by BETH KERY
She glanced at her watch. It was 7:45 P.M. The authorities must have finished talking to Thomas by now. She stood from her desk, intending to take the elevator to the forty-sixth floor . . . to walk into Thomas Nicasio’s offices for the first time in her life.
Someone knocked on her door instead.
“Come in,” she called, thinking it was probably the cleaning staff. It was late on a Friday and the office was empty, save for Sophie.
The door swung open and Thomas walked in.
Sophie froze, shocked by the unexpected sight of him. He kept his eyes trained on her as he shut the door behind him. She’d always thought her private office large enough, but the walls shrunk with Thomas Nicasio in the room.
“Thomas. Are you all right?”
“No.”
She saw him push the lock on the door handle. He stepped toward her. She recognized that hot look in his eyes. Recognized it all too well. She’d seen it countless times last night.
“I’m not going to be all right until I bury myself in you.” He stalked across the room and reached for her.
“Tom—”
He cut off her soft whimper of mixed need and uncertainty when he seized her mouth with his own. He proceeded to consume her.
Thomas felt fevered, but not by illness. By lust. He’d never experienced anything like it in his life.
When he’d walked into the lobby this afternoon and come face-to-face with two badge-waving federal agents he’d been frothing with a different emotion: fury. Wasn’t it bad enough that his brother and nephew were dead? His family had been floored by Rick’s and Abel’s deaths, but the FBI continued to nose around relentlessly, investigating his father, accosting him—Thomas—in the lobby of his building and treating him like he was a suspect in some crime, as well.
In the midst of his angry ruminations, he’d suddenly glanced up and seen Sophie Gable standing in the elevator, looking as fresh, golden, and lush as a newly plucked peach.
He’d frozen on the threshold. The sight of her had struck him like a stinging slap.
A wave of intense lust flooded his body, shocking him, given the situation. You would have thought she’d stood there stark naked instead of wearing one of her many conservative skirts and low-heeled pumps, her shoulder-length, wavy blonde hair pulled up onto her head in a no-nonsense, effortlessly elegant style.
He saw her dark brown eyes widen when she saw his strange reaction to seeing her. Pink lips that were naked of all artifice parted in surprise.
How the hell had he ever managed to rein himself in when it came to Sophie Gable before?
Agent Fisk noticed his odd reaction and gave Sophie a sharp, speculative glance. Thomas got a hold of himself and turned his back to her. Still, he was hyperaware of Sophie behind him, her presence pulling at him like a magnet. When he glanced back at her, he saw something on her face that he couldn’t quite interpret.
Had it been alarm?
She probably was alarmed, given the strange way he was acting. Those dreams he’d been having about her—dreams that redefined the meaning of sexual need and pleasure—those were responsible for his bizarre reaction to Dr. Sophie Gable.
Thomas noticed Agent Fisk’s second glance at Sophie and turned away from her again. He didn’t want these assholes noticing her.
What was wrong with him? It had shocked him, to feel something so inappropriate—so powerful—in the midst of such a volatile moment. His brother and nephew were dead and federal agents were investigating his father for federal crimes. And all he could think about was stripping off Sophie Gable’s clothes and fucking her until all of his anguish and fury exploded into a cataclysm of nirvanic forgetfulness.
He was losing control of his chaotic emotions.
Losing control, period.
His family was suffering from unspeakable grief; his mother shrouded in a thick veil of sadness that Thomas couldn’t penetrate, no matter how hard he tried; his sister-in-law shell-shocked and only beginning to recognize the black abyss of her loss; his father’s charisma and heartiness suddenly diminished so that he looked like a husk of the vibrant man he used to be.
Now the FBI had barged into their private family grief, stirring up an already frothing cauldron of anguish by never missing a beat in their investigation of Joseph Carlisle, by alleging his adoptive father had perpetrated crimes so widespread, Thomas couldn’t even consider them without alternating between feeling hollow, numb shock and sheer outrage at the offensive insinuations the FBI was making in their investigations.
Truth be told, as irritated as he’d been when the agents approached him in the lobby, he’d been glad to have a target for the anger, helplessness, and grief that had been building in him since his mother had called last week and told him Rick and Abel were dead.
He’d been on a Diversey Harbor dock at the time he’d gotten that call, waiting for his brother and ten-year-old nephew to come and collect him in the boat—the same boat that had exploded.
Once he was behind the closed doors of his office with the two agents, he hadn’t made a secret of his contempt. Fisk had stayed silent, watching him like a bird of prey as Larue began questioning him. Thomas, who’d had years of experience both as an enlisted man and later as an officer in Somalia and Iraq, immediately understood that Fisk possessed the brains and savvy between the two agents, despite his younger age.
It surprised Thomas when Larue started asking questions about his background and Nicasio Investments instead of his father.
“Nice place,” Larue commented as he glanced around Thomas’s large, luxurious office and out the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that faced Lake Michigan. The golden summer evening outside stood in stark contrast to Thomas’s stormy mood. The headache that had been plaguing him nonstop made things even worse. Every time he tried to concentrate on something, to focus on his thoughts, it became so severe it felt like his head was splitting open.
He frowned as he sat down behind his desk, staring at the two interlopers coldly, refusing to make this easy for them.
“Where did you get the money to start up your firm three years ago, Mr. Nicasio?” Larue had asked as he opened up a small notebook and began taking notes.
“The Navy provided well for me since I was a teenager, and I never had need for most of my salary. I compiled quite a savings, which I was able to add to the trust fund my father reserved for us,” Thomas answered, restrained anger making his voice sound stiff.
“You served in the EOD unit, isn’t that correct?” Larue asked, never glancing up as he scribbled in his notebook.
“That’s right,” Thomas replied, tight-lipped. Larue referred to Explosive Ordnance Disposal, the elite unit of the Navy responsible for either safely disarming bombs or other types of ordnance, including chemical, biological, and nuclear. As an eighteen-year-old, Thomas had risked his adoptive father’s disapproval by enlisting in the Navy instead of going to college right after high school.
It had been one of only a few, but notable moments, when Thomas’s stubborn nature superseded one of Joseph Carlisle’s authoritarian decrees. Joseph had wanted him to attend an Ivy League university right out of high school. But even in this clear-cut instance of filial rebellion, Joseph had ended up respecting Thomas’s decision, saying that a man had to find his own path and test his own legs. The fact that Thomas had gone on to earn his college degree in business administration and become a decorated officer in the EOD unit only seemed to reinforce Joseph’s respect for Thomas’s proclivity for independence. Deep down, Thomas knew that Joseph respected his ability to make a mark on the world without patronage.
It was an approval Joseph had never bestowed on Rick, his eldest son, even though Rick had been even more deserving of it than Thomas.
“And when you say that your father set up a trust fund for you, you really mean your adopted father, isn’t that correct?” Larue persisted.
“I was adopted, yes, but Joseph Carlisle is my father,” Thomas bit out irritably. He felt Agent F
isk’s stare on him and returned the look with a frown. What’s your problem, asshole? He wondered if Fisk understood his volatile thought when the young agent dropped his gaze to his lap, his brows knitted in consternation.
“Your real parents were killed during a burglary, I understand?” Larue continued.
“That’s right. It happened when I was ten years old. Is that what you two came here to discuss? The fact that my parents’ murderer was never found? Wonderful.” He leaned back in his leather chair and gave a fake sigh of relief. “I’m glad to know the investigation is still underway. And here I’d been suspecting that you two were just here to waste my time.”
Larue looked up sharply, his pen frozen on the paper. Fisk wiped his hand across his jaw and mouth, but not quick enough for Thomas to miss his slight smile.
“Your parents’ murder investigation isn’t under the auspices of the FBI,” Larue explained.
Thomas’s pointed, annoyed glance told the agent loud and clear he’d been being facetious. Larue must have understood, because he cleared his throat and turned his attention back to his notebook.
“So it’s safe to say that Joseph Carlisle supplied you with the majority of the capital to start Nicasio Investments?” Larue asked.
Thomas made an irritated, slashing motion with his hand. “No, I’m not saying that at all. I started Nicasio Investments mostly with my own savings. But let’s cut the bullshit. I have no doubt you guys have all the banking numbers. It’s not illegal for a father to set up a trust fund for his children. Why don’t you get to the point? You two are here to ask me questions about my dad. If you think I’m going to tell you something that will bolster your investigation, you’re dead wrong. What you’re digging around for—what you’re alleging about Joseph Carlisle is ridiculous. My father is a hard-working man who would do anything for his family. My brother’s death is ripping him apart. Haven’t you guys got anything better to do than to kick a man when he’s down?”
Fisk met his stare and shifted in his chair uneasily, but his blistering question bounced off Larue like raindrops on rubber.
“It’s my understanding that Joseph and Rick Carlisle had been on the outs with each other for years,” Larue commented.
“Yeah? Where’d you hear something like that, Larue? Listening to gossip in the girls’ john?”
“Actually, I heard it from your brother’s wife, Mr. Nicasio. Are you insinuating Kelly Carlisle is a gossip?”
Thomas leveled a malevolent stare, refusing to respond. He loved Kelly like a sister; he hated the fact that Joseph had disapproved of not only Rick’s career as an investigative journalist, but his choice of wife. Thomas’d worked tirelessly to try to bridge the gap between father and son. The peacemaking role was one he’d become familiar with since he was thirteen years old. He doubted his father would ever fully recover from the fact that he and Rick hadn’t been talking at the time of Rick’s death.
But he’d be damned if he was going to talk out loud about such painful, private family matters to a sanctimonious FBI agent. Larue waved at his right hand.
“What happened to your knuckles?”
Thomas glanced at his knuckles in mixed surprise and irritation. What the hell was Larue talking about?
“You know a man named Douglas Mannero?” Larue persisted. Thomas could tell by his tone the agent thought he was being stubborn by not answering his former question for a stretched moment, but in truth, a wave of nausea had rolled through him when he’d seen the abrasions on his knuckles. He became uncomfortably aware that he was sweating. He struggled to focus on Larue’s latest unexpected question. Douglas Mannero was one of the clients in his investment firm.
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“We know he’s one of Nicasio Investments’ clients. You’ve been handling his money for two years now.” Larue flipped back a few pages in his notebook. “Mannero runs a large, lucrative West Side vending machine business—manufactures, repairs, and distributes vending machines all over the city, downstate, Ohio, Wisconsin, and northern Indiana.”
“So?” Thomas prompted, bewildered by the turn of the questioning.
“Who referred Mannero to Nicasio Investments?” Larue asked.
Thomas narrowed his gaze on Larue.
“What are you digging at?”
This time, Larue didn’t respond, just fixed him with that stony, cocky G-man stare. Thomas’s fury escalated in the tense silence that followed, making his chest burn.
Agent Fisk suddenly leaned forward in his chair, speaking for the first time since the meeting had begun.
“Douglas Mannero was arrested earlier today as part of our ongoing investigation into organized crime in Chicago, Mr. Nicasio. Thanks to the cooperation of the IRS, we have good reason to believe that the vending machine company was being used to launder money that the Outfit made from illegal gambling operations.”
“Should I call my lawyer?” Thomas seethed. “Are you accusing me of being involved?”
“No. We have no evidence that would indicate you understood that the money was dirty when Mannero asked you to invest it,” Fisk said.
Larue gave his partner a surprised, irritated glance, which Fisk ignored. Fisk held Thomas’s stare. “We didn’t come here today to accuse you of anything, Mr. Nicasio. But as part of our investigation, we would like the name of the person who referred Mannero to Nicasio Investments.”
“I don’t recall,” Thomas replied.
Fisk nodded his head and studied Thomas narrowly. “We won’t take up any more of your time, then.”
Larue looked up at him, his widened eyes saying loud and clear that he was stunned by Fisk’s actions.
“You’re mistaken about Mannero,” Thomas said coldly. “I’ve seen the company’s books. I made a study of them, in fact. They’re clean. You’re even more wrong about your allegations against my father.”
“We have information from a very reliable inside informant that tells us otherwise,” Fisk said with a level stare before he hitched his chin at Larue, indicating to his partner that it was time to go.
Thomas curled his lip in disgust. “You guys are fucking hypocrites. You say you want justice, but you’re willing to take the word of some slimy little two-bit criminal over a respected businessman like my father?”
Fisk stopped dead in his tracks and spun around. “What slimy two-bit criminal are you referring to, Mr. Nicasio?”
Thomas rose slowly from his chair, glaring at Fisk. “The one you must be talking to who is feeding you all these lies about my father.”
For a few seconds, Fisk didn’t move.
“Our informant isn’t a criminal, Mr. Nicasio. Not in the slightest. Have a good evening, sir.”
Thomas had just stood there, watching the two agents march out of his office, boiling in a vat of bewilderment and rage. Even in the midst of his emotional turmoil, the image of Sophie Gable standing in the elevator leapt into his mind’s eye. It only added to his volatility that he couldn’t stop thinking about her, even under these circumstances. He didn’t want to think about a woman now, not when the FBI was hounding Joseph Carlisle, making preposterous claims about him being involved in organized crime, badgering Thomas about a client his father had referred to him a couple years back.
Despite his mental prohibitions on lusting after Sophie, he detailed the vision of her once again in his mind’s eye, fantasized about peeling off that crisp white blouse she wore and baring her succulent flesh for his hungry mouth.
His blood sizzled in his veins; his cock twitched.
What the hell was wrong with him?
After several minutes he rifled around in a desk drawer to retrieve some keys and called his administrative assistant, Erin, telling her she was free to go home. He’d go over to Doug Mannero’s office/warehouse and have a look at the books himself. He’d gone over them carefully when he took on Doug as a client. He’d recognize if there’d been any changes made . . . any cover-up. Thomas had a good head for nu
mbers.
But when he got on the elevator, instead of hitting the button for the lobby, he hit the one for the twenty-third floor instead.
He knew he should stay away from Dr. Sophie Gable. She didn’t deserve to be the unsuspecting target of the cyclone of emotion that whipped and whirled around in his head.
But he couldn’t seem to stop himself from seeking her out. It puzzled the hell out of him, this sudden fixation he had on the doctor. Sure, he’d been strongly attracted to her ever since the first time he’d laid eyes on her. And he wasn’t a fool. Thomas liked women, and they typically liked him. He was experienced enough to know that Sophie Gable was very aware of him, as well; knew instinctively she returned his interest.
But he’d always shied away from her, wary of her clean scent, girl-next-door glow . . . an appeal like body-warmed, sex-mussed sheets on a sunny bed. He was too complicated for Sophie Gable. Too dark. He’d get her dirty; mess her up. It amazed him to know he’d actually avoided her to protect her as much as himself.
Despite his self-imposed prohibition against Sophie Gable, something about her called out to him; always had from the moment he’d first set eyes on her.
And God help her, in the midst of his turmoil and grief, he suddenly found he didn’t want to spare her any longer. No longer could spare himself. He would quench his fires in Sophie Gable tonight. His cock craved her, but his mind did as well.
After the storm was spent, Thomas knew—somehow—that peace would come, even if it was temporary.
The door to her office was unlocked. The lights were still on in the empty lobby. He headed down the hallway, a sense of sharp anticipation building in him. He knocked on her door and opened it when he heard her low voice bidding him to enter.
She stood by her desk, looking like a graceful gazelle caught in headlights. His gaze trailed down over her elegant throat and the front of the simple, white cotton blouse she wore. Sophie could try to disguise her assets by putting on a professional appearance all she wanted, but Thomas was a connoisseur who instinctively recognized quality when he saw it. He didn’t care if she wore a nun’s habit, nothing was going to hide the fact that Sophie Gable was built like a brick house.