His Forever Books 1 - 21

2. His Whims, Book One-4

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 s*x 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 c**k 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.