Strip Search (34 page)

"This blows." She signed. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"What's going on?" Lucia asked as Nicki disconnected the call.

"Pietro is at the club and wants to see me now. This will be about Mark being my accountant, want to bet? Blade told him, no doubt. He probably also told Pietro that Mark and I are sleeping together, so I'm sure I've got that lecture coming, as well. Never mind that I damn near died."

"Dad's choice of brothers left something to be desired..."

Slapping a twenty down on the diner's faux Formica counter, Nicki rose. "May as well get this over with. After dealing with him, what could be worse?"

N
icki entered the club to pandemonium. With the first floor devoid of dancers or customers, hearing the shouting going on upstairs was as easy as reciting her ABC's.

"I don't care what Nicki said," Pietro shouted. "Blade is her accountant, not you."

"Are you aware, Mr. DiStefano, that Bocelli is not qualified? He categorized cleaning supplies as food and beverages."

That was Mark. And he sounded pissed.

"Oh, that doesn't sound good," Lucia whispered.

Wincing in agreement, Nicki climbed the stairs, her sister right behind her. They hovered right outside the door.

"Did the totals match the bank statements?" Pietro demanded.

Mark sighed. "By some miracle, yes."

"Then it don't matter. Get your ass back onstage and start shaking it so you make this place some money. Nicki don't got no sense to be thinking you belong in this office instead of in a G-string. What am I saying? She don't got no sense, anyway." He spoke as if that fact should be obvious to everyone. "Her queer stage manager tells me she gassed herself to incoherent with her own stove."

"My name is Zack," he protested petulantly. "And I prefer not to be called queer."

Pietro ignored him.

Outside the door, Nicki stopped and gritted her teeth. Sometimes she hated that man. Yeah, blood is thicker than water and all that, but he could be such an asshole.

"Actually," Mark's voice soothed after Pietro's annoying diatribe, "she has a great deal of sense. She hired an experienced CPA to do her accounting: Me. She runs a tight ship, takes care of her customers and employees, understands what her patrons want. She runs her ass off taking care of this place. More than once, I've seen her go for twenty-four hours straight just to make sure this club and its employees are properly cared for."

Did he really think that? Nicki wondered. Gosh, he sounded almost ... proud of her. The mere possibility made her smile.

"That's true," Zack seconded.

"So?" Pietro's voice let everyone know he wasn't impressed.

"So how does you dropping in once in a blue moon and issuing orders that make no sense make you an expert on this place?" Mark challenged. "You discount Nicki, when you have no idea what she does or just how smart she really is."

Nicki's mouth dropped.
Go, Mark!
He'd just had the balls to tell her uncle everything she'd been trying to say for years. Not because she wanted to keep the peace--little of that between them. And not for the sake of family harmony. She'd kept it to herself only because she knew it would be a waste of breath.

But Mark had said it to Pietro--a virtual stranger--just to defend her. Damn if that didn't warm her heart.

"She's a woman. What the hell can she know about running a business?" he scoffed. "I need to find some nice Italian boy to put her in her place. Marry her and knock her up. Shut her up for a change and get her out of my hair."

"Apparently he's forgotten that most of his remaining hair is on his chest," Lucia grumbled.

Nicki nodded, fuming. Why did having a vagina somehow make her stupid?

"Are you blind?" Mark asked, his tone indicating that Pietro was more likely insane than visually impaired. "Nicki deserves so much more. She's too vital to be married to some chauvinist whose primary goal in life is to get her pregnant, keep a mistress, then piously attend Mass every Sunday. She's extremely smart--"

"Lucia is the one with brains. Nicki's assets are in her bra." Both she and Lucia gaped at Pietro's rude comment. Nothing should shock her at this point, Nicki knew. But her uncle had reached a new low.

"Lucia is bright with books and learning," Mark conceded. "But Nicki knows people. She knows how to make sure they have a good time in this place. She's efficient and clever--"

"You keep taking up for her, and I'm gonna start suspecting you of banging my niece. That won't make me happy."

Blade hadn't flat out told Pietro about her fling with Mark? Shocking. Or maybe he just hadn't had time yet.

"Whatever sex life Nicki and I may or may not have is absolutely none of your business."

"I'm her guardian."

"She's twenty-six years old," Mark reminded him. "Trust me, Nicki is totally equipped to live her own life without your interference. That includes running her club."

"So you are banging her. Since you're not Italian, I won't have you in the family. You're probably not even Catholic," Pietro spat.

"Again, none of your business." Mark's voice had gone from hard to implacable. Not a good sign.

"Do you want your arms or legs broken first?"

Ugh! Mr. Old School had been watching gangster movies again. Having heard more than enough, Nicki set to burst in. Bad-news Bocelli interrupted her.

"Look, dancer boy. You heard the boss man. Turn the books back over to me and no one gets hurt."

"That's Nicki's decision. If Nicki says you're the man, fine. Until then, I'm here to stay. Now excuse me."

Nicki heard Mark's double-edged tone. Was he warning Blade that her choice applied to matters beyond who did her accounting? The thought pleased her.

A moment later, footsteps told Nicki that Mark intended to leave the room. Time for her to intervene before things got really ugly.

"Let's drop in on the overgrown boys," she whispered to Lucia.

"Amen," her sister shot back. "If you don't, He-Man and the Hulk will start fighting right there in your office and reduce it to rubble in ten minutes.

"Yes, but my money is on Mark to win." Nicki smiled.

Their mere appearance at the door to the office had Pietro scowling, Bocelli staring, and Mark pretending not to look relieved.

Poor guy, having to put up with the Italian version of Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum. Mark had earned a little backup. Everything he'd said to her uncle thrilled her. He'd defended her abilities, her intelligence, her right to make her own decisions. If he didn't believe in her and didn't give a damn, he wouldn't have said anything. Oh, he might have fought for his job, but not by reciting a laundry list of her capabilities.

Gotta love a man who knew it didn't take a penis to ensure an IQ larger than one's shoe size. And while not all men were sexist pigs these days, she knew enough to realize that Mark's willingness to put himself on the line to defend her was something just a little special.

Somewhere, deep inside that man, beat a heart that cared about her. Even if he denied it and hated it and was even now trying to carve it out with the rusty edge of a tin can.

The only thing between her and having the man she loved devoted to her in some way that didn't involve sex was to find out what that bitch in his past had done to him and prove she would not do the same.

Monday morning, Nicki knocked on Mark's door at an obnoxiously early hour, for her anyway: nine-thirty.

Mark opened the door. Surprise washed over him to see Nicki standing there, wearing a casual white sundress with a flared skirt, and thin, lacy straps that allowed a bare hint of cleavage to show, and carrying a wide-brimmed straw hat. Her hair fell down to her shoulders in soft curls that matched her soft smile. This was a whole new side of Nicki, feminine, a hint of sweet lace and innocence.

If he hadn't known her better, he'd be tempted to believe it.

"Hi," she murmured. "I've come to surprise you today."

"I'm already surprised. This is early for you."

She shrugged. "You're worth losing a little sleep. After all you've done for me, I wanted to give something back to you. And you've been edgy lately. Worried, I guess, maybe a little ... down, so I wanted share something with you. Come with me?"

She held out her hand, face hopeful, blue eyes sparkling with warmth. There was nothing sexual about it, which stunned him. She wasn't here fishing for orgasms. Or asking him about the books. Nicki wanted to ... cheer him up?

Or did she have a hidden agenda?

I love you.
She'd whispered those three potent words the last time he'd been deep inside her. As soon as she'd uttered them, his trip through Pleasure Central had zipped at light-speed straight to Orgasmland. Yeah, in the cold light of day, he had to face the fact she could be lying, playing a game with him to cover her illegal activity, distract him from digging too deep and asking too many questions.

But in that moment, he'd wished desperately that she'd whispered the truth.

Today, who knew? Was she here out of obligation for pulling her out of her gas-ridden apartment? To pull the old bait-and-switch while something else with her accounts went down today? Any chance she actually cared?

Whatever her motivation, he had to play along. Not that spending the day with Nicki, who looked like a cross between a white daisy and a southern belle, was a hardship.

Mark reached out and put his hand in hers.

"Whew! I was beginning to wonder if you were going to turn me down," she bantered playfully. "Couldn't imagine why. I showered and everything this morning."

"You look great," he said softly, knowing it would likely be the only honest thing he was able to say to her all day.

She reached up and planted a quick kiss on the comer of his mouth. Intoxicated by her citrus-cinnamon scent and the pouting curve of her mouth, Mark shifted to move in and capture her lips.

Nicki had already turned around and tugged on his hand, dragging him out into the landing. "C'mon. I want to get there when the ... well, when it starts."

Shutting and locking the door behind him, Mark allowed Nicki to lead him down the stairs and to the parking lot.

The heat was already shimmering off the blacktop. The incessant Vegas sunlight assaulted him with piercing brightness and oven-like temperatures. Gosh, and it wasn't even ten in the morning. But he had to admit all the people who'd said over the years that the dry hot of the desert was easier to bear were right.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"It's a surprise, silly."

She smiled and ... was she batting her eyes like a flirt? Sleek, stiletto-wearing Nicki was wearing a modest dress and giving him the Scarlett O'Hara routine? Okay, what the hell was up?

With a laugh, she pulled him over to her car. He stopped dead in his tracks.

"You're kidding, right?"

"You don't like my Crossfire Roadster?" The furrow of her brow conveyed confusion.

"Uh ... It's very you."

The compact glossy red convertible with the black leather top sat low to the ground. She pressed a button on her key fob. The car beeped, lights flashed. She opened the door with flourish. "This is a great car. Speedy, reliable, responsive."

Mark cleared his throat. "And built for someone well under six feet tall. I'm almost six-six. Nicki, If I get in there, I'll have to duck my ears between my knees ... if I even manage to squeeze in."

"I'll fix that. Gimme a minute."

She hopped into the driver's seat, started the engine, pressed a button ... and down came the top. Nicki reached into the glove box, grabbed out a hairclip with plastic teeth, then twisted her hair on top of her head. A squeeze of the clip later, and the dark curls bobbed in the breeze, attached to just below her crown.

"How about now?" she asked. "The seat slides back a bit more, so you shouldn't have to do your imitation of the fetal position just to get to ... where we're going."

"And I take it you're not going to tell me where that is?" he asked, climbing into the passenger seat.

A playful smile curled up her pillowy red mouth. "I always knew you were smart."

With that, Nicki flipped on the radio, something peppy and light and pop-oriented Mark had never heard, considering he tended to favor Nickelback, Nirvana, and classic rock. Not awful actually, the catchy little tune.

"How long is this drive?"

"Oh, no. No fishing for information. In fact..."

She reached over the middle console and grabbed her purse, which he hadn't noticed until now sat between his feet. From inside the overstuffed, tiny bag, she pulled out a red scarf. He instantly recognized it as the one he'd used to tie her right wrist to the bed two days ago. Between that bright red reminder and the sight of her leaning over his thigh to reach her purse--and a potent whiff of that tangy spiced fruit scent of her--he became hard as an iron post in three seconds.