Strip Search (2 page)

Rafe slapped him on the shoulder. "You're a better man than me. If I saw a picture like that of my wife with another man, I'd dismember him slowly and painfully."

"My
ex
-wife, thank you very much. Besides, you don't have anything to worry about. My sister would never do that to you. She loved you, even when you were too stupid to know you reciprocated."

"Point taken." Rafe smiled. "So, want to hear your cover? This is the part where the adoring women come in."

Mark tossed the offending picture of Tiffany and her Mafia thug lover onto Rafe's desk. "Finally, a subject of great interest. Lay it on me."

"You're going to Las Vegas. Blade Bocelli appears to still be living and working at the same Vegas nightclub he started at last year, shortly after it opened."

"What do we know about the club?"

"It's called Girls' Night Out. It's actually a male strip joint. Hence the adoring women."

Mark hesitated. "I'm going in as the accountant, right?"

Rafe's cat-ate-the-canary smile warned him that something was deeply wrong. "The club is actively seeking dancers. I hope you don't have two left feet."

Mark stood. "Wipe that freakin' smirk off your face. I'm not going in there as a male stripper and taking off my clothes so bored housewives can shove dollar bills down my G-string."

"It's our only in."

Cursing a blue streak, Mark paced to the other side of the room and gazed absently over the midtown view. "I'm a hell of a lot better prepared to demonstrate karate than shake my booty. I've never done anything like that."

"We have two weeks to prep. I've got a line on someone who's 'retired' from the biz and can teach you what you need to know."

"But an exotic dancer? C'mon ... be serious."

"That's the gig. You want to catch this guy or not?"

Mark stewed in silence, contemplating all the ways he'd make an idiot out of himself on stage wearing nothing but a scrap of cloth with a piece of string up his ass.

"Oh, and before you answer, let me introduce you to one of the major perks of the case," Rafe said, cutting into his brooding.

Rafe reached into the packet again, this time to extract yet another photo. Only this one was of a woman in brief denim shorts and a red tank top, holding a pen and a few pieces of paper. Her head was turned toward one shoulder, facing whoever had been holding the camera, her expression look* ing slightly off-guard. Dark hair framed her face, drifted. halfway down her back. Slanted blue eyes looked a bit wide and startled, while full lips parted in question.

Mark grabbed the photo and stared harder. She had a face beautiful enough to qualify as a starlet's and a body tempting enough to belong to the Devil's daughter. Immediately, his imagination turned unruly. He pictured himself parting her lips--with his tongue, with his cock. Her cleavage peeked out above her tank top, and his pants grew a tad too tight as he thought about peeling it off, holding her pert breasts in his hands, and kissing her nipples. Brown? Pink? Coral? Didn't matter. He wanted her.

"I thought she might get your attention."

"Who is she?" Mark demanded.

"The club's owner, famous New York party girl Nicola DiStefano, Pietro DiStefano's niece and ... your new boss."

A smile crept across his face. "Seriously?"

"Before you start thinking about what a cushy assignment this is, there's one catch: The Feds think it's likely Nicki is in the dark about her club being used by Bocelli to launder money, probably for her uncle, a big-time Mafia man. But they don't know for certain that she's unaware, so she can't know her place is being investigated."

"No problem. I'll maintain my cover."

"Which reminds me, you'll be going in as Mark Gabriel.

I'm having a phony driver's license and Social Security card made for you as we speak. But it's a bit more complicated than that. You've got to get into her club's books and study them. Find out what's going on, see if there are any patterns, try to glean who might be behind it all. To do that, you'll have to earn her trust."

"Earn her trust. How?"

Rafe sent him a sly grin. "Be creative."

Mark had ideas, juicy, salivating, lustful ones ... though not deeply ethical. Being a guy, Rafe's mind obviously ran in the same direction.

"C'mon. What are you suggesting I do, fuck it out of her?"

"Whatever works."

He rolled his eyes. "So while I'm working for her, I get her to trust me. Fine. I'll find a way to get it done."

"It's still not that easy. The job isn't just yours. You still have to ... ah, audition."

"
B
ring in the next victim," Nicki DiStefano called with a long-suffering sigh.

Within moments, her younger half-sister Lucia appeared, thick auburn hair restrained in an elegant French twist and white librarian sweater perched on her shoulders. Nicki laughed as she stared down at herself. The black bra she hadn't realized she was wearing was visible through her yellow tank top, and her diamond navel ring winked in the club's dimmed lights.

"So how was the first audition?" Lucia asked.

Nicki pushed aside all thoughts of the ways she and her half-sister were different and realized this was one thing they would agree on wholeheartedly.

She made a face at Lucia. "Blech! He'd been watching too many old Michael Jackson videos, I think."

"Really?"

Lucia laughed, managing to sound so refined and mature, despite being a mere twenty-three, more than three years Nicki's junior. Then again, earning a Ph.D. the same year she could legally drink, rather than learning intimately the inside of every nearby evening hot spot, did make Lucia more mature. Nicki had never finished college ... but she'd sure known every nightclub worth knowing in New York. She grimaced at the realization and shoved the thought away.

"All the crotch grabbing ..." Nicki said with a shudder. "I think he liked the self-touching for an audience way too much. Put a whole new meaning to the song 'Beat It.' "

With a hand over her mouth, Lucia stifled another laugh. "Well, maybe your second candidate will be an improvement. He's certainly
very
easy on the eyes."

With that cryptic comment, Lucia disappeared. She might be a refined history professor, but that twinkle in her eye was pure mischief. Maybe her sister was being facetious.

"Bring him on," Nicki called.

A moment later, the stage door creaked, then slammed shut. Dang it, she really needed to buy some WD-40 for that...

Through the stage door and past the black curtain, her second audition entered the room. Nicki lost her breath--and the ability not to gape like an utter idiot.

Who was this Adonis dressed in a crisp white collared shirt and black leather pants? A glance at her list told Nicki that his name was Mark Gabriel. Such an innocuous few syllables to term the embodiment of every sexual fantasy she ever remembered having.

The room felt warm suddenly as he stepped onto the stage, under the dimmed lights, a worn leather backpack slung over one shoulder. Lord, he was huge--very tall, broad, bursting with muscle. Blond hair an amazing golden color hung past his collar. His eyes--green? Maybe darker?--pierced her as he nodded.

"Miss DiStefano."

Wow, his deep, powerful voice alone was orgasm-inducing. Would he be offended if she told him she wanted to take Polaroids so she could fantasize about him the next time she spent a lonely morning with her battery-operated boyfriend? And could she get an MP3 of him saying her name, just for effect?

"C-call me Nicki."

Was she actually stuttering? He hadn't danced a step, and she was acting like a groupie. Most likely, he got that a lot.

"Nicki," he returned smoothly.

Was it her imagination, or were her panties actually turning damp?

"And you're Mark?" she managed to say in a somewhat even tone.

"Yes."

Not a big talker, apparently. That was just as well. All she really wanted to do was look at him ... fantasize about touching.

Wait! It's an audition, not a grope fest,
logic screeched. Wishing that logic would keep its nose out of her thoughts, she returned her full attention to Mr. Yummy-Enough-to-Drool-on.

"Ever done this sort of work before? I didn't get a resume from you."

"No."

No explanation. No offer to get her a resume. Interesting ...

"Where are you from?"

"Florida."

Which explained the gorgeous golden skin. "That's a long way from Vegas."

"Looking for a change of scenery."

Nicki hesitated. Something in Mark's face, a certain tenseness maybe, seemed to say it was far more complicated than having grown tired of looking at palm trees and beaches. But it really wasn't any of her business. The man was here for a job. If she hired him and he did it well, then the rest, his past, whatever--it didn't matter.

"Can you dance?"

He shrugged one massive shoulder, even as his lips--oh, how did she miss that scrumptious mouth earlier?--curled up in a smile. "I get by."

Lord, he gave her the tingles. Why was she interrogating him? He could stand perfectly still and make them both a small fortune. A fortune she desperately needed, if she ever wanted financial independence and freedom from the tight press of her Uncle Pietro's thumb.

Still, it wasn't in her nature to take anything at face value, especially men, even if her hormones were doing the mambo.

"Can you flirt?" she asked. "This job requires it."

As if she had challenged his very manhood, Mark set down his backpack, eased off the stage, and strode toward her table. He didn't swagger--it would have been too cheesy on him. He ... prowled, as if hunting someone. Her, by the look on his face.

And what a face it was. Square jaw, square chin, covered with a fine five o'clock shadow.

As he edged closer, Nicki realized his eyes were neither green nor brown. They were somewhere in between, like moss growing over rich earth. They were gorgeous, and she wondered if he was aware of her awestruck stare. Lord, bury her in a hole now if he was.

Mark sat on the edge of her table, leaned forward, and sent her an amused smile.

Dimples.
Real, live dimples creasing each side of his face. On any other man, they might have looked girlish. On him, oh no. He looked all man. She'd died and found heaven.

"I can flirt, if I have to. I'd rather just talk to you. About you."

It had to be a line, and she'd be stupid to be affected by it. Ignoring her speeding heartbeat, Nicki cocked her head and regarded him with what she hoped was a cool gaze. "That's laying it on a tad thick."

He leaned in. "It's being honest. I Googled you before this meeting. You run with quite a crowd. What was it like hanging out with Paris Hilton at parties?"

"Relatively dateless. And once she got into home movies ... well, then I really couldn't compete," she said flippantly.

"So all the men you met in the past were stupid?"

"Excuse me?"

"To be more interested in a careless bimbo than you, they've got to be stupid. To run a business takes some guts, brains, and substance."

A burst of pleasure flushed her body at his words. For years she'd wondered why men failed to see the qualities of a woman beyond her waistline, ass, or breasts. Maybe this guy did. And maybe he was blowing sunshine up her skirt. She couldn't deny, however, that he was good.

"You have the most interesting eyes," he murmured. "They're so blue and exotic next to your beautiful olive skin."

"My dad was both a typical Italian and a typical man. I got his skin. Everything else, I got from my mother. She was half Norwegian, half Chinese."

"No kidding?" His smile widened. "That's a unique combination."

"My father liked possessing unique mistresses. She was a beautiful woman."

"So is her daughter."

Boy, he looked at her. Right at her. With those vivid hazel eyes, he stared, taking her in. She didn't want to be affected by his praise or his gaze on her. It was stupid, unprofessional.

You don't always get what you want,
a pesky voice in her head reminded her.

"You going to dance for me, or you going to sit here and gab all day?"

"Whatever you want, boss." He winked and turned away.

From his backpack, Mark extracted a CD and placed it in the portable player located stage left. Moments later, a rich, sexy techno rhythm filled the air. To the beat of the music, he strutted to the front edge of the stage, his expression mysterious, arrogant, as his gaze locked on to hers. For a man who stood about five inches over six feet, he moved with a slick grace, a smooth prowl. Generally, if a man was a good dancer, he was also good in--

Nicki knew she should be more jaded. She saw this kind of stuff all the time. Every night, in fact. But something about Mark made being impervious utterly impossible. She had no idea why he affected her more than any other hottie working here. But when a bump of his hips had her catching her breath, she couldn't deny that he did.

A large hand raking through the pale sheen of his hair as he prowled closer had her heartbeat racing. The pure sex attitude and intent stare had her lamenting every last moment of her two years of celibacy.

But when he grabbed the edges of his shirt and ripped them wide, exposing a chest bulging with muscle and abs rippling with definition, Nicki pretty much lost her mind.

The white shirt hung loose on his wide shoulders, stark against his golden skin. Every muscle in his sleek torso bunched as he took a deep breath. His incredible pectorals tightened as he raised his hands from his sides.

They stopped at the waistband of his pants.