Nicole

I've been back in the city for a week, and memories of Christmas break are beginning to fade, or more like merge with all the other holiday memories. Even Mark barging back into my life out of nowhere is starting to seem like something that happened a while ago. Or only in my dreams.

No, that's a lie.

He's still my first thought when I wake up and the last before I fall asleep. Because the sex we had was mind-blowing. I've never had better. And the feelings his kisses woke inside me won't go away no matter how much I try to ignore them. It's like he's always there, in the back of my mind. Watching me. Sometimes I even find myself talking to him. It's unnerving.

Especially, since he hasn't been returning my calls.

He lit out of town while I was getting changed at my parents place on Christmas Day.

Left me a note nailed to the wooden door of his father's cottage, with his phone number and a vague excuse of having urgent business to take care of.

A phone number that might not even be his, since I called a million times and must've left about half as many voicemails.

Desperate. That's how I was coming across, but it's stopping right now. This very morning.

My apartment is cold, and the sky outside looks dreary, grey and overcast, like it's evening instead of morning. It snowed during the night, and will likely again any minute.

I love the beginning of winter; I don't much care for the rest of it though.

My phone rings while I'm shivering in the kitchen, waiting for my coffee to brew. It's my editor, and since it's barely past six AM, I wonder if he even left the office last night.

"Nicole, are you ready?" he asks as I pick up.

I nod my assent and roll my eyes, before I realize he can't see me, and reply with, "Yes."

"I don't have to tell you how important this interview is. Don't be late. We might not get a second chance," he says, not even pausing for breath. "Are you prepared?"

"I am, Sam, don't worry." It's the truth too. I was up until three AM prepping for it. Because in a couple of hours, I'll be having brunch with Milton Harrison, the head of Harrison and Associates Bank. He hasn't granted an interview in over twenty years.

"Just don't be late. And wear something nice."

He hangs up before I can reply, which is probably for the best. Sam has been stressing over this interview for the last three weeks, questioning my readiness the whole time, and it's seriously starting to get on my nerves.

I spend the next hour or so picking out an outfit that's womanly yet professional at the same time. Milton Harrison is old school. He likes his women classy and feminine. No one quite gets why he even agreed to let me interview him. Least of all me. I'm a young professional woman, with a reputation as a real go-getter, and I don't think I can actually pull off feminine. I completely forgot how to be that in the last few years while I toiled and struggled to get this position at the Wall Street Journal as one of the staff writers. It's still very much a man's world down on Wall Street, and I've adapted well. And apart from my curvy shape, I was never very feminine to begin with.

It's times like these I wish I still had a roommate, so I could get some feedback on outfits. The rest of the time I prefer living alone.

In the end, I opt for a black pencil skirt, a silk blouse and a blazer. I'll have to wear stilettos to make the outfit work, and I'm dreading the snow. But this outfit is the most feminine slash professional thing I own. I really should do some shopping one of these days.

After a quick shower, I'm ready.

I arrive at the chic restaurant where the interview will take place almost a half an hour early. Punctuality’s never been my thing, I'm always early.

The waiter seats me, and I order a coffee while I wait. It arrives in a beautiful, ornate pot, with a matching gold-rimmed cup and saucer, and I'm afraid I'll break both if I touch anything.

The room is about half full of men in expensive business suits. I recognize some, but not well enough to say hello. I bring out my tablet and notes, then sit back and watch.

The restaurant is gorgeous, and the chair I'm sitting in is possibly the most comfortable one I've ever sat on. It's plush, done up in cream velvet with small flowers worked into the fabric. The table I'm sitting at has a marble top and golden legs that look like lion's paws. In fact, the whole space looks like some ballroom in a European castle.

Most of the bankers and businessmen are there for meetings, though a few are having brunch with girlfriends. These women all look like models, though if we’re being honest, they're most likely escorts. I look out of place in my business attire, and a mass of loose, dark brown hair and probably weigh more than any two of them combined.

I'm still idly taking in my surroundings, when the whole room seems to do a three-sixty. Mark is sitting with a group at one of the window tables. The other men are talking, but Mark's bright blue eyes are fixed on me, boring into me like he can see right into my soul. All the butterflies in my stomach are back in a flash and I forget I'm supposed to be mad at him. I just want him to come over here so we can finish what we started on Christmas Eve.

But no.

I’m mad at him. He abandoned me for the second time when he left this time, and it won't happen again.

A man clears his throat beside me. "Good Morning. Are you Nicole West?"

I break eye contact with Mark, acting like I didn’t even recognize him, and stare up at Milton Harrison, extending my hand.

"I am. Thank you for meeting me here today."

We shake hands and he sits down. I can still feel Mark's gaze on me like heat coming off a fireplace, but I ignore him completely as I focus on the task at hand.

Only that's very hard now that Mark's watching me. A fog is rising in my mind, and all I'm really thinking of is Mark's chiseled abs, his bulging biceps, his tattooed chest and arms, as I knelt in front of him and…

Focus, Nicole.

I fire off the first of my questions. Once the conversation gets going, I manage to chase Mark from the forefront of my mind. But he's still there in the back. Watching. Listening.

I live for these interviews. They're my chance to make a difference in the world, and I soon have Milton struggling to find the right answers. With the way he's diplomatically avoiding my more pointed questions, I might not get much out of him.

"You are one tough girl, aren't you?" he finally snaps once I start seriously grilling him.

I smile flirtatiously, though inside I'm seething. Girl? I'll show him girl. But I shouldn’t make him mad, else I might never get another interview with anyone.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Harrison. Sometimes I get a little carried away. You know how it is. I just want to do my best."

He chuckles at my obvious discomfort, which is only slightly faked. I'm getting afraid he'll cut this interview short.

"Sure, sure, I understand. You wish to make a name for yourself," he says, something more fatherly crossing his face. "But I will not comment on the Martinez affair."

Hell, there goes the whole article. Harrison's involvement with one of the biggest Mexican drug cartels is the main reason I sought this interview.

"Consider it a chance to tell your side of the story," I suggest, surprised I have to. I thought this was exactly why he was meeting me at all. "The story will get out one way or another."

He pales at my thinly veiled threat, his whole face tightening. "There is no involvement. We cut all ties as soon as we learned where the money was coming from."

That's a lie. Martinez and his dirty money were behind many of the projects backed by Harrison until someone leaked the information. My sources say it still is, even though Harrison and his bank are now claiming they've cut all ties.

"So the Imperial project is not going ahead then?" I ask.

The look Harrison gives me now is pure venom. In a moment he'll tell me to go to hell with my questions and walk out.

"Good Morning, Milton," a very familiar voice says to my left. "Long time."

"Ah, Mark," Harrison says, clearing his throat. "Are you finally established in the city?"

They shake hands, though Mark's gaze lingers on me. Or, more accurately, on my cleavage.

They're speaking, but I'm ignoring him so completely the words don't even register. I can almost feel the air crackling from his annoyance at this. But he ignored all my calls, so I have nothing to say to him anymore.

"And how are you, Nicole?" he asks, and it takes my mind a few seconds to decipher the words.

"Have we met?" I shoot back, my own anger crackling now. He's seriously gonna pretend he's not been dodging my calls? Well, we'll see about that.

His cocky grin is replaced by a look of dumb confusion. Serves him right.

"If you'll excuse me," I say and stand up. "I have to go freshen up."

My legs are jelly over what just happened, so I don't know how I get to the bathroom without falling. For the whole way, I can feel Mark's gaze on me, piercing me like a thousand daggers.

But I'm done pining over him. Or wishing we could ever share something more than a troubled past.

* * *

The bathroom is huge, bigger than my whole apartment, and it's stifling hot inside. Though maybe I only feel like that because I just saw Mark, the man I've been lusting over for the last three weeks. And I ignored him. Pretended I didn’t know him. What was I thinking?

I'm about to splash some cold water over my face, but remember my elaborate makeup just in time.

When I straighten up from bending over the sink, Mark's standing right behind me, his eyes piercing me through the mirror.

"Didn't recognize me back there, huh?" he growls more than says, and it's enough to make my panties wet. Or maybe that's because he's leaning against me, his hard cock pressed into my back. Even though I’m wearing stilettos, he towers over me.

I'm blushing a hot pink, my mind trying to come up with a snappy comeback, but failing. Of course I recognize him. I never want to not recognize him again.

He hugs me from behind and slides his hand down behind my blouse. My nipples instantly harden. I yelp as he pinches my right one painfully. "Maybe this reminds you?"

His other hand slides over my ass, squeezing hard.

"No, Mark," I manage. "Someone will see."

But my voice is sultry, and my whole body is vibrating in anticipation. I want him so bad I might explode. But this is so improper. So dirty. Yet so exciting.

He slides my skirt up over my hips, as he kisses my neck, biting down just right, eliciting another sigh.

"I thought you were mine," he whispers, as he slides down my tights.

It's such a gentle movement, abruptly cut short as he rips off my panties, the elastic digging into my flesh painfully before it finally snaps. I yelp again, trying to turn and stop what he's doing. But he has me pinned against the sink, holding me tight.

"Not here," I manage, and it's something between a plea and an invitation.

"Why not?" he asks. I hear his zipper open.

"Someone will come in," I whisper, though I'm not sure I care any longer.

He spreads my legs further apart with his knee, then runs the head of his massive cock over my wet opening. "Let them. Then everyone will know you're mine."

I scream as he rams his cock into my pussy, filling me completely in one long, vicious stroke. There's pain, but it melts away almost instantly as he pulls out, pounds into me again. He covers my mouth with his hand, because I'm making too much noise, shaking and wailing as I come hard on his third thrust.

But he’s not finished yet. He pounds his huge cock into me, going deeper on every thrust, opening me up completely. I scream into his hand, as I come again, harder this time, heat like molten lava suffusing my whole being.

He grunts as he slams into me one last time and his hot semen fills me.

"So you remember me now?" he asks breathlessly, his cock buried inside me to the hilt.

I nod my head like some schoolgirl eager to please. It elicits a cocky grin from him, but the light in his eyes is far from playful. It's dangerous, and it makes me wish he'd fuck me again. My cheeks are flushed, my hair's a mess, but I'm glowing.

He pulls out fast, making me gasp as I stumble against the sink like his cock was the only thing holding me up.

He zips up his pants and much of the magic is broken. What am I doing? How could I let him just take me like that?

I yank down my skirt and bend over to pick up my panties, but they're ruined.

"I'll enjoy thinking of you with no underwear underneath that skirt," he says, smirking at me. "And the piece of me I left behind inside you."

I straighten up and pull up my tights, still trying to come up with something to say.

But I can't, and he's already leaving. I'm not about to yell after him.

I have an interview to finish. An impossible task, seeing as I can't hold on to any thought long enough to understand it.

* * *

I peer around the restaurant after I finally manage to pull it together and exit the bathroom. Mark's nowhere to be seen. What just happened was so insane, I'm starting to think it wasn't even real. But I can still feel the imprint of his cock in my pussy, so I know it was.

"I do not have all day for this, Ms. West," Milton says as I take my seat at our table.

I don't like his condescending tone.

My heart's thumping, and adrenaline is pumping through my veins, anger rising inside me like heat from a well-stoked fire.

"I have proof that your bank is still using drug money to fund projects," I blurt out. It's an exaggeration. I don't have proof, but I have a very strong suspicions.

"As I already told you, all ties were cut with Martinez and his organization," Milton says and waves the waiter over. "This interview is finished. I do not give my permission to print any of it."

"I don't need your permission," I mutter. "Don't you even want to refute the proof before I publish the story?"

Milton pulls his wallet out of his breast pocket and slams a twenty on the table.

"I didn't think the Wall Street Journal would print just any gossip." He's red in the face, and a vein is pulsing in his temple. "I'd be careful, if you want to keep your career."

Then he gets up and strides out.

I blew it. Royally. All I worked for these last eight years might have just gone down the toilet.

Sam, my editor, told me not to antagonize Milton, and that's exactly what I did. I'm not ready for the big leagues. That's what Sam will say now.

If Mark hadn't come along, did what he did to me in the bathroom, I would've handled this more professionally. But like some rookie idiot, I let my anger at Mark, and the presumptuous way he took what he wanted from me, come out in my interview with Milton, and now I'll pay the consequences. With my job. Which is also, incidentally, my whole life.

I haven't felt the urge to cry this strongly in forever. But I do now. So I pack up my things and practically run out of the restaurant, already seeing my whole life imploding before my eyes.

* * *

Mark

She was so willing, yet so resistant. I loved bending her over that sink, fucking her like she belongs to me. Like she has no say in the matter. My stomach is still cramping up from my need to do it to her over and over again.

But this is Nicole. I’ve loved her since we were children. And the feelings I have for her are pure and gentle. In as much as anything about me is pure and gentle. I don't want to break her with my twisted desires. Yet this is who I am now, and if I pursue her, that's exactly what will happen. One way or another. Every woman close to me ends up hurt. Or dead. And despite the fact that I have never desired a woman more, I won’t risk that happening to Nicole.

That fear was the only reason I left her on Christmas Day. The only reason why I didn't return her calls.

I'm not quite sure how I hoped to stay away from her in NYC, but I meant to try.

That resolve lasted until the second I saw her. Then all those good intentions went out the window.

She's returning to her table now, on very shaky legs, her otherwise porcelain skin still flushed. She checks, but doesn't see me where I'm standing over by the bar. Yet I see her clearly. The skirt she’s wearing hugs her ass tightly, leaving little to the imagination, and her full breasts bounce with each step she takes, sending my cock throbbing all over again.

Meeting her back home in Oregon after 12 years of no contact was the single best thing to happen to me. As was fucking her on Christmas Eve.

But she wants love, and I can’t give her that. I need submission and control.

I can see her eyes flashing from across the room as she asks Milton questions. Can see his face grow purple as he probably can't answer them. Nicole is powerful, she's independent, and my cock grows even harder at the thought of bringing her under my control and taming that wildness of hers.

But she's not submissive. Never was. So I can't even try. Hell, I wish I'd taken her ripped underwear as a souvenir today, however sick that sounds. Because I must stay away from her.

So I turn away and order a double vodka, downing it in one long swallow. It burns away some of my pent up tension.

When I turn again, Milton is exiting the restaurant in a huff, and Nicole is sitting in her chair like she's frozen.

Her interview was a bust. I can read that clearly off her face.

And I had a lot to do with that.

But I can fix it. Milton owes me. I toss some money onto the bar and walk out after him. He’ll give Nicole her story, whatever it is. I'll make sure of it.

* * *

Nicole

I should get back to the office; explain to my editor about what happened. Milton probably called him to complain already, since my phone's been vibrating constantly. But I don't even check it, let alone return any of the calls.

I need to get home, shower and change. Get my head around what just happened.

My apartment is still very cold, so I crank up the heat and set the shower to the highest temperature. I can still smell Mark's cologne on my jacket and my skin, can still feel his semen inside me. And a part of me wants all that to keep. But I'm not the type of woman who lets men dominate her. Or use my body for their own pleasure. My pussy clenches and my nipples throb at the thought, marking the lie.

I never knew submitting to a man's pleasure would feel so exciting. Mostly because the guys I've dated so far didn't quite know what to do with a woman.

I step into the shower, gasping as the hot water touches my skin.

I wasn't that woman. Not until Mark came back into my life this Christmas.

Now I'm the woman who came twice, while getting fucked in a public restroom by a man who only did it to stake his claim of me. And I want him to do it again. And again. I want his strong muscular arms pinning me down, as he takes me rough and hard, like I exist only for his pleasure.

My hand moves down to my clit at the thought.

But no.

I am my own woman. Strong and independent. And I don't need a man to complete me. Especially not a cocky, arrogant bastard who thinks he can just take anything he wants from me wherever and whenever. And then drop me again without so much as a kiss goodbye.

I scrub my skin furiously, getting all traces of Mark off my body. He may be hot and I may be in love with him, but he stepped over the line with me for the last time today. First, he ignores my calls, and then he fucks me in a bathroom like I'm some cheap whore.

No. I won't even give him a second thought.

I have to get to work, have to fix this argument with Milton so it won't destroy my career. And the last thing I need is Mark messing up my mind any more than he already has.

* * *

"Don't you pick up the phone anymore?" Sam yells at me across the office as I enter it.

All typing stops abruptly, and even the phone conversations going on seem to quiet down. I feel my face grow hotter with every step I take towards Sam.

"I'm sorry," I mutter as I squeeze past him into the office.

Whatever yelling he's gonna do at me should be done in private. Too many of my so-called colleagues would like nothing better than to hear me get chewed out by the boss.

"You're sorry? Well, you should be. But it's not enough," Sam says and slams the door, sending the plastic blinds rattling against the glass. "I don't know what happened, but Milton was furious. Says we can't print anything, or else."

“Or else what?” My indignation overshadows the humiliation of the situation. "All I did was point out the dirty money he's still using to fund the Imperial project. We agreed that was to be the angle of my article. Maybe I could've chosen my words more carefully, but that's about it. I still would've asked those questions. You told me to ask them. You know my proof is solid."

"Yeah, you should've chosen your words more carefully.” Sam sighs and rubs his eyes, sending the bags under them jiggling. He’s about my Dad’s age, and sometimes I worry that he works too much. “You're not experienced enough. I should've sent someone else. We’ll have to bury the story for now."

He sits down with a groan.

"Bury it? But it's the hottest news to hit in months. Career making stuff."

He glares at me, his eyes so bright I'm surprised they're not shooting sparks. "It's career destroying stuff, Nicole. Milton has a lot of pull—"

"I didn't realize the Wall Street Journal was that kind of publication," I snarl, glaring right back at him. "My information is solid, whether he wants to comment on it or not."

Sam adjusts the collar of his turtleneck. He always wears a black turtleneck and a black pair of pants. When I first met him at college, I used to wonder if he ever even changed. But he explained that deciding what to put on each morning was a waste of brainpower. That sounded so cool to me. So ingenious. I hate to see him this beat down by a dishonest banker.

"Do you have a source? Do you have definitive proof?" he asks.

I open my mouth to answer, but it would be "No" on both, so I don't.

"That's right, you don't. Which is why we can't print any of it, especially now," Sam answers for me. "I'd hoped you'd be able to get him to say some incriminating stuff today, but like I said, you're not quite ready."

I don't know what's with me and tears today, but they're choking me again.

"Go work on your column now."

I nod, unable to speak. This article was gonna put my name front and center. Now I'm back to being the girl they let pretend she's an investigative journalist. The rest of the office will be overjoyed. I know they call me little-brownnosing-goodie-two-shoes behind my back even though none of them do it to my face. Yet. This could change that.

"And Nicole, no mention of this in the column, is that clear?" Sam asks as I'm exiting his office.

"Fine," I mutter.

I want to beg him to give me another chance, let me fix this. But it'll likely be years before he trusts me with another high profile story after this. And I've already waited years for this one.

Back at my desk, the noise of everyone else working merrily at their desks soon starts to drive me insane. So I pack up my laptop and leave. I could use some lunch, maybe coffee though I'm already so high strung I might not be able to sleep for a week.

* * *

It's snowing so hard outside it's sticking to everything, including my eyelashes. All I really want to do is go home and sleep, forget this day ever happened, pretend it was all a dream.

"There you are!" a man yells and grabs my arm as I'm making my way to the nearest diner.

It's Mark. Probably come to gloat over how he messed up my day. I almost drop everything I'm holding and slap him.

"Leave me alone, Mark," I mutter instead.

"I was a little out of line before, I admit," he says, grinning at me. And much of my anger and sadness disappears. Because yes he was out of a line, but it was also the most exciting thing that ever happened to me. And my mind is still trying to make sense of it.

"A little?" I ask. "I wonder what a lot out of line would be."

He grins in a completely different way, a dangerous light passing across his bright blue eyes. I have no idea what he's thinking, but I have a feeling I might like it too.

"Let me buy you lunch," he says and opens the door to a Chinese restaurant we're standing in front of.

There's all sorts of excuses racing through my brain, but instead of voicing any of them I step inside. I need a friend right now. Even if it is Mark, who hasn't been very friendly to me lately.

He helps me take off my coat like a real gentleman, then sits next to me in the booth, and not across, like we're two lovebirds on a date. And despite everything, the thought wakes butterflies in my stomach. Or maybe those are from how close he's sitting. We're not touching, technically speaking, but the warmth he's giving off is almost like physical contact.

"Did I distract you from your meeting with Milton?" he asks, and I feel my cheeks grow hot. I even bat my eyelashes in embarrassment. A very soft expression passes over his face at that, replaced immediately by something hard, menacing.

"But you enjoyed it," he adds. It's not really a question, yet I nod anyway, can't help it. Because I did. And I want more, I'm just not quite ready to admit it to anyone, even myself.

"What will it be?" the waitress asks, breaking my trance. I haven't even looked at the menu yet. But I always get the same thing at this restaurant and I recite off my order, right over Mark asking for a few more minutes.

"Or we can wait," I add stupidly.

The waitress leaves again, and Mark stares at his menu. Something changed between us with this exchange, I can feel it, but I have no idea what it was. He's cold again, distant, like we don't really know each other.

When the waitress returns with a pitcher of water he's ready, and this time he orders for both of us. He gets me what I asked for before, and while I'm not the type who likes the man to order for her, with Mark I'm willing to make an exception. He's always had a forceful presence, but now he exudes a quiet, dark power I'm only used to from the richest guys around, and even they don't do it this well. I'm not impressed by money, but I am impressed with Mark.

"You were interviewing Milton for an article?" he asks, taking me off guard.

"Yeah, but I screwed up. I'm surprised they didn't fire me."

He runs his hand over my thigh, sending a million tiny explosions all over my skin. But this is so improper. He can't just touch me like that. We need to talk.

I pick his hand off my thigh and stare at him pointedly. He shrugs, a glint lighting in his eyes, and doesn't pull his hand back. Nor do I let go of it.

"I can have Milton talk to you again," he says.

It's not a complete sentence. There's a lot he left unspoken. But all I'm seeing is a second chance.

"Can you?" I shriek, squeezing his hand harder. "I mean, would you?"

He smirks at me. "Sure, for a price."

His eyes travel down my front, stopping on my breasts, before continuing lower. I let go of his hand, yanking mine away. The nerve.

I'm on my feet before I even decide to stand up. I've never traded sex for special treatment at work, and I'm not about to start with Mark.

"Who the hell do you take me for? Some kind of whore?" I yell, causing more than one head to turn in our direction. And here I was thinking we were moving forward, that this morning was just a little glitch in the grand scheme of wonderful things yet to come. But no, he's only after sex with me.

"No, I take you for the hottest and most desirable woman I've ever met," he answers, speaking barely above a whisper.

"Then show me some respect!"

"Is that what you want? Respect? I thought it was something else." He's speaking in such an infuriatingly soft tone, yet it's still cutting right to my core, where I undeniably want to give myself to Mark in any which way he wants me.

But that’s insane. I've gone crazy.

"No!" I yell, grab my coat and storm out. I was speaking as much to myself as to him. Because I need to get away from him before I lose my mind completely. Too large a part of me wanted to go along with his plan. Just so he'd touch me again. Fuck me again.

I don't even put on my coat as I hail a cab. I'm covered in snow, and people are staring, which is odd for NYC. But I don't care. I just need to get home. Put this nightmare of a day behind me. And maybe that's all it is. Me dreaming. And I'll wake up any minute and get to start this insane day all over.

* * *

Mark's called me a few times today, as had Sam, I realize when I finally check my messages. I call Sam back briefly to leave a voicemail saying I've gone home for the day. Then I change into my comfiest pajamas, and pour myself a glass of wine.

The snow's coming down in huge clumps, and I love watching it fall. But it won't leave a pristine white blanket like it would back home in Oregon. Here in NYC, it turns grey before it even reaches the ground. And I’m sure there’s a metaphor for my relationship with Mark in there somewhere too. Back when we were children and inseparable friends, everything was so perfect, so right. But now, not so much.

Yet a large part of me wishes I'd stayed at the Chinese restaurant with him. Laughed off his comment and enjoyed the lunch, his presence, the warmth he wakes in me. Now I'm just cold, wishing that I at least had work to bury myself in. But I can't even think of that, not after this morning.

My phone rings, piercing through my gloom and doom like an alarm.

"Is this Ms. West?" a female voice asks as I pick up.

"I have Mr. Harrison on the line, please hold," she continues after I tell her she has the right number. My heart's racing, my mind stuck in a loop of all the horrible things Milton will likely throw at once he comes on the line. I should’ve just ignored the call.

"Ms. West, I would like to apologize for this morning," Milton's deep voice says. I'm breathing hard, his words not making any sense in my brain. "If you have any more questions for me, I will be happy to answer them."

I clear my throat, my fingers hurting from clutching my phone so hard. "Yes. Yes, I do have more questions."

"Next Monday at ten," he says. "Same place."

"OK, I'll be there," is all I manage.

After he hangs up, I'm still not sure I didn't just imagine the whole conversation.

Did Mark set this up? So what he said at lunch was just a sick little joke? He cares, he really does, and I just left him sitting there in the restaurant.

My doorbell rings, and I jump from the couch, certain it's Mark come to tell me he's sorry. That he loves me. That everything was just a huge misunderstanding.

"Delivery for Nicole West," a man says when I press the intercom button.

"OK, come up," I say and buzz him in. It's not Mark, and I'm not expecting any deliveries.

All I see through the peephole when the doorbell rings is a huge bouquet of red roses. The delivery man hands them to me, waits as I deposit them on the dining room table, so I can sign the receipt.

There's a small white envelope stuck in amid the flowers.

I'm glad you're back in my life. -Mark

Just that, nothing else, no promises, no apologies.

There's got to be at least a hundred flowers in the bouquet. I don't even own a vase large enough to hold them. No one's ever sent me flowers before.

I put them in the water pitcher and set them on the coffee table, reading and re-reading the note. I wish he'd delivered them himself. Then I could tell him I'm glad he's back in my life too.

But as things stand, I don't know what to do.

* * *

My whole apartment smells of roses the next morning. The scent follows me as I drink my first coffee, assaults me when I get out of the shower, wraps around me while I’m getting dressed. Mark wants me, I know that. But in what way? And for how long?

Everyone’s already gathered in the conference room when I come into the office, so I don't have the chance to tell Sam about Milton's call in private. At least that's sorted for now, but I need his guidance on how to approach it. My way clearly hasn't worked.

"So, does anyone have anything new to pitch?" Sam asks once we're all seated.

I could tell him about Milton now, in front of everyone. Maybe that would stop them smirking in my direction, or whispering to each other and looking at me. But I refrain. Sam still has to give me the go ahead to run with the story, and that would best be done in private.

"Cross Investments are finally up and running," Lucy, one of my co-workers says. She's the worst when it comes to backstabbing and gossip. She stole at least five of my article ideas, while pretending to be my friend when I first came to work here. "They're holding a large party this Saturday at the Hilton. I'm sure there's a lot of fodder in Mark Cross' shady past to warrant a story."

Could this be Mark's company? But how? He’s not Cross. Oh, no. Cross was his mother's surname. Mark's actual last name is a complicated Polish one I never even learned to spell right. No wonder I never heard of him before he reappeared on Christmas. He'd changed his name.

"What shady past?" Sam asks and that's exactly what I want to know too. "You mean the deals with the cartels? That's been done to death in his case, and he's always come up clean."

"No, it’s more recent and juicier than that," Lucy muses. "One of his rivals was found stabbed about a month ago. And Cross was also questioned in the murder of that escort, the one that was found tied to a tree with her throat slit."

My heart's beating so fast, the room's starting to turn dark at the edges. I'd heard of this. It was a gruesome murder, but I never connected Mark to it.

"He wasn't charged with that, was he?" Sam asks, taking off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Not formally, but he was too close to her for comfort," Lucy explains. "And the man they charged with her death is some Mexican immigrant, who claims he's innocent. Now if we could only get close to Cross somehow, ask some questions."

Everyone else has already started whispering among themselves while Lucy pitched her story. I hate to be the journalist who steals other people's leads. In fact I've never done it before, but Lucy had it coming. And I have to try and help Mark. I owe him that much.

"I know Mark Cross, we grew up together," I hear myself say. "I can get into the party and talk to him."

The venom in Lucy's eyes as she glares at me is so potent it actually turns my stomach. But I'm not stealing her story. I'm planning on making it so there will be no story.

"Do it then," Sam says. "Call him."

He eyes Lucy warily as I nod, but doesn't say anything more about it as he starts listening to the other pitches. Lucy glares at me for the rest of the meeting, but apart from giving her an apologetic shrug I ignore her. She'd have done the same to me if our roles were reversed, so I don't even feel that bad about it.

Now I just have to get Mark on the phone. I'm actually giddy at the prospect, since my reason for calling has nothing to do with yesterday's events.

* * *

All the calls I make to Mark keep going to voicemail, and he's not returning any of them. It's Friday, and I still haven't secured an invitation to the party. Let alone an interview with Mark. Though I've already lied to Sam that it's all arranged.

I finally just call Mark’s office on Friday afternoon, managing to get his secretary on the phone. I'm surprised when a man's voice greets me. I'd expected Mark to have some leggy beauty for a secretary, like most of the other bankers do.

"My name is Nicole West," I tell him. "I wish to speak with Mr. Cross. He's expecting my call."

It's not strictly true, but he should be expecting my call.

"Oh, yes, Ms. West," the man says, taking me completely off guard. "Mr. Cross is handling some personal business back in LA this week, but he would like you to attend the company party tomorrow night. Where should I send the invitation?"

I recite off my home address, even though he already has it. Why wait for my call before he sent the invitation, if he meant to do it all along? Why not call me back, if he'd been expecting my call?

"Very well, I’ll send it by courier tonight," the secretary says. "What time would be best?"

I tell him nine, just to be safe, resist the urge to ask him more questions about where Mark is. Like what kind of personal business he's attending to? The dead escort?

I haven't done any research into that part of Mark’s past yet. Mainly because I would rather pretend it's not true. But I mean to ask him about it in person the second I see him. There is no doubt that I will help him bury it.

* * *

The doorbell rings at exactly nine PM. But it's not just an invitation that arrives, it's a whole package wrapped in blue and gold paper.

The invitation is in an envelope with a hand written note from Mark, which just reads, Wear it.

First the flowers, now this. I can't decide if I like getting presents from him, or if I'm offended.

But I have to at least see what's in the package, before I send it back. I unwrap the box carefully, so I can put it all back together like I never opened it, if it contains something I can't accept.

It's a black cocktail dress with clear gems worked into the low neckline. The gems sparkle like diamonds, but they can't be real. There's also a smaller bag with a gorgeous black lacy bra, matching panties, and a garter belt with stockings so soft it feels like I'm touching air. All of those items are also adorned with the clear gems, and even if those stones aren't diamonds, all this must've cost a fortune.

A part of me is mad at the blatant hint at sex after the party. But another part, one I don't meet very often, loves being the woman who receives these kinds of luxurious gifts from her man.

But Mark's not my man.

Still, I could at least try it on. Feel pretty for an hour. I don’t even look at underwear that costs more than $50.

But I don't do it right away. Instead I pour myself some wine, and stare at the gifts, trying to figure out what it all means. Or how I feel about it.

After an hour, I still can't answer either of those questions.

Why doesn't Mark just talk to me? The question is so loud in my mind, I feel like I'm screaming it at him. But my phone stays silent.

I'm sure he knows I got the package. So why isn't he calling? I almost call him myself, but I refrain. I've called him too many times already, and he should start calling me back one of these days.

Which he isn't.

So, no.

Tomorrow, I'm wearing one of my own dresses, and I'll bring this one along to return to him. He doesn't need to give me gifts. He just needs to talk to me.

* * *

It's nearly time to go to the party, and I'm still not dressed. All of last night's resolve not to wear the gift was gone when I woke up this morning. So I've been staring at the dress and underwear for hours, trying to decide whether I should just wear it.

Damn you, Mark. Why can't he just be easy going? Like it used to be. Why do I have to get all excited and lightheaded just thinking of him? Why can't I stop thinking of him?

Hell, I want him and he wants me. So I'll wear the dress he got me, and the underwear. But it's too cold for the garter belt.

Once the decision is made, I'm dressed in minutes. The dress barely covers my boobs, but otherwise fits like it was made for me. I've never felt this sexy before in anything I wore.

I decide to wear my big black coat over it, which comes down almost to my ankles, since the dress is way too revealing for anything else.

But I start to get nervous in the cab on the way to the Hilton. Because I'm way overdressed for a work party, and I'm going there to get laid. The last revelation catches me by surprise. But I can't deny it, because that's what I'm doing.

* * *

I feel all eyes on me, as I get to the party. There has to be at least five hundred people here, and their faces are all blurred, I'm ignoring them so hard. I’m having trouble breathing, because I really hate being the center of attention.

Get it together, Nicole.

I repeat it to myself over and over again, but it's not really registering. I've been to a few parties like this since I moved to the city, though I try to avoid them. I'm not comfortable in large crowds of people.

I can't see Mark anywhere. A gorgeous brunette is playing the violin in one corner, accompanied by a man on the piano. I don't recognize the song, but it has an ethereal feel to it, so it must be old. A waiter offers me a platter of champagne glasses, and I take one. Champagne always gives me a headache, but right now I just need something to take the edge off.

I wander closer to the musicians, hoping Mark will show up soon. After awhile, I do start to relax and recognize some of the guests. This would be a great place to network, get some contacts, but the knot in my throat is the size of Texas, and I'm so high strung I'll just say all the wrong things. So I stand by the wall, minding my own business.

Milton Harrison is standing with a group of tuxedo-clad men right across from me, but he doesn't acknowledge me in any way, so I ignore him too. I think one of the men he's speaking to is Martinez, but I might just be imagining it.

"Hello, Ms. West. Enjoying the party?" a man's voice says. He sounds familiar, but I can't place his face.

"Yes, I am," I venture, though it's a huge lie. I just want to speak to Mark, warn him about Lucy's accusations and leave. This isn't my kind of scene. I write about these peoples' transgressions, I don't mingle with them.

"Mr. Cross said to give you this when you arrived," the man says, handing me a small envelope. I finally place the voice. It's Mark's secretary. "If you say yes, I will take you upstairs."

I take the envelope automatically, even though I know this is just more games.

I'm waiting for you in room 1109, is all the note inside the envelope says.

I can't believe he sent his secretary to take me upstairs like I'm some paid escort.

But I did come here to get laid.

No. I came to warn Mark. That's it.

"Sure, lead the way," I say, crumpling up the little paper in my fist. Mark's about to get what's coming to him. And after this, there will be no more misunderstandings between us.

* * *

I stare straight ahead for the whole way up, practicing my speech and ignoring the secretary completely. I notice him checking out my cleavage. He must know why I've been summoned. And Mark's gonna hear about that too.

"The suite is just down the hall," the secretary says and points to the left when the elevator finally stops.

I stalk out without even nodding in acknowledgement.

Once at the door, I knock so hard my knuckles might just be bruised tomorrow.

"Come in," a lazy reply sounds from inside.

I open the door and storm in, don't stop until I'm standing right next to Mark.

He's holding a tumbler of whiskey, wearing a tux like he was just about to go down to the party. But on him it doesn't look as stiff as on other men. It fits him perfectly, moves with him as he takes a step towards me, closing the last shred of distance between us.

"You came," he says, but there's no surprise in his voice. It's like he knew all along I would, and it's infuriating. "And you wore the dress."

I jerk back as he tries to hold me.

"These gifts, the flowers…what does it all mean?" I blurt out, suddenly unable to remember any of the speech I practiced on the way up here.

He shrugs. "I want you to look your best."

"And I want you to return my calls, not have your secretary send me packages and escort me places."

He deposits his glass on the windowsill and grabs my waist, pulling me to him.

"I wanted to, but I wasn't sure I should."

His words are confusing, but his strong arms around me, his hard cock pressing into my stomach feel so right, I'm starting to forget why I'm really here. But not quite.

I place my hand on his chest and push him back, but he doesn't budge.

"A journalist I work with is prepping a story about your troubles with the law back in LA," I say, not sure why I'm being so vague. But accusing him of murdering a woman while I'm staring into his bright blue eyes seems impossible.

His hand slides down and cups my ass as he pulls me closer.

"And you believe it?"

His lips are so invitingly close that I no longer know what to believe.

"I don't want to," I manage.

He kisses me, and the rest of my resistance just floats away, off somewhere very far. I grab his shirt and pull him closer, as his tongue enters my mouth, hard and demanding, exactly like I've always wanted to be kissed.

Then he pulls away, releases me completely, and picks up his glass again.

"Why?" I stammer, saying the first thing that pops into my mind. I never do that. But I want him so bad my whole body is vibrating.

"I'm not sure you're ready for me," he says and takes a swallow of his whiskey. His eyes are no longer bright. There's a storm brewing in them now, slow and dark, menacing.

"I am ready," I blurt out, again without thinking. And I don't know if I am, but I do know I can't go another day waiting for him to call me back.

The glint in his eyes reminds me of light reflecting off a knife's edge. Instead of scared, I grow more excited.

The tumbler makes a hollow thud as it hits the floor. Then Mark's kissing me again, demanding my surrender, and I give in willingly.

He leads me to the bed, sits on the edge and positions me in front of him.

"Strip," he commands.

And I've never wanted to do a thing more. Even though the danger alarm sounding somewhere in the back of my mind has also never been louder.