He strode around the desk and organized the already organized clipboards. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I won’t cheat a family by not being there for them.”
Ah, he didn’t want to be an absentee father like his. He didn’t trust in love from others, and he didn’t trust himself not to fail those he loved.
She leaned forward, her palms on the desk. “Nick,” she said softly, “you’re not your father.”
She felt his heated glare burning a hole through her.
“You don’t know anything about it,” he said in a raspy, disgusted voice. “You see me here full-time. But this domesticity is temporary. I travel from New York to London to Hong Kong. My business is important. I don’t have time for home and family.”
“Bull-oney! You’re lying to yourself. You’re the poster boy for family loyalty. You’ve hidden Alexei’s crimes and the circumstances of his death from your father, the father you love in spite of his absence from your life.”
“How could I tell him? He’s a sick old man.”
“You’ve left your business to try to redeem your family’s honor and make up for the transgressions of a half brother you despise. Think about it.”
“I had no choice.”
“Oh, you had a choice. You could’ve let ATSA handle everything. You could’ve stayed in New York. You could’ve shipped Alexei’s ashes to New York or Athens for burial. You could’ve flown off to join your real fiancée. No choice? There are always choices.”
He leaned on his palms and brought his face so close to hers she felt his heat and the angry puff of his breath. “May I remind you that it is my life? And I damned well choose to build my company.”
“For whom? Why? What do you have to prove?”
In response, chimes tolled an Oriental-sounding melody. The doorbell.
“They’re here,” Nick said, lifting the stack of clipboards. He marched out the library door as though at the point of a spear.
“Saved by the bell,” she muttered.
Vanessa held the clipboard while Emil Alfieris foraged through the Internet for information on the marquetry table beside the spindle bed. She had to find the hidden ten million, to take it out of the equation. Then ATSA wouldn’t hound her so about keeping Nick with the program. They’d have one less reason not to trust him.
For her peace of mind, what she needed was more reasons not to trust the man. More reasons to hold the line. The line she’d leapt across this morning like a broad jumper. And landed with both feet in his love life!
She shook her head and returned to her task. So far the inventory wasn’t making her hopeful of finding Alexei’s stash. This bedroom at the end of the hall seemed to hold all the antiquey clutter he couldn’t find other places for. Every bend of an elbow threatened some delicate object.
None of them priceless.
Dammit, she’d threatened something priceless earlier. The tenuous rapport she had with Nick.
She should’ve kept her mouth shut. If he wanted a marriage of convenience with Ms. Iceberg LeBec, that was his decision. No, even if her probing skewered tender spots, she wasn’t sorry. Not if it made him think more deeply about what he was getting into. Her concern was for him, for his happiness.
His marrying Danielle made no difference to her personally. If she believed that, she wouldn’t have thistles rolling around in her belly pricking her. She wouldn’t feel this hot tightness in her throat.
No involvement, remember? She was supposed to be proving to herself she could remain detached and neutral, but she was failing miserably.
“Ah, here it is.” Alfieris clicked madly on his laptop. His bow tie bobbed with his Adam’s apple as he spoke. “It’s a reproduction. Too bad. This listing has it at $400.”
She ran her finger down the list. “The inventory says $350. Should I change it?”
“I’d leave it. You probably won’t get more than that at auction anyway.”
She glanced down the list. “We’re already halfway through. You’re good at this, Emil. Quite the expert.”
The dapper little man beamed at her. “Thanks. Someday I’d like to have my own antique shop.”
“I suppose a would-be dealer must already be a collector,” she said.
“I have a few pieces. Nothing like Alexei.” He lowered his gaze to a tall cobalt-blue-and-white urn. “Nothing like this. Alexei has it listed as eighteenth-century Ming-style, but that’s wrong.” He turned the urn upside down. “This four-character mark is by the early fourteenth-century Imperial artist Hongwu. Perfect condition. Typical dragon and phoenix design.”
“You must have to be careful. Choose wisely, I mean.”
“Right. I don’t want to waste money.” He set down the urn and tapped on the keyboard. “Wish I had some of that pricey stock Alexei sold for those terrorists. Chinese cabinets and Assyrian plaques and bronze statues. I’d be all set.”
“And how about that urn?” Maybe the Ming was their El Dorado. She held her breath.
Alfieris emitted an appreciative whistle. “Whoa, this is the most valuable piece we’ve found today.”
“How much?”
“Looks like at least fifty grand. Here, I’ll write down the description.” He slid the clipboard from her hand.
Vanessa slumped. A week ago if anyone had told her she’d be disappointed at a find worth fifty thousand dollars, she’d have called them nuts.
“What’s next?” she asked.
A complete ass. That’s what he’d been, allowing her to suck him into that useless argument. Why should he have to defend his life to her? She didn’t understand. She couldn’t.
Nick tramped from room to room observing the import staff as they examined and measured every piece of furniture and art, estimating and comparing with the research on their laptops. But his thoughts barely grazed the household inventory, or even the reason for it.
No, damn it, his addled brain ping-ponged between the shooting attack and today’s stupid confrontation with Vanessa the Confessor.
What do you have to prove? Ridiculous question.
He had nothing to prove to anyone. He ran N.D.M. for himself, for the challenge, for the commitment and control. He was responsible for hundreds of employees, for a network of buyers and distributors. Achieving success and immersing himself in work were matters of pride, of honor. He shouldn’t have to tell Vanessa that. Or anyone.
What he did have to do was tell Vanessa about his engagement. To tell the truth—at least to himself—if Danielle hadn’t ended it, he would’ve pulled the plug before any exchange of vows. Not that Vanessa was right about the kind of marriage he wanted.
He should’ve told her the truth at the outset. Damned awkward at this point. He cared about her. A lot. Just seeing her every morning lightened the load, made the day go a little easier. He had to find the right words, the right time.
Deception was her stock in trade. Maybe his lie of omission wouldn’t matter to her.
Like hell.
In the living room, Celia Chin glanced up from the blue vase she held. “So far, Mr. Markos, the inventory appears to match what I’m finding.”
“Excellent. Keep up the good work.” He slid from the room before she launched into her acquisitions-and-contacts litany.
Vanessa was upstairs, helping Emil Alfieris, probably opening him up like a clam. Her way of making people comfortable enough to blurt out their secrets combined with subtle questioning skills fascinated him. She fascinated him.
But Nick would keep away. Let her work as coolly as if she hadn’t been shot at two days ago.
Besides the fact that no one was hurt, the only good thing about the shooting incident was that his combat instincts were still intact. He’d dived into protection mode and covered Vanessa. Not that she’d wanted shielding. Professional that she was, she’d struggled to get a better look at the shooter and the vehicle.
No, ol’ GI Joe had kept her pinned so she couldn’t see. But damn it, he’d protected her, want it or not. She hadn’t
been shot. No one had been hurt.
Not like in Somalia.
But escaping unscathed had been luck, not any foresight on his part. Or ATSA’s, for that matter. Going for a walk on their own had delivered her right into New Dawn’s sights. Stupid? Sure as hell.
But wasn’t setting her up exactly what ATSA had in mind by putting her undercover?
His chest hurt from the ache in his heart, from wanting this whole sordid mess over and done with. Not finding Alexei’s blood money twisted knots in his gut. Vanessa’s being in danger yanked them tighter.
He’d rather have her safe than all the honor in the world.
The terrorists had tried to kill her this time. Snow’d reported that the green sedan with its stolen license plate had vanished into traffic. The two bullets dug out of the grass had landed too damned close to where they’d gone down.
Had Husam Al-Din given up on the kidnapping scenario?
Had he changed plans because he suspected a trap?
Vanessa’s life and safety meant far more than any cost to Nick. He could handle a case of the shakes if New Dawn tried again. He’d do his best to defend her, but ATSA needed to stick closer. They’d be stupid to trust him to spot ambushes.
That thought tied another kink in the knots.
A good workout was what she needed, Vanessa decided that evening. Nobody should be in the gym at eleven. She’d have the place to herself. A run on the treadmill, some weights, and exhaustion would be her lullaby.
The entire mission was not going well. The finished inventory had uncovered no treasures, no ten-million-dollar objet d’art. ATSA had found no links between any of Nick’s business contacts and the New Dawn Warriors.
She’d found more on Somalia, but needed facts before she broached that topic with him again. Since their “discussion,” the tension between them, thick and gummy as a model’s hair spray, recast their engagement charade as engagement farce.
Dressed in leggings and an old tank top—hers, not one chosen by Danielle—she jogged into the downstairs gym.
And stopped dead.
Nick stood at the far end of the room. He wore black gym shorts and sneakers. That was all. No shirt. He was doing curls with free weights—what looked like a thirty-pounder in each hand. Gleaming with sweat, his impressive biceps heaved, his neck tendons bulged and his shoulder sinews bunched. No gloves. Now she knew where the calluses came from.
Her pulse stuttered, and heat licked up her spine. Run on a treadmill? She could barely catch her breath at the sight of him. Concentrate? She’d trip over her own feet.
Vanessa started to back out the way she’d come.
“Don’t go.” Nick deposited the barbells on their rack.
She took a tentative step into the room. Maybe he was finished. He’d leave, and she’d be able to breathe after all. “Um, you don’t mind?”
“I’m not Alexei,” he said, his dark brows diving into a scowl.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“I apologize. Of course you didn’t. It’s me. I was just making myself angry all over again. I fume about his lavish lifestyle, yet I make free use of his extravagances.” He spread his arms to indicate the gym. “You might as well.”
“No need to martyr yourself because you disapprove.” She strolled over to the treadmill and stretched back her left leg, then her right to ready the muscles.
“I’ll work my anger out with the bag.” He jammed red leather boxing gloves on his hands and yanked the laces tight with his teeth.
Vanessa pushed buttons on the treadmill and began a slow jog. “Pretend it’s Husam Al-Din.”
With his first swing at the leather bag, he barked a laugh, the first she’d heard from him since Monday. He hit slowly at first, then worked into a rhythm of left-right, left-right that set a demanding pace for her run.
She increased her speed. Looking away, she tried to focus on the wall ahead and on her balance. No luck. Her gaze kept veering back to the man pummeling the terrorist’s stand-in. Fit male bodies were no novelty to her, for goodness’ sake. She had two jock brothers, after all. And she’d done physical training with the best, both in the FBI and in ATSA.
Who was she kidding? This was Nick. He was more than a fit male body. Powerful, protective and tormented, he had more layers than the padded gloves he wore. Desire and fascination, not curiosity, glued her attention to the slide of sinew on bone, to the taut grid of abs dusted with ebony hairs, to the arrogant nose and fierce, uncompromising line of his jaw.
Her foot caught on the rubber tread.
Oof!
She dropped on her side like a felled tree. The impact blew her breath out in a whoosh. In the next instant, the conveyor belt dumped her on the floor in a heap.
“My God, latrea mou, are you hurt?” Nick knelt beside her, a worried expression darkening his face.
She couldn’t answer. A steel belt cinched her chest, squeezing her lungs flat. No sharp pains stabbed her, just an overall ache that radiated through her body. Breath by halting breath, her lungs reinflated.
“I…I’m okay.” She closed her eyes and concentrated on inhaling.
“Don’t move yet. Let’s make sure.” Soft pats traveled up her legs and back and down her arms. “Nothing broken, I think. Can you sit up?”
“I think so.” Opening her eyes, she twisted upright. Then she laughed. “I’ve heard of handling someone with kid gloves, but I don’t think they meant this style.”
Humor glinting in the blue depths of his eyes, he held out his boxing gloves for her to unlace. “Would you have let me inspect your…attributes without them?”
In that moment the earlier strain between them morphed into a different tension. His stare held enough sizzle to melt her running shoes. Her heart gave a kangaroo kick. Flustered, she fumbled with the gloves until finally the laces gave.
“I think I can get up now. I’m all right.” Everything worked, but her shoulder protested.
He dropped the gloves and held her hand. “Give it another minute. Just to be sure.” When she started to object, he said, “Humor me,” and sat back on his heels.
They were close enough that she could’ve reached out to trace the salt trails down his chest. His heat and hardness and male sweat might have repelled, but instead they mesmerized.
What was it about this man that sent her hormones into cartwheels? Her body thrummed with awareness as she sat beside him on the hard floor. She couldn’t just sit here staring at him. Talk. That was it. Talk about…
“Yes?” He bent closer and peered at her. “You started to say something?”
Ye gods, she was an idiot with men. It was a wonder they even wanted to be her pal. “The tapes. Um, the analysts finished with the videotapes.”
“Ah, and what evildoers lurked on them?” The merest hint of sarcasm colored his words.
His deep voice resonated within her. She suppressed a shiver. “As I think you already suspect, none. The faces on the tapes match the guest and employee list.”
“Even all the Yamaris? No New Dawn moles?”
“All accounted for and identified.” Remembering something else, she pursed her lips. “That reminds me. Grant Snow tells me you took a phone call from Prince Amir. For me.” She cocked an eyebrow and waited.
He released her hand. “The bastard changed his tune when I answered. Probably wanted to arrange a private rendezvous.”
She smiled at the fury in his tone, the fire in his eyes. “What did he arrange?”
“Asked me to be sure to bring you to our luncheon tomorrow. Said he had a gift for you from his country.” He picked up one of the leather gloves and slung it across the room. “How dare the bastard come on to my fiancée like that!”
Was he beginning to believe their act? Foolish hope fluttered her heart. “Nick, your show of jealousy is flattering. You don’t need to bellow like a wounded buffalo. May I remind you that your fiancée is in London?”
He sighed like a deflating dirigible. “Ah, but she
isn’t.”
Chapter 10
Vanessa straightened. She winced and rubbed her shoulder where she’d landed on it. “What do you mean?”
“My fiancée isn’t in London. She isn’t anywhere. I don’t have a fiancée.” His head drooped like a chastised puppy. “I should’ve told you this in the beginning, but I thought it might affect the op.”
“Tell me what?” Although her instincts already knew.
“Danielle broke up with me after the attempted kidnapping. Said she wanted no man who trafficked with thieves and murderers. She was afraid of scandal more than the terrorists. At any rate, I’m no longer engaged.”
Vanessa stared at him with suspicion. “Not engaged. Why didn’t Danielle tell me?”
He clasped her hands in his. “I convinced her that silence was safer. But if I know her, she’s keeping her options open until she sees how this plays out.”
Building anger sharpened Vanessa’s tongue. “Is that what you were doing? Keeping your options open?”
“With ATSA? Or with you?”
Once again a man had deceived her, had used her. His pretense couldn’t compare to men reaching Diana through her, but she didn’t want to examine that. She needed to hold on to her ire, clutch it to her as a shield. Getting involved with her assignment had once again come back to bite her.
Righteous indignation burned her cheeks. She firmed her mouth. “Take your pick.”
He shook his head. “I was afraid the trap might not work if the truth leaked out. I didn’t plan on being attracted to you. I think you feel the same. Awkward, but there it is. I’m sorry for the mixed messages. I should’ve told you long ago.”
“And that whole thing about a sterile marriage—that was a lie too?” She struggled to her knees.
He clamped his big hands on her shoulders to prevent her from rising farther. “No. Everything I said was true. But arguing about it prodded me to analyze my goals and motives.”
Code Name: Fiancée Page 12