Strip Search (17 page)

One hand held her hips in place, fingers digging into her as he pumped his way inside her, again finding just the right angle to hit every spot guaranteed to set her off. But the arousal climbed up over her head so fast, rushing her like a tidal wave until she couldn't breathe, couldn't think. The telltale bubble of aching need began expanding inside her, even as her vagina closed around him, gripping until he had to push his way inside with each thrust.

Deeper, faster, hotter, higher, Mark pushed her, his incessant strokes inside her unrelenting. She had no place to hide from the enormous swell of her own desire, ready to sweep her away like a strong undertow. Inside her, he engorged, pressing against her very walls until she was sure she couldn't stretch any more.

"Mark..." "Come for me," he urged in a gravelly voice in her ear. "Come!"

His raspy demand and that last relentless plunge inside her pushed her over the edge. Nicki exploded in a tangle of light and colors, of breaths and sweat and fire. As she did, Mark groaned in her ear, an urgent, hoarse sound that bordered on pain as he released.

A minute passed. Heartbeats slowed. Breathing regulated. Neither said a word.

Mark might have spent himself twice tonight but he held himself above her, tense and still. Nicki just knew he wasn't in the mood to chat.

But he hesitated, seemingly reluctant to move. Nicki had no idea what to make of his behavior. Now that she could think rationally again, she couldn't help but wonder why he was mad. Especially at her.

Why did it matter? So they'd had sex. Amazing, earth-shattering, heard-the-bells-ringing sex, yes. But it didn't mean that she had to care about him. In fact, it was better if she didn't.

Too bad she wasn't getting her way on this one. Denying that she cared about his odd mood was pointless. She'd never been good at self-delusion. Why start now?

It mattered, because
he
mattered.

Nicki turned her head to find him hovering over her, still inside her, with a stark face and haunted eyes.

"Mark, talk to me. Is something wrong?"

He blinked once. When he opened his eyes again, all expression had disappeared. His face was a harsh, flat landscape, barren like the unforgiving desert.

Tensing, he pulled away from her, out of her, and stood. In thirty seconds, he'd disposed of the condom and dressed. He didn't look at her again. Nicki found herself grabbing the sheet to cover up, somehow wanting to hide. Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them back.

This was not a good sign. "Damn it, Mark. What is going on?"

He finished tying his shoes, then looked up at her with a dismissive glance. "Thanks for an ... interesting evening."

Nicki didn't have a chance to say a word before he left her bedroom and slammed her front door behind him.

T
he cold light of the following day told Mark one thing:

He'd fucked up big.

He paced the bare little living room of his apartment, trying to decide how to repair the damage he'd done in his stupid ass fury. He ignored the ache in the center of his chest and forced himself to review the facts.

One, Nicki most likely knew what Bocelli was doing with her accounts and those phony books. Wishful thinking, more than logic, made him hope otherwise. Nicki had so much going for her, looks, wit, guts, smarts. Why would she throw it away on a jerk like Bocelli and help him commit crimes that jeopardized the club she'd worked so hard to build? Was she in financial trouble? There had to be a reason she was willing to take such risks.

Two, Nicki apparently didn't let people into her life easily. She'd let him in, likely for her own purposes, yes. But he'd bet she opened up far more than she intended. So chances were good that she'd fire him and throw off his whole investigation if he didn't atone fast.

Three, whatever he
thought
he'd felt for her last night couldn't mean anything. Period. He didn't get involved with women on a meaningful level. Not anymore. He had no business trying to put together any sort of relationship with Nicki, especially now that she was a suspect. Romance never worked for him. If he was hot for a woman, he could guarantee there was something shady about her.

He was on fire for Nicki, even knowing the laws she'd likely broken.

Mark stalked to the kitchen and poured himself another cup of coffee, his fourth since five this morning. If he'd slept more than three hours last night, he'd be stunned. Unfortunately, the coffee wasn't curing what ailed him, only making his mind race faster.

Memory flashed him an image of Nicki in her bed, using the sheet to cover the essentials, when he'd entered her bedroom after making his discoveries. He hadn't meant to touch her. Really. He hadn't meant to strip the sheet from her hand, get deep inside her and fuck her until neither of them could breathe. Somewhere in his head, he'd imagined he would restrain his fury, ask her a few questions while she was feeling open to him and a little vulnerable. Unfortunately, his brain had stopped doing the thinking once he'd seen Nicki mostly naked.

Another memory streaked through his mind, this one of her face, stricken with shock and hurt as he rose and dressed before leaving. His gut tightened with something that felt stupidly like regret. He pushed it away. The expression, the maidenly clutch of the sheet--it was an act. A damn good one, yes. In the moment, though, he'd nearly caved, sunk to the bed beside her, and asked her to explain away everything he'd found.

But he couldn't afford to give away his cover--and questions like that would. Besides, Tiffany had taught him that if it looked like a duck, walked like a duck, and quacked like a duck, chances were good it was a damn duck. When they'd been married, he'd known something was wrong. Something ... but he'd had no clue what. He had ignored his gut, written it off to newlywed adjustments. What a fucking idiot he'd been.

A sudden pounding on the door made him jump. Hot coffee sloshed over the rim of his cup and onto his hands. With a curse, he tossed it into the sink, wiped his hand on his jeans, then opened the door.

He mentally prepared an apology. Nicki would be standing on the other side of the door, expecting one. He'd need to deliver it quickly and find enough sincerity to get back in her good graces--while he held in his suspicions. While anger bubbled like acid in his gut.

Instead of Nicki on the warpath, Lucia stood in her place, looking as infuriated as a soft woman with warm chocolate eyes and a curtain of loose auburn curls possibly could. Even the pink bow of her mouth couldn't be condensed to a thin line.

Despite being about five feet, three inches, she barreled past him and slammed the door. behind her, then did her best to glare at him. Since her gaze had to travel up over a foot to reach his, the glower lost a little of its impact.

Then Mark realized she had to be here on her sister's behalf. He sobered.

"Good morning, Lucia."

"For you maybe," she tossed at him. "For Nicki, not so much."

Holding in a grimace, he determined to play this right, since he'd screwed up last night so damn bad.

"Coffee?" "No. If you'd like to offer me answers, I'll take those."

"Let's sit." He gestured to the lumpy blue couch against the far wall, bypassing the kitchen area he used as a portable office. "If you'll tell me the questions, I'll do my best to give you answers."

Lucia clenched her small hands into fists and shuddered with an annoyed sigh. "You don't even know?"

"I have an idea, but let's make sure we're on the same page, hmm?"

She marched across the living room, full breasts swaying, and seated herself on the sofa. Mark sat next to her. Even furious, she looked warm and soft and so honest. Like a great friend. Like someone a man could really talk to. Without makeup, she looked incredibly young and innocent, and he'd bet a month's salary she was a virgin. Why couldn't he be attracted to her? Why always the glossy femme fatales with something to hide?

His fatal flaw, he supposed. He sighed.

"My sister called me near midnight, slightly tipsy and ranting about you."

That wasn't a pretty picture. "What did she say?"

"Just that you were a raving jerk. And something about letting you keep your reflexes to yourself next time. What is she talking about?"

"An inside joke." Mark massaged the back of his neck. "About last night ... We argued."

Lucia sent him a skeptical glare. She might not be able to convey anger in a way that frightened anyone, but she sure had scorn down pat.

"That's one way of putting it. I went over to her place after she called. She was drinking Chianti and eating brownies." The accusation in her tone told Mark that happened as often as a full planetary alignment or the Dolphins winning the Super Bowl.

He frowned, but before he could get a word in, Lucia plowed forward.

"Her bedroom was a sty. So I started picking up. I knew immediately she hadn't created that disaster alone. The two used condoms in the trash pretty much confirmed what I'd suspected. So, what did you do, the male version of a hit-and-run?"

Well, at least Nicki hadn't told Lucia that he'd gone all Conan, held her down, screwed her into the mattress, and left. At least not in so many words.

"Let's say I wasn't using my brain to the best of my ability last night."

She snorted. "I don't think you were using your brain at all, unless it's south of your waistline."

He felt a wry grin creep up his face. "So you're smart about more than books, I see."

Her answering expression was anything but amused. "You're not going to charm me. Don't waste your breath. But let me warn you: You upset my sister, and you have me to pay. Obviously, I don't have the ability to beat you up, but I have a vicious tongue and a mean vocabulary, and I won't hesitate to use either."

Mark believed her. The bigger question in his mind was what was it about Nicki and her behavior with the wine and brownies? Was her unusual behavior guilt? Part of the act? Would she go so far as to pretend heartache for her sister? Lord knew he wanted Nicki's confusion and hurt to be genuine. If it were, that would mean Nicki was innocent. And if she were ... well, he'd apologize right now and offer himself up as her punching bag.

But since he had solid reasons to believe Nicki was involved, he was going to have to consider her a suspect until proof to the contrary arose.

Nicki had likely feigned misery with fermented grapes and chocolate for some reason he would never fathom. He and the female mind had never synched up, so his success in deciphering her rationale would likely be on par with his success at debating Einstein on physics.

Instead of Nicki's Oscar-level performances, he had to focus on his first priority, his mission to put Bocelli away. He didn't want to take Nicki down with the bastard, but if she was guilty of assisting a felon ... he wasn't going to be able to help her. And he shouldn't. A crime was a crime.

His maddening infatuation with the accomplice couldn't matter one whit.

"I've been warned," he told Lucia. "I came this far to escape my sister's uncertain temper. The last thing I want to do is rouse yours. So how about you help me out? Maybe you can tell me where I went wrong with Nicki and give me some suggestions on how to patch it up."

"And maybe you can go to hell."

Both her fury and her language took him aback. Hmm, the soft little kitten had claws.

Lucia stood, fists clenched. Given his height and her lack of it, she barely got to look down at him. That didn't seem to faze her in the least.

"Lucia--" "Shut up. You may work here," she cut in, "but that doesn't

mean Nicki has to see you outside the club's hours and rehearsals. Stay away. I swear if you break her heart, you'll get an up close and personal view of this 'nice' Italian girl turning into your worst nightmare!"

M
ark was supposed to strut to the end of the stage, turn his back toward the audience, shake his ass, then look over his shoulder with a wink. Instead, he staggered into position--not quite like a drunk with a hangover, but close--forgot to shake, then turned and greeted the empty seats of the audience with a glare.

Thank God this was just a rehearsal!

Behind her office wall of smoked glass, Nicki winced. Where was the sexy smile, the fluid moves that had attracted her during his audition? This man didn't just look like he had two left feet, but rather like he had them and couldn't find them. After two weeks of practice, Mark was no closer to being ready to perform than he'd been the day she hired him.

"And just what was that, Mister?" Zack demanded of Mark, which she heard through her intercom speaker. "I've seen elephants with more grace."

Shrugging, Mark cast an apologetic glance at her stage manager. From the petulant set of Zack's mouth, Nicki could see that her stage manager was quickly losing patience.

"A shrug of those pretty behemoth shoulders isn't going to save you from my mood today. We're going to stay here until it's right!"

With an impatient snap, Zack made Mark repeat the move, which produced no better results.

Nicki took back her last thought; Mark actually looked less prepared than the day she'd hired him. What the hell was she going to do?

"You're lucky the boss-lady likes you. If it was up to me, I'd have tossed you out on your tight ass after Monday's awful rehearsal."

Zack had a point, Nicki conceded. She probably should fire Mark. He wasn't ready to perform for the crowd; she wondered if he ever would be. His Viking costume had mysteriously disappeared, forcing her to order another one, which wouldn't arrive for at least another week.

On the other hand, he served drinks diligently enough. And apparently made good tips. He wasn't lazy or slow. He wasn't unreliable or intentionally difficult. The ladies liked seeing him strut around in tight black pants, a bow tie--and nothing else. He'd paid his first month's rent on time.