Imminent Conquest (17 page)

"I see."

"You didn't see those boxes?” he persisted. “Maybe some photos where there shouldn't have been any, or letters or anything?"

"No."

"Wonder why anyone would want to break in and steal a box of photos and old letters? Doesn't make any sense,” he pondered out loud.

Cathy leapt to her feet and ran for the oven. “Wow! I fixed meat lasagne for you and it's fixing to burn.” She grabbed two potholders.

"Let me do that for you,” he said, taking them from her and inserting his hands into the checkered material. He lifted the steaming glass pan from the oven and placed it on a metal rack on the counter. “It smells like a piece of heaven."

"I made some cookies, too."

"You did? What kind?” He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten homemade cookies.

"Rainbow chocolate chip."

"My fave."

"I thought so."

"Although most any kind is my fave."

She hurried to the fridge, treating the kitchen as familiarly as if she had lived here for the last six months, like he had. Pulling the door open, she bent over to retrieve something and gave him the view of a luscious, wriggling bottom. Bryan gulped several times. He'd sure like to get a look at her naked when she bent over like that. Maybe he would catch a glimpse of her pussy. He let out a little sigh before he caught himself. This woman was hot stuff, but he had assumed she wasn't married. Was she? If she was, why was she cooking for him instead of her husband?

She headed towards the sink with a red bell pepper and a head of iceberg lettuce. Her breasts jiggled invitingly under the sweater. “The salad will be ready in a minute."

"Need some help?” He was the kind of guy who pulled a TV dinner from the freezer, popped it in the microwave and ate minutes later. He wasn't much for spending hours preparing a meal only to eat it without companionship.

"Nah. I got it."

"Where did you get all this stuff from?"

"Supermarket around the corner. I got here and there was nothing in the cupboards or the fridge, so I decided to stock up. Doesn't your job pay you anything?"

"Michael pays fine."

"Where do you work?” She washed the lettuce under running water.

"Anessa Rendering."

"Don't know them."

"Michael owns it."

She looked over her shoulder. “Who's that?"

"Michael Karlisi. He changed his name a while back. Used to be James Carmichael."

He wasn't sure if it was only his imagination, but Cathy froze as she lifted the red pepper onto the wooden cutting board. “Is everything okay?” he asked, as she started coring the pepper with a small knife. Heck, she was almost attacking the vegetable.

"Sure. We just don't talk about him."

"We?"

"The family. I mean it's been years since our side of the family disowned him."

Bryan grunted, rubbing his forehead and trying to remember if he had heard about it.

"Why?"

Cathy shuddered. “Let's talk about something else. Like Christmas."

"Are you always so manipulative?"

"I try my very best."

The cookie jar lid was slightly ajar. Deciding to check out why, when it was normally empty, he lifted the lid only to get his fingers slapped.

"You have to wait until after dinner,” Cathy admonished him.

The smell of chocolate chip cookies was tempting, as was the woman who had baked them.

"It's my house."

She shrugged. “I made the cookies."

"Okay. So we're stalemated."

"Yup.” She placed fisted hands on her hips and glared at him playfully. “What made you look in there?"

He decided to play along. “I thought the photos would be in there."

"I bet."

He wanted to kiss her glossy lips and her perky nose. She couldn't stay still for more than a few seconds. Man, but he wanted to throw her against the counter and pull her pants down. That made as much sense as Colin had when he had stormed into the Anessa office earlier that day. Now Bryan had found a beautiful woman in his house, and he couldn't take her to bed. Cathy was sure stacked in the right places, even if life hadn't stacked its opportunities the same way.

"So you work for James?” she asked, turning away with a flash of amusement.

He didn't doubt she knew he had a major hard-on. “I thought you weren't allowed to talk about him.” He watched as she mixed the salad and dribbled virgin olive oil over the crisp shredded lettuce.

"What I said was the family doesn't talk about him when we're all together, say for a birthday or at Christmas time."

"So why don't your folks talk about him?"

"He's a murderer."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. That was some years ago, but I remember the uproar it caused. You know, I was a teenager back then when everything was fresh and interesting."

Cathy had confirmed Colin's statement that Michael had been in prison but the reason differed. Bryan couldn't recall hearing about a trial. Quite likely, the news simply hadn't reached Bryan.

She bustled about, efficiency on sexy, mile-long legs.

"Who was he accused of murdering?” he asked out of curiosity. If there was one man he would vote for as the least likely to commit murder, Michael would be that man.

"His father."

Bryan's eyebrows knit together in a deep frown. “No way."

"Why?"

"Wasn't he charged with rape?"

"With what?” Cathy stared at him, her lips parted.

"Wasn't he convicted of non-consensual sex?"

"Where did you hear that?"

"Uh, just a vague memory."

Adamantly, she shook her head. “Someone saw James do it. Or I think that's the way I heard it. It was a long time ago. I'm surprised you can work for him since he has such a dubious, as you call it, background."

"Before this afternoon, I had no idea he had such a colourful one.” He had heard two versions of why Michael had gone to prison, if he had, that was. Why was everyone determined to slander Michael's reputation?

"He served seven years and still managed to inherit his father's money in the sixty-million-dollar range."

Bryan couldn't see how a convicted felon could inherit a vast amount of money. “I just can't reconcile the Michael I know with the one you're making him out to be."

"He slit his father's throat. Why? No one knows. That never came out during the trial. Only Michael can tell us that."

"That can't be. You'll know what I mean when you meet him."

"I have no intention of doing that. As far as I'm concerned, his kind doesn't exist in my world."

There had to be some kind of mistake. Without exception, all of Michael's employees liked him. Bryan knew of several men who leaned on Michael for emotional support. He helped them, always finding a compromise or a solution to a vexing problem. Would these men really take their problems to him if they knew he was a murderer? Highly unlikely. “I hope I can convince you to change your mind."

"Dinner's ready. All set for homemade lasagne with three cheeses and rich tomato sauce?"

"Woman, I don't know where you came from, but you're making my mouth water.” As he stuck his fork in the meaty lasagne, he appreciated the bubbly woman seated opposite. Perhaps she had the answers to the enigma that had become Michael in only a few hours.

Michael admired Nicole's feisty spirit. His cheek stung angrily where her small hand had landed. Except for the classical music playing quietly, there was silence. She stood buck naked, standing up to him in a way few women had in the past decade. Most women wanted him for what his money could offer them or because they found a former prisoner some kind of freakish attraction. But he could unequivocally say no other woman turned him on as much as Nicole did.

He berated himself for trying to recapture the love they had once shared with carnal sex, to think driving her crazy with need for him might make her beg for him. Inwardly, he beat himself. Nicole was a woman with a great deal of pride. He repressed a fledgeling sigh, doubting she would ever beg him for anything again.

Guilt ate away at his insides. He'd gone about doing things the wrong way since he had taken hold of the bloody knife beside his father's body. Now he had tried to force Nicole to love him by tying her down, by making her scream with desire. He shook his head with the dismal train his thoughts had taken. He kept himself busy with Anessa, trying to provide jobs for the struggling people of Eastwynd. So busy that sometimes he didn't even make it home to bed but fell asleep, exhausted, behind his desk in his office.

Now he had compounded that guilt by manoeuvring both Brad's and Nicole's lives. He had offered Brad a job at Anessa although he wasn't the most qualified for the job. Then he had secretly arranged for Nicole's transfer to Bessman and Overton, in the vain hope that having her nearby would ease his loneliness. That attempt had failed miserably he'd realised when he'd set eyes on her in the ballroom. He knew he wouldn't be able to live another minute without her, that the demoralising loneliness and the emptiness he had lived with would choke him to death. If nothing else, prison had taught him life was a lonely place, eased only by a very few intimate friends. Colin had stood by him during the time he was behind bars. Often, the comfort of his brother's presence had been the only thing that had kept him going.

Michael stood rooted to the floor, astonished that Nicole could have slapped him. But, without a doubt, he had deserved it. He cleared his throat. Quietly, he said, “I didn't kill my father. I loved him and wouldn't have dared to take away the few years he had left. He was so fragile as it was.

"If only you had listened to me that day when I tried to stop you, I could have explained.” He saw her give a little shudder. She was facing him naked and was probably cold. “I have spare clothes for you here,” he said, kneeling in front of a chair and drawing a gym bag from underneath. Unwilling to risk another resounding slap, he said, “Here,” and pushed the bag at her.

She peeked inside the bag and began to draw out panties, bra, skirt and blouse.

"I want to make you understand,” he said, watching her tight bottom.

"There's nothing to understand.” She pulled on the panties and slipped her arms into the bra straps.

"I can't just walk away, Nicole. You're a part of me. Ever since the day we met you've been the best part of my life."

She turned on him, her lips set in a thin, angry line. “I'm not a part of you. I fail to see why you can't get that into your dense head.” She shook her head, her long hair swinging from side to side.

"I love you. Don't send me into hell without you.” He had never begged before, not even in prison when Bad Dude had come along and threatened to bash his face in if Michael didn't give him his food. Instead of fighting, because it wasn't worth it, Michael had given him the tray of what looked like minestrone but could have been anything.

Placing her palms against his chest, she gazed into his eyes, her own fiercely irate. “We had something once. It no longer exists."

He edged forward. “I'm innocent. Please believe that."

"Stop protesting your innocence, James. Save your breath. I saw you.” She looked him up and down. “If you come one step closer, I'll scratch your eyes out."

He recoiled at the vehemence in her voice. Like a cat with its fur sticking straight up, she was ready to strike if the situation warranted it.

"I don't want you touching me. Not ever again."

Resignedly, blinking back sudden tears of defeat, he said, “I won't if you don't want me to.” But he couldn't let her go, not that easily.

She was completely dressed, her features set in stony harshness.

If he had had any other alternative, he would have used it but he slid to his knees. “I'm begging, Nicole. At least forgive me, if nothing else."

The one woman who meant anything to him glanced at him before she stalked off towards the door. “Don't beg. It won't make me change my mind. You're a has-been."

The muscle under his eye twitched relentlessly as he rose. The life was being squeezed out of him. Without her, life was an empty charade. “At least let me take you home."

"But I don't want you touching me.” She shrank back from him as if he was some leper. With heartbroken certainty, he knew what it was like to be imprisoned in his own life with no avenue of escape.

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In Michael's luxury car, Nicole tucked herself against the passenger door like a limp doll as he drove to her house. His knuckles were white gripping the steering wheel. He didn't glance her way.

When he turned up the driveway, she saw her Topaz was parked in front of her house. Surprised, she wondered how she would explain coming home with Michael in the middle of the day. She straightened her shoulders. She didn't owe Brad any explanations. Let him think she was having an affair with his boss. Churlishly, she thought she might want to make him jealous with another man but she wondered if he would rise to the bait. On second thought, she no longer wanted to marry Brad, so why bother making him jealous? What purpose would it serve?

After the car came to a stop, she pushed open the passenger door, got out and slammed it as hard as she could before she stomped towards the house's front door.

The car had already begun to pull away when she shouted, “Damn you! I hate you, Michael Karlisi."

Of course, he couldn't hear her. She shut the front door unusually hard and stalked up the stairs, determined to change her clothes. As far as she was concerned, Michael could beg until the moon fell from the sky but she wouldn't change her mind. She no longer felt muddled. Her body finally agreed with her mind—neither wanted anything to do with Michael. He was a part of her past now. He would never be able to insinuate himself into her life again.

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"That's the bestest meal I've ever had,” Bryan told Cathy as he patted his stomach. “I'm about to bust."

"Bestest, huh? I don't think I recall being told one of my meals is the ‘bestest'.” She laughed cheerfully and they began to clear away the dishes.