Explosive (5 page)

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 the 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.

She glanced at her watch. It was 7:45 P.M. The authorities must have finished talking to Thomas by now. She stood from her desk, intending to take the elevator to the forty-sixth floor . . . to walk into Thomas Nicasio’s offices for the first time in her life.

Someone knocked on her door instead.

“Come in,” she called, thinking it was probably the cleaning staff. It was late on a Friday and the office was empty, save for Sophie.

The door swung open and Thomas walked in.

Sophie froze, shocked by the unexpected sight of him. He kept his eyes trained on her as he shut the door behind him. She’d always thought her private office large enough, but the walls shrunk with Thomas Nicasio in the room.

“Thomas. Are you all right?”

“No.”

She saw him push the lock on the door handle. He stepped toward her. She recognized that hot look in his eyes. Recognized it all too well. She’d seen it countless times last night.

“I’m not going to be all right until I bury myself in you.” He stalked across the room and reached for her.

“Tom—”

He cut off her soft whimper of mixed need and uncertainty when he seized her mouth with his own. He proceeded to consume her.

Thomas felt fevered, but not by illness. By lust. He’d never experienced anything like it in his life.

When he’d walked into the lobby this afternoon and come face-to-face with two badge-waving federal agents he’d been frothing with a different emotion:
fury
. Wasn’t it bad enough that his brother and nephew were dead? His family had been floored by Rick’s and Abel’s deaths, but the FBI continued to nose around relentlessly, investigating his father, accosting him—Thomas—in the lobby of his building and treating him like he was a suspect in some crime, as well.

In the midst of his angry ruminations, he’d suddenly glanced up and seen Sophie Gable standing in the elevator, looking as fresh, golden, and lush as a newly plucked peach.

He’d frozen on the threshold. The sight of her had struck him like a stinging slap.

A wave of intense lust flooded his body, shocking him, given the situation. You would have thought she’d stood there stark naked instead of wearing one of her many conservative skirts and low-heeled pumps, her shoulder-length, wavy blonde hair pulled up onto her head in a no-nonsense, effortlessly elegant style.

He saw her dark brown eyes widen when she saw his strange reaction to seeing her. Pink lips that were naked of all artifice parted in surprise.

How
the hell
had he ever managed to rein himself in when it came to Sophie Gable before?

Agent Fisk noticed his odd reaction and gave Sophie a sharp, speculative glance. Thomas got a hold of himself and turned his back to her. Still, he was hyperaware of Sophie behind him, her presence pulling at him like a magnet. When he glanced back at her, he saw something on her face that he couldn’t quite interpret.

Had it been alarm?

She probably
was
alarmed, given the strange way he was acting. Those dreams he’d been having about her—dreams that redefined the meaning of sexual need and pleasure—
those
were responsible for his bizarre reaction to Dr. Sophie Gable.

Thomas noticed Agent Fisk’s second glance at Sophie and turned away from her again. He didn’t want these assholes noticing her.

What was wrong with him? It had shocked him, to feel something so inappropriate—so powerful—in the midst of such a volatile moment. His brother and nephew were dead and federal agents were investigating his father for federal crimes. And all he could think about was stripping off Sophie Gable’s clothes and fucking her until all of his anguish and fury exploded into a cataclysm of nirvanic forgetfulness.

He was losing control of his chaotic emotions.

Losing control, period.

His family was suffering from unspeakable grief; his mother shrouded in a thick veil of sadness that Thomas couldn’t penetrate, no matter how hard he tried; his sister-in-law shell-shocked and only beginning to recognize the black abyss of her loss; his father’s charisma and heartiness suddenly diminished so that he looked like a husk of the vibrant man he used to be.

Now the FBI had barged into their private family grief, stirring up an already frothing cauldron of anguish by never missing a beat in their investigation of Joseph Carlisle, by alleging his adoptive father had perpetrated crimes so widespread, Thomas couldn’t even consider them without alternating between feeling hollow, numb shock and sheer outrage at the offensive insinuations the FBI was making in their investigations.

Truth be told, as irritated as he’d been when the agents approached him in the lobby, he’d been glad to have a target for the anger, helplessness, and grief that had been building in him since his mother had called last week and told him Rick and Abel were dead.

He’d been on a Diversey Harbor dock at the time he’d gotten that call, waiting for his brother and ten-year-old nephew to come and collect him in the boat—the same boat that had exploded.

Once he was behind the closed doors of his office with the two agents, he hadn’t made a secret of his contempt. Fisk had stayed silent, watching him like a bird of prey as Larue began questioning him. Thomas, who’d had years of experience both as an enlisted man and later as an officer in Somalia and Iraq, immediately understood that Fisk possessed the brains and savvy between the two agents, despite his younger age.

It surprised Thomas when Larue started asking questions about his background and Nicasio Investments instead of his father.

“Nice place,” Larue commented as he glanced around Thomas’s large, luxurious office and out the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that faced Lake Michigan. The golden summer evening outside stood in stark contrast to Thomas’s stormy mood. The headache that had been plaguing him nonstop made things even worse. Every time he tried to concentrate on something, to focus on his thoughts, it became so severe it felt like his head was splitting open.

He frowned as he sat down behind his desk, staring at the two interlopers coldly, refusing to make this easy for them.

“Where did you get the money to start up your firm three years ago, Mr. Nicasio?” Larue had asked as he opened up a small notebook and began taking notes.

“The Navy provided well for me since I was a teenager, and I never had need for most of my salary. I compiled quite a savings, which I was able to add to the trust fund my father reserved for us,” Thomas answered, restrained anger making his voice sound stiff.

“You served in the EOD unit, isn’t that correct?” Larue asked, never glancing up as he scribbled in his notebook.

“That’s right,” Thomas replied, tight-lipped. Larue referred to Explosive Ordnance Disposal, the elite unit of the Navy responsible for either safely disarming bombs or other types of ordnance, including chemical, biological, and nuclear. As an eighteen-year-old, Thomas had risked his adoptive father’s disapproval by enlisting in the Navy instead of going to college right after high school.

It had been one of only a few, but notable moments, when Thomas’s stubborn nature superseded one of Joseph Carlisle’s authoritarian decrees. Joseph had wanted him to attend an Ivy League university right out of high school. But even in this clear-cut instance of filial rebellion, Joseph had ended up respecting Thomas’s decision, saying that a man had to find his own path and test his own legs. The fact that Thomas had gone on to earn his college degree in business administration and become a decorated officer in the EOD unit only seemed to reinforce Joseph’s respect for Thomas’s proclivity for independence. Deep down, Thomas knew that Joseph respected his ability to make a mark on the world without patronage.

It was an approval Joseph had never bestowed on Rick, his eldest son, even though Rick had been even more deserving of it than Thomas.

“And when you say that your father set up a trust fund for you, you really mean your adopted father, isn’t that correct?” Larue persisted.

“I was adopted, yes, but Joseph Carlisle
is
my father,” Thomas bit out irritably. He felt Agent Fisk’s stare on him and returned the look with a frown.
What’s your problem, asshole?
He wondered if Fisk understood his volatile thought when the young agent dropped his gaze to his lap, his brows knitted in consternation.

“Your real parents were killed during a burglary, I understand?” Larue continued.

“That’s right. It happened when I was ten years old. Is that what you two came here to discuss? The fact that my parents’ murderer was never found? Wonderful.” He leaned back in his leather chair and gave a fake sigh of relief. “I’m glad to know the investigation is still underway. And here I’d been suspecting that you two were just here to waste my time.”

Larue looked up sharply, his pen frozen on the paper. Fisk wiped his hand across his jaw and mouth, but not quick enough for Thomas to miss his slight smile.

“Your parents’ murder investigation isn’t under the auspices of the FBI,” Larue explained.

Thomas’s pointed, annoyed glance told the agent loud and clear he’d been being facetious. Larue must have understood, because he cleared his throat and turned his attention back to his notebook.

“So it’s safe to say that Joseph Carlisle supplied you with the majority of the capital to start Nicasio Investments?” Larue asked.

Thomas made an irritated, slashing motion with his hand. “No, I’m not saying that at all. I started Nicasio Investments mostly with my own savings. But let’s cut the bullshit. I have no doubt you guys have all the banking numbers. It’s not illegal for a father to set up a trust fund for his children. Why don’t you get to the point? You two are here to ask me questions about my dad. If you think I’m going to tell you something that will bolster your investigation, you’re dead wrong. What you’re digging around for—what you’re alleging about Joseph Carlisle is ridiculous. My father is a hard-working man who would do anything for his family. My brother’s death is ripping him apart. Haven’t you guys got anything better to do than to kick a man when he’s down?”

Fisk met his stare and shifted in his chair uneasily, but his blistering question bounced off Larue like raindrops on rubber.

“It’s my understanding that Joseph and Rick Carlisle had been on the outs with each other for years,” Larue commented.

“Yeah? Where’d you hear something like that, Larue? Listening to gossip in the girls’ john?”

“Actually, I heard it from your brother’s wife, Mr. Nicasio. Are you insinuating Kelly Carlisle is a gossip?”

Thomas leveled a malevolent stare, refusing to respond. He loved Kelly like a sister; he hated the fact that Joseph had disapproved of not only Rick’s career as an investigative journalist, but his choice of wife. Thomas’d worked tirelessly to try to bridge the gap between father and son. The peacemaking role was one he’d become familiar with since he was thirteen years old. He doubted his father would ever fully recover from the fact that he and Rick hadn’t been talking at the time of Rick’s death.

But he’d be damned if he was going to talk out loud about such painful, private family matters to a sanctimonious FBI agent. Larue waved at his right hand.

“What happened to your knuckles?”

Thomas glanced at his knuckles in mixed surprise and irritation. What the hell was Larue talking about?

“You know a man named Douglas Mannero?” Larue persisted. Thomas could tell by his tone the agent thought he was being stubborn by not answering his former question for a stretched moment, but in truth, a wave of nausea had rolled through him when he’d seen the abrasions on his knuckles. He became uncomfortably aware that he was sweating. He struggled to focus on Larue’s latest unexpected question. Douglas Mannero was one of the clients in his investment firm.