Honey Page 18

  Apparently intent on torturing her, Marc scattered soft kisses inside one thigh and then the other. His deft fingers spread her. Warm breath fell upon her sensitized flesh. A tongue’s point probed her slit.

  “You even taste like honey,” he murmured, licking damp lips.

  He fluttered his tongue until Honey was certain she would die of pleasure. Only she didn’t die. She exploded. Her engorged sex rocketed, setting off a starburst of spasms. Keening sobs tore forth from her throat.

  Even so, she couldn’t seem to get enough. With Marc, she wasn’t sure she ever would. She lifted herself against him, her body beckoning him back.

  Finally the salvo faded. Breathing hard, she tugged down her dress, and then looked to Marc resting back on his heels on the floor. Sweat dampened his shirt, molding the material to his broad shoulders and tapered torso.

  “You’re amazing,” she said, though she suspected that wouldn’t exactly come as news to him.

  As much as she had always fantasized about a man putting her first, right now she didn’t want chivalry. She wanted sex. With Marc.

  Chest heaving, he got to his feet. Sliding an arm about her, he looked from her gaping dress into her eyes. “I meant what I said earlier. I want you to stay with me. I swear you won’t be sorry.”

  He might not be sorry yet but once he found out about her unawares involvement with Drew’s fraud scheme, he would be. Even before being picked up by Carson and Wilkes, she was a hot mess. She wouldn’t know how to go about having a healthy adult romantic relationship if Prince Charming rode up on his white horse and bit her on the fucking ass. Her only models, her stepfather and Drew, were both brutes who used fear and fists to win their way. Poor Marc; he might be brilliant, a doctor, but when it came to her he didn’t have a clue what he was in for.

  She laced her hand with his. “I may not be sorry, but I only hope you’ll be able to say the same.”

  “I will,” he said, his surety tearing at her heart—and her conscience.

  Laying a hand on either side of his face, she dragged him back down to her. Their mouths met. Their tongues sparred.

  Marc answered with a groan. Spreading her folds, he positioned himself over her channel. One quick, clean thrust carried him inside her. The emotions of the day made restraint seem foolish. They came hard, fast, and together, their urgent breathes and unbridled cries filling the bathroom.

  *

  Marc couldn’t put it off any longer. A recent heart surgery patient complaining of dizziness had been brought in by his panicked wife, and he’d ordered a CBC, Complete Blood Count, to rule out markers that might indicate bleed-out from the surgery or infection. The labs should be back by now. As great as his hospital-issued tablet was for triaging vitals, patient reports were still solely accessible through the hospital’s central computer system.

  Fortunately it was a slow night. All but a few of the triage gurneys were empty. Hoping his luck would hold, he headed for the central staff area known informally as the Pit. As usual, it was a mess, the small central table littered with soda cans, open bags of junk food, and assorted takeout containers. A half-eaten pepperoni pizza congealed in its open cardboard delivery box. Blue-bound patient charts spilled across the surrounding countertops and took up several of the plastic and metal chairs. Three of the six computers were taken, two by staff members with whom he worked on a fairly regular basis. Fortunately they were busy typing, their backs to him. The other, a good-natured if gabby senior nurse whose name he remembered was Wilma, crammed a fistful of cheese popcorn into her mouth while filling out a requisition form. Hospitals, like most workplaces, were hotbeds for gossip. Marc had never given anyone cause to say two words about him—until now.

  Keeping his head down, he gave Wilma a broad berth, tiptoeing toward the open terminal farthest away. With luck, he’d look up his results and be in and out before she or the others spotted him.

  “Good Lord, what happened to you?” Wilma asked, covering orange-stained fingers over the phone receiver.

  So much for luck.

  Before Marc could come up with a plausible lie, one of the nursing assistants swiveled around on his seat, his jaw dropping when he saw Marc’s face. “I bet it was one of those delivery dudes on the bikes. Motherfuckers will mow you down and keep pedaling.”

  “No, it wasn’t anybody on a bike.”

  “Don’t tell me you got in a fight?” Wilma persisted. “Not you, of all people.”

  Not exactly sure how to take that, Marc shook his head. “No, I wasn’t in a fight—though I did box in college,” he added to salvage his pride.

  Their knee-jerk disbelief that he might be a badass on his off-duty time wasn’t wholly flattering. It took him back to his prepubescent beanpole days when he seemed to be a magnet for every bully on the block. If it hadn’t been for Tony having his back, Marc wasn’t sure he would have survived to make it to college. The unexpected thought prompted a painful pang.

  Wilma waived a chubby hand, several fingers stained orange from the snack. “Oh, I’m sure you can handle yourself. It’s just that you’ve got to be the most laid-back resident on the floor.”

  So much for his having no game—and no poker face. If they thought he was relaxed, there was only one explanation. He must be an ace actor. That was both the plus and minus of being both passionate and an introvert—few people ever got to glimpse the storm raging inside you.

  But these past few weeks he’d let Honey see inside him, not all the way but more in-depth than any other women he’d dated. It struck him that maybe she wasn’t the only one of them addicted to playacting roles rather than keeping things real. With her carefully curated vintage couture and retro hair and makeup, as well as the Audrey quotes sprinkling her speech, she was at least honest about it. Marc suddenly realized that he couldn’t lay claim to the same.

  Wilma’s voice drew him back to the present. “Hmm, hmm, hmm. I’d lay down money it’s a woman that made those marks.” A fat finger pointed toward his left cheek. “That’s a scratch, and as a general rule men don’t fight with their fingernails.” She turned to the other nurse. “Doctor Sandler here has woman problems.”

  “I don’t have … ” Mid-denial, Marc stopped himself. Woman problems summed up his situation with scary accuracy, not that he meant to admit it. “Let’s just say a friend was going through a rough time the other night and leave it at that, okay?”

  Seeing her and the assistant nurse trade smirks, Marc felt his face burn.

  Wilma looked him up and down, her glowing gaze suggesting she was seeing him in a new light. “Hmm, hmm, hmm,” she intoned again, sucking salty fake cheese from her thumb as if giving it head. “Suit yourself, Romeo—or should I say Doctor Fifty Shades?”

  *

  Honey tried again, studying the paint chips fanned out over Marc’s dining room table. It was no use. The various hues of pale blue blended together, no doubt because her tired eyes burned. She’d hoped the previous night’s hot sex with Marc might settle her mind, but instead it only emphasized how very much stood at stake for her to lose. Marc. Ever since Carlson and company had swooped into her life, a future together no longer seemed like such a sure thing. She’d spent most of the night and early morning lying awake beside him listening to the sounds of his breathing. Thankfully he was pulling a double shift at the hospital. Hearing his phone alarm go off, she’d quickly closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep rather than face him.

  She pushed the samples aside and picked up her cell phone. “Liz, it’s me. Honey. I know it’s late but do you maybe … have a minute?”

  As a freelance graphics designer, Liz often worked late into the night. She swore she got her best work out of the way when the apartment was silent and Jonathan sleeping. “Of course. Actually you just saved me from emailing.”

  “I did?” Either Liz had major telepathic powers or they were on totally different pa
ges.

  “Did you get my e-vite?” Liz asked.

  Honey hesitated. “I … I didn’t see it.”

  That was, strictly speaking, the truth. She hadn’t checked her email in days, not even from her phone. Ever since the other day when she’d texted Drew her “apology,” with agents Carlson and Wilkes looking on, she’d been walking around in a semi daze. To her dismay, he’d accepted. Far from her slipping off the FBI’s hook, “Operation Moneybags” as she thought of it was going forward full steam and taking her, and her future, with it.

  “No matter,” Liz said, pulling her back to the present. “How would you feel about bringing your hot doctor over for drinks this Friday? Nothing fancy, just a cheese platter and some two-buck chuck, but I already checked and Peter and Pol can make it. Brian hasn’t gotten back to me yet, but Sarah and Cole are coming by with the baby. What do you say?”

  “Actually this Friday isn’t … good for me—us.” Friday was Drew’s Investors’ Day and thus the sting operation.

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” Liz said, sounding disappointed and maybe a little miffed, too. “Another time, then. I’ll leave it to you to let me know when you’re free.” She made as if to end the call.

  Heart pounding, Honey shocked herself by saying, “Liz—wait!”

  “What is it?”

  Honey hesitated, weighing her words. Though she’d resisted the temptation to tell Marc anything about the FBI’s plans for her, she needed to confide in someone. If things went poorly, if something happened to her at Drew’s hands, she didn’t want her friends, and most of all Marc, left thinking she was a brainless bimbo who’d betrayed them all by going back to her abuser.

  And she could use, if not advice, certainly a sounding board. Liz was one of the smartest and most grounded people Honey knew. Ever since joining FATE, she’d looked up to Liz not only as a mentor but also as the big sister she’d always wanted. The courage with which Liz had faced cancer was a testimony to her inner strength. Above all, she could trust Liz to give her straight talk—even if the answers weren’t always ones Honey wanted to hear.

  “That promise I made last Monday night, I’m afraid I’m going to have to break it.”

  Liz paused and Honey could all but hear the wheels turning as she thought back to their last FATE session. “Honey, why? He’s a violent sadist. He’s hurt you before. There’s no telling how he might retaliate this time, especially since you’ve rejected him. What could you possibly have to gain by getting back with him? Why would you even consider coming within ten feet of a guy like that?”

  How about because I look dreadful in orange? “I … ” Honey stopped herself from saying more. What if the FBI had tapped her phone? To her best recollection, the cell hadn’t left her hands or her sight, not even during her FBI interview. Still, if she was wrong, she risked dragging Liz into her mess, and above all Liz had her son to consider.

  “Honey, for God’s sake, say something—anything.”

  “I … Is there any chance I could come over for a few minutes?’

  Chapter Ten

  “There are certain shades of limelight that can wreck a girl’s complexion.”—Audrey Hepburn, Breakfast at Tiffany’s

  The message Marc received from Liz, one of Honey’s FATE friends, had come from out of the blue. When she asked to speak to him in person rather than over the phone, he knew something serious must be up. Pulling a twelve-hour shift as he was, the hospital cafeteria was the best he could manage, given the short notice. She agreed to meet him there on his morning break.

  Sighting a built brunette wearing a visitor’s badge and eying the diners, Marc pushed his plastic chair back from the cafeteria table and stood. “Liz?”

  She nodded, looking relieved. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. Honey’s told us quite a lot about you.”

  Taming his curiosity as to what she might have said, he gestured to the lines leading to the hot and cold food bars. “Can I get you some breakfast?”

  She glanced down to the paper cup she held. “I’m good with coffee, thanks.” She slid into the seat across from him. “I really appreciate you making time to meet, Doctor Sandler.”

  “Please, call me Marc, and I’m the one who’s grateful to you for accommodating my work schedule. I know a hospital cafeteria probably isn’t what you had in mind, but the coffee here isn’t half bad.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve had more than my share of hospital food in the last few years, so no worries. I consider myself almost a connoisseur at this point.”

  Rather than pry, he said, “Honey’s mentioned you two are in some kind of a group together, but I don’t know much else.”

  She hesitated. “I can’t really speak about the nature of our group with you—that would be up to Honey and what her comfort level is.”

  “Of course.” He glanced at his phone, checking the time. He had to be back on the floor in ten minutes. “I’m afraid I can’t stay long.”

  “I know you’re busy but this was too important to let go and—” she leaned forward, lowering her voice “—I wasn’t entirely comfortable discussing it over the phone.”

  “I think you’d better tell me what’s on your mind.”

  She sighed heavily. “Are you aware that the other day when Honey went back to pack up her … old place, she was picked up by the FBI?”

  The FBI! “No, I was not. That night I noticed she was in an off mood, but she wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. What could the FBI want with Honey?”

  “It’s not Honey they’re after, but Jerk Face—sorry, Winterthur. Drew Winterthur is the man who—”

  “I’m familiar, yes.”

  “The feds suspect him of stock fraud but they need more proof—his recorded confession—and they want Honey to get it for them. He’s holding some kind of big bash at the Waldorf for the investors he’s swindled, and Honey is supposed to get it then.”

  He’d always known Winterthur was a boozer and a brute. What he hadn’t realized was he was also a real-life Gordon Gekko.

  Thinking back to the trashed apartment, Winterthur’s handiwork, he said, “Can’t she just say no?”

  Liz hesitated. “Unfortunately Jerk Face set up one of his dummy corporations in her name and got her to sign the incorporation papers by making her think it was the apartment lease. If she doesn’t do what they want—”

  “They’ll indict her, too.” Marc gripped the edge of the table. It was eight years ago all over again, history repeating, only the loved one involved on the wrong side of the law wasn’t his drug-dealing brother but Honey, the woman he loved. And unlike Tony, she was innocent. “Thank you for telling me. I know it can’t have been easy.”

  “It wasn’t, but from everything she’s told us about you, you seem like you genuinely care for her.”

  “I do. I haven’t known her all that long, but I love her.”

  Her tense expression eased. “Then my telling you was the right thing to do.”

  He nodded. “It was. But what I don’t understand is why Honey didn’t tell me herself.”

  Sure, he’d been working a lot that week, but the other night when she’d come home in a mood, he’d given her ample opportunity. Instead of telling him the truth, she’d talked nonsense about taking off to Paris. After all the progress they’d made these last few weeks, the barriers they’d broken down, could it be she still didn’t totally trust him?

  Liz hesitated. “She’s afraid you’ll interfere.”

  Damn right he was going to “interfere.” FBI or no FBI, no way was he letting her go back into the lion’s den alone.

  “Believe it or not, she’s trying to protect you.”

  Marc didn’t need protecting, but after this was over, Winterthur well might. Rather than say so, and risk Liz clamming up, he asked, “When is this all going down?”

  “Tomorrow starting at noon.”

 
; *

  D-day, Operation Moneybags, dawned cloudless and mildly warm—a stark contrast to the storm taking place in Honey’s mind. One worry at least had proven unfounded. Getting Marc out of the house had been surprisingly easy. Thank God for his early morning staff meeting, which had allowed her to get ready unobserved. Pulling off the charade of getting back together with Drew didn’t allow for half measures. Full makeup, big hair, and lots of cleavage had, until recently, been a way of life, but now she felt as though she were slipping back into a costume.

  Standing in the back of the FBI surveillance SUV, she stared into the dressing mirror and asked herself yet again if Carlson’s trust hadn’t been misplaced. Until a few weeks ago, she’d been trapped in a long-term abusive relationship with an intimate partner. Before that she’d been an escort and, earlier, a runaway. Despite all the marvelous changes she’d made since meeting Marc, she still didn’t have her GED. Was she truly “asset” material?

  And then there were the logistics of the operation, which truly boggled her mind. Surveillance in the wireless era seemed to be part Star Trek, part James Bond. Given the slinky dress Drew would be expecting her to wear, where could she conceal a wire?

  As it turned out, the digital device, no bigger than a pen cap, was sufficiently sophisticated to record not only sound but also high-definition video, streaming it live to a remote computer. In her case, it was disguised as a bejeweled clip and affixed to the hair fascinator she’d be wearing. It seemed her penchant for vintage fashion had a practical application after all.

  But technology, no matter how advanced, could only take you so far. There was, as always, the human factor to consider. Marc.

  Liz had counseled, even pleaded, for Honey to come clean with him, but Honey had held firm. He’d never go along with her putting herself in such danger. He might well try to stop her. Who knew, but he might go all Sir Galahad on her and follow her inside the Waldorf. Interfering with a federal investigation carried a stiff penalty, including jail time. Ever since they’d met, he’d put himself out on the line for her, starting with the morning she checked herself out of his ER and he showed up at her apartment to make sure she was safe. The days of her putting him on the line were past.