Strip Search

by Shayla Black

  "I know this isn't forever, but I thought we were sharing something special. It meant something to me." She drew in a shaky breath. "I don't sleep around. Before you, I hadn't had sex in over two years."

  With those words, she may as well have kicked him in the gut with cement shoes. But some things made sense now. Why she'd had to open a new box of condoms that first time. Why she'd been so damn tight he'd had to fight his way inside. He'd never seen Bocelli come or go from her apartment, or her from his.

  It seemed a little more likely Bocelli had been lying about him and Nicki. Except ... why would he?

  "Nicki, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I was just trying to understand why you suddenly wanted me doing your books and touching your sweet body." He brushed her dark hair away from her face and looked straight into her eyes, willing her to tell him more. Tell him everything.

  "Because I trusted you." Her whisper was broken. "Because I needed you. I couldn't stand the thought of sharing you. When I saw you dancing last Sunday, saw how many women wanted you and slipped you both their phone numbers and their tongues ... I-it bothered me. Apparently I'm really stupid."

  The man inside him roared with triumph. She was tangled up in him, as much as he was in her. But it made the investigator in him pause. Just because it appeared as if she wasn't inserting Bocelli's Tab A into her Slot B didn't mean she wasn't a criminal. There was still the matter of the books and her initiation of sex during the exact time the illegal transactions took place. Coincidence? God, he wanted to believe so. But she could still be playing him for a fool.

  "No," he assured her, soft-voiced. "I'm the stupid one."

  That was the truth. Hell, what could he do now?

  Monday morning came, and finally Mark started on his new gig as Nicki's accountant. And he purposely started early, at 6 A.M. Vegas time--while his "boss" was still fast asleep after a night of managing the unusually rowdy club that had likely ended about three hours ago.

  Alone and focused, Mark locked Nicki's office door behind him. Now he'd get to the truth--one way or the other.

  Mark turned on the former accountant's computer and spent hours reconciling her records against the receipts and bank statements in front of him. By three that afternoon, he could only be assured of two things: Nicki made good money at this business, and Blade was one shitty accountant. Unfortunately, the books in recent months were convoluted with items often categorized so incorrectly they should have been the punch line to a joke. Marcy had been better at the job but not perfect. Still, the books balanced to the penny.

  But they completely lacked any reference to the frequent incoming and outgoing money that came in from all over the world and inevitably wound up in Eastern Europe.

  Shit.

  The real accounting records, the ones with the truth about every deposit and transfer, dates, times, amounts--the works--had to be here somewhere.

  After scouring Marcy's computer and finding nothing of the sort, he had only one option that he could think of. It was the simple, obvious, not-going-to-happen one. But what the hell?

  Mark rolled his chair across the narrow little office and booted up the computer that belonged to Nicki. She said she didn't know how to use it, and maybe that was true. He'd never seen her type even a single letter or number into the sleek black machine.

  But he'd heard this song and dance before, courtesy of Tiffany.

  He encountered a password screen before he even reached the Windows desktop. Clearly, he wasn't going far without help.

  Swearing, he quickly took out his cell phone and punched the speed dial key to ring Rafe.

  "What's up, buddy?" he asked.

  "There's another computer here. It's Nicki's. I need help getting in."

  "No problem."

  Mark gave some info so Rafe could start his preliminary search. "So how's Kerry?"

  "Complaining that her back hurts. Still having those damned contractions."

  Concern niggled at Mark. "But she's going to be okay, right?"

  "She has a doctor's appointment tomorrow. We'll find out then what's up."

  "Keep me posted," Mark insisted,

  "Will do. Okay, your password for that machine is JimmyChoo, all one word."

  "Who the hell is that?" Mark demanded.

  "Hmm." He paused. "According to Google, he makes fabulously expensive shoes."

  Figured. Nicki had a thing about shoes.

  Grunting, Mark typed in the password, and the computer played the annoying little Windows song, signaling the fact the computer allowed him access inside the system.

  When he launched the accounting software, he encountered another password. Again, Rafe had to bail him out by deciphering the password Ty Pennington, all one word.

  "Who?"

  "The dude on Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. The

  show that makes your sister cry every week when they're rebuilding a house for someone in need? He's the ass with the megaphone."

  "That guy? Ewww."

  "Someone needs to talk to Nicki about her taste in men, if she likes both him and you."

  "Shut up," Mark growled, typing in the password.

  Mark wasn't sure what he expected to find... but this wasn't it.

  "What do you see?" Rafe demanded.

  "One file. One lousy file."

  "Launch it."

  He did... only to be greeted with yet another prompt for a password.

  "What the hell is going on here?" Mark demanded. Why all the security? This computer was beginning to make Fort Knox look like a cakewalk.

  Rafe hacked away and discovered the next password. Frank29.

  "Who the hell is Frank?" Mark wondered aloud.

  "That I can't help you with. If this is Nicki's machine, she's seriously obsessed with men."

  It sure looked that way. A sour ache ate at him. It didn't jibe with the story she'd sobbed to him just a few days ago. She'd looked so earnest, stripped naked, both in body and soul. He'd believed her when she said she wasn't fucking Bocelli, hadn't been with any man but him in the last two years.

  Did you believe it because you wanted to?

  Shoving the thought away, Mark put in the latest password and waited.

  Chapter 11

  It took Mark three seconds to realize he'd hit pay dirt.

  His stomach plunged down toward his toes. "Oh my God."

  "What?" Rafe demanded.

  Scanning the columns, the dates and numbers, glancing at the bank statements to ensure accuracy, Mark realized they all matched. Every fucking number. His belly tightened, even as fury chewed at it. The pain in his chest... sitting a city bus on it would certainly hurt less.

  This file had every appearance of being the real accounting records. And it was on Nicki's computer. Protected by her passwords.

  The realization opened a gaping wound in his chest, and betrayal gnawed it, reducing him to a moment of pain he had to shut his eyes against.

  Either Nicki and Blade were in this together and they had dragged him into it to make the fake books look good, or she was trying to cut out her partner in crime. It didn't really matter. In either case, she was using sex to distract him from the truth.

  He'd nearly been sucker enough to fall for it.

  God, was it possible to have worse taste in women? Even a twisted S.O.B. like Hitler had managed to find a loyal woman who loved him. So Mark wondered how it was possible that he just continued to fuck up his love life with the worst women possible.

  "What?" Rafe demanded. "Clue me in here!"

  "I found a file. It's got everything," he forced himself to say. "Perfect categorization of income and expenses. Correct lists of all deposits and withdrawals, even the shady ones."

  "On Nicki's computer? Hmm. When was the file last updated?"

  A few clicks later, Mark bit back a curse. "A little after three this morning."

  Apparently, she'd ridden him to the edge of exhaustion that afternoon, then updated this file after the club closed and t
he staff departed. After she had known he would be sound asleep.

  "Three A.M. is an interesting time to balance your books. You sure this is Nicki's file?"

  "It's on her computer. She probably felt safe keeping it here. I'm sure she thought no one would seriously challenge her."

  The evidence all pointed to Nicki being involved, perhaps even as mastermind. But Mark still paused. How could a smart, assertive woman be involved in something so criminal? She appeared to have a genuinely warm heart, despite her often prickly armor. Yet... her involvement in the crime made all the sense in the world. She was bright enough to do this, and she liked calling the shots. There'd been plenty of whispers that her Uncle Pietro was connected to the Gamalini crime family. Maybe she'd undertaken this operation for him. Or for someone else, to spite him. And who didn't like money, especially when breaking your back to get it wasn't required?

  "What do you mean that no one would challenge her?" Rafe asked.

  "This has been going on almost since she opened her doors, and no one has caught her yet, right? Bocelli is the only other person who's seen her records. If he's involved in this scam, he's done a great job pretending to be a damn lousy accountant--too good a job, maybe. If he's not involved, he doesn't have the skill to figure out Nicki's game. Her uncle ... he might be involved. But he's absent so often that she had to feel relatively secure. Unless ... What about the FBI agent? Did you get any info to corroborate my theory that it was Marcy?"

  "The only thing Norton would say was that they had no reason to believe their agent was dead."

  "That doesn't tell me anything."

  Rafe snorted. "I'm pretty sure that was the point. Anyone else there a possible G-man? Or woman?"

  Mark mentally skimmed the possibilities. "Who? Lucia? Zack? Neither seems to have the skills. Maybe one of the other dancers, but I've got to be honest, if any of them are investigating anything, they're not here often enough to do a decent job."

  "Any word from your private investigator yet? Does he have a report on Nicki?"

  "Just got a preliminary report today. It doesn't give any obvious indication of your girl's guilt, just a lot of background. Average grades. Party-girl mother. Distant father, with ties to the Mafia--bumped off a few years back, likely by one of his underlings. Names of guys she dated, but no one who sends up a red flag. I'll send you a copy."

  Less than he'd hoped for ... "Damn! Thanks, anyway."

  Turning back to the balance sheet, Mark scrolled to the bottom. And scowled.

  "Holy shit! I haven't seen the May statement from Nicki's bank yet, but this is wild. Deposits by the dozens. All moderate amounts that would pass right under the government's radar. And they're coming more frequently."

  "Really? Where are they coming from? Going to?"

  "I can't tell from this file. But they never stay in the account long. They disappear almost immediately."

  "And we can't call the bank to ask questions, or they might call Nicki, who would get suspicious. I'll see about getting you some transactional records and e-mail it."

  "Good. Damn it." Mark sighed, then frowned. "Wait. What's this?"

  Mark saw a tab in a menu to the side of the balance sheet marked RE. A click on the RE tab only proved to be as confusing as hell.

  "What's what? Dude, your description this afternoon sucks."

  Peering closer to the screen, Mark tried to decipher what the file was trying to tell him. "I see nothing but dates, addresses, dollar amounts--row after row of them--on this sheet. A laundry list of places. Like an address book of places listed in different cities all over the world."

  To the left of the dollar amounts, every row had a colum of three-digit numbers, arranged in an ascending order. He had no idea what they meant.

  Rafe said nothing for long moments. Mark could almost hear his brother-in-law's brain turning over the phone.

  "One common money-laundering scheme is real estate transactions. Dummy corporations buy, then sell to the laundering agent, who funnels the money to another dummy corporation through a shell account, usually in the Caribbean or Eastern Europe. Then it just ... disappears."

  "R.E.? Real Estate. That must be what the tab stands for." He scanned the numbers again. "Damn, if you're right, someone is making a fortune at this. Condos in the south of France worth millions. Houses in Hawaii, London, Buenos Aries, Italy. This is big-time stuff."

  "Very. Have they sold already, or are they currently for sale?"

  He peered at each row, trying to discern some marking that might tell him. He found nothing. "I can't tell. Let me e-mail these to you. Maybe you can do a little research."

  "You got it, brother. I'll figure it out."

  As Mark cut and pasted the numbers into an e-mail, Mark had no doubt Rafe would do just that. The idea made worry burn like a raw wound in his chest.

  "Nicki, what have you gotten yourself into?" he muttered to himself. And why did he care that a criminal had voluntarily submerged her own ass in hot water?

  His hand tightened on the mouse. If he kept digging, what other morass might he find Nicki to be neck deep in? Still, he had to know. Running away wasn't going to make it go away. Or make this nightmare of an investigation end any sooner.

  Wincing, he looked at the contents of the bank account again.

  Ninety-eight lines, all with dollar amounts of less than ten thousand individually, but totaling more than three-quarters of a million dollars altogether.

  "What's it looking like?" Rafe prompted.

  "I don't know. It just ... I don't get a good feeling about this. Something big is about to happen. The operation is picking up steam. It seems to be building toward something ..."

  Heavy footsteps on the stairs alerted Mark that he likely wouldn't be alone for long. He closed the accounting program and quickly shut down Nicki's computer as the footsteps drew near.

  "Got company," he whispered.

  "Call me," Rafe demanded as Mark flipped his phone shut and maneuvered back in front of Marcy's computer, where he pretended to be baffled by the collection of receipts on the desk.

  Blade slapped a hand on his shoulder. "So, Nicki wasn't bullshitting me. Dancer boy thinks he has a brain."

  Mark tensed, torn between treating Bocelli like bacteria in week-old puke or suggesting something anatomically impossible. In the end, he merely fixed the thug with a stare.

  "This dancer boy has a CPA, and it's clear you can't add without using your fingers. I suggest you move your hand if you want to be able to count all the way to five in the future."

  Bocelli shifted, reclining in the doorway of Nicki's office. He looked less than happy. "That doesn't mean that Nicki's other investor approves of you in the club's records. I suggest you leave it to me, if you know what's good for you. Capisce?"

  "Have you watched every gangster movie ever made and decided to become a walking cliche? Or are you really that unoriginal?"

  His brows slashed down above his eyes in angry black slants. "Last time I restrained myself from introducing you personally to my Beretta Brigadier Inox." He patted the bulky side of his jacket where his shoulder holster rested. "Shut your mouth, or you might not be so lucky this time."

  Mark watched Blade, dissecting his aggressive stance and cocky smile. The look was all right for someone ass deep in the Mafia. He appeared to be exactly what he was--a mid-level player on the rise with his hands in multiple pies, which, until recently, included the one holding Nicki's money.

  Yet he couldn't help but wonder why Blade simply didn't shoot him.

  After their last altercation a little more than a week ago, Mark had taken to sleeping with one eye open, half-expecting Blade to break into his place and finish him off. But he never appeared.

  "Don't threaten me, asshole," Mark shot back. "In fact, why don't you tell me why you lied about sleeping with Nicki."

  Nothing but the merest tensing of his body betrayed a single thing Blade thought. Then the Italian stereotype in black leather laughed.


  "What? She told you you're the only one, and you believed her?" Blade shook his head. "There's a sucker born every minute..."

  "Don't fucking lie to me!" Mark stood, shocked to find himself shouting.

  He'd sensed Nicki's sincerity when she told him she hadn't had another lover in two years, felt the tightness around his cock that a woman couldn't easily feign. Lord knew he didn't dare believe another damn word out of her mouth, but he wanted to believe that.

  Every single thing they'd shared couldn't be a lie.

  Bocelli shrugged. "You think what you want... Sucker."

  Mark took a deep breath. Think, Sullivan. Nicki was going to jail if the evidence kept stacking up against her. It didn't matter if everything between them was a lie. Hell, it probably was. It shouldn't matter if Nicki had fucked Bocelli--and half the Gamalini family. And losing his cool with Bocelli wasn't going to solve anything.

  It was some flaw in his genetic makeup that made him want a woman who was likely only using him for a despicable scam.

  "Nicki is now paying me to keep her accounting records current and clean. If her uncle has an issue with my competency, he's welcome to call me. I'll list my qualifications, and provide him proof of my abilities. But until I hear objections from his mouth, get the fuck out of my face."

  "Boys!" Zack chastised, sliding past Blade and into Nicki's office. "As yummy as the testosterone display is, all this fighting isn't necessary. I'm sure that Nicki and her uncle can solve this matter without you two making hamburger out of each other's faces."

  Mark scowled at Zack, who turned away and peered down at Nicki's desk, looking all around. A quick glace at Blade told Mark the Italian ruffian was equally baffled.

  "Do you need something?" Mark asked Zack.

  Zack turned back. He stood next to Blade, and they looked very alike with their short dark hair, olive complexions, and six-foot frames ... but the attitudes were so different. He'd love to see how Mr. Macho would feel knowing that he could almost be mistaken for a flamingly gay man's twin.

  A smile tipped up Mark's mouth at the thought, before he realized that Zack was blushing.

  "I met someone and got his phone number. I set it down here last night when Nicki and I were discussing the show." The stage manager braced his hand on the computer tower and turned back to the desk to search for the scrap of paper, scouring behind the monitor.