feel the hairs on my nape rise. “Nixie. I want you to promise not to go outside after dark. Not alone. It's not safe any more.”

I slewed another glance at the dark drops on the pavement. “Were those homies from a gang? Is that the gang you were talking about?”

“You see the danger now? Nixie, you have to promise me.”

Blood. But no bodies. “What happened to them? Where did they go? Will they be okay?”

“Oh, for…they ran off. Dragging one, but he'll be fine. And back before we know it.” Julian looked like he wanted to shake me. “So it's important that you stay home at night. That you stay inside. Understand?”

Maybe Julian was right. Maybe Meiers Corners had become dangerous. “I understand you think it's important. But I can't. I can't stay home nights.”

Julian's eyes flared a bright violet. “Do you care so little about your life?”

“No! I'm
not
my sister.” His eyebrows raised at that, but I only repeated, “I can't stay home nights.”

“Nixie, what does your sister—”

Not going there. “I
can't
!”

His brows raised a notch at my tone. “You must. Whatever parties—”

“Not parties. I earn my pay after dark.”

His eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

I winced. “I didn't mean that like it sounded.”

The eyebrows stayed up. “What
did
you mean, then?”

“I'm a musician.”

He closed his eyes, maybe searching for strength. “A musician.”

“Guns and Polkas.” Digging in my pocket, I pulled out a card. “Bars, parties, weddings, you name it.” The small pasteboard in my fingers made me feel almost normal. “Reasonable prices,” I added hopefully as I gave it to him.

Julian opened his eyes slowly, as if he were afraid of what he'd see. “Nixie…Schmeling? N. Schmeling?” He frowned, and his eyes scanned like he was reading an internal PDA. “Not
Dietlinde
N.
Schmeling?”

Dietlinde.
My daggy first name. Symbol of
everything
I hated. My intro to the power of names, when my parents millstoned me with it. Trying to drag me down into the hell of Normal Life.

I snapped, hearing him say it. Hearing Julian Emerson, Suitguy extra-stodginary, say
Deet-
fucking
-linda
. Any residual shakiness fled in the rush of mad. “Yeah. Wanna make something of it?”

He was obviously surprised by my reaction. But he only held up his square hands. “Peace. We're on the same side.”

I wasn't placated. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yes. Nixie…I'm the lawyer who's going to keep Meiers Corners free.”

After I picked up my jaw from the sidewalk, I realized I should have known. A fucking HDTV-an-hour lawyer. It was all there. The suit, the money, the classic good looks. I should have recognized the name, Emerson, from Fogey, Stuffy, and Emerson.

And I had responded to him! I thought he was
sexy
. Which, of course, only pissed me off more. Without another word I stalked off. He followed me.

I stomped all the way to my flat. Like a lithe shadow, Julian glided along silently behind. He must have been freezing in only his suit coat but he didn't complain once. Just followed, without a word. He waited silently on my stoop while I fumbled out my key and unlocked my door. He stood without comment when I slammed the door in his face.

He waited, hands folded patiently behind his back, until I locked the damned door again.

And then Julian Emerson, lawyer, suit, melted away into the night.

 

 

 

“It was right here,” I said, dragging on my captive's hand. I pointed. “Right here. I swear it!”

Detective Elena O'Rourke Strongwell hunkered down and scanned the sidewalk where I had pointed. “Nixie, there's no blood.” Her fashion-model face was smooth, untroubled, but her eyes were sharp.

I dug my hands into my jacket pockets, staring at the hygienically clean concrete. A bloody mugging had happened here. Conservative attorney Julian Emerson had gone all violent here. Bloody violent. Ploppy-wet violent.

Nothing showed. “But it happened!” I blurted.

“You're sure it was here?” Elena rummaged in a duffel she'd brought. Her long dark curls whipped in the wind.

Elena was five feet nine inches tall, and every inch was cop. Her Irish father was a public defender. She got her unswerving sense of justice from him. Her Hispanic mother was a model. Elena got her incredible beauty and slender grace from her. But the fierce intelligence and off-beat sense of humor was all Elena. It's why we were friends.