Strip Search (11 page)

Thoughts raced, suspicion danced through his nerves. Clearly Bocelli had been there long enough to play voyeur. What about longer? Perhaps long enough to send the light crashing down toward an unsuspecting Nicki?

"Damn it!" she cursed. "I'm screwed."

Mark fisted his hands at his sides and did his best to restrain his temper. Beating the hell out of the Mafia bastard right now would be pointless--enjoyable for a few minutes, but ultimately pointless. Mark's whole purpose for being here was to bring Bocelli to justice for his money laundering, and God only knew what other crimes. He doubted Blade was the guy's given name. Surely he'd earned it in ways the authorities would find interesting, and Mark vowed to give them the needed proof. The laws Bocelli had broken, coupled with what he'd done to Tiffany, ensured him a one-way trip to the federal penn.

But if Bocelli had anything to do with that light nearly falling on Nicki's head, there would never be a hole small enough for him to hide in. Anywhere. And Mark would make certain the asshole ended up being very sorry.

Suddenly, Zack bustled in from the right side of the stage, looking harried. "Did I miss anything?"

T
he opportunity to get into both Nicki's panties and the club's accounting records hadn't panned out yet. Mark was determined that his luck, with regard to the latter at least, was about to change.

His luck with the former was anyone's guess. Nicki would have to stop avoiding him first.

Pushing thoughts of hot sex with his "boss" out of his head for the moment, Mark rose. It was before eight A.M. Today, the club was closed. Right now, most everyone would be in oblivion, sleeping off the effects of nights that didn't end until four in the morning.

Leaving his barren apartment, he slipped down the stairs and crept down the hall on silent feet, toward Nicki's office door. He expected to find it locked. That was fine. What guy didn't know how to pick a lock or two?

But he stopped short when he saw Bocelli sitting in a chair, staring at columns of numbers on a computer screen.

Crap! What was the Godfather gorilla doing here at this hour?

Easing closer, he peered over the thug's shoulder, scanning the columns of debits and credits for the month of April. He was
accounting?
Unbelievable. Talk about leaving the fox in charge of the henhouse ...

Mentally, Mark began adding, gaze dodging from one column to the next. Last month, Nicki had a night where the bar had only brought in three hundred dollars? Impossible. Frigging impossible. A slow night at the bar wouldn't be less than a thousand. And yet she'd outlaid fifteen hundred dollars for janitorial services in a week? Mark scowled, skimmed numbers that seemed more fictitious than a novel. Two and two shouldn't add up to five. What the hell was going on?

Suddenly, Bocelli swiveled his chair around as if he'd sensed Mark there. He had no idea how, since he knew he hadn't made a sound.

"What the hell do you want, Viking?"

"What the hell are you doing here?" Mark shot back.

"My fucking job. And you?"

"If you're supposed to be her accountant, you know shit about it. The debits don't add up correctly, and alcohol expense doesn't belong in the office supply category."

"What? You work for the fuckin' IRS now? Mind your own business, boy toy. Nicki lets me take care of a lot of things for her, because I'm good at them." Bocelli's nearly black eyes mocked Mark. "Her accounting ... among other things."

Mark felt his jaw turn to granite. His blood turned to ice.

A nun couldn't mistake Bocelli's insinuation that he was fucking Nicki.

While trying to kill her by crashing a stage light onto her head?

He wanted to strangle Mr. Italian Stallion Macho all over again.

If Nicki was, in fact, having sex with Blade, it shouldn't be a surprise. If there was a bad girl in the crowd, Mark would find her every time. And want the hell out of her.

His first girlfriend in middle school had been expelled for selling the answers to a history test. From there, it only got worse. As a freshman in high school, his girlfriend had been caught giving a blow job in the boys' bathroom--to someone else. As a senior, his squeeze had a skull and crossbones tattooed on her ass--after having her nipples pierced. In college, the lust of the moment had been putting herself through school by subscribing people to her website so they could pay to watch her masturbate. Hell, his own wife had married him just to have him take the fall for her felony.

No one had worse taste in women than he did.

The fact he was sweating over a woman who wore thongs, had her naval pierced, and owned a strip club was just par for the course. Her spreading her legs for a Mafia thug shouldn't surprise him in the least.

It just pissed him off that he should feel let down. Some things, he reminded himself, never changed.

Regardless, he still had to get into Nicki's accounting records. And even though it was stupid, damned if he didn't still want to get inside her ... just once.

Mark looked at Bocelli and sneered. "Well, you may have handled some things for Nicki in the past. But 'things' will change now she's got competent help."

M
ark had the uncomfortable feeling that, if the old saying about someone's ears burning when others were talking about them was true, his would have been on fire.

After an unexpected voice mail from Nicki asking him to drop by her place at five, after Monday rehearsal, he arrived at her front door, just as Lucia was exiting. The look that passed between the sisters suggested he'd been the topic of conversation.

"You are in so much trouble," Lucia whispered, a smile playing at her soft mouth.

"What? Why?"

Lucia continued on, down the hall to her own apartment as if he hadn't spoken.

Scowling, he turned back toward Nicki's door. Toward Nicki, now standing at the portal with a solemn face--and wearing a killer black dress. What the hell was going on?

Her hesitant posture only underscored the tense furrow of her brow. Clearly, she hadn't invited him here for the fun of it. With her low-cut minidress and sexy stilettos, Nicki looked good enough to eat ... all the way to multiple orgasms, but he wasn't fooled by her outfit de jour. Since Bocelli had discovered them nearly having sex on the club's stage last Thursday, Nicki had done a masterful job avoiding him. He doubted very seriously she had invited him here for sex.

Damn shame, too.

"You called?" He held up his cell phone to indicate that he'd received her message.

With a jerky nod, she stepped back, opening the door wider. "Come in."

He paused, looking into Nicki's apprehensive oval face, the sharp, watchful stare of her upturned blue eyes. Whatever had prompted her surprising request to drop by her place wasn't something she was looking forward to.

Mark's mind raced. Why would she ask him here, at exactly five o' clock, on the club's only dark day? Either she wanted to talk about his lack of progress in learning his damned Viking routines or ask why he'd appeared in her office early this morning to peek at her accounting records and give her "accountant" a hard time. He was more than willing to bet Bocelli had already informed Nicki of their altercation earlier today.

Before or after he climbed between her legs?
a snide voice in the back of his head asked.

It shouldn't matter. He and Nicki weren't going anywhere, relationship-wise. Since Tiffany, he didn't do relationships. But he couldn't deny that, for some head-scratching reason, he worried about Nicki. Yeah, it bugged the hell out of him that she might be fucking the hairy Italian jerk. But it concerned him more. Did she know she was sleeping with a guy who was probably a stone cold killer?

Resigned that he wouldn't get answers while standing in the hall, Mark brushed past Nicki and entered her apartment. Damn, she smelled good, like ... tangerine but lighter, with a hint more spice. Whatever it was, that scent kicked his libido into gear every time.

Without meeting his gaze, she shut the door behind him, then led the way to the little Old World living room.

He sat. She also sat, then rubbed her hands together. Nicki didn't often display a demeanor other than her usual brass balls. Her tense, out-of-sorts gestures only confused him.

If this was about Bocelli finding him trying to get a peek at her books--and he suspected it was--he had to somehow convince her to keep her distance from the dangerous prick ... without getting fired or blowing his cover.

The best way to fight fire was with fire.

"I'm glad you called me over here. I want to talk to you."

"I-I want to talk to you, too."

"I'm going to skip being a gentleman today and go first. Sorry." Mark plowed on, despite the fact Nicki looked taken aback. "Bocelli is more asshole than accountant. He doesn't need to be doing your books, Nicki."

She blinked several times. "You want to talk to me about my choice of accountants?"

"I know you have more sense than to hire that Stallone wannabe to take care of your money. Do you know anything about his background? Is he even qualified?"

Her frown reflected equal parts confusion and anger. "So he's not from H and R Block. What do you care?"

"I don't want to see him take you down the river. He could be cheating you, Nicki."

Holding up her hands to stay him, she said, "Look, you two don't like each other. I get it. He's made it really clear that he doesn't think you're qualified for your job, either. The two of you need to quit your macho posturing and stop telling me how to run my business."

"I think he's hiding something. I'm trying to protect you."

"That's crap. Both of you big he-men seem to think that I must have my brains in my boobs. This is so like every man I know." She gritted her teeth. "Listen, I started this club virtually on my own. You and Blade and my uncle all think you should tell me how to handle the operations because you got something dangling between your legs. I know why the other two think they have the right to boss me around. What's your excuse?"

Clearly, her uncle thought the familial connection allowed him to put his two cents in with Nicki. What was Bocelli's claim to fame here? Had Nicki just admitted that she was sleeping with him? Her words felt like a punch in the gut.

"Do I need an excuse to want to make sure he doesn't take advantage of you?" he countered, voice rising. "He's no accountant."

"And you are?" she shot back tartly.

Mark hesitated. "Yes."

Her stunned expression took some of the starch out of her spine.
Bingo.
"You're an accountant?"

"I'm a CPA, yes."

"Really?" The set of her full mouth showed her utter confusion. "Is that what you did in Florida when you worked for the bank?"

Not exactly, and not as Mark
Gabriel,
but why split hairs? "Yes."

"Why did you give it up?" Nicki's face softened, reflecting her confusion. "Why come here and take work as an exotic dancer?"

Actually, he'd finished his CPA shortly after leaving jail and going to work for Rafe. But Nicki couldn't know that, or it would blow his cover. She'd asked good questions that, if he didn't find good answers for fast, would make her very suspicious. Keeping his cover was paramount to catching Bocelli doing something illegal with her money.

"Long story. That life is behind me. It needs to stay there."

Ugh, did he sound like a bad soap opera, complete with cheesy angst?

"What happened before, the embezzlement allegation, it's unlikely to happen again," she said softly.

He shrugged. "Whatever. I just came here to warn you. You've worked too hard to let a jack off like Bocelli mismanage your money."

A hint of annoyance flitted across her face. "Hanging out here for a week and a half doesn't make you an expert on my business or the people here."

"Maybe, but being around Bocelli 24-7 hasn't made you one, either."

Nicki rose and paced across the living room, agitation apparent in every stomping step. "Why are all men such arrogant bastards? They treat you like you're a moron, like you couldn't possibly make a decision more important than what to have for breakfast without their help. Even when you think you like one of them and want to have sex with him and call him over for that very purpose, you get some sort of speech--"

"What?"

Mark crossed the room in three steps and grabbed her arm. Nicki gasped, blue eyes flashing up at him with a mixture of fury and hurt.

"You called me over here to spend the night with you?"

She wrenched her arm from his grip and clapped. "Thanks for playing 'Jeopardy: The Home Edition.' You got Brilliant Deductions for four hundred correct
and
managed to phrase your answer in the form of a question. Someone get the guy an award."

"Nicki--"

Gesturing down to her outfit, she said, "Did you think I hung around here on my day off looking like this for the hell of it?"

With her sarcastic question, puzzle pieces clicked into place for Mark. Nicki despised talking business on her day off, but she'd invited him over. The last time he'd seen her on her day off, she'd been wearing yoga pants and a tank top with her hair in a ponytail. When he'd entered her apartment a few minutes ago, she'd been anxious and a little hesitant. Mark had assumed she dreaded reaming him out about bad rehearsals or asking suspicious questions about his interest in her accounting. In retrospect, Nicki would have been all for sinking her teeth into those situations. She thrived on solving conflicts and getting things done.

No, she was nervous, which meant he got to her. She'd been waiting for him to notice her appearance and do something about it.

Boy, when he screwed up, he did it right.