for the hell of it.”
She laughed and asked, “How about tonight?”
“That was a lonely howl. The alpha was calling Micah.”
Amelie said, skeptically, “Specifically Micah?”
He nodded. “Look, I’m sure he would’ve gotten around to this. We’re Nez Perce Indians. Ours was the tribe that befriended Lewis and Clark and led them through the Northwest Passage to the Pacific Ocean.”
Her eyes were wide with wonder. She slowly nodded her head. “I remember that from history lessons. There was an Indian girl with them.”
“Sacagawea. She was Shoshone but she interpreted for them with the Nez Perce.”
“And the reservation is in Idaho?”
“Yep. It’s gorgeous. Near the Washington border. That’s where we grew up. Been best friends since we were toddlers.”
“Does he still have a home there?”
“No. But he goes back three times a year, ten days at a time. His father was Nez Perce. Nimiipu in the language. His mother was white. She was our school teacher when we were in grammar school. His born name is Micah Cody Wildpony. My full name’s David Runningfox. I shortened it when I went to college.”
“You’re not kidding me?”
“Of course not. But I am talking too much. I should let him tell you all this.”
“Not on your life.” She looked back at Cody, and then added, “You started, you can’t quit now.”
“Well, when Cody was about three, the Elders of the Nimiipu recognized something special about Micah. They call him Ka’wan, which means Little Wolf. The wolf is the most sacred of all creatures. They pronounced he was weyekin, a prophet, someone unique. Cody is incredibly intuitive. He inherited great instincts from his dad who was a true warrior, special ops. The Nez Perce have no written language and Micah was selected as one who passes on the legends and language of the Nimiipu: the myths of nature, the wisdom of the culture, the religion of The Dreamer. He takes that responsibility seriously. So, he lives in two worlds. His spirit follows the wisdom of the Nimiipu but he chooses to live in this culture.”
“Why did he leave the reservation?”
“Micah was thirteen when his father died. His mom moved them back to her home in Columbia, Missouri. He went to the University there.”
“So how did he end up here?”
“He was in the army for a year but it didn’t appeal to him. He loves New York City so he decided to serve it as a cop.”
She exhaled. “And he talks to wolves,” she said.
“Well, the Elders were right, he’s weyekin- he has the gift. He communicates with other creatures. It’s a spiritual thing I couldn’t begin to explain. But it’s a beautiful thing to watch.”
She looked back in the compound. The alpha’s head was in his lap and Cody was scratching him behind the ears. It was lovely to behold and it touched her. She could feel her pulse in her throat. “I wonder why he brought me here?” she thought aloud.
“Well, he’s a practical guy and this is on the way to dinner,” Dave answered. “Or maybe he sees something special in you. Or maybe you are a suspect. Or maybe it’s simply that he’s a man and you, Amelie, are quite a fox, if I do say so myself-and pun intended.” Dave Fox smiled at her impishly.
She looked over at him and smiled back. “Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome.”
“And what’s with the ponytail?” she asked.
“Part of the culture.”
“Then how come you don’t wear one?”
Dave answered, quite seriously, “Because I’m a veterinarian. He’s a warrior.”
22
“Shall I call you Daisy?” Ward Hamilton clinked his crystal glass of Prosecco against Victoria’s, and squirmed in his arm chair with the delight of knowing that, beneath her filmy white crushed cotton slit skirt, she was almost certainly wearing nothing at all.
“Why, Mr. Gatsby,” she purred. “I do believe you’re treading closer to the informal every moment.” She smiled at him lasciviously, and finished her drink in a single sensuous sip-her eyes never leaving his as she swallowed. In the distant background, in what could indeed have been scene from an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel, archers also dressed in white dotted the country club’s impeccable green lawn.
“You must admit it, darling,” Victoria continued. “I bested you roundly this afternoon.”
“You did indeed,” Hamilton chuckled affably. “But I am not surprised. While I’ve been slaving away at the Public Library and in front of my screen, you can practice any time you like.”
“Not that you did too badly,” she allowed. “Four bull’s eyes aren’t exactly a shabby score.”
“I am becoming,” Hamilton said, “an increasingly good marksman. Un bon tireur, as General Idi Amin used to say. Though he was talking about his rate of impregnation.”
“Why is it everything has to come back to sex with you?”
“Because you are my lover,” Hamilton said. “In your physical presence, there is nothing else worth thinking about.” He took her hand, and brought it to his lips, savoring her delicate perfume.
“If only it could cure what ails you,” she said, her eyes misting for a moment until she covered by reaching for the bottle.
Hamilton brushed her hand aside, took the bottle, and poured for her.
The waitress in the French milkmaid’s pinafore approached the table, a look of sweet solicitation on her innocent face. “May I bring you another bottle, madame et monsieur?”
Hamilton shook his head. “I think we finish this one,” he said in a teasing tone, “take it and you with us to the back seat of our limousine for dessert.”
The waitress put her hand to her face to cover a blush.
Under the table Victoria’s white-stockinged foot found its way into Hamilton’s crotch and gave him a playful nudge. “Don’t worry,” she said to the young woman, “he’s just joking.”
“Not at all,” Hamilton insisted. “We would take you to places you’ve never imagined,” he purred to the waitress, who was slowly but surely backing away from the table, glancing around for the nearest exit.
Victoria put down her champagne glass and reached for her cell phone. She pushed a speed-dial and spoke into the mike: “Bring the car around, please. Mr. Hamilton is being naughty again and needs to be attended to.”
Hamilton loved the look she gave him. He knew he was in for a treat.?
“The privacy window is up,” the chauffeur whispered to Victoria as he held the door for her.
“Thank you, Patrick,” she said. “Care to join us?”
“No, thank you,” the driver answered, flicking a speck of pollen from his otherwise impeccable gray lapel. “Awfully jolly to invite me, though.”
Victoria gave him a look filled with erotic promise, then ducked inside the car, taking care to allow Patrick a glance of her braless decolletage.
Hamilton was waiting.
“Are you sure you’re up to it?” she said, reaching for his zipper and pulling aside her skirt.
“You’ll see,” he said. “Viagra goes down very well with champagne.”
“Then I will too,” she said, releasing him from his white linen trousers. “Pretend I’m wearing a white pinafore.”
“I’d rather pretend you’re wearing nothing at all,” he said, moaning as she took him into her mouth. He pulled her hair away from her neck, so he could focus on the heart-shaped tattoo at its base.
