Caught in the Billionaire's Embrace (10 page)

“No man's mistress,” she finished for him, interrupting him before he broke into song. Or broke a blood vessel in his brain trying to cope. Whatever. “That's not how Geoffrey takes care of me, Marcus. We don't have a sexual relationship
at all.
I mean, Geoffrey is his last name. I don't even call him by his first name.” It was Winston, and probably why he asked everyone to call him by his last name.

Marcus's relief was almost palpable. So much for not thinking less of anyone who survived in the world through unconventional methods. She might have laughed if he hadn't been right about one thing: She was surviving. And she did depend on Geoffrey's presence in her life to accomplish that.

Della couldn't give Marcus any details about what had happened in New York or the fact that she was a material witness in a federal case that involved her former Wall Street employer, Whitworth and Stone, and her former boss, Donald Nathanson. Especially knowing as she did now that Marcus worked for the equally illustrious Fallon Brothers. It wasn't unlikely that he knew people at Whitworth and Stone and moved in the same circles. Not that she feared he would report her to anyone, since no one there even knew—yet—about the case the feds were building. As far as anyone at Whitworth and Stone was concerned, the reason Della had stopped showing up for work without giving notice was because of personal reasons that would make performing her job intolerable. After all, Egan had been one of Whitworth and Stone's up-and-coming executives.

She had no way of knowing how Marcus would react to the revelation that Della had, in her position as executive assistant to one of the company's vice
presidents, discovered a trail of illegal money laundering for unsavory overseas groups and the gross misuse of government bailout funds. She couldn't tell him about how she'd smuggled out files over a period of two weeks, or about going to the FBI with what she'd uncovered, or about how they'd immediately put her into protective custody with the U.S. Marshals and moved her out of New York to keep her under wraps until she could appear before the grand jury. She couldn't tell him how she'd been in hiding for the past eleven months while the feds built their case.

And she for sure couldn't tell him about how, once the trial was over—and Geoffrey had just told her the grand jury was convening in two weeks—she was probably going to be placed in the Witness Security Program, for safe measure. Even though her life hadn't been threatened, and even though none of the crimes committed had been violent ones, being a whistle-blower wasn't exactly the most celebrated gig in the world. There was no way she'd ever find work in the financial world again.

And, well, even though it was unlikely, there was no guarantee there wouldn't be some other kind of retaliation against her. Some of the groups to which Whitworth and Stone had diverted funds had done some pretty terrible things in other parts of the world. It would be best for her to start over somewhere as a new person, with a new identity and a new life. A place where nobody knew her real name and where there was no chance she would ever be discovered.

A place completely removed from the spotlight Marcus so joyfully embraced in his own life. The last thing Della could afford was to have someone see her with him and recognize her from her former position. It
would be even worse for her to be recognized after she'd given her testimony and put a lot of powerful people behind bars. At best, she would be a social pariah. At worst… Well, she didn't want to think about things like that.

Bottom line, there was no way this thing with Marcus could last beyond a weekend. He would never give up the big, showy lifestyle he loved. And she was a woman who had to avoid a big, showy life at all costs.

“Well, if Geoffrey isn't your…benefactor,” Marcus said now, “then who is he? A relative?”

Stalling, she asked, “Why do you want to know? What difference does it make? Once the snow lets up, you and I are never going to—”

“I just want to know, Della.”

“But why?”

“Maybe because you burst into tears after talking to the guy?”

Oh, right. That. That had kind of startled Della, too. But for some reason, during this morning's talk with Geoffrey, she had begun to feel keenly how truly alone she was. Geoffrey had been her only tie to the outside world for eleven months—at least until she met Marcus—and the conversations she had with him never lasted any longer than it took for her to check in every day and let him know she was okay. She always wanted to talk longer, since she never got to talk to anyone. Just to hear a human voice that wasn't coming from an electronic device. Every time, Geoffrey cut short the conversation because there was no reason to prolong it. Especially on weekends, he wanted to be with his family. Geoffrey always had things to do, places to go, people to see after he hung up. And Della always had to go back to the vast nothingness of waiting, all alone.

But this morning, after hanging up, she'd realized she
didn't
have to go back to being alone. This morning, she'd known Marcus was waiting for her. Someone who would talk to her. Someone who would share breakfast with her. Someone who would care for her. Be with her. Touch her. If only for a little while. And the thought that she would have such intimacy—even if it was only temporary and superficial—only made it worse to think about leaving it, leaving him, behind. Something about that was so intolerable. So bleak. So heartbreaking. Della simply hadn't been able to stop the tears from coming.

She felt the sting of tears threatening again and shoved the thought to the furthest, darkest corner of her brain. “He's not a relative, either,” she said wearily.

When she didn't elaborate, Marcus asked, “Then how and why is he taking care of you?”

She expelled an impatient sound. “I don't guess you'd settle for ‘It's complicated,' would you?”

He shook his head. “The directions for assembling a nuclear warhead are complicated,” he told her. “Life? Not so much.”

She managed a smile. “Trust me, Marcus. My life is currently
very
complicated.”

“In what way?”

She couldn't tell him. She couldn't even hint. Maybe if he didn't have the job he had. Maybe if he wasn't a rich guy who didn't keep his finger on the pulse of the financial world. Maybe if he was just some average guy with an average job who didn't for a minute understand the workings of Wall Street…

She still couldn't tell him, she knew. So she stalled. “The place where I come from on the East Coast I
had to leave a while back, because I—I got into some trouble there.”

His expression wavered not at all. “You did something illegal?”

“No,” she was quick to assure him. “Nothing like that. But I—I got caught up in something…not good…without intending to. So Geoffrey found me a place to live until things blow over. And I call him every day so he knows I'm okay.”

“That doesn't sound complicated,” Marcus said. “That sounds dangerous.”

Della opened her mouth to contradict him, then realized she couldn't do that without lying. The chances of her being in danger were very small. The main reason the feds wanted to keep her under wraps was so no one at Whitworth and Stone would catch on to the fact that they were being investigated. And, too, to make sure Della didn't skip out on them after promising to give testimony.

“Not dangerous,” she said. “They just want to be sure.”

“And by
they,
you would mean…who?” Marcus asked. “The police?”

She shook her head, but didn't elaborate. It wasn't the police keeping an eye on her. Not technically. She was much further up the law enforcement ladder than that.

“Then who?”

“I can't tell you any more than that,” she said. “I only said that much because I wanted you to know the truth about Geoffrey. I'm not…tied to him. Not that way.”

Marcus hesitated a moment. “Are you…tied to anyone…that way?”

She should tell him yes. Make him think she was
involved with someone who meant a great deal to her. Maybe that would make it easier when the time came for them to part. If Marcus thought she was going home to another man, and if he thought she was shallow enough to have sex with him when she was involved with someone else, then it would be easier for him to put her in his past and keep her there.

If only she could do the same with him.

But instead of lying, her damnable honesty surfaced again. “There's no one,” she said. “There hasn't been for a long time.”

That, she supposed, was why she capitulated to Marcus so quickly and easily the night before. Because he was the first person she'd had face-to-face contact with for months. The first person who'd conversed with her. Who'd smiled at her. Who'd laughed with her. Who'd touched her. She'd gone too long without the most basic human need—the need to bond with someone else. Even if it was only over an article in a tabloid while waiting in line at the supermarket or sharing a few words while making change for another person at the Laundromat. People needed to be with other people in order to feel whole. Della hadn't had that for too long.

Marcus eyed her thoughtfully for another moment, then said, “So if it wasn't legal trouble, then what kind of trouble was it?”

“I can't tell you any more than I have, Marcus.”

“Why not?”

“Because…it's complicated.”

He dragged his chair around the table until it was directly facing hers, then sat close enough that their knees were touching. He took both of her hands in his.

“Look, there's a good chance I can help you out. I know a lot of people on the East Coast. Good friends. People I trust and who can pull strings. Some owe me favors. Others I know things about they'd rather not see made public so they'd be happy to grant me favors.”

“I'm not sure those sound like friends to me.”

“Maybe not. But I can still trust them to do what I tell them to. A lot of them are people with clout. They know people who know people who know people who can get things done.”

And it was precisely that network of people who knew other people that was what Della was afraid of. Marcus might inadvertently tip her hand to the very people who were under investigation. His friends might be their friends, too. They were people like him—rich, powerful, enjoying an elevated social standing they didn't want to have compromised. They worked in the same industry. They were of the same tribe. Hell, he might not even want to help her if he found out what was at stake.

“You can't help,” she said. “I appreciate the offer, Marcus, but you can't.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

He studied her for another moment. “It's because you don't trust me. Because you just met me and don't know anything about me. But that doesn't have to be the case, Della. I—”

“It isn't that.” And she was surprised to realize that was the truth. She did trust Marcus. In spite of having just met him. And she knew more about him after one night than she did about a lot of people she'd known in New York for years. But money made people do funny things. Lots of money made people do bad things. And
billions of dollars… That made people do desperate things.

“There must be something I can do, Della,” he insisted, his voice laced with something akin to pleading. “The thought of you being in trouble somehow…it isn't right.”

Unable to help herself, she leaned forward and cupped his strong jaw in her hand. “You're a good guy, Marcus. And it's nice of you, wanting to help. But this is on me. Eventually, things will be better, but for now…”

She didn't finish. Mostly because, for now, she wanted to forget. She had another day and night to spend with Marcus, here in this hotel room where nothing from the outside could get to them. For now, she only wanted to think about that.

He covered her hand with his, then turned his face to place a soft kiss at the center of her palm. Warmth ebbed through her at the gesture. It was so sweet. So tender. So unlike their couplings of the night before.

“There must be something I can do to help,” he said again. “Please, Della. Just tell me what to do.”

She reached out with her other hand and threaded it through his hair, letting the silky tresses sift through her fingers before moving them to his forehead, his jaw, his mouth. “You can make love to me, again,” she said softly. “You can hold me and touch me and say meaningless things that both of us know aren't true anywhere but here in this room. You can make me feel safe and warm and cherished. You can make me forget that there's anything in the world except the two of us. Do that for me and I'll—”

She stopped herself before saying
I'll love you forever.
Even though she was confident he would know
it was hyperbole, it didn't feel like something she should put out there in the world.

He smiled, but there was something in the gesture that was a little hollow. His eyes were dark with wanting, however, when he reached for her and murmured, “Well, if you insist…”

W
ithout hesitation, Marcus leaned forward and covered Della's mouth with his, dipping his hands into the deep V of her robe to curl his fingers over her bare shoulders as he deepened the kiss. Her skin was warm and fragrant from her recent shower, and the soft scent grew both stronger and more delicate as he slowly spread open the fabric of the garment. He traced the delicate line of her collarbone to the divot at the base of her throat, then his fingers stole around to her nape, spreading into the silk of her hair. It was still damp, and tangled around his fingers as if trying to trap his hand there forever. He wished they could stay embraced this way forever. He would never grow tired of touching her.

Della seemed to sense his thoughts, because her hands fell to the knot in her robe and untied it before she cupped his face in her palms. Spurred by her silent
invitation, Marcus moved his hand lower, skimming the backs of his knuckles over the sensitive skin above her breasts before dragging his middle finger down the delicate valley between them. She gasped as he curved his fingers under one heavy breast and lifted it, then opened her mouth wider to invite him deep inside.

His last coherent thought was that he was responding to her the same way he had the night before, losing himself to her with a velocity and intensity that surpassed every other reaction, every other emotion, he had. The moment he touched her, everything else in the world ceased to exist. There was only heat and hunger, demand and desire, all of it commanding satisfaction.

Della seemed to understand that, too—or maybe she was feeling the same thing herself—because she was suddenly working feverishly at the sash of his robe, jerking it free so that she could dip her hands inside and explore him. Her fingers fumbled a bit as he gently began to knead her breast, but she recovered quickly, pushing his robe backward, over his shoulders and arms, spreading the fabric wider still. The next thing Marcus knew, she was on her knees in front of him, one hand curving over his taut thigh, the other moving on his hard shaft.

He nearly exploded at the contact, closing his eyes and sucking in a desperate breath as she gently palmed him. For long moments, she pleasured him that way, making his heart pound and his blood race until the rhythm of his passion roared in his ears. And when he felt her mouth close over him…

Oh, Della… Oh, baby…

When his fingers convulsed in her hair, she must have sensed how close he was to coming apart, because she stood and she took his hand in hers, then led him
to the bed. When she pushed his robe completely from his shoulders and nudged him down to the mattress, he went willingly, watching with great interest as she shrugged out of her robe, too. She joined him in bed, but when she tried to face him, he cupped his hands over her shoulders, gently turned her around and positioned her on her hands and knees. Then he moved his hands to her hips and knelt behind her. He splayed his palms open on her back, skimming them up and down as he slowly entered her, then leaned forward until his chest was flush with her back. He caught her breasts in his hands and held them for a moment, thumbing her stiff nipples and eliciting a wild little sound from deep inside her. Then he withdrew himself slowly and thrust forward again. Hard.

She cried out at the depth of his penetration, curling her fingers into the fabric of the sheet. Marcus filled her again, even harder this time, eliciting a response from her that was hot, erotic and demanding. So what could Marcus do but obey her? He had never been with a woman who was so uninhibited about sex. Della both commanded and surrendered in ways no other woman ever had. She rode astride him, wrapped her legs around his waist when she was beneath him, demanded he take her kneeling and sitting and standing. When they finally surrendered to the climaxes that shook them simultaneously, she was bent over the chair where they had started as Marcus pummeled her from behind again. They came together, cried out their satisfaction together, rode out the waves of their orgasms together. Then, together, they relaxed and reined themselves in, and collapsed into the chair.

For long moments, they sat entwined, Marcus on the chair and Della in his lap, neither willing—or perhaps
able—to say a word. Della opened her hand over the center of Marcus's chest, and he mimicked the gesture with her, noting how the rapid-fire beating of her heart kept time with his own. Gradually, it slowed along with his, too, until both of them were thumping along in happy, contented rhythm. At least, for now. Marcus suspected it wouldn't be long before their desires overtook them again.

But there had been something different in this coupling that hadn't been there before. He wasn't sure what it was or how it mattered, but it was there all the same. Yes, the sex had been hot, intense and carnal. Yes, they had both been consumed by an almost uncontrollable passion. Yes, they had said and done things they might not have said and done with other partners.

But there had been something else there that Marcus hadn't had with other partners, too. Not just a lack of inhibition, but a lack of fear. As if coming together with Della was simply a natural reaction to feelings he'd had for a very long time. He didn't know any other way to describe it, even though they'd known each other only a matter of hours. Sex with Della felt…right somehow. As if everything up until now had merely been a warm-up.
Della
felt right somehow. As if every woman before her had been practice. It meant something, he was sure of it. If he could only figure out what…

 

Marcus knew the moment he awoke that Della was gone. Even though it was still dark in the hotel room. Even though her fragrance still lingered on the pillow beside his own. Even though the sheets were still warm where she had lain. Maybe it had been the snick of the hotel room door closing behind her that woke
him, he thought with surprising clarity for having just woken. Maybe if he hurried, he could still catch her before she made it to the elevator. Or if she had already disappeared into it, maybe he could hurry faster and catch her in the lobby before she made it out of the building.

But even as the thoughts raced through his head, he knew, too, that none of them were true. Because, somehow, he knew what had woken him wasn't a sound at all. What had woken him was the simple awareness, on some subconscious level, that Della was irretrievably gone and that he was irrevocably alone.

Alone,
he marveled as he jackknifed up in the bed and palmed his eyes. It was a familiar condition, but it had never felt quite like this. It had never bothered Marcus to live alone or eat alone or work alone or do anything else alone. On the contrary, he'd always preferred his own company to that of others. Well, except for Charlotte, but that was because she had been a solitary creature herself. Marcus had never really felt as if he had that much in common with others, anyway. If he wanted companionship, it was easy to find it. There was always someone he could call or someplace he could go where, in a matter of minutes, he would be surrounded. Sometimes by friends, more often by acquaintances he pretended were friends, but the point was, he liked being alone.

He didn't like it this morning. Della's absence surrounded him like a rank, fetid carcass.

He rose and shrugged on his robe, knotting it around his waist as he moved to the window. In the sliver of moonlight that spilled through a slit in the curtains, he glimpsed a piece of paper lying on the table between the two chairs where he and Della had sat only hours ago.
Something hitched tight in his chest as he reached for it, because he thought it was a note from her. But it was the paper on which he'd written his numbers for her the day before. She'd left it behind. Because she'd wanted to make clear to him that she wouldn't be contacting him in the future.

She'd said she'd found trouble in New York. He couldn't imagine what kind of trouble a woman like her could be in. But if Della said she was in trouble, then she was in trouble. And if she'd said he couldn't help her…

Well, there she could be wrong.

Marcus crumpled the paper in his palm and tossed it onto the table, then pulled back the drape. The sky was black and crystal clear beyond, dotted with stars that winked like gemstones under theater lights. Uncaring of the bitter cold, he unlatched the window and shoved it open as far as it would go—which was barely wide enough for him to stick his head through—then gazed down onto Michigan Avenue. He'd never seen the street deserted before, regardless of the hour, but it was now, even though the snowplows had been through. People had yet to brave their way out into the remnants of the blizzard and probably wouldn't until after the sun rose.

For some reason, Marcus looked to his right and saw the red lights of a retreating car disappear around a corner some blocks up. Another light atop it indicated it was a taxi. Della's taxi. He knew that as well as he knew his own name.

As well as he knew her name, too.

Never had he been more grateful for his lack of decorum than he was in that moment. Had he not rifled through her purse, he would have nothing of her
now save her first name. Well, that and the memory of the most unforgettable weekend he'd ever spent with anyone. Now there was another reason he wouldn't forget it. Because he knew where to find Della Hannan. Maybe not in Chicago, but he did in New York. And that alone was worth its weight in gold. Provided one knew the right people.

And Marcus definitely knew the right people.

His cheeks began to burn in the freezing temperature, so he closed the window and retreated into the room. He scooped up his jacket from the back of the chair as he passed it, then sat on the side of the bed and dug his phone out of the inside pocket. He and Della had switched off their phones shortly after entering the room and had promised to keep them off, and he had kept that promise—at least where his own phone was concerned. Now that their brief interlude was over, he switched it back on. A dozen voice mails awaited him. He ignored them all and went right to his contacts, scrolling through to the one he wanted. A private detective he'd used a number of times, but always only with regard to business. Nevertheless the man had an excellent reputation when it came to investigations of a personal nature, too. Just how excellent, Marcus was about to discover.

He punched the talk button, and after three rings, a voice on the other end answered. Answered with a filthy epithet, but then, that wasn't unexpected considering the source. Or the time of night.

“Damien, it's Marcus Fallon.” He gave the other man a few seconds for the synapses in his brain to connect the dots.

“Right,” Damien finally said. “Whattaya need?”

“I need your services for something a little different from what I normally hire you for.”

“No problem.”

“I have a name, a physical description and a former address in New York City. Can you find a person who's now living in Chicago with that?”

“Sure.”

“Can you do it soon?”

“Depends.”

“On what?” Marcus asked.

“On how bad the person wants to be found.”

“How about on how bad
I
want the person found?”

It took another few seconds for more synapses to find their way to the meaning. “How much?” Damien asked.

Marcus relaxed. This was the thing he did best in the world. Well, other than the thing he and Della had spent the weekend doing. He started to turn on the bedside lamp, then remembered he would only see an empty room and changed his mind. “Tell you what,” he said, “let's you and I negotiate a deal.”

 

Della had been forced to part with a lot of things in her life. Her family, her friends and her home—such as they were—when she left the old neighborhood at eighteen. Jobs, offices and acquaintances as she'd climbed the professional ladder, moving from one part of Whitworth and Stone to another. An entire new life she'd built for herself in Manhattan. Soon she'd be parting with everything that had become familiar to her in Chicago.

But she didn't think any of those things had been as painful to part with as the crimson velvet Carolina Herrera gown and Dolce & Gabbana shoes, not to
mention the Bulgari earrings and pendant and the black silk Valentino opera coat. Not because they were so beautiful and rich and expensive. But because they were the only mementos she had of the time she'd spent with Marcus.

The only physical mementos, at any rate, since she'd left behind the paper on which he'd recorded all of his phone numbers—something for which she was kicking herself now, even if she had memorized all of them. It would have been nice to have something he'd touched, something personal in his own handwriting.

And when had she turned into such a raging sentimentalist? Never in her life had she wanted a personal memento from anyone. Not even Egan Collingwood. That was probably significant, but she refused to think about how.

Besides, it wasn't as though she didn't have plenty of other reminders of Marcus, she thought as she watched Ava Brenner, the proprietress of Talk of the Town, write out a receipt for the return of the rentals. Della had her memories. Memories that would haunt her for the rest of her life. The way Marcus had traced his fingertips so seductively over the rim of his champagne glass when they were in the club. How his brown eyes had seemed to flash gold when he laughed. The way his jacket had felt and smelled as he draped it over her shoulders. How the snow had sparkled as it had fluttered around him on the terrace and came to rest against his dark hair. The way his voice had rumbled against her ear when he murmured such erotic promises during their lovemaking

But mostly, she would remember the way he looked lying asleep in their bed before she left him.

He'd been lying on his side facing the place where she
had been sleeping, his arm thrown across the mattress where she had lain—she'd awoken to find it draped over her. He'd been bathed in a slash of moonlight that tumbled through the window from the clear sky outside. His hair had been tousled from their final coupling, and his expression, for the first time since she met him, had been utterly, absolutely clear. He'd looked…happy. Content. Fulfilled. As if he'd learned the answer to some ancient question that no one else understood.