Hey, Marla. She hadn’t locked Jerome’s door or brought back his keys because she’d been running for her life from a bloodthirsty villain. Accompanied by a sex god commando who was meeting her this very night to ravish her in a hotel room. Who had begged her not to notify the police, or else she’d die a grisly death. Uh-huh. Yes. Of course.
She had a sneaky premonition that juicy, colorful tale wouldn’t be quite the thing to guarantee her continued job security at the club.
“Hmph,” Marla huffed. “I certainly hope that the lapse is momentary. And that it won’t happen again. I would be justified in firing you for what happened this past week. The reason I haven’t done so yet is because you’ve always been reliable before, and you’ve been through a great deal, what with that awful situation with that scum ex-fiancé of yours. But I don’t give third chances. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes,” Becca said tightly. “Quite.”
“Good. I want you at your best for that banquet tonight. Shay will have her hands full with the birthday party this afternoon in the Blue Salon, so don’t expect backup from her. The florist has arrived with the table centerpieces, or haven’t you noticed? And have you checked the PA system? How about the sound setup for the jazz trio? And what about the signage?”
“Ah…I haven’t had a chance yet to—”
“Please do so. Now. And put your cell phone in your purse. This constant checking for messages is annoying the hell out of me.”
Becca stuck her tongue out at the woman’s retreating back before she could stop herself, and held her phone down below the edge of the desk, surreptitiously rereading the text of the last message she’d sent to Nick. She suppressed the urge to giggle at her own silliness.
got virginal lingerie 2 go with glasses. hair 2 short for bun, but that’s ur fault. love, the formerly frigid sex bomb secretary.
The phone chimed. Omigod. He’d already gotten back to her. She made sure Marla’s back was still turned before she clicked to open.
cannot fucking wait
Oh God. She could actually see his gorgeous, sexy grin, creasing up the grooves around his mouth, the gleam in his seductive dark eyes.
She practically choked on the giggles backing up inside her. She was having so much subversive fun today, more than she’d ever had in her life. And Nick was playing along. Egging her on, even. Of all things she’d expected from him, goofy playfulness wasn’t one of them.
She’d never had a wild secret affair before. It just wasn’t the kind of thing that ever happened to her. And with a guy who made her feel…oh, wow. Her posterior ached from being spread so wide, ridden so long and hard. And as for her private parts, well. They were definitely feeling the effects of vigorous, prolonged use.
And even so, every time she thought about him, she instinctively squeezed her saddlesore thighs together around the tingle of heat. It was making her giddy, distracted. Working her into a lather of unprofessional titillation. A naughty nymphomaniac who could think of nothing but Nick’s fierce dark eyes, his clever tongue, his dazzling smile. His volcanic sexual heat. His big, thick…oh dear, oh dear.
She needed a fan in the worst way. Whew. She was sweating.
For heaven’s sake. She would fire her too, if she were Marla.
But oh, it was lovely. She hadn’t had anything to feel euphoric about since…well, she had been dazzled for a while after Justin’s proposal, and full of hopeful dreams of domestic bliss, but that was nothing on this. No fiery sexual component, no life or death drama.
It had taken her over a half hour to find the cell number that he had programmed into her cell, because he hadn’t put it under N for Nick, or even W for Ward. After combing through her whole address file, she finally found it under M. For Mr. Big. That clown.
Time to check with the caterers, take delivery for table decorations, and triple check the settings and the gift presentation table. She forced herself to make a mental To-Do list. Very difficult to do while her brain ran amok, jumping and squeaking. What a morning. Up before four A.M., dragged into the shower with Nick, with yet another explosive erotic outcome. To say nothing of the flood that had stretched down the bathroom corrider to soak the living room rug.
Then, after he’d left, the frantic destruction of her entire closet system while she tried to figure out what to wear for a sexy midnight tryst. A suitcase was stowed in the back of the rental car out in the back lot, with a few changes of clothing, makeup, toiletries, her prettiest dress, her only pair of fuck-me shoes. She’d even dug around in her bathroom until she found the diaphragm she’d gotten a couple years before. Like the shoes, it had never gotten much use. Hardly any, actually. The affair she’d gotten it for had petered out embarrassingly quickly.
For some reason, she’d never thought to propose its use to Justin, even after they got engaged, and a damn good thing, too. Maybe she’d known, on some level, that he was going to fool around on her.
The thought of using it with Nick, of having that electric, bare-skin-to-bare-skin contact with his gorgeous, um, member aroused her almost to the point of fainting. Yeah, and Marla would really love it if she did.
She glanced down at the glossy, striped-pink shopping bag that held her lingerie, and on impulse, she rummaged in her drawer for a different bag, something plastic and anonymous. She shoved the frilly nothings into the bag and slipped out of the office, heading straight for the ladies’ room. She was going to put that stuff on. Right now.
Hey, might as well wear the evidence of her mad folly on her body. At least that way, she wouldn’t have to make excuses to anyone for it.
“Would you sit your manic ass down for five seconds and at least pretend to give a fuck about what you’re doing?” Seth Mackey said testily. “Weren’t you supposed to lie in wait for that sicko asshole?”
Nick looked over at the door where Seth was lounging, taken aback. “Huh? Yeah, sure. I was. I am. So what’s your problem?”
“You,” Seth said shortly. “You are my problem. That shit-eating grin on your face. You’re pacing, dude. Jiggling your car keys, fucking around with your cell phone, bouncing off the walls. Yesterday you were the Zombie King. Now you’re humming, for Christ’s sake! What gives?”
Nick felt his face grow hot. “So don’t watch.” Abashed, he sank down into one of the ergonomic swivel chairs the room was furnished with and peeked one last time at his cell.
“And stop fondling that damn thing,” Seth snapped. “An army of mafiya thugs could be trooping through that woman’s door, and there you are out in la la land, sex-texting your girlfriend.”
Nick’s head jerked around, but the crafty gleam in Seth’s eyes cut off his grumpy rebuttal.
“So it’s true,” Seth said triumphantly. “Listen, chump. I could resign myself to having my wife stare at your fucking vid screens in the dead of night—when she should be resting—if you were lying on the staff couch, catching some z’s. I figure, the pathetic slob looks like he hasn’t slept in six months, give him a break. But you weren’t on that couch. You went out last night. To get laid!” Seth sounded outraged.
“Aw, fuck off,” Nick muttered without much conviction.
But Seth was far from finished. “Having Raine work a graveyard shift on your fucked-up project to save your sorry ass from getting shot up is one thing. But having her do it so you can waltz out of here and get your rocks off with your girlfriend is entirely another.”
“Girlfriend?” Margot, Davy’s wife, sailed into the workroom, her hugely pregnant belly preceding her. “What’s this I hear about a girlfriend?”
“Nothing,” Nick muttered. “Nobody’s goddamn business.”
“Nonsense,” Margot teased, clasping her hands beneath the heavy undercurve of her belly. The bulge was covered by eye-grabbing purple paisley knit, which clashed cheerfully with her shaggy mop of curly red hair. “It’s going to break the hearts of all our single girlfriends at the wedding tomorrow, but it does solve our seating dilemma. Erin couldn’t figure out
who to seat next to you. A stacked blonde, a hottie redhead, a sultry brunette? It was driving her nuts. So what’s your girlfriend’s name?”
“Wedding?” Nick went tense, eyes widening. “What wedding?”
Margot rolled her eyes, and put her hands behind the small of her back. “Sean and Liv. Tomorrow at four P.M. Wake up, Nick. You were invited months ago. I already reserved a room for you at Three Creeks Lodge. It has a private deck with a hot tub. You’ll love it, particularly if you’ve got a girlfriend with you. Don’t even think about squirming out of this one, buddy boy.”
Nick gestured at the video screen. “Get real! I can’t walk away from this to put on a goddamn suit and eat canapés! Forget it, Margot.”
Margot snorted. “Oh, please. A psycho scumbag criminal hungry for your blood is no excuse to miss a great party. This is a McCloud wedding, after all. Having a dangerous villain at large is a tradition. It makes it all the more poignant, know what I mean?”
Nick grunted. “Poignant, my ass—”
“The food will be fabulous, the champagne will flow freely, and the Vicious Rumors are actually going to do the music as a special favor to Sean. They don’t even do weddings anymore, since they’re getting so big for their britches these days. Plus, we all get to meet your girlfriend and vet her for you,” Margot concluded brightly. “Cool! I can’t wait.”
Nick shook his head. “Raine’s going to the wedding too, right?”
“Hell, yeah. She’s in the ceremony. So’s Tam, for that matter. Tam’s the maid of honor, as always. I’m sure she’ll be pleased to see you.”
“Yeah, right.” Pleased to shoot him on sight was more like it. “I can’t leave, Margot. Somebody who speaks Ukrainian has got to—”
“I solved that.” Davy poked his head around the door, looking hugely pleased with himself. “That’s what we came over to tell you. I found a guy through an army buddy of mine. An ex-Ranger who grew up in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn. For you non-New Yorkers, that’s a neighborhood otherwise known as Little Odessa, a hotbed of Russian—”
“Thanks, Guidebook Boy,” Nick snarled. “What’s his name?”
“Alex Aaro. He’ll mind the vids for you while we guzzle champagne and dance all night. He’s driving up from Pendleton.”
“But I—”
“We’ll bring the laptops too,” Davy soothed. “There’s broadband connection at Three Creeks. You can get a direct video feed, and check on the madam in between each course. If you want to.”
“But this guy doesn’t know their faces,” Nick protested.
“Establish a code word with Ludmilla. If she says it, the guys jump into action,” Davy said patiently. “Simple. Stop being such a wet blanket. Here, I’ll download the guy’s resume. I brought the disc—”
“No!” Nick lunged to stop him from inserting the disc into the computer’s drive, feeling like an idiot. “I’m, uh, using that monitor.”
Davy peered at it, and started to grin when he saw the blue-toned map of Seattle glowing on the screen, and the single icon blinking on it. “I see,” he murmured. “That’s her, huh? In Bothell? Sweet.”
“What?” Seth loped over and lunged across the table to squint at the screen. “Do my eyes deceive me? This controlling bastard is monitoring his girlfriend with X-Ray Specs? Where’d you put the beacon burr, Romeo? Her bra?”
“Her cell,” Nick admitted reluctantly.
Seth crowed with delight. “Classic. Bet she doesn’t know, right?” He studied Nick’s stiff, frozen face, and laughed harder. “Of course not.”
“He’s got it bad,” Davy commented. “This is how it always starts.”
“What’s her name, damn it?” Margot fussed. “We need to know what to write on the seating tag!”
“Becca,” Nick said shortly.
Margot waited. “Just Becca?” she prompted. “No last name?”
“Just Becca,” he muttered.
Margot frowned. “What, is she in hiding? On the run from the law?” She chewed on her lip, her multicolored eyes getting very big in her freckled face. “Oh, my God. Is this the girl you saved from that mafiya guy? The girl you found naked in the swimming pool? No way!”
Seth whooped gleefully. “Oh, man. This is awesome. True love, at gunpoint. It never fails.”
“Oh, God. I have got to go call Raine and Liv and Erin, right away,” Margot said. “This is so juicy. I love it. I just love it.”
“Would you guys all just leave me the fuck alone?” Nick’s voice was plaintive.
Davy gave him a swat on the back that just about broke three of his ribs. “No way, dude,” he said cheerfully. “Get used to it.”
Chapter
18
Becca circled the Crystal Ballroom slowly. The banquet was a black tie affair, and the women in evening gowns glittered and shone.
So far, so good. No job-threatening disasters loomed on her horizon yet. The Meet-And-Greet in the Sunburst Room had gone smoothly, the jazz trio was playing a sentimental tune, the sommeliers and wait staff were doing their appointed jobs, the trays of lime sorbet to follow the fish were starting to circle, the big band was set up and ready to go for the dancing, everyone was in place, everyone knew what time it was.
Fifteen more minutes, and it would be time to start mobilizing the coffee and dessert, and get ready for the speechifying. The sheer volume of details to keep track of made it almost possible for her not to think about Nick. But oh, wow. She was going to see him tonight. The consciousness of her secret date gave her a constant toe-curling pleasure, like a wild coffee high.
She was so absorbed in trying to quantify the feeling, she almost ran right into the guy as he strode through the room. She reeled to the side, turning her head away with a gasp. Oh, God. The Spider’s guest. Zhoglo’s mysterious business partner. The country club guy.
She turned, slowly, and ventured another peek, just to be sure.
He was in profile, looking trim and good in his tux, sliding into his seat with what looked like a murmured apology at one of the big VIP tables, next to a handsome blonde woman with a tight smile. He lifted his glass of red wine in response to something that she said.
She remembered him lifting his glass, on the island. Those glittering eyes fixed on her. The clink of glasses. Wine the color of blood.
To beauty. And desires fulfilled.
A sinkhole opened in the bottom of her mind. Beneath it yawned a hellish abyss.
Becca stumbled across the room, putting distance between them. She grabbed the edge of a table, fighting nausea. A wave of nasty faintness jangled through her body. Her ears roared, her eyes went dark. Cold sweat. Icy hands. She wanted to double over. Staying conscious was a struggle.
The reality of what had happened on the island just a few short days ago came smashing back. It had been lurking there all along, ready to pounce, destroying her fragile new equilibrium.
She could not faint. Could not. She had to get a grip. Had. To.
“Becca?” Marla’s voice was sharp. “What on earth is the matter with you? Are you ill?”
Becca wiped her clammy forehead, and peeked again. His glance swept over her without snagging on her. Thank God for the shorter, fluffier hair and the face-concealing, black-framed glasses.
Becca put her back to him. “Marla?” she whispered. “The guy behind me who just sat down at the VIP table? Six-two, black tux, late forties, gray temples? Next to the old lady with the dowager’s hump and the diamonds? Who is he?”
Marla’s eyes narrowed, and her finely shaped brows snapped together. “Becca. This is hardly the time for—ouch! Hey!”
Becca had seized her wrist, and was gripping it with furious strength, heedless of her fingernails. “Who is he?”
Marla jerked her arm away, scowling. “That’s Dr. Richard Mathes. He’s a famous thoracic surgeon. He’s giving the farewell speech for Harrison tonight! You knew that, Becca! He was late, because of some medical emergency.”
Becca pressed on her mouth with her
hands. “Oh, God,” she whispered. She was going to heave her guts out. “Gotta run. Going to be sick,” she squeaked, through the hand clamped over her mouth.
She bolted towards the ladies’ room, caroming into tables, elbowing one of the catering staff who was carrying a tray of full sorbet dishes, all of which toppled, dumping themselves right onto the unfortunate woman’s crisp white blouse.
Becca fled, leaving shouts of outrage in her wake. She couldn’t stop and apologize, anyway. If she opened her mouth, “I’m so sorry” was not what was going to be coming out of it. Barfing on club members in evening wear would not help her cause. Praise God, there was no line in the ladies’ room. She made it to the stall just in time.
The bathroom stalls in the club’s ladies’ rooms were little private rooms in their own right, made of peach-colored marble quarried in Italy. Each stall contained its own private sink with antique gold-toned fixtures and an enormous gilt-framed mirror. Hers reflected her own pitiful image when she finally dared to lift her head up from where it dangled over the toilet bowl. Oh, God. Very bad.
She was as white as a hospital lab coat. Eyes and nose streaming with tears, eyelids swollen and pink, mascara running copiously.
And sheer terror in her eyes. She shook all over.
Here? Why here, at one of her own events? What were the odds? Fate was having evil fun at her expense.
She lingered in the little room for as long as she dared, wiping off the toilet, cleaning up her face, adjusting hair, clothes and facial expression. She braced herself, and tried on a cheerful, professional smile. Oh, boy. Nix the smile.
She couldn’t fake or finesse this one. She didn’t even have her cell phone on her, to call Nick and bleat desperately for rescue. It was in her office, in her purse, way down the corridor at the end of this wing.
She tried to talk herself down. The man wasn’t going to stop chowing down on his poached salmon and take time out to murder her. Nor did he seem the type who would do his own murdering. He was, however, certainly capable of making a few discreet inquiries and then stepping around a corner to make a phone call. And that would be that for Becca Cattrell.
Extreme Danger Page 24
