Nicole

It's eight o’clock by the time I finally make it out of the office. Do I tell Mark right away about Sam assigning me the story? Or do I wait, and hope he'll understand? I don't want to keep secrets from Mark. But he'll make me give up the story. Give up my job. And then what? Besides it's not like he's very forthcoming with his secrets.

Mark's waiting for me outside my office building, leaning against his car, anger shooting from his eyes like a storm of epic proportions is about to hit. It's like he already knows. But how can he? My stomach knots into a tight, painful ball just from that look, and I swear other people on the street are avoiding him in a wide arc. I have no hope of avoiding him though. Ever again. I'm pulled to him like I'm riding a wave I can't break free of, and he's causing it.

"I told you to come home at five," he says once I'm close enough to hear.

"I had work to do," I counter, feeling giddy at being with him and angry at his commanding tone, which is a very weird combination.

"You do as I say," he informs me.

I smile. "Sure. In love. But not when it concerns my work."

"No, Nicole. In life. I expect you to follow all my orders."

The chilly way in which he delivers this rule makes me feel like I've swallowed a fistful of ice. And I don't know how to respond. I'm not sure if I'm ready to follow his commands in all things, and all the time. Yet it feels natural to do so, like I was always meant to.

He steps away from the car and swings open the door. "Get in."

I'm glad for the command, because this one I can follow. But this is not the time to tell him about the article, not even close.

"So, the bodyguard you assigned me this morning isn't coming with us?" I ask once he gets behind the wheel. I meant it as a joke, but it came out too sarcastic.

"I can protect you better than he can," he says, glaring at me and I know it for the absolute truth. My whole body goes soft at the certainty in his voice, pleasant warmth filling me. I want to ask what he needs to be protecting me from, but I don't want to spoil the moment.

"Because you were in the Army and you know how?" I mutter instead.

"Yeah, that's right," he answers and leaves it at that.

"Where are we going?" I ask, once it becomes clear he's not headed back to the hotel.

"You'll see," he says curtly.

He is still angry because I disobeyed him before. That's why he's not saying much, or touching me. The almost healed welts on my back prickle. But we're not going downtown to the club, so I guess I'll be spared another whipping. Though just the thought of it makes me wet, sends a pleasant spasm through my pussy even as a part of my brain fears the pain.

Before I know it, we're parked in front of a sprawling Uptown building that overlooks Central Park. I wait in the car for him to come around and open the door for me, since I'm beginning to understand that's how he likes it.

A thin blonde wearing a very tight skirt and very high heels peels away from the side of the building and approaches us, a huge smile on her face as she extends her hand. "Good evening, Mr. Cross."

She looks older from up close, in her late forties maybe, and she's acting like I'm not even there. My annoyance must show on my face when she finally turns to me. "And Mrs. Cross."

"West," I mutter and shake her hand.

"Ms. West, I'm sorry," she corrects herself, eying Mark again. "Shall we go up?"

"Up where?" I ask Mark, annoyance clear in my tone. Who is this woman, and what is this place? Why does he keep even the smallest things from me?

"To see the apartment, of course," she answers instead of him, and twirls around, walks to the front door.

Mark's not even looking at me, which just makes me madder. So I follow her without waiting for him to offer me his arm, or whatever.

After she clears it with the doorman, she takes us to the elevator. The doors are gilded in golden leaves and branches, and the interior is all done in plush red velvet and golden thread. The elevator opens right into a penthouse apartment, in the way I've only seen happen in movies up until now.

The place is empty and huge. My small apartment could fit into this living room alone twice over, with space to spare. And the floor-to-ceiling windows offer wraparound views of the twinkling lights of the city. Moonlight is reflecting off the Hudson River in the distance.

The real estate agent flips on the light and the magic is broken. "How about a tour?"

"We can find our way around on our own," Mark tells her. "Wait downstairs for us."

She gasps, her eyes wide, but regains her composure quickly. "As you wish, Mr. Cross."

I wait until the elevator closes behind her, before turning to him. "What is this place?"

"I need an apartment," Mark says, and walks further into the living room. "But you should have a say in which one I pick."

"I already have an apartment," I protest, even though a huge part of me loves what he just said, knows it means he's not going to leave me anytime soon. I follow him into the living area. A huge kitchen complete with an island stretches to my left. I'm not much of a cook, but this kitchen makes me want to learn.

"I want you to move in with me," he explains like that wasn't clear from what he said earlier. Men. Do they have to be so literal all the time? The thought makes me chuckle inwardly.

I wander over to the windows, notice the large balcony, where I already see myself lounging on warm evenings, maybe sipping a glass of wine, reading a good book. "I can't afford a place like this."

"I'm well aware of that," he says, moving closer. I can feel his warmth all along my side, feeding the one pooling in my belly, and I'm suddenly acutely aware he hasn't touched me yet. And that I'm yearning for him to do it. "But since I'm buying it, that won't be a problem. You just have to tell me whether you like it or not."

Hot damn. I love it. But that's not what I say.

"Buying? How much does a place like this cost?"

"A lot. But that's also not something you need to worry about." He's still speaking in that infuriatingly cold way, like he doesn't care one way or another what I really want. Even though what he's actually saying screams that he cares a lot. "Come, let's check out the rest of it."

He offers me his arm this time, and I take it reflexively. A wide, pale marble staircase leads to a circular landing with a hallway and six closed doors. The first room we enter is huge.

"The master bedroom," he says. "Since it's all unfurnished, I thought you could decorate it."

"Don't know if I'm the right person for the job," I say and walk into the room. But I already see a huge, king-sized bed in there, maybe a vanity table with a large mirror, the kind I had growing up.

There's an ensuite bathroom in this room, large enough to live in. Hell, the shower alone is large enough to live in. And it might actually be possible to swim in the hot tub.

"Why would we need all the other rooms?" I ask, looking back over my shoulder and smiling so he'll know I'm joking. "We could live right here."

He grabs me, his breath hot against my cheek. "One of them could be a playroom. Let me show you."

Playroom. Such an innocent word, but I know exactly what he means. And my back is prickling at the thought.

I'm fully expecting him to kiss me, but instead he lets me go, making me sway from the lack of support. My whole body's tingling, aching for his touch. "OK, show me."

He doesn't need telling twice, as he takes my hand, entwines his fingers with mine and pulls me from the bathroom.

The room he leads me to is on the corner, with wraparound windows that look out east, west and north. It's about half the size of the master bedroom.

"Won't the neighbors see what goes on in here?" I ask, eyeing the adjacent buildings.

"Let them," he says and pulls me to him and kisses me, his strong arms waking the pain in my back, making me gasp. But the pleasure of his soft kiss is trumping the pain, washing away all my objections.

He breaks away much too soon though.

"Let's test this room out," he says. "Strip."

My knees are still weak from the kiss, but I obey right away. I'm wearing the pants suit today, so the undressing is more awkward than sexy, but I'm doing my best. And judging from the fire burning in his eyes, it's good enough. A few minutes later I'm standing in front of him naked and barefoot, the cold air quickly chilling my skin though inside I'm burning up.

His intense gaze is more animal than human right now and I love it.

He unbuckles his leather belt, yanks it from the loops with a swish, and I actually shiver, a whimper escaping my lips.

He smiles in a way that makes me feel even more naked, like I'm a gazelle caught in the lion's sights. But this lion loves me, and he'll only hurt me enough to heighten the pleasure.

"Go stand over by the window," he commands, indicating which one he means with a nod.

I do as he says, his gaze on my back making me feel every one of the welts like they just happened.

"Face out," he says as I reach the window and turn, and I do it.

He approaches and our eyes meet in the reflection. I whimper as he runs the belt over my sore back. I might have to use the safe word soon, since I don't think I can bear getting hit again tonight. Or maybe I can. Just a little.

"Bring your hands to the back," he orders.

I squeeze my wrists together over my hips, gasp as he loops the belt around them and tightens it. He yanks on the strap, causing me to arch my back. My nipples harden in the cold wafting off the window.

"Spread your legs wider." I do as he says, the skin on my soles burning as it pulls against the hardwood floor.

He keeps a tight grip on the belt with one hand, runs his thumb down my ass before plunging it into my pussy, making me gasp again.

"You're already wet," he remarks, massaging my special spot and making me wetter. "Good."

If he keeps this up I'll come right now, but I don't think that's what he wants. He removes his thumb and the next thing I know, the wide head of his cock is pressing into me.

"Don't move now," he whispers into my ear, wrapping his arms around my stomach gently like he just means to hold me tenderly for awhile. That illusion pops like a bubble, as he pulls tighter on the belt holding my arms and thrusts his cock into me at the same time. I couldn't move if I wanted to, he's holding me too tightly, but the harsh penetration does make me jerk up onto my toes as I scream out.

He doesn't give me even a moment’s respite, as he keeps thrusting into me, fast and deep, alternating between long strokes, and quick jabs, all the while holding onto the belt, the fingers of his other hand digging into my breast as he holds me in place, preventing any kind of escape. All I can do is open myself to him as best I can. My breaths are fogging up the window, and I can't even see him anymore. But I sure feel him.

His cock is waking orgasm after explosive orgasm, each bigger, more destructive than the last. I want it to stop, but I need it to keep going. My whole body is filling with blinding rivers of pleasure, running so fast and deep I can't breathe. He keeps thrusting, pounding into me with the frenzy of a berserker, until I'm shrieking, standing on tiptoes, needing to flee, but unable to.

He doesn't stop, his thrusts only getting fiercer and my orgasms just keep coming, multiplying, consuming my entire being, taking my air and my sight.

I'd fall forward onto my knees if he didn't catch me once it's all over. I'm struggling to catch my breath, shivering violently, my pussy aching from the sudden emptiness as he withdraws his cock.

He kisses my neck gently, the soft pleasure eventually breaking through the fog, balancing out the burning in my body. He turns me around and hugs me, the belt still digging into my wrists, even though he's released it awhile ago. He kisses me deep and long, and I struggle to free my hands, bring them up into his hair, the last of the burning passion giving way to this sweet, caring aftermath.

It ends too quickly though, as he suddenly just releases me, doesn't care that I sway and almost fall.

"Get dressed," he says and leaves the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

I'm trying not to think at all as I do so. Otherwise I'll just burst into tears at this, yet another backtracking rejection. But I will ask him about it, make him explain it all to me sometime very soon.

"I like the apartment. You should take it," I say when I meet him downstairs by the window, holding out his belt for him to take.

"Good," he says, taking the belt and stuffing it into his coat pocket, his expression an unreadable mask. "Let's go tell the real estate lady."

What I want is for him to hold me, kiss me, let me hold him. But instead, I'm following him into the elevator like we didn't just share the most mind-blowing sex any two people can have.

* * *

I hover back while he makes arrangements with the real estate lady to sign the papers tomorrow. Don't say anything as I take his arm and let him lead me out to the car. Because I'm sick of the secrets he's keeping, fed up with him pulling away each time we get close.

But the secret I'm trying to keep from him is huge too, and my guilt is growing larger each second we're together and I'm not telling him. But I can still make Sam abandon the story, I can convince him there is nothing worth writing about.

Mark's phone rings just as we enter the hotel room. He glances at the screen then lets go of me and retreats into the hall without a word of explanation.

I'm tired and hungry, and that's on top of the guilt. So I don't even consider eavesdropping on his conversation. Instead I drag one of the suitcases with my stuff to the huge closet and start unpacking, hoping I'll find something comfy to wear in this one. No such luck though, since it’s filled with all my old work clothes, and stuff I hung onto since college, but never wear anymore.

I'm dragging the second suitcase over when Mark enters the room, tugging on his tie to loosen it. He has a set look on his face like he's trying to mask great anger.

He strides over to the closet and proceeds to strip down to his boxers, then pulls out a pair of slacks and a beige sweater that's probably cashmere. All without casting me a single glance, until I feel like I'm not even there.

"Are you going somewhere?" I ask, meaning to make it snappy, but it just comes out dejected.

"I have a meeting," he says and heads for the bathroom, shutting the door firmly. A few minutes later he comes out dressed, the steam carrying his cologne to me.

I found my pajamas in the second suitcase. All I wanted to do was spend the evening in his arms on the sofa, maybe in bed. And now he's leaving.

"When will you be back?" I ask since he's not saying anything as he sits down on the arm of the sofa and pulls on his boots.

"Could take awhile," he says and gets up. "You should order some dinner. Don't wait up for me."

"And you're gonna leave the bodyguard outside the door, I suppose?" I snap.

He finally looks at me. "Yes."

"I wish you'd at least tell me what I have to worry about," I counter. What I want to be asking is why he's so cold to me now, but I don't see that ending well.

"Not an easy conversation to have, Nicole," he says, retrieving a jacket off the back of the chair by his desk. "But maybe one day I will."

"How am I supposed to trust you, if you don't trust me?" I wasn't going to say it, the words just spill out. But it's true. He won't tell me a damn thing. Lucy's dead, everyone thinks he’s involved, he says he loves me, but acts like that's only true some of the time, and he fears for my safety and he won't even tell me why.

His eyes are glowing as he strides toward me, such cold force enveloping him, I take a step back, bumping into the open suitcase on the floor and nearly falling.

He catches me before I do though, and his grip on my arms is soft, caring even. "The less you know, the better, Nicole. Trust me."

I don't know if he's mocking me or not, but he sounds sincere, and his eyes are soft like blue silk.

He glances down at the pajamas I'm holding, and smiles faintly. "And if you could wear something sexier to bed, I'd appreciate it."

My cheeks heat up with embarrassment as I look down at my ratty flannel pajamas.

"OK, I'll try," I mutter.

He kisses my forehead and releases me. "Good girl."

Then he's gone, the click of the door shutting behind him echoing in the silence. His cologne is hanging thick in the air, accentuating the fact that he's done it again. Made me back down before I got at least some of the answers I really think I need if we're to have a future.

His laptop is open on the desk, the screen glowing blue. He must've bumped it when he got the jacket. I could find some answers on there, I'm sure of it. But the thought stings even as it erupts, and I practically run to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind me.

* * *

It's midnight and Mark's still not back. I'm shivering under the covers since I'm only wearing a skimpy negligee, trying to concentrate on the movie I'm watching. I wish Mark would return already, so I could fall asleep nestled into his side, and all these thoughts firing off in my brain would finally die down.

What's he hiding that's so terrible? What will happen when he finds out I said yes to writing the story on him? What if I find something in my research that makes it impossible to go on trusting him?

That last is weighing me down like a sack filled with rocks, and his computer is practically calling my name. But going through his files would make me even guiltier of not trusting him.

Yet it might give me answers too.

But no.

I've decided to give Mark the benefit of the doubt, and I can't go back on that after just a couple of days. So I turn off the TV and pull the covers up over my head, trying to make my mind go blank. A tough task, but somehow I eventually do manage to fall asleep.

When my alarm goes off in the morning, Mark's already dressed for work, and his side of the bed is undisturbed. More questions. Ones he won't answer. So I refrain from asking them as I slide off the bed and join him by the window.

I had the sweetest dream last night. We were back home and the ground was covered by a blanket of pristine white snow. We were sledding on the hill not far from my house, like we used to when we were kids, laughing as we sped down, tumbling into the soft snow at the bottom. Mark was happy like I haven't seen him yet since he came back into my life, and so was I. That happiness is still filling my chest, as I slip my arms around his waist and lean against him. He only glanced at me as I approached, went back to staring out the window right after. And this is why we can't have secrets. Because they only widen the chasm between us and happiness.

"Don't be mad, but my editor wants me to write the article Lucy was working on before she died." The words stick in my throat before I can elaborate on what the focus of the story is supposed to be.

He jerks away, turns and glares at me, but I'm still holding on tight.

"I meant to tell you last night," I add quickly, before he can admonish me for it. "But you just left."

His face is a frozen mask, his eyes totally unreadable.

"And will you take it?" he asks, his voice completely flat.

"I'll try to dissuade him from wanting me to write it," I answer truthfully.

"And if you can't?"

His tone is stern now, cold and commanding, and in the reflection my eyes are very wide.

"I promise to be fair," I mutter.

He barks a laugh as he pries my arms off his waist. "Such a lovely word. Too bad it's pretty much unattainable in real life."

He strides over to his desk and starts packing up his briefcase. I have no idea what to say, what to think, but I fear the chasm between us just opened up a little more.

"Do you object to me writing the article?" I ask once he's already heading for the door, completely surprised at the sincerity behind my question. If he says yes, I will obey him.

"I most certainly don't want you to write it," he says without turning around. "But you'll do what you want. You always have."

What I want to do is run after him as the door clicks shut, assure him I will do nothing to harm him or his career, or the happiness that I know we can have. But I'm rooted to the spot, because I don't think words will help here. It's all about actions with Mark.

* * *

"Hold the elevator," Martin yells just as the door is closing. The guy I'm sharing the elevator with sticks out his arm, causing the door to reopen.

Outside, I saw Martin approaching the building and practically jogged in to avoid him.

"Thanks," he breathes as he squeezes in, rubbing against my side quite unnecessarily. "Good morning, Nicole."

I mutter the greeting back, and don't meet his eyes. He's quite possibly the last person on earth I wanted to run into this morning.

He rounds on me the second the other guy exits the elevator. "Had a good night last night?"

"Sure did. Not that it's any of your business." I add that last because of the way he's staring at my boobs as he says it, his lips wet and glistening because he just licked them.

"So did I," he says as the elevator stops on our floor and waits for me to exit first. "And I can't wait to tell you all about it."

"So tell me," I snap at him over my shoulder. I don't like how close to me he's walking.

"All in good time," he says and uses his keycard to let us into the office. Sam's not here yet, no one is, and I'm starting to get a little nervous at being alone with Martin. His eyes are on my ass as I turn to hang my coat on the peg by the door. Then they flash to my wrists, gleaming as he notices the faint bruises from the belt Mark used to tie me up last night.

"I see Cross has already introduced you to his desires," Martin says, as I tug on the sleeves of my sweater to hide the bruises.

"Now that really is no concern of yours," I say, the anger in my voice fueled by the embarrassment that he now knows what Mark and me do. But it's nothing to be ashamed of, I'm a willing participant. And if Martin's ogling and innuendo goes on for much longer, I'll tell Mark about it, and then we'll see how smug he'll be. My heart skips a beat as I remember the guy Mark knocked out for getting too friendly with me. Do I really want that for Martin?

I never condoned violence. And yet I let Mark whip me, and I enjoyed it. I have never, for as long as I can remember, been this confused about a situation and my place in it.

"You did read the file Lucy compiled on him right?" Martin asks pointedly. "The part about the games he likes to play with women? Before he kills them."

If he doesn't stop insinuating that Mark is planning to kill me, I'll start screaming. It was bad enough when Lucy was doing it.

"I will say this one last time, Martin, so listen well," I hiss, sounding exactly like my mom does when she gets angry, but right now I don't care. "My personal life is none of your business."

He grins at me, showing a row of crooked, yellowed teeth. "Well, if you ever get tired of Cross, you know where to find me."

My whole face is burning in rage, so it's a good thing he saunters off towards the kitchenette, not so good that he's whistling to himself, because that's just fueling my anger.

"You know, we should work on the Cross story together," he calls from the kitchen. "I can have your back."

"Yeah, like you had Lucy's?" The words just tumble out, and I actually clamp my hand over my mouth like that's going to help me unsay them.

He leans out of the kitchen, grinning at me. "So you do think there's some merit to the accusations? That's good to know."

"No…no. That's not what I meant," I mutter, but it's too late now, and I should just stop talking.

Sam walks in at that precise moment, and thankfully Martin doesn't say anything else. I go over to my desk and power up my laptop, start typing and reading like I'm woefully behind on some important deadline. But I'm really just typing random words, my mind whirling.

I can say I trust Mark all I want, but there is a seed of doubt in my mind. And like the most ill-timed Freudian slip of all time, it had to come out in conversation with Martin.

When I glance up to see what he's doing, he's nowhere around. Further inspection reveals him leaning against Sam's desk in his office, the door shut. They seem to be having an animated discussion of some sort, and Sam is smiling widely. Until he sees me looking. Then his face turns serious in a split second. He gets up rather awkwardly, and shuffles to the door.

"I think you better come in here, Nicole," he calls.

My heart's racing, and I don't actually make a conscious decision to get up and walk to the door. It's like I'm sleepwalking. Because Martin must've told Sam about my relationship with Mark, and now he's gonna take me off the story, and there'll be no chance in hell for me to bury it.

"Yes?" I ask once I reach the door, my voice high pitched and strangled.

"Get in and shut the door." My breaths are sticking in my throat as I do it.

"Now, I know the Cross story is yours, Nicole," Sam starts, and the room does a weird sideways flip before my eyes like what I'm actually watching is some hologram. "But Martin tells me he has access to Lucy's source, the one who gave her all the inside information on Cross. He'll introduce you to him, but only if you share the byline with him."

The room's still swaying before my eyes, but I'm starting to realize it's not as bad as I feared. Almost not as bad. Sharing the byline with Martin will make it very hard to bury the story. But maybe not impossible.

"I honestly thought she was just making it up that she had a source," I mutter, which is the truth. It would be like her to lie about something like that.

"She wasn't," Martin assures me.

"Why did he approach you and not me after her death?" I snap. It makes no sense, Lucy never mentioned working on the story with Martin.

He shrugs and leans against Sam's desk, starts gnawing on his nail. "So, what will it be?"

I'm glaring at him. His blatant blackmailing stunt is beyond unethical, and I read the same knowledge in Sam's face, but what choice do I have?

"I think you should consider Martin's offer, Nicole," Sam says, but softly like he'd rather not be saying it.

"Fine, OK," I snap. "But there's no deal, if this person doesn't have good information."

I can't believe I just said that. This morning, when I left the hotel room my plan was to dissuade Sam from publishing the story at all. And now I've pretty much consented to writing it. With Martin.

* * *

Mark

"The way I see it, you're better off being proactive on this one," Pierre tells me as he sways into my office. "You know, by grabbing the bull by the tail."

"The horns," I correct him automatically, though I’m not actually listening to him. He's just been hanging out at the office these past couple of days with his broken arm and concussion, being even more useless than usual, saying dumb shit like what he just said. I don't even know if he's talking about Nicole or the fact that he thinks he saw Reynard.

I decide it's the latter, since that's easier to handle.

"I've got enough on my plate without worrying about some ghost chasing me, Pierre."

"I know what I saw," he says, plopping down on the sofa with a wince. "Or who, more precisely. But that's not what I was talking about."

"What are you talking about then?" I snap.

"The articles will get written, whether by your girlfriend, or someone else," Pierre says. "Get more proactive in establishing a more positive reputation before they hit."

I'm struggling to ignore the jibe at Nicole. And the fact that she'll probably be the one to do the most damage with her story. But if I have to go down, I'd want to be by her hand.

"What? I'm doing the fundraiser for those battered women, donating a shitload of money to African orphans, and doing my best to keep my involvement with the murdered journalist off the radar. What the fuck else am I supposed to do?"

"Alright, relax," Pierre says and gets up with a groan. "I see your schedule is full, so I'll do you a favor and go search for Reynard myself."

"Yeah, just make sure he doesn't kill you this time."

"I'd like him to try," Pierre says and grins at me before exiting the office.

Truth is, I spent years obsessing over Reynard, plotting all the ways I could kill him and would, if I ever saw him again. But he was out of my reach. When they informed me he had died in prison in Cote d'Ivoire was like being born again. And it will take a lot more than something Pierre thinks he saw to make me reopen the door to that dark obsession.

The way the escort died already went a long way toward it, but that had to be a coincidence. The journalist dying the same way might not be. But some BDSM scenes get out of hand, end in murder. A lot of those involve trees and blood. So I won't let mere assumptions drag me back down that road. Reynard is dead.

Besides, I am being proactive. I have my contacts in Africa looking into his death. Three of my best men are watching over Nicole, and I have an alibi for the night the journalist was murdered. Nicole's it, and if worst comes to worst, her article can be made to look like the ravings of a jilted lover. It'd ruin her career, and I don't think she even realizes it yet. But I won't take that route, no matter what happens, and no matter what my trusted PR advisers advise.

The desk phone rings, and my secretary informs me that Detective Zogbo is calling. My whole chest constricts. It's only been two days, since I asked him to look into Reynard’s death. I'd expected his investigation to take weeks, as he came up with a way to inform me he could find nothing new.

"Talk to me," I say in French as she puts the call through. The connection is bad, static humming in the background.

"I hear rumors that the man they buried as Reynard was not him," the detective informs me, his voice robotic. "You better come here and ask the questions yourself. Money will open doors I cannot."

"Fine. I'll leave right away," I somehow manage to say. The darkness dragging me back to the time when exacting revenge on Reynard was all I thought about is a quickly tightening noose around my neck.

Pierre's leaning against my secretary's desk when I come out of the office.

"Ready the jet," I tell my secretary, ignoring Pierre and already pulling on my coat. "Tell the PR people I'm going to visit the orphanage in Cote d'Ivoire, some of them better come with me, but they need to be ready to leave now. Else they can fly in commercial later."

"Going to Africa? I'm coming too," Pierre says, peeling himself away from the desk slowly.

"Shouldn't you be lying down in some dark room?" I snap.

"I'll lie down on the plane, I promise," he says and grins at me.

I don't argue with his decision any further, since I think that maybe I do need a friend with me for this.

* * *

Nicole's smell is still filling the hotel room. It always reminded me of spring no matter the time of year. Of rebirth and second chances. But all that's a faded memory now as I pack a bag. Because I can't and won't take her with me on this trip in any shape or form. My mind's already reeling with all the ways I'd planned to get revenge on Reynard, mixed with the sharp regret that I didn't do more to exact it. I should've tried harder, but in the end, letting him rot forever in a shitty African prison seemed a fitting punishment.

Nicole is not part of that life. She can't ever be. Else it will consume her too, just as it has everything and everyone else in my life for so long.

I'm by the elevator when I realize I can't just leave without telling her. But I can't call her. Else I might decide to stay, yet I have to finish the chapter on Reynard and Melanie for good, or me and Nicole don’t stand a chance.

So I go back into the room to leave a note, which somehow turns into a page of rambling explanations, regrets and justifications of the sort I should have shared in all the letters I never sent her over the years, or in conversations she's been trying to have with me these past couple of weeks. But right now's not a good time for any of that.

I crumple up the longer one and leave a shorter note, saying I'll be gone for a few days, telling her not to try and avoid the bodyguards, and that I'll call her. Which I probably won't. Because I'm going back to where it all started, into the very pit of darkness. I haven't been back to Africa since the night I dug the unmarked grave for my wife and buried her in it.

* * *

Nicole

Despite Martin's insistence to work on Mark’s story with me, he hasn't said a word to me all day. He's also been avoiding and ignoring my questioning looks, but I'm not about to go and ask him to introduce me to his source. Hell, I'm perfectly content to postpone the story indefinitely.

It's almost five, and I've finished my column for this week hours ago. Mark hasn't called or texted at all, but perhaps he's already waiting for me back at the hotel. Maybe we can go look at some furniture for his new apartment tonight.

I can't believe how quickly I've accepted that turn of events. But moving in with him feels so natural, so right, and I should just go with it. It's no secret that I haven't done many impulsive things in my life. And even if being with Mark and trusting him, is a mistake, I'm willing to make it. I pack up quickly and leave before I have time to analyze it any more, calling Mark as I wait for the elevator, leaving a voicemail message that we should go look at furniture, if he has time.

The bodyguard from this morning flanks me as I exit the building, only issuing a curt hello before escorting me to the car. Another one gets in the passenger seat before the car drives away.

So Mark has three guards watching over me now? What the hell does that mean?

I almost ask the men in the car about it, but stop myself just in time. Mark hasn't called me back yet, nor sent a text.

"Someone will be outside this door at all times, Ms. West," the bodyguard informs me as we reach the hotel room. "You are not to go anywhere on your own, is that clear?"

"Where's Mark?" I ask, my voice shaky and weak.

"I'll let Mr. Cross inform you as to that," he says, and uses his own key to open the hotel room.

I swallow against the lump in my throat and enter, not sure how I feel about him having a key to the room.

"Don't open the door to anyone unless me or one of my men are with them," he tells me.

My heart's racing again. "Does this have anything to do with my friend Lucy getting murdered?"

His face shows no indication that my question shocked him in any way.

"I cannot discuss that with you," he tells me curtly and pulls the door shut.

The room's quiet and very clean, the negligee I wore to bed folded at the foot of the neatly made bed. Mark's computer is gone and the chair is pulled out like someone just got up from it. But otherwise the room feels empty like no one's been inside it for ages.

The hotel notepad is in the center of the desk, a note addressed to me written in Mark's narrow, barely legible handwriting.

Nicole,

I had to leave the country for a few days. I've left instructions with my men, and I want you to obey them.

Mark

No With Love, or I'm sorry I had to go, and didn't tell you in person. Of all the punishments he might've dealt out because I accepted writing the story on him, this one stings the most. The paper is covered in grooves of a much longer text having been written on another page, a more elaborate letter of the kind I wish I'd received instead of this short curt note. But I didn't, so what's the use wishing for it?

He might still call. Maybe he's just not much of a letter writer. But I don't think he will, and the knowledge hurts more than I'm willing to admit.

I sit down at the desk, watch the twilight give way to full night outside, so lost in thinking of nothing I nearly forget why I'm even here.

A knock on the door startles me, makes me jump up from the chair.

"Yes?" I ask through the closed door once I reach it.

"There's a courier with a letter for you, Ms. West. You can open the door," the bodyguard informs me, and my skin actually prickles at the easy way with which he's giving me permission to do something. A couple of weeks ago I'd have yelled at him for such presumptuousness, now I open the door meekly.

A curvy brunette is standing next to him, clutching an envelope and fidgeting like she has no idea what she's doing here.

Mark did send me a letter. That's all I'm thinking as I nod for her to give it to me.

"Ms. West," she stutters, holding out the envelope. "You have an appointment at the Aphrodite Spa."

I'm not really listening to her as I open the envelope. But all it contains is a gift card to this spa she mentioned. Which just happens to be the most expensive one in all of New York City. The cheapest treatment there costs almost half of my monthly salary. And if I remember correctly that's just a mani/pedi. This gift card has no dollar value on it, just says All Inclusive.

"Who is this from?" I ask her so sharply she blinks a couple of times.

"There's a note also, I think, inside the envelope," she mutters.

I check again and find a little business card size note. It just says, Enjoy, Mark, and it's not even in his handwriting.

I'd enjoy it more if he were the one handing me this gift card. But I haven't been to a spa in ages. "When is the appointment for?"

"Tonight if you have time. Or whenever you want," the woman tells me and smiles sheepishly.

"Right now?"

She nods. "Sure.”

I look at the bodyguard, and he nods too. Can't believe I just asked for his permission. But I already jumped headlong into this life Mark has planned for me, so why back out now?

* * *

Aphrodite Spa is all done up like some ancient Greek bathhouse and the five beauticians that greet me are all wearing flowing white togas. There are no other patrons that I can see.

One of the beauticians glides over as I enter, and takes my hand gently. "Welcome, Ms. West."

"You can call me Nicole," I mutter the first thing that pops into my mind.

She smiles serenely. "And I'm Felicity."

I wonder if that's her real name, because it just sounds too fitting.

She takes my coat and bag, and then leads me through the foyer into the back.

"Why don't we start with a nice steam bath to open the pores?" she asks, and I just nod, glad she took the initiative since I had no idea what to ask for.

A few minutes later, I'm sitting in a blue tiled room, naked, steam rising off a set of stones in the corner that really do look like they were carted here from ancient Greece.

Next they give me a full body mud treatment that leaves my skin tingling and feeling fresh, followed by a massage performed by another of the nymphs working here. Even the welts don't hurt as she works out the knots in my muscles with her skilled hands.

After that it's a mani/pedi. For all the treatments I'm alone, no other customers anywhere in sight. I'm not much for speaking with the service providers, because I'm always too self-conscious to do it, and tonight even more so because of the welts covering my back, so I just sit back and relax with my eyes closed for the most part. But it's weird the way all of the employees seem to be hovering nearby whenever I open my eyes.

"Is it usually this quiet in the evenings?" I ask.

The lady doing my nails seems startled by the question, casts a glance to the one doing my toes, before they both smile up at me. "No, but tonight you have the place all to yourself."

It's my turn to pull a confused face. "How's that?"

She giggles. "He didn't tell you? Now that's a surprise."

The outburst earns her a curt nod from Felicity to shut up, right before she walks over and adjusts the collar of my robe.

"Mr. Cross wanted you to have a unique and pleasurable experience, but he wasn't sure which evening would suit you best. So he rented out the spa for the whole week."

I gasp, the butterflies in my stomach fluttering in a frenzy, all the warmth of being in love suffusing me. Why can't he just do normal things to show me he cares? Like call once in a while, or let me hold his hand. I don't want to be treated like a princess, I just want to be his lover. But that's not entirely true. A huge part of me has been enjoying all the VIP treatment he's bestowed on me, from having my own driver to getting me a new wardrobe, and a luxury spa all to myself.

"I could get used to this," I mutter, more to myself than anyone else.

"You should," Felicity says, and laughs a very melodic laugh. "You're one lucky woman."

Finally someone who approves of Mark and me. And even though she's just a stranger who knows nothing about us, it still feels good.

A couple of hours later I'm riding back to the hotel in the back of Mark's town car. They've plucked my eyebrows, cut and curled my hair, made sure I’m now completely hairless, and I feel like I've just walked out of some fantasy. I'm exhausted too, and I really wish Mark was waiting for me back at the hotel.

But the room is dark, and much too cold when I enter. And if the love I feel for him weren't still bubbling inside me, I might cry over his absence. But I'm a big girl, and I can give him space if he needs it.

* * *

Mark

We touched down in Cote d’Ivoire at noon local time. The heat is overwhelming, but that's not the real reason I feel like I'm choking. Just being back here, smelling the red earth, the hot wind touching my face, is bringing back memories I've tried so hard to bury, along with everything else I left here.

Detective Zogbo meets us at immigration, smiling widely like only an African man can, but otherwise looking rather crumpled. We must look worse. I haven't gotten a wink of sleep on the flight, and even though Pierre slept for most of it, he's quickly turning a sickly shade of green in this heat. But he should be fine. We've been through worse while serving here under Captain Reynard during our time in the French Foreign Legion.

"I have arranged a meeting with one of the former guards from the prison," the detective informs me. "If you brought the money, he will talk."

"Lead the way," I bark. I brought $100,000 in cash with me. More is arriving tomorrow. I'll get to the bottom of this, if I have to spend every last penny of it.

The detective drives an old BMW with no shock absorbers to speak of, so the ride into town is uncomfortable to say the least. I'm pretty sure Pierre is about to throw up after just five miles.

"We can stop if you need a rest," I tell him, but it's meant more to mock than to show any concern.

He grins at me, then winces at a particularly rough bump in the road.

"I've gotten a little soft since the Legion," he says through gritted teeth. "But don't worry about me."

I'm not, so I stop taunting him, focusing instead on the rolling plains of the countryside flowing by, trying to focus just on the task at hand. The detective makes a few attempts at small talk, but I shut him down each time until he finally stops.

Eventually we hit a stretch of real highway so the ride turns smooth, enjoyable even. I fell in love with Africa the moment I set foot here, but that love is such a distant memory it doesn't even seem real anymore. Now all my hate for it is concentrated in that dried up tree, flames from a campfire casting angry shadows across Melanie's scared face. I could live to be a hundred years old, but that memory will always be crisp like I'm still watching it happen. And I'll never stop having nightmares about that night.

The detective finally stops the car in front of a rundown apartment building in one of the city's quieter back alleys.

I reach into the briefcase with the money, and pull out my gun, tuck it behind my belt.

"I do not think you will need that," the detective says, eying me warily.

"I like to be prepared."

He leads us up a creaking staircase, then along an open-air hallway on the first floor. He knocks loudly on the last door causing a baby to start screaming somewhere.

"Come in," a man yells, and the detective opens the door.

The apartment we enter is so decrepit, I'm sure it's a health hazard even here. It smells of stale cigarette smoke and rotten food, the paint is peeling off every single wall, and our footsteps leave tracks in the dirt on the floor.

In the living room, which must double as the bedroom, a man in a wheelchair that looks like something that was new in the 1960s greets us.

"You are finally here," he says in such mangled French I hardly understand him. I was never very good at understanding the local dialects; hell I had a hard time understanding even Melanie's Paris-accented French. But I'll make do.

"You have something to tell me about Reynard?" I ask him.

"Did you bring the money?" he shoots right back.

"That will depend on the quality of your information," I say much more calmly than I feel.

"20,000 US Dollars, no less for my information," he says, his eyes gleaming.

I pull out a stack totaling $5000 from the briefcase and toss it on the table beside him, upsetting the ashtray. I could argue over the price, but what's the point? He needs the money more than I do, and I'd pay five times what he's asking if it gets me Reynard. If he's alive, I'll make sure he dies a painful death. And if he's already dead, I'll have his body dug up, so I can piss on his skull.

"I was the guard on Ward Six where this Reynard was locked up. Before the accident happened," the man starts explaining, lighting another cigarette and pointing to his useless legs. But I'm not here to commiserate with him. Though he is pitiful, especially since he can't be much older than me.

"And did he die in a riot as was reported?" I ask to forestall listening to any more of his sad story.

The man's eyes are glistening as he stares at me. "The riot was staged to cover an escape plan. Many died. But Reynard was not among them. Nor was he among the living still at the prison once it was over."

What little air there was in the room seems to be gone. "Why was this not made known?"

The man flicks his wrist, sending a stack of ash flying in an arch until it lands perfectly on the windowsill. "The higher ups covered it up. Didn't want to bring attention to the prison. An investigation was made, I think. But the escapees were never found."

This happened three years ago. I was assured Reynard was dead, saw pictures of his funeral. I should've come here to make sure for myself.

"Who was buried in his place?" I manage to ask.

The man chuckles, starts hacking, which doesn't stop him from lighting a new cigarette off the old one. "Who knows? Someone else, rocks maybe? It was the first actual funeral at the prison I ever saw, and I worked there for five years. The rest of those killed in the riot were dumped into a single pit."

All I see is the dead tree in the desert, the fire illuminating Melanie's silent scream as Reynard pulls the blade over her throat. Fantasies of all the ways I'd planned to kill him for it are layered one over the other in my mind, none of them making sense on their own, but together forming the perfect picture of revenge. One I should've delivered years ago.

I toss the rest of the money on the table.

"Do something about that cough," I tell the guy, though it sounds like it might be too late.

"With this I will," he says, smiling widely and flipping through the money.

I reach into the bag and toss him another stack, because Melanie would like that. Nicole would too, I’m sure.

Once we're outside, Pierre shuts the door firmly, checking if it's locked, which it isn't. "I hope he doesn't get murdered tonight."

It's the first thing he's said since we entered the apartment, both him and the detective hung back while I questioned the man.

I shrug and lead the way to the stairs. The guy might very well might get killed for having all that money. That's no longer my concern.

"Where to now?" the detective asks once we reach the car. There's no trace of a smile left on his face.

"The prison," I say and get into the car. "I'll have them dig up Reynard's coffin and show me what's inside."

"There's procedures, it can't be done just like that…" the detective is saying, but he shuts up at a glare from me.

"After all we've just heard, I don't think procedures will stop me from getting what I want, do you?"

He sort of shrugs and nods at the same time, gets in the car and drives off.

I have almost no hope left I'll find Reynard in that coffin, or that Pierre didn't actually see him the night the journalist was murdered. Killings of women in my life started about two years ago. No, they started with Melanie. And there's precious little room left to pretend all of them were not committed by the same man.

* * *

Nicole

I'm still yawning the next morning at the office. The pampering last night relaxed me in ways I didn't even know I needed. I'm the first to arrive, but Martin comes in soon after me. His cheeks are red like he's been out in the cold too long, and he winces as he takes a bite of his nail, probably because his fingers are near frozen too.

"The source would like to meet you," he tells me as he comes nearer. I can actually feel the cold emanating from him on my face and it's an eerie feeling.

"OK, when and where?"

"This morning, as soon as possible. But he wants you to lose that bodyguard that's waiting outside for you."

The request wakes me up completely. How does he know about that? And why should he care?

"That's an odd request," I mutter rather than demanding an answer straight out. "Who is this guy?"

"He served with Cross in the French Foreign Legion and knows all the dirty secrets he's been trying to hide. Including how his wife died."

"His wife's dead?" I say, way too much relief entering my voice.

"Yes, Nicole, she's dead. It's quite clear that missing means dead in her case."

"But Mark was in the Army, not this Legion," I mutter.

"Yeah, as far as you know." Martin's grinning at me like he's enjoying how flustered I am right now. But he's also right. I know practically nothing about Mark's past. He sure hasn't told me much. All I do know is what Lucy told me about him.

The stern command the bodyguard gave me not to go anywhere with anyone without his knowledge is echoing in my brain, mixing with the same demand from Mark. But my need to have at least some answers is louder.

"Fine, bring him to the cafeteria on the ninth floor," I say, getting up.

"He'll never go for that," Martin says, shaking his head. "He strikes me as one of those loony vets, scared of confined spaces with no clear exit path. He'll meet us at the park just off Wall Street, you know the one where everyone goes to smoke, that's where he usually hangs out, I think. But we have to meet him alone. It took me ages to convince him to talk to you after he saw your bodyguard."

It sounds weird what he's telling me, but it makes sense too, if this guy is trying to hide his presence from Mark's men. Someone with secrets to spill would act like that. And I don't really need the protection Mark keeps forcing on me. I've dealt with bigger creeps before he came along, and I can continue to do so.

"Alright, I'll make some excuse and meet you there."

I know exactly how I'll pull it off. The coffee shop across the street has a back exit that can't be seen from the front. If I can just convince the bodyguard not to follow me inside I should be able to get away. If not, then this source can just come meet me at the office.