With an urging palm at her back, her drew her down again, until she lay against his chest, skin to skin, heartbeats mirrored. He trailed kisses in a warm line up her neck, toward her ear. Nicki melted against him, eager for the succor his touch provided--even if, like a pool of water in the desert sand, it was a mirage. In his arms, she felt as if she belonged. As if he knew her, passionate temper and all, and still wanted her.
Nicki realized she'd never had that in her life. Her mother ignored her, rather than dealing with the daughter who puzzled her. Her father always told her to control her feelings and curb her tongue, despite finding it discomfiting and often pointless. Even Lucia, with her ability to play it safe and keep her opinions to herself when necessary, didn't get that need for empathy.
Mark got it. And for that, she would always love him.
"Nicki," he breathed as he rolled her to her back and slid her dress down her legs, to the floor.
With a snap and a zip, his pants and briefs followed. A rip of foil and a moment's pause later, she felt Mark sliding between her legs. He joined their mouths in an anguished kiss that had no beginning, no end, as he slid inside her with one velvet stroke.
Crying out at the feel of him deep, so much a part of her, Nicki arched up to Mark.
"Yes, baby. That's it. You're so beautiful." He took her hips in his hands and pressed into her again. "I love the way you feel."
He withdrew and glided into her again and again, whispering words of praise. He dotted her cheeks and mouth with kisses tasting of sweet urgency and gathered her up in his arms until they touched at every point from lips to thighs. Emotions crowded her, tangling in her chest, building up, up...
"Mark!"
"I'm here. Right here," he vowed, sinking deep into her, brushing the bundle of nerves inside her, bumping against her womb.
She cried out as the sugary build of pleasure sifted deep in her belly, spinning itself to something spiced with heaven. He swelled. She tightened. Their heavy breaths mixed every time they became one.
"Fall into my arms," he encouraged into her ear.
His rhythm became faster. His body grew tense. Nicki gripped him tighter with her arms, her thighs, her very body, imprinting everything about him--the smooth texture of his woodsy-pine scent, the silken slide of his hair on her neck as he thrust, the fire of those hazel eyes turning green just before--
"Oh, Nicki. Nicki!" he cried out and swiveled into her, as if he could pump every bit of his seed, his need, his life into her. The idea he might want to sent her straight into bliss, fluttering around him, gripping him tight as if she'd never let go.
Even though, all too soon, she knew he'd give her no choice.
M
ark rolled a sleeping Nicki onto her back. Eyes closed to the anxiety and sorrow he'd seen in them, she looked much more peaceful.
But the damp, silvery tear tracks down her cheeks told him the peace was temporary.
His gut clenched at the sight, though it was no surprise. She'd loved him like it was the last time. Deep down, he'd known it, too. They couldn't go on like this. She wanted more from a man than his mistrusting heart could give. And he couldn't go any deeper with a woman he suspected of being a criminal, one who held the power to shatter him at a whole new level.
He had to finish this job now. Tonight. Be done. Be out of here. Before he stopped caring about what was legal and right in order to keep her ... or she accepted a broken man who could never make her happy.
Sliding from bed, he quickly dressed and headed to her office. By the light of the computer, he saw the notes for Lucia's research paper in one comer. Setting them aside, Mark eased into Nicki's chair and turned on her computer. Blade's leather jacket was draped across the back, bulging into his back. Mark flung it to the ground.
Bastard. Bocelli had been in here, jacking around with the accounting records, he'd bet. Ever since Pietro DiStefano had come to visit, he'd been secretive, cocky. Lord knows what he was doing. He couldn't wait to nail the asshole who had helped Tiffany frame him and now had likely lured Nicki to take up crime.
A sticky note from Zack covered the keyboard, reminding Nicki to pick up the costumes from the dry cleaners. Damn, had Nicki's office turned into everyone's dumping ground or what? Sighing, he thrust it aside as well and pulled out his cell phone.
Speed dialing his brother-in-law, Mark wished he could imagine Lucia or Zack being viable suspects. Lucia was too wrapped up in her research paper, as Zack was consumed by caring for his ailing grandfather. Beside, he'd seen a picture of Tiffany with her legs wrapped around Blade's hips, hands clutching his leather-clad back. He was ass-deep in the money laundering operation, no doubt. And while Mark would like to think Bocelli acted alone in laundering money, he feared it would simply be wishful thinking.
"Hello?" Rafe answered, groggy.
"Hey, buddy. I know it's late there. Did I wake Kerry?"
A pause. Mark heard the rustle of sheets before Rafe said, "No. What's up?"
"We've got to solve this. Now."
The bed creaked, and Mark assumed Rafe got up. A few footsteps and a minute later, he heard Rafe's computer humming.
"I've been working on the real estate files you sent. I can't directly trace any of them back to Nicki. One shell account after another, from Eastern Europe to the Caribbean to Switzerland, nothing has Nicki's name on it. She might be innocent ... and she might not be. This security is so tight, as if someone knows exactly how I could watch their transactions. I'm sorry I don't have jack to give you."
Sighing, Mark logged on to Nicki's computer, launched the accounting software, loaded the files. And stared at the screen. The accounts had been updated early this morning. Had Nicki awakened even earlier than he'd suspected and caught up on her criminal activity? Row after row of deposits had been put into her account over the past week. Each day a little bigger, each day a little more brazen.
Frowning, Mark clicked onto the tab marked RE. The real estate transactions had been modified as well. The previous addresses had been tagged with three-digit numbers in red in a column to the left. 142,145,151,157. Other newer entries, about a dozen, had a different three-digit number, 164, in black in that same column. The amounts beside each entry were staggering.
What the hell did it mean?
Mark explained what he was seeing. "Got any clue what kind of code this is? These three-digit numbers are stumping me."
"Let me Google..." A few key strokes and multiple sighs later. "No. Nothing that makes sense in this situation."
Staring at the wall, fighting the rise of futility, Mark was tempted to wake Nicki and make her explain. No more clandestine shit. She wanted to talk, force him to share? Her first.
The calendar on the wall swam in his vision. June eleventh. He'd been here more than a month and had nothing to show for it except the prelude to another busted relationship, another fucking broken heart, this one worse than the last.
He stared at the date--it was better than staring at the screen that held nothing but mysteries. According to the little number under today's date, he'd just about finished one hundred sixty two days of this year and already managed to fuck--
Wait!
One hundred sixty two...
He grabbed the calendar off the wall. "I think I'm on to something. Can you dig up information on this address and see if it sold recently?" Mark recited an address with 142 in red beside it.
About two minutes later, Rafe shouted, "Bingo! The property sold--"
"May twenty-second?"
"How'd you know?"
Mark smiled.
Finally,
he was getting somewhere. "All the transactions on this spreadsheet give a Julian calendar date that represents its closing date. May twenty-second is the one hundred forty-second day of the year."
A quick pause and a few keystrokes later, Rafe said, "You're right. Good job, man!"
"Today is day one hundred sixty-two. A whole bunch of properties have the notation of one hundred sixty-four beside them, which means--"
"That in two days, something big is going down."
"I think you're right." Mark sighed. "But what?"
"I've hit a brick wall here. Every place I turn here is buried in off-shore accounts, shell companies, and all kinds of red tape. You don't have any theories?"
Mark took a mental inventory of everything he knew... and came up empty. "Nope. But I have an idea."
"Yeah?"
He sighed. "I've been putting this off, but I think it's time I searched Nicki's place. Maybe I'll find answers there."
Heaven help them both if he did.
Chapter 15
N
othing could have told Nicki that her arrangement/ fling/affair--heaven forbid she use the
R
word--with Mark was over more plainly than waking up in his apartment naked and alone.
Other than in the bed, the man had no staying power.
In the past, Nicki had wondered how smart women did stupid things like fall for a guy who was never going to commit. She always thought she'd see the trap coming a mile away and run in the other direction. Instead, she'd done an Olympic sprint right into Mark's arms.
Now her heart was paying the price.
Closing her eyes against tears that crushed her with the force of her despondency, Nicki rose--and refused to give in. Oh, no doubt, she was going to cry. But not here. Not now. Not when he might come back and see the kind of damage he'd done. He'd apologize, most likely. Deep down, he was a good guy. But his apology wouldn't change a damn thing.
They were over, it was done, and she couldn't see him anymore, for any reason. Not and keep her sanity.
Gathering her clothes, Nicki sniffed to keep pesky tears at bay and quickly donned her dress. She stuffed her panties into her shoes and took a deep breath.
She was about to do one of the most gutless things in her life in the name of sanity and self-preservation. It wasn't something she'd tell the grandkids or write into any memoirs she might pen someday, but she couldn't think of a better way to do it.
She had to ask Mark to leave.
Never in her life had she imagined herself writing a Dear John/Dear Employee letter all at once. But it severed both parts of their... interaction simultaneously.
Hell. Why was she stressing? He'd probably mourn the loss for all of five minutes, then move on without a backward glance.
It was exactly what she needed to do.
Groping her way up the lamp on the bedside table, Nicki found the switch and turned it. The sudden light, while subtle, burned her eyes. She stared at the bed, rumpled from her tangle with Hurricane Mark. Now only devastation remained, as evidenced by her decimated heart.
Nicki resisted the urge to grasp the sheet to her face and bury her face in it, smell Mark's unique scent and imprint it on her memory, leave behind the tears he'd never know or care about.
If she started crying now, when would she stop?
Paper, she needed paper. And a pen.
Remember your mission!
Resolved, she turned away from the bed and glanced around the Spartan room. The bed took up most of the space. The closet door lined the opposite wall. He'd purchased a plastic tub, which held some of his clothes. Most garments, however, still sat in his open suitcase that lay sprawled near the bed. Clearly, he'd never planned on staying long.
She dug her fingernails into her palms at that reminder, staggering at the power of her pain. If this was being in love ... it really blew chunks.
Swallowing her tears, Nicki pushed on in her search. The clothes didn't provide her anything on which to write a note.
The closet door stood ajar. Just inside, she spotted a leather briefcase. A very nice one, in fact. Briefcases usually had paper. She would simply write him a note that indicated she'd enjoyed meeting him but it wasn't going to work out anymore, and to please vacate the premises in the next twenty-four hours. She'd find another accountant. Auditions for replacement dancers were already under way. In a few days, it would be like he'd never come here at all.
Yeah, and pigs would sprout wings and start clucking like chickens, too.
Nicki crossed the room and grabbed the briefcase. It was heavier than she expected, but with a tug and a groan, she managed to lift it onto the bed. What the hell did he keep in here? Bricks would seem like a feather in comparison.
After unzipping the middle pouch, Nicki found a laptop computer and a portable printer, along with a tangle of cables and cords. Definitely not what she wanted. If she could figure out how to turn it on--big if--she'd have little idea what to do next.
With a tug on the zipper, she closed the middle section, then moved to an outer flap sealed shut with Velcro. It lifted to reveal a flap to a section that looked the size to hold business cards. To the right of that, two pens sat threaded through canvas loops made just to hold them.
Absently grabbing a pen, Nicki couldn't resist opening the flap and digging inside. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but since she felt half-dead already, what the hell.
Her fingers closed around a stack of business cards. She pulled one out. White. Made of thick, expensive cardstock. Charcoal lettering coupled with a sleek, contemporary graphic that contained a hint of red to create an eye-catching logo in the upper right corner. A Manhattan address and phone number. But the words ...
Dawson Security Enterprises
Mark Sullivan, CPA
Vice President and Chief Financial Investigator
What? Chills slammed down Nicki's spine. Mark
Sullivan
, not Gabriel? And he'd said he'd worked for a bank in Florida. He'd never mentioned a security company in New
York, much less being a vice president. And what was a chief financial investigator?