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  “Sorry about all this,” she said, nodding to the papers. “I’m flustered . . . trying to get out of this place and wondering if it’s even possible.”

  She reached to take the papers and journals that he held, but Thomas didn’t release them.

  She glanced up at him to see that he studied her. If there was one thing about Nicasio, he really made a woman feel like he wasn’t just looking, but saw. That’s how he always had managed to make her feel, anyway.

  “Your mind isn’t the only thing that has ten million things stuffed in it.” He nodded at her briefcase. “You’re busting at the seams, Dr. Gable.”

  Dr. Gable. Several months ago, the Doctor had become Dr. Gable. Since she’d never formally introduced herself, Sophie found herself wondering how he’d discovered her name. She liked to think he’d asked someone, even though it was more likely he’d seen her name on the front door of the medical offices and figured out which doctor she was by a process of elimination. She was the only female in the group practice.

  She gave a shrug, her flickering gaze taking in his slightly amused expression. It struck her suddenly how intimate their postures were, kneeling on the floor there together, her face only inches apart from a casual acquaintance who she felt an almost overwhelming need to embrace . . . to comfort.

  She relinquished the papers into his hold and rose to her feet. For a few seconds, he remained kneeling, his face near her thighs. She stepped back and brushed the wrinkles out of her skirt, trying to smooth not only the fabric, but her ruffled nerves.

  “I’m about to go on vacation at Haven Lake, downstate. It’s a pain, tying up so many loose ends,” she explained with a smile, trying to lighten the tension-filled moment.

  His eyebrows rose on his forehead. He stood slowly, uncoiling his long body. He’d removed his jacket and tie and wore dark blue pants that rode low on his narrow hips. A navy and white striped dress shirt set off his golden brown tan. Sophie’d often speculated how he’d acquired that tan. Did he spend his weekends playing tennis at a club? Boating? Swimming?

  Something in the long, lean lines of his torso and powerful shoulders and chest seemed to argue for the latter. Somehow, she could perfectly imagine Thomas Nicasio knifing through the water, mastering that domain just like he appeared to so effortlessly master the rest of his world.

  “Surely that’s not a good explanation for the state of your briefcase. You’re supposed to leave work behind when you go on a vacation, aren’t you? Not that I’d know that from personal experience or anything.” The twitch of his lips struck her as a little sad, as though he wanted to grin but some unseen weight prevented it.

  “I’m fortunate enough to be able to take off a month every summer, but there’s a price to pay. It’s when I do all my writing.” She hitched her stuffed briefcase for emphasis. “I plan to write three, maybe four medical articles while I’m relaxing.”

  This time, the smile did find expression on his lips, but Sophie noticed it never reached his eyes. He cast an anxious glance toward the corridor—in the direction of Andy’s office.

  “That’s what you plan,” he murmured when his gaze returned to her face. “But will you actually get around to work once the vacation atmosphere sets in?”

  Sophie froze for a moment when he stepped closer.

  “Well, I’m a bit of a procrastinator. But I’ll get to it. Eventually, anyway, when I see the end of my vacation start to loom on the calendar.”

  Her reply sounded a bit breathless as she watched him slide the journal and loose papers into her briefcase, careful not to crinkle anything. He glanced down at her face with a hooded stare. The look in his eyes had made the breath freeze in her lungs. For a few seconds, Sophie thought the moment had come.

  Thomas Nicasio was finally going to cross the invisible boundary that kept them existing in separate worlds.

  But then he looked away and briskly pulled the zipper, closing her briefcase.

  “Life’s short, Dr. Gable,” he said gruffly. “I’m finding that out firsthand. You never know when fate might step in and make it even shorter. I hate to think of you wasting your vacation hunched over a computer screen. It just doesn’t seem right, somehow. Not for you.”

  She held her breath in her lungs when he gently smoothed back a strand of hair that had fallen on her cheek.

  He stepped away.

  As Sophie lay there a little over twenty-four hours later while Thomas Nicasio slept a few dozen feet away from her, the memory made her heart squeeze tight in her chest.

  For the hundredth time, she replayed his embrace in her mind, recalled in graphic detail the sensation of his hard, hot body pressed so intimately next to her own, the way he’d fit against her so well. Her nipples tightened against her T-shirt.

  Sleep with me, Sophie. I need your cleanness so much right now.

  She groaned softly and turned onto her side, curling into a fetal position in an attempt to alleviate the ache at her core that would not dissipate, no matter how much she tried to distract herself. She prayed for sleep, for the oblivion of unconsciousness that would stifle the fire in her flesh, but her prayers went unanswered. Thoughts of Thomas swelled in her awareness until her body heat escalated to a low boil.

  One hour passed—two, then three. Every nerve in her body seemed to be buzzing with electricity, making sleep seem a ludicrous proposition. Her entire awareness stretched down the hallway to the room where Thomas slept.

  She lay on her side, her face turned toward her shut bedroom door, her body throbbing with heat.

  She heard the muted sound of a door latch clicking open down the hallway. Her heart swelled in her chest and began beating erratically. She wasn’t really surprised. It struck her suddenly that she’d been waiting there in her bed . . . anticipating this moment.

  And not just for the past several hours . . . for a long, long time.

  She held her breath when her bedroom door opened quietly. He stood in the opening for several seconds, as if unsure. A dim light from the living room reflected behind him, allowing her to see he’d taken off his shirt and wore only his jeans.

  The moment felt heavy, tense . . . pregnant with possibilities she couldn’t fully comprehend.

  “Sophie?”

  She swallowed thickly. “Do you feel better?”

  He nodded, his gaze glued to her face.

  “Let me feel your forehead,” she whispered.

  He came toward her. Her gaze was filled with the vision of taut muscle . . . strained virility. She remained unmoving, spellbound. He knelt next to the bed, his posture striking her as a silent plea. She placed her fingertips on his cool forehead, but hers was a lover’s touch more than a clinician’s.

  He needn’t plead.

  She put her hands on his shoulders and felt dense muscle gloved in smooth, warm skin. He came at her urging, his big male body a welcome weight pressing her down into the mattress, his demanding, urgent kiss a dark, thrilling promise of what was to come.

  The next morning, he was gone.

  Sophie jogged out the back door wearing a hastily donned cotton robe over her nakedness, already knowing from the leaden sensation in her gut that the dark green sedan would be absent from her driveway.

  She went back inside the house and for a few minutes, just stared blankly at her sunny kitchen, feeling every bit as dazed as Thomas had appeared last night.

  A decision struck her brain like a gong of clarity.

  She showered, packed, and made a quick stop at her elderly neighbors, the Dolans, in order to ask them to pick up her mail—she wasn’t sure how many days she’d be gone. While she was at the Dolans’, Daisy Dolan asked her if it’d been all right that she’d told that nice man who was asking for directions to her house last night where Sophie lived.

  “He seemed so anxious to see you. I thought perhaps he was ill,” Daisy said, her forehead crinkled in concern. “I hope I did the right thing. I tried to call you afterwards, but you must have been out in the yard.”
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br />   Sophie kissed her friend on the cheek in reassurance. “I was painting. It’s okay, Daisy. I’m glad you gave Thomas directions to my place.”

  She was on the interstate headed toward Chicago within an hour of discovering Thomas Nicasio had fled her life just as dramatically as he’d entered it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sophie bit at a fingernail nervously before she realized what she was doing. She hadn’t bitten her nails since she was fourteen years old.

  She plopped down at her desk, her mind replaying all the while what had occurred this afternoon, when Thomas Nicasio had walked onto the elevator at 209 South LaSalle today with two soberly dressed men whom Sophie strongly suspected from their manner were federal agents.

  Whoever the two men were, Sophie knew one thing from Thomas’s furious scowl and the formal manner in which the two men flanked him like they would a prisoner: These men were no friends to Thomas Nicasio.

  Something had told her not to speak when she saw him; not to acknowledge their acquaintance in front of the two men. Part of her was glad to see Thomas’s ambivalence about ignoring her. Apparently, he hadn’t been left completely unaffected by what she’d considered a soul-wrenching night of lovemaking, even if he had gotten up the next morning and driven away.

  She couldn’t judge him too harshly for his erratic behavior. He wasn’t well, after all.

  She’d returned to the city to have a serious talk with her friend Andy Lancaster and then to find Thomas . . . to assure herself that he was all right. Andy was off on Fridays, so she’d met with him earlier that afternoon in the tiny, messy den in his Lakeview condo. Andy’s new wife, Sheila, had gone through his bachelor-pad condo in a whirlwind of redecorating soon after they’d married, but she’d agreed not to touch Andy’s den with so much as a paintbrush.

  Andy had listened with intense focus while Sophie explained about Nicasio’s appearance at Haven Lake last night. He’d asked her a series of pointed diagnostic questions and then leaned back in his leather chair, his high forehead wrinkled and his kind face shadowed with worry.

  “We have to do something, Andy,” Sophie stated unequivocally.

  “What, exactly?” Andy countered. “It sounds like Nicasio was in a brawl and suffering from a head trauma. We can’t force a grown man to go to the hospital, Soph. I’ve never even formally introduced him.”

  “But those questions you were asking just now . . . It sounded like you think he’s suffering from a psychological trauma, as well. What if . . . ?” Sophie glanced around nervously, as though she thought someone sinister was lurking in the dusty corners of Andy’s den. “What if Thomas knows something about what Rick Carlisle told you during his sessions? What if he’s discovered something more? What if he’s in danger?”

  Andy’s expression froze. “Sophie . . . I never told you that the person who I was doing a case consultation with you about was Rick Carlisle.”

  Sophie made a sound of disgust and stood. She found herself staring at an Escher print that hung on Andy’s wall, feeling every bit as trapped and confused as the creatures in the optical illusion drawing.

  “Andy, we’ve been good friends now for thirteen years. Have a little respect for my intelligence, will you? Do you think I don’t notice the comings and goings in our office? Do you really believe I didn’t know perfectly well that the patient you were so concerned about, and who you’ve been consulting with me about for over a year on an anonymous basis, was Rick Carlisle, Nicasio’s adoptive brother?”

  “Sophie—”

  “I know you’re bound by an oath of confidentiality,” she exclaimed as she spun to face him, “but a man may be in danger. There are limits to your oath.”

  Andy stood slowly and pushed his wire-rimmed glasses back on his nose. “Sophie, Thomas Nicasio isn’t my patient.”

  “But Rick Carlisle was, and look what happened to him! He’s dead.”

  She instantly regretted her impulsive words when she saw Andy’s face drain of all color. She knew how attached Andy was to all of his patients. Rick’s death had been a heavy blow for him.

  “Even if you were right about the identity of my patient, the officials called what happened to Rick Carlisle an accident. An accident. Besides, you can’t really believe that Rick’s father would murder his own son and grandson in cold blood, can you? Isn’t that what you’re implying, Sophie?”

  Her cheeks warmed. It did sound a little melodramatic, but—

  “Joseph Carlisle is being investigated by the FBI for organized crime activities. And you know what Rick had discovered in his own research into the Outfit for his book. His journalistic source fingered Joseph Carlisle as the main boss of the Chicago Outfit,” Sophie hissed. “How do I know what men like that would do and not do to keep their secrets? Do you really know, Andy?”

  Andy sighed wearily when Sophie stared at him imploringly.

  “This is outside my realm of control,” he insisted. “If I were in possession of specific evidence that suggested a murder of two innocent people had occurred, that’d be one thing. But I don’t have any concrete evidence. Even Ri—the patient—wasn’t fully convinced about the allegations this man—Bernard Cokey—made in regard to his father being the head of Chicago organized crime. Please understand, Sophie. The ethics of my profession clearly state that I’m powerless to act given these circumstances.”

  Sophie inhaled slowly, gathering her fragmenting thoughts. Andy had to be one of the most thoughtful, compassionate men she’d ever met, and here she was, practically accusing him of negligence. Andy would have done everything in his professional power to keep Rick safe if he possessed solid evidence his patient was in danger.

  “I understand. I do. But I’m not operating under any such constraints, Andy. Thomas Nicasio is in trouble. I just know it.”

  After her meeting with Andy, she’d gone to the office, planning on looking for Thomas. That’s when she’d unexpectedly come face-to-face with him as he was being escorted onto the elevator by the two men. She’d altered her plans and gotten off on the twenty-third floor, highly conscious of Thomas’s stare on her back as she did so. She’d gone to her office, checked her voice mail, returned a few phone calls . . . brooded while she waited for Thomas to be alone in his office.

  She repeated the details of her conversation with Andy earlier in her mind, trying to decide what her course of action should be.

  Or even if there should be a course of action.

  It was true that Andy was hamstrung by his oath of confidentiality. But what about her obligations? Although Rick Carlisle had unburdened himself to Andy during his psychotherapy sessions, Rick hadn’t entirely believed in the incriminating allegations his source had made.

  Unlike New York, where several crime families vied for control, the Chicago Outfit had long held sole control and monopoly on organized crime in the Midwest. The Outfit still remained draped in mystery and shadow. Despite the FBI’s increased efforts to infiltrate and break the legs out from under the powerful, widespread criminal organization, so many things still remained secret, including the identity of the top man.

  Rick Carlisle had been part of the force that was chipping away at the power of the Outfit. His award-winning investigative reports for the Chicago Tribune had given the FBI important fuel for the arrests of fourteen key members of Chicago organized crime. During the trial, federal prosecutors were able to strike a serious blow against the criminal s yndicate, sending multiple Outfit members to prison. However, corruption among federal officials remained problematic, and the ability to identify and prosecute the top boss and completely cripple the crime syndicate remained out of the FBI’s and other federal investigators’ reach.

  But the FBI was gaining ground. They’d recently stated that they’d soon be announcing an indictment against Joseph Carlisle for tax evasion and money laundering; although rumor had it he was guilty of much, much more. Word on the street had it that Joseph Carlisle was the top man of the Outfit. There was little doubt that t
he mob felt the law watching their every move, waiting for a slipup.

  It was under this tension-filled environment that Rick Carlisle had recently procured a journalistic source, an individual who had been a small-time criminal in the Chicago crime syndicate for decades, a man that went by the name of Bernard Cokey. A high-ranking soldier in the Outfit had owned a restaurant where Cokey had worked as a cook. Cokey’s position was such that other mobsters came to think of him as part of the woodwork; they didn’t trust Cokey so much as consider him insignificant.

  In this environment, Cokey had collected quite a cache of valuable insider information. He was now retired, and somewhat bitter at the way his higher-ups had always treated him like a harmless mascot.

  Rick had written a number of award-winning articles on organized crime under his journalistic pseudonym, Joshua Malenic. When he decided to write his latest book, he’d chosen to focus on the most famous crime syndicate in his hometown of Chicago. Cokey had agreed to provide Rick with anonymous information.

  A dazed and disoriented Rick Carlisle had told Andy during a psychotherapy session several weeks ago that Cokey had given him the elusive name of the Outfit’s boss. Much to Rick’s disbelief, Cokey had indicated that his own father and Thomas’s adoptive father—Joseph Carlisle—was the top man.

  Rick hadn’t been convinced of his source’s honesty. He’d certainly never indicated to Andy Lancaster that he believed he was in danger.

  And there was always the possibility that Rick had good reason to feel safe, Sophie thought. Joseph Carlisle might be innocent. It might be just as the police said: Rick Carlisle’s and his son’s death might have just been a tragic, freak accident.

  Sophie found herself chewing on her nails again and made a disgusted sound. She stood and began pacing next to her desk. The fact of the matter was the circumstances had left her in the singular, uncomfortable position of having slept with a man she knew a hell of a lot about, unbeknownst to him. And she had a feeling Thomas Nicasio was not only ill in some fashion, but in a lot of trouble because of those circumstances.