Nicole

What does he mean, trust? I gave myself to him completely, more than once. Let him tie me up. Obeyed his commands. Of course I trust him. I've known him for most of my life. Mark'll never hurt me, because he never has. Even in my agitated state, I can see some fault in that logic, but I ignore it.

I'm shaking as I enter my apartment. From anger or sadness, I don't know. The apartment's cold and dreary and that last observation is hitting me hard for the first time. I've lived here for more than two years, and I never made it into a home. It came fully furnished, and apart from a mug here and there, maybe a new set of bed sheets, I haven't brought anything of my own here. No pictures, no decorations, nothing except my computer, my books, and my clothes. Hell, the single plant I got died within a month, probably because I forgot to water it.

And it was Mark who opened my eyes to all this. Or more precisely, him leaving. He showed me things about myself, my desires, the whole world, that I'd never even imagined, yet made me feel so alive.

Here I go being all maudlin and melodramatic. Fact is, I've immersed myself in my career these last few years and my social life has suffered because of it. That’s all Mark showed me. How to have a social life. He showed you so much more, that annoying voice in the back of my mind that's always right is saying, but I choose to ignore that too.

I'm out of wine, so I make myself a cup of mint tea to calm my nerves and my anger.

Trust.

Such a small word. But it has the power to ruin everything.

It's not like I even entertained writing that story on him.

Though that didn't seem to matter to him at all.

And he just searched through my bag. Where's the trust in that?

The tea's not doing much to soothe me, and that evidence folder is practically calling me to open it. But I'm too afraid of what I'll find.

Nothing good, I’m sure, if it was enough for Mark to leave me standing alone on the sidewalk.

Yet he did leave it with me, so he wants me to look at it.

Trying to figure all this out is making me even more agitated, so instead I decide to take a hot shower, hoping it'll also wash away this yearning for Mark suffusing my whole body.

The jets of water hitting my shoulders and back are relaxing, sure, but my soap smells too much like the one we used at his hotel room, and by the time I'm all lathered up I'm also aching for him to touch me. I’ve never missed anyone's touch the way I miss his.

I need to release this pent up energy inside me, the one he stoked then left simmering. So I touch my clit, stroke it fast in the way that always works to get me off. But it's not the same if he's not doing it, and the pain of needing him grows in intensity even as my body begins to respond. I pinch my sore nipple, pain cutting through my chest like a knife slash. Mark forbade me to come without his permission. It's such a barbaric demand, offensive even. Yet I'm compelled to obey it. Don't know why, but I feel like obeying it will bring him back. And disobeying will keep him away.

Too strange to try and figure out, so I just rinse and get out of the shower, my mind a bit clearer, but not much.

That folder is still all I’m thinking about, even when I'm in bed with the lights off, trying to fall asleep. Even though my thoughts are racing, and I already know I won't be able to.

I should at least know what's in the folder. Seeing as it brought everything crashing down.

But would that betray his trust even further?

I mull that over for a while, going back and forth. But fact is, I need to know what I'm dealing with, and what he's facing if Lucy writes her article.

My heart's pounding as I take the folder out, my hands shaking as I fumble with the elastic holding it closed. I don't think an inanimate object has ever made me this nervous.

I finally take a deep breath and pull out the wad of photos and papers from it.

The first photo sends my heart racing even faster. It's a neck up morgue photo of the dead escort, her beautiful face tinged blue in death and a gaping black-lined gash opening her throat. She had long, wavy, dark brown hair, not unlike my own, and her eyelashes were super long. Like fake long, enough to cast a shadow on her cheekbones, if her eyes were open. And I'm fixating on them because I don't want to see more. Don't want to feel for this poor girl who was probably younger than me when she died.

I manage to push all that to the back of my mind, and look at the next photo. This one is a full body morgue photo. She's naked, her breasts perky despite the fact that she's laying on her back. Silicone implants most likely. Thin red tendrils are snaking over her sides toward her stomach. And I know what those are even before I flip to the next photo, the one showing her from the back, whip marks covering most of it. Some of the lashes broke the skin, black scabs lining those. It's a frightening picture, but arousing at the same time. My head is spinning because, how can I even think that?

The next photo shows how they found her. She's hanging off a tree, naked, suspended from the branches by a thick rope, her feet tied to what looks like tent pegs. The photo was taken at night, so the blood that flowed from her slashed throat and covers her chest is more black than red. Her face is obscured by the curtain of her hair. Bile rises in my throat, my stomach twisting in nausea. If I look at this picture any longer I’ll throw up.

The next photo shows an array of odds and ends, all tagged, so I'm assuming it's the evidence they collected at the scene. There’s no knife, just a bunch of cigarette butts, the whip used on her, a golden pin of some sort, and a man's watch. The last stands out, looks very old, with a cracked leather band and the face yellowed from age. My father has a watch similar to this, it belonged to his grandfather. The next photo shows just the watch, a side-by-side composite of the front and back. There is an engraved inscription on the back of it, but it's illegible, rubbed away by years of use.

The rest of the contents are just crime scene notes and reports. I scan them, looking for Mark's name. But he only comes up as one of her former clients. The DNA recovered from the cigarette butts matches the man they have in custody now. But his DNA was not found on the watch. That belongs to another male. There's a note saying Mark refused to give a DNA sample, and that it wasn't possible to obtain a warrant to compel him to do it based on the evidence. This last is written by hand as a side note to the report like someone wanted to make it very clear.

The man they charged with the escort’s murder worked as a groundskeeper of the park she was found in. His DNA was not found on the rope or the whip. But they did find a partial fingerprint of his on the whip, along with others, unidentified ones. Though he claimed that was from when he found her and touched it. But after 48 hours of questioning he confessed to the murder.

My thoughts are shooting in a million different directions by the time I'm done reading the report. Only one of them is crystal clear. There’s no physical evidence tying Mark directly to the crime. I was right to trust him. Now all that remains is for me to convince him that I do.

I dial his number, but it goes straight to voicemail. So I leave a message, apologizing again for not telling him about the article, assuring him he has my full, unwavering trust. Send him a text to the same effect half an hour later when I don't hear back from him. Fall asleep on the sofa hours later still waiting for a reply.

* * *

Mark

Sitting back in the car and letting it drive away without Nicole was, hands down, the scariest gamble I ever took. I might have pushed her away forever. Though that's not really an option, because I won't let her go again. But I prefer her willing, and I've never been this nervous about the outcome of a negotiation, or a battle, for that matter. She’s a journalist, and could fuck up my career considerably. My desire to be with her has not made me blind to that like Pierre keeps hinting at. If for nothing else, I need Nicole on my side to avoid that. But there’s so much more than that. I need her on my side or else I don’t want to breathe.

"Where to, Sir?" was all the driver asked once he got back in the car after depositing Nicole's bags on the sidewalk.

Nothing in his voice or face betrayed he'd witnessed any of what went on between Nicole and me in the back of this car in the last few days. That's because he knows if his lip so much as twitched to resemble a smirk, he might not survive it. To find a chauffeur that discreet took awhile.

Pierre's a different matter. So I just texted him with directions to resume watching over Nicole. He'll complain, but he'll do it, and at least I won’t have to hear it this time.

I've been at the hotel gym since the car dropped me off, lifting weights. My fucking joints are aching by now, not just my muscles. But I can't stop.

Maybe I should've taken those crime scene photos away from her, or at least removed the one with the watch. But she'd find out eventually, probably read about it in the report. So that would only postpone it. But I want her to know everything. I want her to choose me despite it all. It's a naive, little girl sort of thought, and I ignore it as such. Of course, Nicole can't know everything.

The risk I took by leaving her there is making me more nervous by the minute, instead of less. In the beginning, I could at least put her out of my mind for whole chunks of time, but now it's like she's the only thing I think of. My need to be with her is bordering on obsession. Though in truth, I'm probably well on the other side of that border already, and have been for awhile.

I drop everything when my phone chimes with a new voicemail. The dumbbells hit the floor with a thud that sounds like explosives going off in a tunnel. One of them rolls, hits the wraparound mirrors, cracking one of them. I see all this like I'm outside my body, just observing the scene, as I listen to Nicole's heartfelt and very apologetic message.

I want to call her back right away, my muscles cramping from the need to. Maybe order her to come over, wearing nothing but a thong and heels as a way of making good on her apology. Tie her to the bedposts and have my way with her until she begs me to stop.

But I won't do it. Because I need this exercise in control more than she needs a lesson in trust. It's the only way I'll be able to trust myself.

* * *

Nicole

There's no message, no return call from Mark when the alarm wakes me the next morning. But I fight the urge to call him again, force my mind to other topics while I dress. I put on one of the outfits he picked for me. It's a tight, black, sleeveless dress that comes up to my neck, and down past my knees, yet is somehow still very revealing and hides all my trouble areas better than a pair of sweats and an oversized shirt would. I pair it with a white blouse and blazer, stay ups, and low heel boots. I don't know why I'm even trying so hard with the outfit. But I want Mark to know I made the effort. Tried to do as he wanted. Maybe the driver will tell him after he drops me off at work.

But the car's not waiting for me when I emerge from my building. It's drizzling, the sky overcast and sad. It's hard fighting down tears as I walk to the subway, but I manage it.

I do have a vague sense of being watched, but it's not scary and it's not invasive. I chalk it up to my need to have Mark with me, and don't dwell on it.

Predictably, I'm the first to arrive at the office. I call Lucy as soon as I'm sitting down at my desk.

"When are you coming in?" I ask without even saying good morning first.

She yawns loudly. "In a while."

"Well, hurry. We need to talk," I snap and hang up. If it weren't for her damn folder, I would've woken up in Mark's arms this morning. And I wouldn't have that escort's dead face swimming before my eyes each time I closed them.

The call did no good though, and she doesn't come in until almost eleven. Sam's not here yet and the morning meeting’s cancelled, so at least there's that blessing. Not that the reason for his absence is a blessing. It must have something to do with his wife being sick, and I can't believe I just thought of that as a good thing.

"Let's go somewhere to talk," I tell Lucy as I intercept her by the door, already carrying my own bag and coat.

"Jeez, what's with the urgency, Nicole?"

"Come on," I say, stepping forward so the sliding door opens.

She relents and precedes me out into the hall.

"Looked at the pictures, have you?" she asks while we're waiting for the elevator.

I nod, hitting the call button repeatedly. "There's nothing in there to implicate Mark, not a damn thing."

"Keep your voice down," she hisses, checking over her shoulder, and then refuses to say anything more.

So we walk to the nearest diner in silence and only go in once she checks that none of our colleagues are in there. The place is empty save for a disheveled-looking guy at the counter, wearing a washed out army jacket, his long, unkempt black hair hanging down to his shoulder blades. His black eyes pierce me as we enter, but I ignore him.

"Like I said, you have no story," I tell Lucy once we're finally seated.

"Well, there is Cross’ refusal to give a DNA sample. I think that speaks volumes," she tells me, scanning the menu.

She just orders a coffee in the end, and I get the same.

"That proves nothing. It's his right to refuse, and they couldn't get a warrant to make him," I say once the waitress leaves. "If you push this story with Sam, I'll tell him it's a bad idea."

There, I said it, my threat is laid down now. She's looking at me with her mouth open. Then she rolls her eyes and reaches into her coat pocket, pulling out her phone.

"Maybe it's escaped your notice, but that escort looks exactly like you." She shoves her phone in my face, showing me something.

I have to tilt my head back to see properly. It's a picture of the escort, only she's alive in this one, and yes maybe she has the same dark hair and eyes, and the same general shape as me, but she's way thinner and prettier.

Lucy snatches the phone back and scrolls through the photos. "And here's his secretary."

I can't deny the resemblance as easily this time. At least not to myself.

"What does that prove?" I ask, my voice cracking.

Lucy takes her phone away and starts searching for something online. "It means he's got a type. All serial killers have them. And you fit it perfectly."

Whoa, serial killers? This just took a turn for the insane.

"I've known Mark since pre-school," I say as calmly as I can. "And he's not a serial killer."

"Yeah? You sure about that?" There's amusement in her eyes like she's enjoying plunging this knife deep into my heart.

"And here's the real kicker," she says, showing me her phone again. "I think this is his wife."

Her last sentence literally knocks the breath out of me. A pretty, brown haired girl is smiling at me from a grainy photo, Melanie Delcour and date of birth written on a band over it. And yeah, she looks like me too. Lucy doesn't have to point that out. But a lot of women look like me. Lucy does too. Only she has green eyes, and an upturned nose that resembles a snake's snout. Can't believe I never noticed that before, but it makes sense. She's a snake through and through.

"Melanie is French. She was a teacher working with orphans in Africa," Lucy goes on. "She's been missing for about six years."

"But you only think that she's his wife?" I ask, latching onto the last shred of hope here.

"Yeah, I'm not completely sure yet. I still need to do some more digging. But one of my searches on the last name you gave me for him kicked her out."

"You really are something else, you know that?" I huff. "Seriously. I have no idea how they even let you work a newspaper like the Wall Street journal."

I'm on my feet, trying to get my coat on, but my hand keeps getting stuck in the sleeve.

Her eyes narrow into slits. "You shouldn't be talking to me like that, Nicole. But I get it, you must protect your boyfriend. Though I'm sure Sam won't be as inclined to listen to your complaints about my story once he finds out you're dating Cross."

The lining of my coat rips with a gut piercing sound as I finally manage to get my arm through. Lucy's right. I am too involved. But Sam will listen to me.

"We'll see about that," I say and storm out, fully determined to tell Sam all about this right away.

* * *

It's nearly six PM and Sam hasn't been to the office at all. I almost called him a few times, but refrained, because I'm sure whatever he's dealing with is more important than me telling him to block the story on Mark. Lucy ignored me for the rest of the day, and left hours ago.

I can hear the cleaning lady making her way to the offices, so I pack up, because I'm in no mood to have her tell me to go live my life. That's what I thought I was doing with Mark. But clearly, I was wrong.

I'll walk home. Clear my head. Work on my column for the rest of the night, and try not to think of Mark. I'll pick up a bottle of wine on the way too. Take the edge off that way.

Or maybe I won't have to, I realize with a smile that must make me look deranged to anyone catching a glimpse of me as I walk out through the revolving door.

Mark's leaning against his car in front of my building, his gaze enveloping me in a cocoon of warmth not even the cold arctic wind blowing tonight can penetrate.

My feet move in his direction like he's pulling me in by a rope.

"Hello," I breathe as I reach him.

"Hello, Nicole," he says, and straightens up. I'm swaying, ready to fall into his arms, but he doesn't reach for me. "I'm willing to give you a second chance."

There's a very faint voice in the back of my mind telling me I should be offended at his words, but I'm overjoyed and the smile on my face betrays that. "Good."

His face shifts from the stern, set expression he delivered his line with into something boyish, happy, a bit of the old Mark shining through. But I can't bask in it, because he turns away and opens the door for me. "Get in, we're having dinner."

I climb in obediently, tossing my bag into the back seat.

The silence drags once he gets in and drives off. There are so many things I want to tell him, ask him, but I don't know if I should. Yet I don't want what Lucy told me this morning to ever come between us, and that desire is stronger than anything else.

"I should tell you…" I start to say, but then realize I have no idea how to continue.

He looks at me questioningly, before his gaze fixes on my lips making them tingle. All I want is for him to lean over and kiss me, and I think we share that desire.

"Lucy, my colleague, is still working on your story," I say. "And she thinks you are married…and that your wife is missing."

He hits the brake with unneeded force at a red light, the tires screeching, my seat belt cutting painfully into my chest and collarbone.

"I won't speak about her," he says, and I know it's not what he wanted to say, that it was just a thought escaping.

But it's out now, and I have to react. Have no idea how, though. I’d hoped he’d deny ever having a wife, I really did.

The light changes and he drives off again, slower this time.

"How did she find out?" he asks.

"I told her Cross isn’t your real last name," I say quietly, looking down at my hands.

"You told her my real name?" he asks. I feel the heat of his gaze all along my cheek, and I don't dare look at him.

"Are you still married?" I ask instead of answering his question.

"Melanie's gone," he says, and hits the gas, starts weaving in an out of traffic.

"I know, she's missing," I say, trying to control my erratic breathing.

"No, she's gone," he says, and pulls up in front of his hotel. Why isn't he just saying she's dead if that's what he means?

He fixes me with a stern look, his eyes unreadable. "You won't ask about her again, and she's no one you should worry about."

He's speaking in his cold, commanding tone again, so I know there's no arguing the point. Once we're on the sidewalk, he offers me his arm and I take it, leaning against him.

"She must have meant a lot to you," I mutter, and this time I'm the one speaking my thoughts without thinking first.

He stops abruptly, turning me and gripping my chin so I'm forced to look at him. "Melanie meant the world to me."

The black ice covering his eyes is hiding a fire that makes my knees weak. I'm so very sorry I started this conversation. Because I thought he was mine, but his heart obviously still belongs to that other woman. And maybe it always will.

"That upsets you?" he asks with no concern, his fingers digging into the sides of my face painfully.

I nod, my eyes tearing up. But I won't lie to him ever again.

His expression softens as he loosens his grip, and runs his thumb across my bottom lip. "You mean more."

I match his stride as he leads me into the lobby, my heart skipping beats, hope bubbling up everywhere, eating away all that sadness and doubt. Three simple words, and he has me, wholly and completely. But I can't shake the feeling that his last words were something he'd rather not have said aloud, had he given it more thought.

* * *

Inside the hotel, he leads me to the elevators, and all the conflicting emotions our conversation brought are quickly getting eclipsed by my anticipation of what's to come.

"I thought we were having dinner?" I ask, winking at him.

His gaze hits me like a bucketful of scalding water. "We'll order something. After you atone for your transgressions."

Warm wetness erupts between my thighs, or maybe that's been there since he met me in front of my building. That dangerous gleam is back in his eyes, so sharp it makes my breath hitch.

"Whatever you need, Mark," I say, not even sure where the words are coming from.

He grins at me, then goes back to watching the floor numbers flashing up, but I can see his chest heaving.

Once inside the room, he helps me out of my coat, then runs his hand along my back, squeezing my ass, before ushering me further into the room.

He reaches up and unzips my dress, slips it forward and down until it's lying in a heap by my feet. I step out of it, my whole body shaking in anticipation. He comes closer, his body not quite touching my back, but I can feel his warmth searing into me. Since I'm not wearing heels he towers head and shoulders over me. I keep my eyes fixed on our reflection in the window, as he starts unbuttoning my shirt slowly. I let out a whimper, because I want him to touch me so badly. Yet his fingers barely graze my skin as he opens my blouse all the way. I'm glad I wore stay ups and a thong today, thinking he'd like that, because it's one less thing to take off.

"You know what you did wrong?" he whispers, his breath tickling my ear.

"I've kept secrets from you."

"And will you do it again?"

I shake my head, watch my boobs bounce in the reflection.

"But you agree that you must be punished?" There's such darkness in his voice that my stomach cramps up in fear. I crane my neck sideways, trying to see into his eyes, read what he's planning. But they're clouded, impenetrable.

“Punished?” The word escapes my throat in a small voice.

He takes a step back and points to the beautifully carved, mahogany writing desk by the window. "Go over there and grip the sides."

His face is still an unreadable mask. So I do as he ordered, my heart pounding in my chest, my knees weak, from fear or desire, I can't even tell. The air in the room is thick from them both, making it hard to breathe.

He watches me until I'm positioned, then walks over and yanks my hips back so my ass is jutting out. He slides the blouse up over my back, then caresses my ass, slowly, lovingly.

The first stinging slap takes me by surprise, makes me lose my grip and bump into the table, a shriek escaping my mouth.

"Do you trust me, Nicole?" he asks, punctuating the question with another hard slap over the same stinging spot. Half of my ass is burning up now, heightening the throbbing in my pussy.

"Yes," I whisper.

He slaps me again in the same spot, the pain overshadowing all else for a second. "What was that?"

"I trust you, Mark," I say louder, though my voice is shaky.

"And you will respect my wishes from now on?" he asks, squeezing my burning ass cheek. I gasp at the different quality of pain suffusing me. "You won't go snooping around my past behind my back?"

I shake my head and look back at him. He slaps me again, on the other cheek this time, the fresh pain bringing tears to my eyes.

"No, Mark, I will never do that again. I believe you and I trust you," I say, needing no urging this time, because I want this pain to stop. I want it to turn to pleasure now.

The dead set, cold look is gone from his eyes, and I finally realize just how important all this is to him. How much he needs me to trust and believe him. He strokes my ass again, and I brace for another slap. But this time he slips his fingers lower and caresses my dripping clit. The sharp pain is still radiating from my burning ass cheeks, and this soft pleasure is heightening it, even as it pushes it away.

I hear his zipper open and then he's running the head of his cock over my pussy. This gentle touch is so at odds with the pain, I could come right now. But he doesn't ram his cock in. Instead he twirls me around, my disappointed moan lost in his kiss.

The pain is just a distant memory, as his tongue invades my mouth, and butterflies are freed from my stomach to wreak havoc all over my body. His hand is caressing my pussy again, tracing slow circles over my clit.

He deepens the kiss and pushes two fingers in, lifting me off the ground and depositing me on the desk. I whine as my sore ass lands on the unforgiving wooden surface.

But all that's forgotten as he thrusts his cock into me, holding me in place by my hips. He starts pumping into me with a frenzy, his thrusts ripping right through the pain into an explosive orgasm that doesn't end, only builds and expands like it's the first one, the last one, and all I know is that nothing will ever be the same, that I won't ever be the same.

I must've passed out because the next thing I know, I'm in his lap on the sofa, his arms wrapped tight around me. I look up, hoping to find some of the soft love I'm feeling in his eyes too. And it is there, I know it is, but it's very far off. Yet I'm certain I can coax it out, and I will try until I do.

He doesn't say anything, just stands up with me in his arms. I wrap mine around his neck and snuggle closer as he carries me to the bathroom and puts me down by the tub.

He turns on the tap and leans over to stopper the tub. "Take a bath."

I pull him back by his arm as he turns to leave. "Take it with me?"

I'm exhausted, can hardly stand, and I'd like nothing more than to lay against his chest as we soak in the warm, scented water.

He pries my fingers away gently, not meeting my eyes. But I can see some of my own desire swimming in them. "I'll order up some food."

That dark dismissal is back in his voice. It's faint, but I hear it, so I don't argue. He needs more time, and I will give it to him. Will give him anything that he needs.

* * *

I must've dozed off in the tub, because when I come to, the water is chilly and the skin on my fingers and toes is all puckered up. I hate that, so I wash hastily then rinse with very hot water.

Mark's robe is hanging off a peg on the bathroom door, and I put it on, enjoying the smell of him wrapped around me.

He's not in the room though. The TV is on, the news blaring, and his jacket and coat are thrown over the armchair, his tie lying on the floor beside his shoes. So he can't have gone far. I sit on the sofa and turn off the TV.

Raised voices reach me from outside the room as I do, through the cracked door. I think I recognize Mark's, so I walk to the door, fully intent on calling him back inside.

"It's time to end this once and for all, Mark," a man says, making me freeze in mid-step. I recognize the voice by the faint accent. It's his secretary. The man's tone is far from subservient though, and there's no trace of employee/boss relationship in it.

"Just go find that journalist. Lucy something…you can dig up her last name and address, I trust," Mark barks. "I can handle things on my end just fine."

"Can you really?" the secretary asks, sarcasm thick in his voice.

"Yes," Mark hisses. "Just go do as I tell you."

"I'm sick of running these errands for you," the secretary warns.

"And stop complaining like a little bitch," Mark says and the door moves like he's grabbed the handle on the outside.

I run back toward the bathroom, my heart racing. So much for not keeping secrets from Mark, but how can I admit I just heard him send someone after Lucy?

Yet, I should. Else I'll just be right where I was this morning, with Mark pissed off, and me begging for his forgiveness.

I stop mid-step and turn to face Mark as he's closing the door behind him.

"Who were you talking to?" I ask point blank, giving myself some time to gather my thoughts. I don’t like a single one of them, would rather not be thinking them.

He's standing by the door, his whole face shrouded in shadow. "What did you hear?"

I wrap the robe tighter around myself and take a few steps towards him, before stopping again. "Why did you send that man after Lucy?"

There's no use pretending I didn't hear all of it. I want answers, too much about his past is too dangerous a mystery.

Mark runs his fingers through his hair and walks over to the sofa, sitting down with a groan. "He's just gonna make sure she doesn't do anything dumb."

He's eyeing me with a dark intensity that makes me feel like I'm standing on a wobbly surface.

"Dumb like write her article on you?" I ask, my voice very small and shaky, because this is ripping through the connection we wove earlier like it was nothing but cobwebs.

Mark pats the leather surface beside him, inviting me to come sit, and my legs actually move on their own to obey. I perch on the armrest though, don't sit down beside him. Nothing would make me happier than to have his arms around me right now, the need for it a physical ache. But I can't ignore what I heard. Why can't this just be simple?

He's ignoring my question, and the silence is starting to drag.

"Well?" I mutter, unable to stand the heat of his gaze any longer.

"I have to protect myself," he finally says. "But nothing will happen to your friend."

I want to say more, question him further. But I'm at a complete loss for words.

"Do you believe me when I say that?" he asks, the edge of his mouth curving up.

My ass cheeks twitch a little, remembering the stinging slaps of the lesson he gave me before. The promises I made.

"Yes," I breathe and slide down off the armrest to get closer to him. What else can I say? Deep down, I do trust him. Unconditionally. It's a knowledge that's buried in my very soul.

He pulls me closer and kisses me, cementing that knowledge even deeper. His caresses are soft and gentle as he runs his hand in through the fold of my robe, cupping my breast before running his hand upward and wrapping it around my throat. I gasp, my heart racing in fright even as I reach for him too, wrap my arms around his neck, running my fingers through his hair. This time he doesn't stop me. So I get bolder, start unbuttoning his shirt. He lets me slide it off his shoulders, never breaking the kiss as he struggles to remove the cufflinks holding the sleeves closed, so I can remove it all the way.

I don't know which Mark I prefer. This gentle one, or the one giving me commands, demanding my complete surrender and using my body to satisfy his needs. But I know I love both.

A knock on the door echoes through the room, and he breaks the kiss.

"That'll be the food," he says, and moves to get up. I latch onto his arms automatically, but he yanks them away, and leaves to open the door.

I wrap my robe over my breasts, and sit back, tapping my foot in frustration this interruption brought.

The bellboy wheels the food in, and I force a smile as he passes me. Mark dismisses him before he can start arranging the food on the dining table though.

"You eat," he says to me as he unbuckles his belt. "I'm gonna take a shower."

I walk over and slide my hands over his bulging arms, making him freeze in the motion of taking off his pants.

"Eat with me, and then we can take a shower together," I suggest with a smile that fully reveals why I'll need a shower again after just taking a bath.

But he shakes his head, and takes a step back. "No."

Though his eyes are flashing a yes loud and clear at me, so I have no idea what he really wants. He walks to the bathroom, and closes the door firmly, so I guess he does know.

The food doesn't look very appetizing at all, but I start eating anyway, mostly to get rid of the frustration still racking through me. Or maybe it's because I hardly know how not to obey his commands anymore.

* * *

He comes out a little while later, a towel wrapped around his waist. The cloud of steam emerging with him carries the panty melting, heady yet fresh scent of his body wash. That is if I were wearing panties, which I'm not, and I'm suddenly very aware of my own nakedness. I don't dare look at him straight on, so it's from the corner of my eye that I enjoy the sight of his well-developed chest and shoulders, his arms, all of it covered in tattoos I could spend the rest of the night tracing with my fingers, or my tongue. I could do the same with his cock, which I'm sure is at least half hard under that frustratingly placed towel.

But I don't even want to wish for it. Because he won't let me touch him.

He grins as he swaggers over, and sits across from me, pulling his covered plate to himself. "How's dinner?"

"Yummy," I answer, giving him a look that plainly says I would find other things even yummier.

When did I turn into this sex-crazed maniac? I mean, he just spanked me. The pain is wearing off, and I kind of want him to do it again, which is the truly weird part.

"This stroganoff was decidedly better the last time I ordered it," he says with his mouth full, yet he proceeds to eat the rest so fast he practically inhales it. As far as I'm concerned, it's one of the best dishes I ever tasted, but I don't tell him so.

"You’re all out of questions, Nicole?" he asks pointedly, pushing the plate away, and wiping his mouth with his napkin.

I shrug. "No, but you won't answer them anyway."

He gives me a searching sort of look, neither soft nor cold. Yet I still feel like he's seeing right into my mind. Minutes pass, maybe hours, and I don't know if I even have any secrets left.

He stands up and adjusts his towel, walks over and pulls me to my feet, resting his palms on my shoulders. "I was twenty years old when I married Melanie, and she was gone from my life less than two years later. She won't be back."

I can feel his hurt as he tells me this, but it's not the sharp frustrated kind. It's cold like the water of a brook, timeless and pointless to try and stop from flowing. Is she dead?

That's what I want to ask.

"I realize you have a past," I mutter instead, resting my hands on his sides. "It doesn't bother me."

"Yeah, you sure about that?" he asks, his mouth twisted into a crooked grin.

He knows me too well. And I was never a good liar.

"I won't let it bother me," I correct myself. It's the closest to the truth I dare go. "What happened to her?"

His eyes flash with such hate and darkness, I gasp and almost take a step back. Probably would, if he weren't gripping my shoulders.

"She's gone," he whispers, releases my shoulders and tilts my head up, his thumbs digging into the underside of my throat. But the darkness is gone from his eyes like it never was, replaced by that burning, all-consuming desire I've only seen glimpses of until now.

He leans down and kisses me, soft at first, with no tongue. My mind is still reeling with thoughts of this love he still harbors for a woman long gone, but it fades quickly as his tongue enters my mouth, searching for mine. His hand is tangled up in my hair, the other cupping my ass, the air between us so charged I can almost hear the sparks. And deep in my soul, I have no doubt that I'm the one he wants to be kissing, holding, letting get close.

My hands move up his back on their own, tracing the hard grooves, the taut muscles as he deepens the kiss. The world becomes this fuzzy storybook picture around me, soft light enveloping us as we kiss, until I imagine I can hear the crackling of a fire, the soft pounding of rain against the windowsill, neither of which is present, but should be at a special moment like this.

He scoops me up in his arms like I'm lighter than air, not breaking the kiss as he carries me to the bed and deposits me gently onto it.

His towel has fallen away, and my robe is open, hiding nothing. His lips are hot and wet, yet soft as he places tender kisses down my neck, across my breasts. No pain this time, just this gentle pleasure, filling my mind with such desire I'm sure my body can't contain all of it. I sigh as he licks down along the center seam of my stomach, stopping just shy of my clit.

I open my eyes and look at him questioningly, wondering why he stopped. He grins, then kisses my clit, dragging another moan from my throat. He keeps licking, nipping me down there, until I'm skirting the edge of orgasm, the tantalizing release inching further and further away with each touch of his lips, each lick of his tongue. I'm losing my mind, feel it slipping away from my grasp because all I know is this slow burning of pleasure that might never stop.

I'm panting and groaning, my hands digging into the comforter so hard my nails are bending. And yet he's still just teasing me, denying my climax.

"Please, Mark, let me come," I whisper, so soft I'm not sure he even heard.

He looks up, his lips glistening. "Is that what you want?"

"Yes."

He starts rubbing my clit with his thumb, tracing slow circles over it, stoking the fire higher.

"Please." The word leaving my mouth is more of a moan.

He responds by kissing my clit again, then sliding two fingers in like it was nothing. He caresses that spot where all orgasms start, while kissing and licking my clit, the waves of pleasure rising so high they're taking my air. Yet release is still only a wish.

Then he hooks his fingers over the special spot and starts pumping faster, his lips leaving my clit as I thrash around on the bed, my orgasm approaching with such speed I’m not sure I can survive the crash. He doesn't stop though, keeps pumping his fingers into me faster and faster, and I'm making sounds I never knew I could, as I come apart on his fingers, my orgasm coming like a flash flood, obliterating all in its path.

"May I do the same for you now?" I ask later, my voice still all hoarse and breathless.

He removes his fingers from my pussy slowly and runs them across my lips. I open my mouth and lick, enjoying the taste of myself on him, the satisfaction swimming in his eyes.

"Let's sleep now," he says and moves up on the bed. It's not a hard no, but it's a no nonetheless. So I don't press it. But I will break through this armor he insists on wearing around me. And I know I'm getting closer to doing so.

* * *

A buzzing noise wakes me. The sky outside is the dark grey of dawn and Mark's side of the bed is cold. Though his cologne is hanging in the air like he just left.

There's a text from him when I check the time, informing me that he'll be busy for most of the day, but will call me. He sent it less than five minutes ago, and that's what woke me. I rush to the door and open it, hoping he'll still be in the hallway, but it's deserted, and so quiet I can hear the humming of the lights.

So much for my hopes of waking up in his arms, maybe continuing what we started last night. I'm so sick of this on again off again. He's gentle one minute, cold and distant the next. And I don't even want to start thinking about his wife. Whatever he says, she's still very much a presence in his mind. Maybe even in his life. And I have a nagging feeling it's mostly because he doesn't want to let her go.

I also got a text from Lucy in the night, just after midnight.

I'll send some things to your email. It's better that we both have it, just in case.

Cryptic to the extreme. What's so urgent that she's messaging me in the middle of the night? I check my email, but there's nothing from her. She must've meant my work email, and I don't have access to that from my phone.

It's almost six, I should go home and change, then get to work. So I leave, kind of hoping Mark left the driver at my disposal again. But the lobby is empty, and the car's not waiting for me in front of the hotel.

I hail a cab, refuse to think about what the driver's absence means, and am sitting at my desk at the office by seven thirty. That's early even for me, so it's no surprise I'm the only one there.

Lucy's email would be at least ten pages long if printed out, and has so many attachments it's eaten up most of my inbox space. She's done some serious digging into Mark's past I realize, as I start scanning it. She even found out about Mark's dad Frank, who died a few months ago.

The passage about Mark's mom starts my heart racing. I never met her, she left his dad before they moved to our town, and she never reappeared in their lives that I know of. Nowhere to be found, Lucy writes. Like she vanished. Probably buried in some shallow grave. Like his wife. She just vanished too. I don't believe it for a moment. But Mark never wanted to talk about his mom, got angry every time I tried asking about her, until I finally stopped. But that's normal, right? His mom abandoned him. And judging from the way he spoke about his wife yesterday, there’s no way in hell he hurt her, I'm certain of it.

I skim the parts about the secretary and the escort, since I know it all already.

Now make note of the watch in photo number 2, the last paragraph of Lucy's email says. Isn't it eerily similar to—

That's where the email just cuts off, right in the middle of the sentence. Odd, but she did send it at three AM, maybe she fell asleep writing it.

I download the file labeled #2 my heart pounding in my throat. It's a photo of Mark and he's young, looks exactly the way I remember him from right before he got sent to reform school, and I didn't see him again for twelve years. All the love I felt for him and hid, overshadowed by the pain of rejection when I finally told him and he said no, erupt in my mind. He's scowling at the camera, clutching a grey duffle bag in his left hand, and wearing a watch similar to the one found at the crime scene. I remember that watch. His dad gave it to him on his sixteenth birthday. It was a family heirloom of some sort, but Mark never wore it, seemed ashamed of it at the time.

I left the folder with the crime scene photos at home, so I can't compare the two. But it's just a watch, there must be thousands like it, and this picture is not good enough to make a positive comparison, I'm sure.

I'm lightheaded when I look up from the computer, the room spinning around me. I don't know what to do. If Lucy prints any of this, it'll harm Mark's career beyond repair. And she has nothing, not a shred of concrete proof. Yet she'll destroy Mark's reputation all the same.

I'm dialing his number before I realize what I'm doing. He doesn't pick up, so I rattle off my warning to his voicemail, my voice shrill and shaky.

Calm down, Nicole. It's being taken care of, is the reply I get seconds after I hang up. I wait for more, but it doesn’t come.

He's not worried, so maybe I shouldn't be either. But perhaps he just doesn't know how my profession works. Journalists have the power to make or break a career, and Lucy's holding all the strings on this one.

* * *

Mark

Pierre walks into the office just as my first investor meeting is about to start. There's a thick white bandage wrapped around his forehead, his left arm in a sling. And he's limping. Whatever happened isn't good.

I wave him into my office, shutting the blinds over the wraparound windows, and locking the door behind him.

"What?" I bark.

"I got hit by a car, Mark," he says, easing himself onto the black leather sofa in the corner of my office. "It was intentional."

"And the journalist?"

He shrugs, looking down at his broken arm.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I'm pretty sure the whole office can hear my yell, but I don't care. I hoped I'd left this nightmare behind in LA.

"There's more," Pierre says, barely above a whisper. "I think I know who it is. I'd recognize him anywhere, got a pretty good look before he hit me with the SUV."

There he goes again with his French way of beating around the bush.

"Just tell me who!"

"Reynard." He doesn’t meet my eyes as he says it.

My breath freezes halfway to my lungs, and my heart stops mid-beat. Getting shot would be more pleasurable than hearing that name again.

"Can't be," I manage. "Reynard was killed in prison."

"Apparently not, Mark. And I know you are very much into her, but I think it’s time to cut your losses with the other journalist too," Pierre says in such a matter-of-fact way I'm very close to breaking his other arm.

"You're fucking useless, Pierre!" Of course it isn't Reynard, it can't be. Pierre is only saying it to rattle my cage, draw attention away from his continued failure.

I storm out of the office, stopping only long enough to tell my secretary to cancel all my appointments for the rest of the day. The calls I need to make now have to be done somewhere private. I just hope I have enough sway left to make this go away.

* * *

Nicole

Don't leave your office for any reason until I come get you.

I called Mark right after I got that text from him, but he didn't pick up, or call back. It's a preposterous demand, but there’s too much urgency in it to ignore.

It's nearly seven PM. Sam and me are the only ones still at the office. Lucy hasn't been in at all. I haven't discussed the story with Sam yet, wanted her to be here when I do. So I'm still sitting at my desk, pretending to work on my column, as I wait for Mark.

I hear Sam's phone ring, followed by his exasperated, confused, "What?"

His face is pale when I look up at him, and my heart's racing again, certain something happened to his wife.

"You sure it's her?" he asks whoever's on the other end of the line.

The lost look on his face as he hangs up tells me the answer was not the one he was hoping for. I'm standing by the door of his office, and I don't remember moving to get there.

"What is it, Sam?" I ask quietly, startling him because he hasn't noticed me standing there yet.

"It's Lucy," he says, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. "They found her body in Central Park this morning."

The ground lurches beneath my feet, making me stumble into the doorframe.

Behind me my phone's ringing and rattling against my desk. I know it's Mark. But dark thoughts are a tornado in my mind, and I don't want to answer it.