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  Mark lifted his head to peer down at her. Gently, he brushed her hair from her damp face. Nicki gazed back through half-closed lids. He really was so incredibly good looking. Add fabulous in bed. And tender afterward. No wonder she was experiencing a moment of attachment. It would pass, but at the moment it made sense. Who wouldn't want the complete package?

  Why had she spent even thirty seconds resisting him? There was a reason; she just couldn't remember it now.

  "Hmm." He planted a soft kiss on her mouth. "That was .. "

  "Beyond amazing. I think that registered on the Richter scale."

  He laughed softly. "You may be right. Does that mean you don't regret calling me?"

  "Fishing for more compliments?" she asked sleepily.

  "If you'll take the bait."

  "I'm pleading the fifth."

  "You're mixing metaphors."

  Nicki sent him an ironic but tired smile. "Whatever works."

  A long moment passed in peace. Mark remained inside her, now semi-erect. He kissed the arch of her brow, traced her cheekbone with his thumb.

  She could melt under that warm gaze, stay here forever, and not grow tired of that dimpled smile or the beautiful swirl of his hazel eyes.

  "I want to stay with you, Nicki."

  An odd relief slid through her--trying to melt away her wall of resistance.

  Then Nicki frowned. What did he mean? Stay the night? Stay until tomorrow's show began? Maybe he only meant to be here long enough to use those three condoms he had left ...

  Suddenly, she remembered exactly why she'd been avoiding him. Funny how a killer orgasm or two could unclog all the lust from a girl's thought process and make things clear as crystal again.

  If he wanted to stay the night, that suited her--as long as he left afterward and didn't expect a repeat performance some other time. Seriously. Mark was an employee and a distraction. She needed to be focusing on her business, not her love life. They weren't having a relationship. She didn't have time for one. This was a one-night stand. It had to be.

  Why stress? More than likely, he'd last as long around here as a wooden toothpick after a steak dinner, anyway. Which shouldn't bother her. He wasn't the first brief fling; Nicki doubted he'd be the last.

  Still, somehow Mark was ... different. In light of the odd sense of connection she'd experienced tonight, Nicki feared it would be easy to get attached. And when he left, well, imagining her broken heart in his wake wasn't a stretch. His sense of humor, his sharp mind, even his bit of mystery all appealed to her. Not to mention the fabulous sex. That in itself was a distraction neither she nor her business could afford.

  Putting a stop to this now was the smart thing to do. She just wished it didn't feel so crappy.

  "I, um, have someplace to be at ten tomorrow," she lied. "But I'd love for you to stay until then."

  Above her, Mark's shoulders stiffened. He cast a hard, narrow stare straight into her eyes. Nicki resisted the urge to cringe under his severe gaze. He knew it was a lie. Knew it.

  But he just gave her a tight nod, withdrew from her body and rolled away in silence.

  It was all Nicki could do to endure the aching emptiness she felt the instant he'd gone.

  Chapter 6

  Nicki fell asleep within two minutes. Muscles relaxed and sated, Mark rolled to his back with a sigh and stared at her faux-finished ceiling. He wished his mind felt half as much peace as hers must have.

  What the hell had just happened?

  One minute he'd been gearing up for sex with a woman who flipped his switch like no other in recent memory. The next, he'd been balls deep, sucked into the depths of her, into everything that made Nicki unique. He'd started in control--then lost it inside her and went completely wild.

  Why?

  True, he loved the fact she was orgasmic. Really orgasmic.

  Tiffany had had difficulty reaching climax, so Mark had learned to be patient, had learned lots of little tricks to get her off, hopefully once for an hour's effort. Nicki had gone off like a rocket four times in twenty minutes, then pushed him right over the edge.

  But it was more than that. Was it knowing he had overwhelmed such a strong woman with arousal, that she'd surrendered ? Was it the way she cared about lots of the people around her, even if she liked to pretend she didn't? Was it those blue eyes seeming to stare right into him, as if she needed him?

  He had no fucking idea.

  And then, she'd brushed him off before he'd even left the bed. What the hell was up with her? It wasn't as if they were exclusive or dating or really involved. Still, it annoyed him. Irritated him, really. But the case had to come first. He'd figure out the odd workings of her female mind later.

  Standing with another sigh, Mark disposed of the condom and stared at the clock. It was barely six in the evening. It felt odd to have the club two floors below them so quiet, without music rattling the windows. The parking lot around them looked so dark and empty. Usually the place teemed with noise and people.

  The fact it didn't now made it the perfect time to look at Nicki's accounting records.

  Mark glanced at Nicki sleeping peacefully and naked, all rumpled and curled up with a pillow and damp sheet. His heart skipped, and he hesitated. Nicki would be one pissed off woman if she ever learned the truth about why he'd pursued this job and the fact he'd taken advantage of her sexual satisfaction to further his agenda. Maybe he should wake her and tell her why he was here, rather than keep up this damned Viking charade.

  Except she had no reason to believe him. Sure, he had a CPA but no proof to offer her of either Bocelli's involvement or the FBI's investigation. She'd already defended Blade, more or less, while telling Mark to butt out. He gritted his teeth at the memory.

  Telling her about his mission wouldn't get him anywhere. Even if she believed someone was using her club to launder money and that he suspected Bocelli, what would prevent her from taking the knowledge straight to him, her lover? Her other lover.

  That reality just sucked. Where was the nearest annoying Italian jackass when you needed someone to hit?

  Part of him wanted to vow that somehow, some way, he'd convince Nicki to dump Mr. Hairy America and share her bed with only him. But his first priority had to be his mission, nailing Bocelli to the wall for his crimes, as well as for what he'd done to Tiffany and Mark's marriage.

  Still, the need to totally claim Nicki didn't seem to be far down his mental priority list. And he didn't want to analyze why, didn't want to think about it. Maybe it was just the residual glow of good sex, and if he ignored it, the feeling would go away.

  In the meantime, while Nicki slept and the club was closed, would be the perfect time to sneak down one floor into Nicki's office and start deciphering her accounting records, so he could complete his first goal and prove to her that Bocelli was dirty. That would free him to get on with the second, more personal task of being Nicki's only lover.

  Stepping into his jeans and shrugging his shirt on, Mark padded his way barefoot to the front door, unlocking it on his way out.

  Quickly, he stopped in at his apartment and grabbed a few blank CDs and a flashlight. Before he exited his apartment, he heard footsteps on the stairs leading up to this floor. Using the little peephole in the door, Mark looked out, only to find the object of his angry ruminations coming up the stairs.

  Dressed in black, carrying a wicked, stainless steel .45 semiautomatic at his side and wearing a diamond stud in his left ear, Bocelli looked as if he'd earned his bad reputation with lots of blood--someone else's.

  The asshole disappeared into his own apartment a few moments later, and Mark emerged quietly, carrying the blank CDs as he eased soundlessly down the stairs.

  Sneaking into Nicki's office wasn't a challenge. Picking the lock didn't exactly require a master thief's talents. Mark made his way into the office.

  As he entered, an exterior door to the club slammed somewhere below him. Who would be here? One of the dancers who'd stayed after rehearsal? Ma
ybe Zack had been doing that stage and costume maintenance he'd mentioned. The guy worked damn hard.

  A glance out the window of Nicki's office down into the club below proved no one remained inside. Whoever had slammed the door did so as they left. Good.

  Shrugging, Mark booted up the accountant's machine. It was still warm. Apparently, Bocelli had just finish another day of screwing up Nicki's books.

  With a shake of his head, Mark called Rafe on his cell phone.

  "Hey, buddy," his brother-in-law greeted. "It's about time. Enjoying strutting your stuff half-naked?"

  "Fuck off and get to work."

  Rafe laughed. "Isn't that my line?

  "When you get your mind off humiliating me, yeah," he said. "Oh, and happy slightly belated birthday. What did you and Kerry do to celebrate your official welcome into the firmly over thirty club?"

  "Ha, ha. Well, it's. hard to dance the night away, since we have a baby due in two months and your sister has ankles that could double for the Goodyear blimp. So we went for sushi. Had any luck fishing out the identity of the Fed on location?"

  Mark paused. He hadn't given it a lot of thought, to be honest: But then no one around him seemed like they could be FBI. Lucia? Not a chance. Zack? The very idea made him laugh. None of the other dancers seemed like good candidates, although he admittedly didn't know them well. But there was one other possibility ...

  "Any chance the Fed could be dead and the folks in Washington wouldn't know it?" he whispered.

  The pause on the other end indicated Rafe was mulling over the possibility. "I guess anything is possible. What happened?"

  "I hear Nicki's accountant was murdered in March. Supposed random drive-by."

  "The timeline fits. Norton said the agent hadn't been heard from in about three months."

  "Exactly, and Marcy died just over two months ago. Not only that, if the Feds were going to put someone in here, why not undercover as the accountant, where they'd have access to all the financial figures?"

  "I don't know what this agent's assignment is exactly, but that makes sense."

  "And with Marcy out of the way, bet you can guess who's taken over the accounting."

  "Bocelli? Seriously?"

  "Guessed it in one. Now that I think about it, I wonder if Bocelli discovered that Marcy was a Fed and did her in. It would serve two purposes: remove the threat of an agent and get him one step closer to handling Nicki's money."

  "You're right," Rafe said. "I'll talk to Norton and see if their agent was a female operating under the name Marcy and get back to you. But keep your eyes open just in case it wasn't Marcy. If the agent is rogue, he is one dangerous cat."

  "Or she," Mark pointed out.

  "Or she. If the agent is just deep under cover, we can't afford to be in their way."

  "Got it. Thanks."

  "No sweat. So, how's your boss? Have you managed to charm her yet?"

  Rafe's suggestive voice crawled on Mark's exposed nerves. "Get your mind out of the gutter and off of Nicki."

  Mark did his best to ignore Rafe's laughter in his ear.

  A moment later, the Windows desktop on the computer appeared with pictures of a dark-haired woman about Nicki's age standing next to an older woman who had to be her mom. They'd tilted their heads together, each wearing bright red Santa caps and matching smiles.

  Based on what he'd heard about the murdered accountant, the younger woman in the picture had to be Marcy. Mark felt a shiver as he stared at pictures of the dead woman, who couldn't have been much more than twenty-five, apparently gunned down in the parking lot in a random drive-by.

  Random, my ass. The more Mark thought about it, the more he was sure the shooting had only been random enough for the current accountant to separate the previous one from her duties so he could gain control of the books and Nicki's money. In other words, totally premeditated.

  The picture reminded him that his mission was no laughing matter. Bocelli was deadly serious.

  "Okay, let's get on with this. Nicki doesn't know I'm here. Bocelli just went upstairs to his place," Mark said, all business. "No password protecting the machine as a whole." He explored around, found what he wanted, and tried to launch the file.

  "What else?" Rafe prompted. "There's a password protecting the main accounting files."

  "Is the machine connected?" "Yep." He clicked around, found the device manager. "Cable modem."

  "What's the IP?"

  Mark hunted, then found the series of numbers that identified the machine. He recited them to Rafe.

  "Firewall?" "Yeah . . ." Mark clicked and found the answer. "Just the usual Windows firewall."

  "Damn it, after a week and a half, couldn't you at least give me a challenge?"

  "I thought my sister was your challenge." "Good point."

  Silence. Mark knew better than to interrupt Rafe while he hacked. Less than two minutes later, he said. "Got it. The password is 'poodle,' followed by the number one, no space."

  "Seriously? I'm not sure I want to know why."

  Instead of questioning it further, Mark simply entered the password for the accounting files in question. The entire balance sheet emerged.

  "I'm in," he said to Rafe. "Saving to CD right now. I'll study it later. Bank account numbers ..." Mark tugged on filing cabinets, finding them locked. A few moments and a few handy pieces of metal later, they opened. In the second drawer, he found a series of bank statements. "Got it."

  "Lay it on me."

  Mark gave Rafe the name of the bank and all the associated account numbers he could find.

  "Good work," his brother-in-law said. "Give me a few minutes and I'll e-mail the bank's records to you."

  "I'll compare their records with the CD. I have an inkling that these records will be pure fiction," Mark said.

  Maybe then he'd have some proof to take to Nicki, show her that her Italian stallion was cheating her out of her money. It would start a circumstantial case against the asshole for Marcy's murder. Maybe then he'd get sweet revenge and sweet Nicki all at once.

  "Good work," Rafe praised. "Now get out of there before anyone sees you."

  "Yeah. I'll be in touch when I find something."

  "I'll wait. Your sister will, too, although a lot less patiently."

  Mark laughed. "Kiss Kerry for me."

  "You got it. Talk to you soon."

  Mark flipped his phone closed. The CD finished writing the current imprint of the file, and he extracted it from the drive. Quickly, he shut down the computer and exited the office, carefully locking it behind him.

  Back in his apartment, Mark booted up his laptop and found a nearby high-speed wireless connection that wasn't encrypted. He surfed on. Within moments, he'd launched his e-mail and downloaded three months' worth of the club's bank statements. Bless Rafe's pointy head, but he was a truly great hacker.

  Mark opened both files and compared debits and credits for February. It looked good. Nearly every I dotted and every T crossed--except on the last day, very late in the day. On the twenty-eighth, a flurry of activity littered the bank's records, after five in the afternoon. Several sizeable credits from a corporation Mark had never heard of and would bet his eyeteeth was a dummy front for something else, followed by even more sizeable debits sent to offshore accounts. None of that appeared in the accountant's records. The monthly totals, however, ended up exactly the same.

  Even so, Marcy would have seen the activity on the bank statements. If she hadn't already known about it, no doubt that would have incited her to start asking questions. Questions Bocelli wouldn't want her finding the answers to.

  March started very much the same. After the nineteenth, the accounting records became incomplete. Some items weren't categorized correctly. Others had amounts that just looked plain wrong. Four thousand dollars for catering in a single night? Girls' Night Out served a whole lot of drinks, but not much in the way of chow. But payroll files looked good. Same for taxes and insurance. It just didn't make sense.

/>   April and May looked a lot like March, whacked out and full of shit that struck him as totally mismanaged--or fabricated.

  And at varying times in every month, the bank's records showed a slew of credits in large but not alarming amounts, all from obscure corporations. Inevitably, those amounts were transferred offshore on the same day, late in the day.

  None of the accounting records reflected a dime of that.

  At this point, Nicki's books were simply screwed. It would take Mark a solid week and access to every one of her records to even begin to sort it out. But more, it begged the question: How could Nicki be so unaware of what was happening in her business financially?

  Frowning, Mark began to close the file with the bank's records ... until something at the bottom snagged his attention--a series of deposits from more unheard of corporations totaling about a hundred thousand dollars, followed almost immediately by transfers to offshore accounts. Every one of these transactions had occurred today, after five in the afternoon, In fact, the transactions had transpired just under an hour ago. Where had Bocelli been then?

  In Nicki's office, probably overseeing it all.

  The bastard had to feel pretty smug in his position to pull a stunt like that under Nicki's nose. He couldn't have had any clue that she would be occupied.

  Could he?

  The thought stopped Mark cold.

  While Blade had been playing musical bank accounts, had the wise guy known that Mark would be busy getting to know Nicki in the biblical sense?

  No. Impossible.

  But it was possible ... if Nicki was in on the scam, too.

  Mind racing, Mark sat back in his chair. The Feds thought it likely she was unaware of the money laundering in her club, but weren't certain of that. Could they be wrong?

  Maybe he was jumping to conclusions. After all, why would Nicki allow her club to be used for illegal crap? And if she was, and if the light nearly falling on Nicki hadn't been an accident, why would Bocelli try to kill her?

  Well ... there was another possibility: The falling light might actually have been an accident--or a warning from a jealous lover, just like the blaring music. But the money laundering would, no doubt, make Nicki money. The question was, how far was she willing to go for it?