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Or worse, he would convince himself that the theft didn’t matter at all.
It hadn’t been big diamonds, wouldn’t cost his company much of anything, really, except the annoyance and manpower that came with trying to figure out how the theft had been accomplished.
He’d been over the tapes himself. He’d had Nic and Lisa and his most trusted security people go over them, too. He’d examined every second Isa had been in the vault, had studied every drawer she’d opened, every diamond she’d looked at. And he couldn’t see it. Couldn’t find where—or how—she’d done it.
And he needed to know how because he was never going to know why. They’d spent the past three nights making love and it had felt so good, so right. They’d fallen into old routines, old patterns of conversation, so easily. As if the six years he’d spent without her hadn’t happened. As if the whole debacle back in New York was just a nightmare and not the sad, awful truth that had woken him up in the middle of the night for years.
When he thought about going back to that loneliness, thought about the fact that he would never hold Isa in his arms again, it made him crazy. Made him want to grab her and shake her all over again.
How could she do this?
Why would she do this?
How could the money from fencing the diamonds be more important to her than what they had between them?
Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he was only imagining that there were feelings under the heat. Maybe, when he’d been falling for her all over again, she’d only been using him. Only been looking for a way to get back at him for the way he’d kicked her out all those years ago.
It made sense—it really did. As long as he didn’t take into account how hard she’d worked these past few days to help him debunk that ridiculous LA Times article. Or how her arms had felt around him after they’d made love, so warm and sexy and perfect.
But if all that mattered to her was the thrill of the boost, why had she held him so tenderly? Why had she gone so high, so deep, when he made love to her? Why had she given herself to him so completely?
The questions were driving him crazy, the lack of understanding made him hurt in a way he hadn’t let himself experience in six long years.
Furious, frustrated, completely fed up with himself and the entire situation, he turned back to his computer. Pulled up the video footage for the third time that night. And once again, watched every second of film showing Isa in the vault.
Every single second.
Most of it was boring, with nothing happening except Isa studying the diamonds under a microscope and triple-checking the serial numbers. But the times she moved, the times she crossed the vault to get a new drawer or to put one away or, ostensibly, only to stretch, he watched those the most intently.
Because he was looking for the theft, he told himself. He wanted to know when she’d dropped the diamonds into her pocket and how she’d gotten them out of the vault, out of the building. But the sad truth was, even with everything that had happened, for most of the video he just found himself watching her.
The fluid way she walked.
The way her hips swayed with each step.
The way her hair curled over her shoulders, caressed her breasts.
And damn, this so wasn’t helping. It wasn’t helping him find whatever he’d missed and it sure as hell wasn’t helping him forget what it felt like to touch Isa’s beautiful body, to hold her in his arms as he slipped inside her.
He reached for his mouse, scrolled the video back several minutes and promised himself that this time he would pay attention. This time he wouldn’t be distracted by thoughts of what she looked like and smelled like and tasted like.
Except he was only a minute into the video when a knock sounded on his office door. He froze the screen, and even though it was ridiculous, he couldn’t help feeling like a kid who’d been caught watching porn. The fact that Isa had all her clothes on and was doing nothing more than counting diamonds didn’t make him any less guilty.
Shoving his chair back from his desk, he walked to the door. Pulled it open. And found Bob standing there, looking as close to frantic as he’d ever seen his security chief look.
Marc’s stomach sank even as he stepped aside so Bob could enter. “What’s wrong now?”
“There’s a problem with the video,” he responded, walking around Marc’s desk so that he was stationed in front of his laptop. “Can you pull up your email?”
“What kind of problem?” he demanded, already logging in and opening the first email on the list.
“There’s a time lapse.” Bob clicked on the attachment, then waited impatiently for the footage to download.
“A time lapse?”
“The feed in the vault was cut for a period of approximately seven minutes.”
“From which camera?” Marc demanded, impatience thrumming through him.
