As she turned around, she found herself hemmed in by two men, both of them probably in their forties. For a moment, she thought it was going to be awkward, but then she realized they were checking each other out.
Perfect.
Morgan scooted off to allow them to become better acquainted. She scoped out the dance floor. Couples of all descriptions were moving to the music, some male, some female, some indeterminate. New Orleans didn’t play favorites; whatever you wanted, it was happy to supply it.
She finally spied Alex, and as she’d predicted, he was attracting a lot of attention with his broad shoulders, his tan. Morgan sighed. With a body like that, they’d have to be stone-cold dead not to notice him. He flirted in response to the female attention, but she could see the tension in the way he held himself. The crowd was getting to him.
“Hang in there, guy,” she muttered.
He was chatting up a young, busty blonde. If she was a regular, maybe she’d know Dimitri. They laughed together, and she pulled him onto the dance floor, sending all the right signals. As they danced, Morgan kept her focus on Alex, how he managed to make almost everything seem like foreplay. When he caught her checking him out, he winked and pulled his partner closer, grinding against her.
Damn you. He was just doing that to push her buttons. Morgan took a long chug of the beer to cool down.
Meanwhile, that load of coke was being divided up for distribution on the city streets. If it was laced with strychnine, the bodies would start piling up. That morbid thought pushed Morgan into action, and she worked her way around the bar, listening in on conversations. Some were in other languages, but none in Russian. She flirted with some of the guys and carefully posed some open-ended questions. None of them knew Dimitri. Finally, she hit pay dirt with a middle-aged woman nursing a pink daiquiri.
“Yes, I know him,” the lady replied. “He’s okay. Never hassles me when it comes time to pay.”
Morgan took another look at the woman. She was trying for twenty, when she was a lot closer to mid-forties. Her makeup and clothes—what there were of the latter—spoke of desperation and too many years walking the street. She’d probably been pretty when she was younger, but those years were rapidly fading in the rearview mirror.
“I’m hoping to find him,” Morgan said. “Dimitri said he knew someone who could get me a job.”
The woman raised an eyebrow. “Not likely. Last time I saw him, he was drunk off his ass, and that’s saying a lot for a Russian. Something to do with boss problems.”
“Did he hang with anyone else here?” Morgan asked, putting a hint of urgency in her voice. “Maybe they’d know what he was talking about.”
“Only the redhead. She’s Russian too. But you don’t want to mess with her. She’s nasty. Cut you just for the fun of it.” The woman glanced around, fear in her eyes now. “People who work for her go missing.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. “Oh. What’s her name, so I can steer clear of her?”
“Anya. That’s all I know. All I want to know. She’s nothing but trouble. If Dimitri was afraid of her . . . ” The prostitute shook her head and walked away, her radar quickly narrowing in on a couple of guys with name badges. Conventioneers. Always easy pickings.
“Anya,” Morgan murmured. Oh God, it couldn’t be.
Alex reined in his frustration. The blonde he’d danced with hadn’t been helpful. She’d had a fight with her boyfriend and was looking to pick someone up for a revenge screw. He’d quickly backed off and continued to make the rounds. The only good thing had been the look on Morgan’s face when he’d been dancing. The barely concealed jealousy. At least he was finally making progress on that front.
The crowd was pressing in on him now, and he needed to escape. He glanced around the bar but couldn’t see Morgan. He was aiming for the front door when a redhead stepped in front of him. She smiled up at him with perfect teeth, then ran a finger under his collar as if they were intimately acquainted.
“Hello,” she said.
Her accent was Russian and her dress very short, making her legs seem impossibly long. Her eyes were dark and shiny, her lips bright red, and her auburn hair fell below her shoulders in thick waves. He swore she looked familiar in some way.
“Hi there,” he said. “Maybe you could help me. I’m looking for a friend of mine. His name’s Dimitri.”
The woman cocked her head. “There are many of that name. What does he look like?”
Alex described him, at least the way he remembered him from prison. His most recent encounter with the man wouldn’t make for good bar conversation.
“Ah, Dimitri Golov. Yes. That one I know.”
“Oh, good. Is he here tonight? I haven’t seen him.”
“No, he is not here,” she said, pouting.
“He told me to check this place out. I’m liking it so far.”
The redhead leaned closer now, touching his cheek. “The evening is looking much, much better now.”
He felt his blood warming. “What’s your name?”
“Anya. And yours?”
“Michael.” It wasn’t a lie—that was his middle name.
“What do you do, Michael?”
“I sell . . . pharmaceuticals.”
Her whole demeanor changed. “Like Dimitri, then?”
“Yes. Like Dimitri,” he said, hopeful. Come on, baby, take the bait. Maybe this way, he’d have a chance to make a significant contribution to the investigation.
Anya leaned even closer, her strange perfume filling his nose, confusing his brain. “Do you want to dance with me, Michael?”
The word took on whole new shades of meaning when it came out of those lips, and he hardened under her scorching gaze. Who said he couldn’t score tonight? He’d even stuck a couple condoms in his back pocket just in case. As long as he got the information Veritas needed, what would be the harm? He was getting there with Morgan, but this one would be one wild ride. That way, when his partner did come around, he wouldn’t be so damned desperate. He’d be the one in control.
A twitch across his shoulders reminded him that, somewhere, Morgan was probably watching him. That made him smile. Jealousy often brought a reluctant woman to her knees. Literally.
A bird in the hand. “Yes, I’d really like to dance with you,” he said. It’d be hot and fast with no strings attached. Sometimes that was the best kind of sex.
“Then we are going to be very happy together,” Anya said, taking his hand and leading him toward the back of the club. “And after that, we can talk about Dimitri. I know many things about him.”
Better and better.
“You should wear a dress like that more often,” a man said.
Morgan smiled at the newcomer. “Good evening, Sam. What brings you to this side of hell?”
He moved closer to her, so no one could overhear them. “Our boss wanted you to have some backup tonight. He’s feeling edgy.”
“Crispin? Edgy?”
“I’m hearing he’s not a happy camper, because the Russian in the warehouse was his man inside Buryshkin’s organization. Now we have no one.”
“What?” That, she hadn’t known. “Damn, that’s not good news.”
“No, it’s not. Anything new here?”
“Sort of. I spoke with a woman who knew Dimitri, and I mean in the Biblical way. She said he was having ‘boss problems.’ And she knows Anya.”
Sam stilled. “Would that be the Anya everyone warned me about?”
“Given the description, I’d say yes.” Morgan tipped up onto her toes to try to find Alex, then lowered back down when she couldn’t. “I wonder where Parkin is.”
“Probably getting his dick adjusted. That’s the first thing I’d be doing after all those years in stir.”
She searched the crowd for Alex again, but with no success. Was he buried inside some girl in a storage closet somewhere?
Damn you, Parkin, you better not go there.
Where the hell had that come from? Why would
she care? If he scored, he’d stop trying to sweet-talk her into bed. A happy ending for everyone. Somehow that just didn’t sit right.
“Morgan?” Sam nudged her.
“Huh? Sorry. What did you say?”
“I was saying not to worry. Parkin can handle himself. His time in prison made him tough.”
“Maybe. Ask around, see if anyone saw where he went and who he’s with.”
“Another beer while I’m making the rounds?” Sam asked, indicating her nearly empty bottle.
“No, one is plenty.”
He set off on his mission, while Morgan fidgeted. Parkin had too many enemies who wanted him dead. What better way to distract him than with a willing girl and a promise of a good time?
Anya took him outside the bar into a quaint courtyard lit with flaming torchieres set at intervals along the back wall. They weren’t alone; a couple occupied a far corner, but they were oblivious to the rest of the world.
Anya led him to a darkened spot, then shoved him back against the building’s brickwork. “I’ll take that dance now,” she said.
Here? Well, it was New Orleans.
Alex didn’t normally mind women who took charge—some of his best experiences had been that way—but his nerves were taut. It was risky being on his own with someone he didn’t know. Still, why would one of Buryshkin’s people try to hurt him? He was on the Russian’s payroll.
“So what do you have in mind?” he asked, watching her closely in the dim light. There seemed to be a bewitching fire in those dark eyes now.
Anya stepped up, took his face in her hands, and kissed him. The kiss wasn’t like he’d expected; it was one of domination more than discovery. That knowledge lit him up like a firecracker, and his groin responded enthusiastically. He was vaguely aware of the other couple leaving the courtyard, finished with their business. The door to the bar closed behind them.
“Do you know what I like most?” Anya murmured.
Alex shook his head, hoping it didn’t have anything to do with whips and chains.
“I’ll show you.”
She trailed her tongue around his chin, then down onto his neck. It was as arousing as all hell. She gripped the sides of his face and lightly nipped him with her teeth.
“Do you like that?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Then maybe you’ll like this even better,” she said.
The grip grew tighter, and right before Alex was going to pull away, she bit him, digging her teeth into his neck.
With a yelp, Alex jerked back, feeling his flesh give way.
“What the hell?” he said, touching the spot and coming away with blood on his fingers. The skin felt ragged to the touch and stung like fury. “Are you fucking crazy?”
He could see blood on her lips. His blood. This one was into pain.
Anya went all innocent. “You said you would like it. You lied. So many of them do.”
Bitch. All thoughts of fucking her vanished.
Alex forcibly wrestled his anger down. If this viper knew anything about Dimitri, he had to play along. Which was proving difficult, as he felt blood running down his neck, under his collar.
“Dimitri said you liked it rough,” he said.
“He could not handle me. He could not handle a lot of things. What about you, Michael? Are you eager to taste what I can give you?” she said, running a talon-like nail down his chest, then south of his waist.
He caught her hand before it reached home.
“Here’s the deal: We talk first, then maybe we’ll get to the pain part. But you have to make it worth my while.”
Her eyes flattened, becoming cold and calculating. If the throbbing wound on his neck hadn’t told him she was dangerous, those eyes confirmed it.
Why the hell am I out here with this crazy?
“You think you dictate to me,” she said, waving a finger in front of his face as if he were a naughty child. “You have picked the wrong side. You are dead and do not know it.”
Side? “Just tell me about Dimitri, and I won’t have your ass arrested for assault. Because believe me, I’m just about to—”
“Zatknis!” she shouted. She continued to swear at him in Russian, her eyes glowing black pits. He saw only madness now, and a cold sweat bathed him.
On instinct, Alex grabbed her arm as it moved toward him. She struggled, but he slapped her wrist down on his knee. An open switchblade hit the ground at his feet
He kicked it away. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
She snarled and was about to leap at him, but Alex was through the back door and into the crowd before she had a chance to stop him. Or retrieve her knife. He scooped up a few napkins from a table and pressed them against his neck to try to stop the bleeding. What if she had HIV or something?
As he headed for the front entrance, Alex shot a look over his shoulder, but the she-devil wasn’t following him. The old Parkin Luck wasn’t working any longer—the first woman he’d gotten close to banging had turned out to be a total psycho. Even worse, he’d gotten no useful information on Dimitri, and if he hadn’t been paying attention, she would have stabbed him just for fun.
Jesus.
“You’re sure?” Morgan asked, pacing outside the bar now.
Sam nodded. “He went off with a redhead. The guy said he saw them going out the rear door.”
“Dammit. Either he’s playing us for suckers, or he’s in trouble. Go around the back and see if you can find out what’s going on with them. I’ll stay here in case he comes this way.”
Sam headed around the side of the building as Morgan stared at the flow of people in and out of the club.
“Where are you?”
Alex found Morgan pacing outside the club, her expression lethal. The instant she saw him, she dialed Sam.
“He’s here. Yeah, okay. Thanks for your help tonight. I’ll talk to you later.” She stuffed her phone in her purse, then got in his face. “Where the hell have you been?”
“What?” Alex said, still trying to wrap his mind around what had just happened.
“You heard me.”
A little of the fog cleared. “I’ve been doing what you expected me to do. Asking questions. Why are you so damned mad?”
“You were with a redhead, right?”
He nodded. “Yeah, so?”
“Giving her your A game, were you?” she said.
“You’re jealous.”
Morgan set off down the street, moving at a fast pace, like she wanted to put miles between them. It took Alex half a block to catch up to her.
He caught her by the arm. “What the hell is up with you?”
She spun around to face him, and for a moment he thought she was going to sock him in the jaw. “Don’t play innocent,” she spat.
“I’m not getting the issue here. I chatted up a couple people and thought I’d found someone who had some information on Dimitri, but the cost for that information was far too high.”
Morgan shook her head. “You knew who the hell that redhead was, and that’s why you took off with her. Was it good for you? Did she scream your name when you got her off?”
“What? No. We didn’t get it on. Whoever that woman was, she’s batshit crazy.”
His companion hesitated. “You didn’t recognize her?”
“No. She said her name was Anya. I’ve never met her before.”
“Think about it,” she said.
“Think about what?”
“Russian accent? Named Anya? Would have been about sixteen when you went to prison?”
The name clicked into place as a chill swept through his bones. “Oh, God.”
Anya Vladimirovna Buryshkin.
The Russian’s only child.
“That bitch!” he shouted. That outburst earned them a few startled looks from passersby. Alex’s stomach lurched, and he swallowed to keep from vomiting. He’d been a total fool.
Morgan stared for a moment, then touched his arm. “You really didn’t know who she
was?”
“No,” he insisted. “I’d never met her. I saw a picture of her once, but she was just a kid and had brown hair. If I had known . . . Oh, God.”
Morgan reached toward the makeshift compress on his neck. “What happened?”
He pulled away the napkins, and the blood began to run again.
“The bitch bit me,” he said, quieter now.
“What?”
Morgan dug in her purse and gave him a stack of tissues. When he pushed them up against the wound, the throbbing pain grew worse.
“You’re lucky she didn’t cut out your liver,” she said, her voice hardened steel now. “Anya’s known to do that every now and then.”
“She would have if I hadn’t stopped her,” he murmured.
Suddenly, being on the street made him feel too vulnerable.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “I need a damned shower.”
Chapter Fourteen
Morgan’s worry increased with each step away from the bar. Alex had gone from scowling and furious to haunted. His shoulders were hunched, and he wouldn’t meet her gaze. Any questions she posed were ignored.
To ensure that they weren’t being followed, she kept a close watch as they took a circuitous route back to the apartment. Once inside, instead of heading directly to the shower, Alex sat on the couch, his head in one hand while the other kept pressure on the wound.
“If you let me look at it, I’ll see if it needs stitches.”
He slowly raised his head and removed the tissues. Morgan couldn’t help but wince. The bite was irregular and deeper on one end. It’d taken a lot to do that much damage.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice barely audible.
“Not as bad as it could have been. The issue is whether it’ll get infected. And here I thought Anne Rice was just bullshitting us about vampires in New Orleans.”
Her joke totally failed.
Morgan fetched the first aid kit from the bathroom and laid it out on the coffee table. “I’ll clean it now, then after you shower, I’ll bandage it.”
He shook his head, not looking at her.
“Alex? Come on, it’ll be okay,” she said, confused by his reaction.
Cat's Paw (Veritas Book 1) Page 14
