Hating Beauty (The Vegas Titans Series Book 6)

by Loren, Celia

  She’s laying half on the bed with her legs dangling down, staring at the ceiling. Her long reddish hair is splayed around her, and for some reason she reminds me of a mermaid; between two worlds, half awake and half asleep. I can easily imagine lying on top of her, running my fingers through that hair. It looks so soft.

  Down, boy.

  With her eyes lidded, she starts to shimmy, and I realize with a spike of sensation that she’s wiggling herself out of her pants. She slides them slowly down over her hips, her thighs, her ankles, and onto the floor. Damn, those are some fine legs. My mouth is actually watering. And now I’m getting a front-row seat to the real-life fantasy of seeing her in a lacy black thong. She stretches her legs up to the ceiling, out wide like the splits, and then scissor kicks a few times. She really is flexible.

  That’s it, baby.

  My heart rate accelerates. The closet feels like it’s getting hotter.

  With another muted groan, she kicks herself up to sitting and rolls her t-shirt up over her head, tossing it aside. Now she’s just in her black bra and matching underwear, and I am feasting myself on the sight of her curves spilling out all over the place. I bet her skin is soft. I bet she feels perfect.

  Oh fuck. I give up. I’m only human, after all. I give up all thoughts of being business-like, and indulge myself, in full-on lusting after every inch of that body of hers.

  She’s in shape, but full—a woman’s body, not a girl’s. Just fucking exactly how I like it. Those might even be D-cups. Unselfconscious, she stretches and rolls her neck slowly and sensuously, arching her back to work out the tension of a long day. A soft moan escapes her lips.

  Fuck. I am so turned on just looking at her. Silently, I’m begging her to turn around so I can get a good look at her ass. I want to see more so badly that I forget myself for a second and sit up straighter, straining to see.

  I accidentally bump into something hanging above me, and freeze.

  It only makes a small rustling sound, but it does make a sound.

  Shit.

  But she doesn’t seem to hear, shows no reaction. Maybe the street noise drowned it out? She does however seem to somehow hear my silent prayer to show me more, and stands up, walking away from me.

  Damn, that ass! I want to bite it, slap it. I just might die. All I want is to spring out of the closet and do unspeakable things to her for hours and hours. Oh yeah. It could go on for hours.

  Now she’s picked up her jacket and turns, walking softly over towards the closet. She’s reaching for the door with her left hand, rummaging for something in her coat pocket with her right.

  It’s now or never.

  The closet door opens slowly, and I jump out, pushing my body into her, and running us until we hit up against the opposite wall. I’ve got her pinned and breathless.

  She stares up at me, her eyes clear and unconcerned. I admit, it hurts my feelings a little. I thought I’d at least startle her, but the girl is stoic as stone.

  “Hey, Katja,” I say. “How you been? Sorry to barge in like this, but, see, you left without saying goodbye last time.”

  A faint smile plays around her lips. “Yes, I can tell you are very happy to see me. Unless that’s a gun.”

  God, she’s sexy. Somehow it hadn’t occurred to me until now that I have a raging boner, and that she can definitely feel it against her hips.

  “Nope,” I grin. “Not a gun. Just me.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Wow, impressive. Feel mine?”

  Something hard presses into my groin and for a minute my mind reels, confused.

  She laughs. “Sorry to disappoint, handsome. That’s not me. That is a gun.”

  Chapter Six

  Katja/Jana/Mystery Girl

  New York City

  It is the first time I have used a gun against a man, but I do everything just the way Sandro taught me to as a child. Back then it was fun and games, an amusement and a joke for him to teach a little girl to shoot. Neither of us thought I’d ever use the skills in real life.

  I can almost imagine my older cousin holding my hands steady now as I breathe deeply, weighing the balance of the cold gun in my hand, pressing it lightly in the direction of my intentions. Sandro would be proud that I keep both of my eyes open and level on the target, and I remember not to put my finger on the trigger until I intend to shoot.

  Sandro would be proud of my calm, but what would he think of my choices?

  This target is not straw or paper, it is a man, a living, breathing man: whose life-breath I can feel warm and close against my cheek, whose lips I have tasted and know to be soft, whose desire and danger I can feel with every fiber of my being. A man whose charm makes my body and mind enemies with each other.

  And, I am a woman who cannot afford any more enemies.

  It’s been years since I’ve seen Sandro. Years since I’ve seen home. But, every time I hold a gun, even on the shooting range, it is his voice that I hear in my head. I’m surprised to relive the memory again under these circumstances: with a handsome and dangerous man pressing me against the wall, with my body almost naked and feeling every rough inch of him pressing against me, with my insides hot…trembling…terrified. Surely the gun and the man can sense me trembling.

  Still the memory flashes and it’s my past and my cousin Sandro holding me steady against this threat, this temptation, this danger. I can almost hear the soft waves of the Black Sea and smell the hay from the fields where Sandro taught me to shoot.

  “Chemo kargo,” he’d said, “My good one, you must not be afraid of the gun. You must be close with it, like the best of friends. Courage.”

  That is what we are, this strange man and me: we are close, closer than friends, as close as lovers. Only the gun is protecting me from his dangerous touch, holding me steady. I mustn’t let the closeness unnerve me.

  He’s closer than anyone has been in years. Realizing this makes me ache, and my deep loneliness shudders. It’s as if a dark voice inside me whispers, “Why not? Why not let go? Why not let yourself enjoy him, let yourself feel?”

  When I remember why, when I remember what has been taken from me and what my family has suffered, I find my resolve again. This is not a game; I am not a sex-crazed schoolgirl. Of course I can shoot him. I can kill him if I have to, if he does something foolish.

  If it means revenge and justice, I can do whatever needs to be done.

  I can ignore the heat building between us.

  Focus.

  There is something exhilarating in realizing this: that I am willing to kill, that I hold the power. When I look into the eyes of this man, this stranger, I can see that he knows it about me too. It is like he recognizes something in me that others pass over. Yesterday when I saw him I thought he would be simple, one of those handsome faces that outbalances the brain. Sure, he had more charisma than a complete idiot could possibly have, but then, he did play right into my hands. Most people cannot be both very beautiful and very smart.

  But perhaps he is not as stupid as I first thought. After all, he did find me.

  “Well, your move, darlin’. You’re calling the shots, literally and figuratively.”

  His voice is low and calm and there’s a hint of a laugh in it. The gun against his flesh doesn’t seem to worry him. He looks down at me just as hungrily as before, intense as a lion about to pounce. My gaze falls on his lips.

  “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you Katja? Or Jana. Or whoever the hell you are.”

  Ah. Jana. So that is how he found me—the diner. That stripper must have sent him there. I knew it was a mistake, linking those two parts of my life. A foolish error on my part, stupid really, and though I mentally kick myself I am quick to justify: not everyone can be smart all the time.

  The thought disgusts me. Who am I, to grant myself forgiveness for what might have been a fatal mistake? As if risking my life’s work was on par with being late for an appointment or forgetting to return a call? Human beings are so weak, unable to f
ace our own weaknesses, always justifying our mistakes. Risking everything we love in spite of our best efforts to protect.

  I stare back at the man, deciding to salvage whatever I can of the situation. Give nothing away. My lips curl into a smile.

  “I am whoever you want me to be.”

  “Don’t tease me.”

  His voice is gruff, as though pained.

  “But suppose I want to tease you? I thought I was calling the shots.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t say ‘shots’. Might put ideas in your head.”

  “You said it first.”

  “So I did.”

  All of this, so casual—as if I didn’t have the barrel of a gun pressed against his most vulnerable spot. As if he hadn’t a care in the world. I can’t help but admire his pluck and be amused.

  “I like the hair, by the way,” he continues. “It suits you better than black. Brings out your eye-color. Which is pretty. Your eyes, I mean, which I am definitely looking at instead of your bangin’, mostly naked body. Which is amazing, and the sight of you is making it very tight and uncomfortable in my pants. Did I mention that your body is amazing? I haven’t really stopped thinking about it, actually. God, that sounded creepy. I didn’t mean, I mean, that’s not why –”

  “You talk too much.”

  This man never seems to know when to shut up—or is it all Americans? I push the gun a little firmer against his groin and his lips tighten a little bit with worry. I smile coldly.

  “Is this what you came for tonight, to watch me undress?”

  He sputters. Doesn’t know what to say.

  “No, I wish it was. I mean, I, uh –”

  But I’m just biding time, a cat playing with its food. I already knowing very well what he came for: me. I know who he works for, how much he probably gets paid to carry out these little errands. It’s nothing personal or pleasurable—just business, just an assignment to destroy me. That is how these people think: other peoples’ lives, women’s bodies—all are just commodities, business transactions to be deleted when convenient. Other human beings aren’t real to them. Aren’t sacred.

  Pigs.

  “No,” the man grunts. “I swear I’m not a peeping tom. That was just a happy accident.”

  “Happy?”

  The word makes me inexplicably furious, like a slap in the face.

  “Happy.”

  I say it again, like I was spitting, and feel my chest constrict.

  “If you say so, happy. Take a good long look, then. Is that the right word, why you said it? Happy? Go ahead. Be happy.”

  I shove him away and hold the gun in front of me with both hands, my finger finding the trigger.

  “That’s what you want, eh? This makes you happy, doesn’t it—a woman alone in her room for you to prey upon. You want me to be easy, to be an object, like your toy. You obviously didn’t get your fill yesterday, so go ahead, do it now. Look at me. Finish from yesterday your stupid game. Does that make you happy?”

  He takes a few steps backward into the middle of my tiny room, his hands raised conciliatorily in the air. He’s staring at the gun.

  “Whoa, easy Tiger. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

  As he says this lie, I caulk the gun and he rolls his eyes at himself.

  “Ok, that was a dumb thing to say, coming from the man who was hiding in your closet.”

  “Right. I suppose you just stalked me to come over to watch TV, eat some crackers, and gossip.”

  He’s looking a little frustrated, guilty, and annoyed.

  “Look Katja, yesterday was a bit more than I signed up for to be honest. At this point, everything is more than I signed up for. I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t really want to be here.”

  “And yet here you are.”

  His eyes cloud with something more dangerous than violence, and in spite of the anger in both our voices I see his gaze slip down. I can feel his look almost as palpable as a touch over my body. And it’s not a touch I dislike.

  No. Focus.

  “Ok, what I said before, that was dumb. Of course I came to hurt you. You know that, I know that. And you know why. And you know it’s not my idea. So now what?”

  Now what, indeed.

  “Why won’t you just go away and leave me alone?”

  His eyes flicker then harden.

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  My God. He is going to make me shoot him.

  “All I know,” I whisper, “Is that everything you are here for is wrong, and that what you want is more than I can let you have.”

  “You have no idea how much more I want.”

  “Actually, I have a pretty good idea.”

  He follows my gaze down to his crotch, where I can still see his erection through his jeans. I might be imagining it, but it almost looks like he blushes under my scrutiny. His self-consciousness makes me laugh in spite of myself.

  “Hey!” he objects, clearing his throat. “It’s not nice to laugh at a man’s…you know.”

  “I’m not, that’s not why –”

  “It’s a very serious erection! Not a funny one. Dead serious. Though maybe I shouldn’t say dead, give you ideas with that gun in your hands.”

  “Oh really? Why don’t you show me, then?”

  “Show you what?”

  “Everything.”

  As soon as the words tumble out of my mouth, I feel fire rip through my bones. I can feel the energy explode between us as we both hear what I’ve just said. It’s too late to take it back.

  “Show me,” I whisper. “It’s only fair.”

  What am I saying?

  The man stares at me blankly, not comprehending, and I take my anger with myself over this stupid whim out on him. My voice goes harsh.

  “Take them off! Your pants, your shirt, take them off! Come on. You’ve been staring at my body. Show me yours.”

  His jaw sets, and the light in his eyes flares brighter.

  “I’d be happy to, darlin’. I’ve always believed in gender equality.”

  He raises his hands slowly, like actors in cop movies, and very deliberately begins to tug his dark t-shirt up and over his head. Exposed is a broad chest with a healthy shock of masculine, blondish hair unable to disguise a powerful strength. His form is modulated with rippling muscles that slope down into a six-pack, so defined that I can see the sharp trail of muscled ridges around his narrow hips that disappear into his jeans. What do Americans call that line? I’ve heard the waitresses at work giggling and swooning over it before, something blunt and sexual. Cum-gutters maybe?

  I have to say now I can see what their excitement was all about.

  Suddenly I am the one blushing. I can feel so much heat in my face and body that it’s giving me chills. Why? I’ve seen handsome shirtless men before. I’ve even been chased by handsome men before. I’ve never been the type to be turned on by bad guys, by the presence of evil. Why is this dangerous stranger making my pulse skyrocket?

  He’s watching my reaction. There’s the ghost of a grin on his face mixing with the ghost of a frown, giving him a sarcastic and self-aware expression. He’s enjoying this.

  “There’s something I should tell you,” he murmurs, “before I take my pants off.”

  Licking my lips, I try to fight through the hot haze of lust in my brain to think and answer clearly.

  “What?”

  He winces, glancing at my gun.

  “I’m armed.”

  The room goes lethally quiet as I digest this. What’s been stopping him, then? Why hasn’t he just pulled out his gun and shot me?

  “Now, don’t get trigger happy on me,” he says. “It’s in my boot.”

  Boot? Who keeps a gun in their boot?

  “Would you like me to get it out myself, or would you like the honors?”

  “I’ll do it.”

  My brain isn’t working fast enough. Before I think about what I am doing I am kneeling in front of him, my face mere inches away from his hips. I try not
to think about that as I’m reaching into his left boot. My hand brushes the skin of his leg, and I feel a tremor through my body. Glancing up, I see his eyes on me. His mouth is open, his breath tight. My gut clenches with the knowledge that he wants me, this gorgeous dangerous man.

  And I want him. We both want it. I can have it. Why not?

  No. No. No. There are so many reasons why not. Focus.

  I find the hilt of a knife and carefully slide it out into my hands, its cold weight sending a thrill of dread through me. What kind of man carries a knife like this?

  It hits me that I’ve let my guard down as I kneel at his feet. I’ve let the aim of my gun fall away from him and onto the floor. I’m unprotected, within the range of his hands.

  And yet he hasn’t moved. He’s as still as a statue, watching me. I can feel the restraint and control trembling through his muscles.

  “There’s one on the other side too.”

  Swallowing past my sudden fear, I reach to the right boot and find another knife, this one smaller but just as sharp. What kind of man carries knives and works for dogs? What kind of man lusts after a woman but gives her the control? My hands are shaking a little as I rise slowly to stand, the reality sinking in that he could have at any moment up until now attacked me.

  And yet he didn’t.

  At my full height, my eyes only come up to his chin, and I can feel the heat and power of his body filling the tiny space between us. He’s staring back at me, openly amused. And openly hungry. His eyes tell me everything he wants.

  “Well darlin, still want me to take off my pants?”

  I’m having trouble catching my breath.

  “Why,” I whisper. “Why didn’t you –”

  But before I can finish my question he answers it by pouncing on me, his lips seizing mine, his bare arms winding around my bare waist, his hands in my hair.