Lethal Nights (Brute Force)

by Lora Leigh

  It had to be her imagination, because she couldn’t hear anything.

  Drawing in a deep breath and gripping the gun in both hands as she lay in the tub, she considered creeping out of it. Her father would be there any minute, along with her brother and probably the demon-from-hell canine as well. And of course, they’d laugh at her for being so paranoid. Her father would try to convince her to go home with him and her mother. Again.

  As she tensed to pull herself out of the tub, the crash of her bedroom door being thrown open and the sudden explosion of gunfire all but stopped her heart in her chest. The chaotic violence of sound seemed never ending as her life flashed through her mind.

  She was going to die.

  Her father would find her in her bathtub dead. Her brother would go insane searching for who killed her.

  Oh God, her father was on his way.

  No.

  He’d die trying to kill someone …

  The sound stopped as abruptly as it started.

  Her heart was pounding so loud she couldn’t hear anything else. It was booming in her ears, stealing her breath.

  She stared into the darkness of her bathroom, straight up, waiting. If they were going to kill her, she might get lucky and get at least one of them. One of them would be enough.

  And she knew there was more than one. She could hear their voices though she couldn’t process the words. They were angry though, furious.

  They knew now that she wasn’t in her bed.

  There were so many sounds filling the night now. The flash of lights through her bathroom window, blue and white. Sirens were screaming. If the sirens were from her security system, it was a little late.

  Nothing made sense.

  The sudden shrieking, the lights, shouts—she could barely make sense of anything but the rapid crash of sound in her ears.

  Her heart.

  Terror.

  She didn’t want to die yet.

  There were things she wanted to do. So, they weren’t big things, but they were things to do.

  “EJ!” At first, the nickname her family used for her didn’t make sense.

  “EJ!” Louder, filled with fear, and so familiar.

  “Daddy. Oh God. Daddy.” She was sobbing as she fought to get out of the tub.

  The gun clattered from her hand to the bottom of the tub as she all but fell out, desperate to get away from certain death.

  “EJ…” He caught her as she fell out of the tub, nearly going to her knees as she fought to find her legs, to make them hold her up. “EJ. What the hell…”

  She latched on to her father’s broad shoulders, shaking so hard her teeth were chattering, fighting just to breathe.

  He was here. He was here with her.

  “Oh God. Dad. Who was it? What happened?” Disjointed, broken by sobs, the words spilled from her as her father wrapped his arms around her and held her tight.

  What had happened?

  Why in God’s name would someone shoot up her bedroom?

  chapter two

  Ilya was restless.

  Discontented.

  What the hell was wrong with him?

  He could feel the strange malady as it pulsed just beneath the skin the tattoo marked. It was like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch, a prickling of his skin that was driving him insane. It was an ache that went deeper than he could describe, even to himself. Deeper even than the bullet that had struck his chest six months before.

  He’d be more than happy to blame it on that damned bullet though, except he knew better. He’d known better for nearly a year and fought it. It was only in his deepest dreams that he acknowledged what he’d walked away from, what even now he refused to do more about than lie in wait to catch a glimpse of her.

  There were nights, like tonight—this moment—that time seemed to wrap around itself, unending, looping endlessly until it deposited him back, exactly where he’d begun. What felt to be hours later was only moments later and he was still staring at the ceiling with the same intensity of a man who believed there were answers to be found.

  He should be exhausted, sleeping the sleep of a man who had tried to fuck himself into exhaustion with the body of a very willing widow. The widow was damned sure exhausted, he reflected to himself as he glanced at the dark-haired woman sprawled in the bed beside him.

  Unfortunately, the sight of the ceiling above him held more appeal than waking the woman next to him. Beautiful though she was, experienced as hell, still the thought of waking her was suddenly abhorrent.

  The very fact that he’d used her to try to fuck the need for another woman out of his senses was sickening enough, but the feeling that he’d betrayed his heart made his stomach roil. He’d slipped into another town in the early hours of the previous morning, parked his car in the parking lot across from the office where she worked, and just watched her.

  Through the glass window of the office he had an unobstructed view of her and he’d let his gaze stroke her as he couldn’t, even as he called himself every sort of fool. He wasn’t a besotted boy, he was a hardened bastard, a killer, his hands weren’t just stained with blood, they were immersed in it.

  Sliding from the bed now with a caution that testified to his unwillingness to wake the widow, he dressed with far more haste than was warranted before slipping from her apartment and striding quickly down the hall.

  She’d wouldn’t even curse him the next time she saw him, he thought in disgust. They all smiled sweetly, simpered, and promised they’d give him reason to sleep next to them through the night if he but gave them another chance. And perhaps he would have if just one time one of them had shown some anger that he’d left her in such a way. Or at least, before he’d seen her he would have.

  Self-disgust pricked at him.

  He was a man who had once sincerely appreciated all things female but was rarely treated to the proof that the women he’d slept with possessed enough fire to actually get angry.

  His employer and best friend, Ivan Resnova, had such a woman. The redheaded wife of the suspected criminal kingpin had no problem whatsoever tossing her husband from their bed to a couch if he dared to overstep his bounds. Though admittedly, the redhead in question adored her new husband. Still, letting him know she was angry with him wasn’t something she held back.

  Women were either too frightened of Ilya’s suspected power or too enamored of it to dare become angry with him.

  All but one. With her cheeky smile and expressive face she’d teased him for his “flirty dragon” and warned him more than once that the tattoo would get him into trouble. And he was damned if anyone had ever known anything but fear when they let themselves think of the past that followed that ink.

  The dragon was to be feared, he’d made certain of it, but his life necessitated it. Now he knew nothing else.

  Stepping into the lobby of the apartment building, he nodded to the night manager where he sat in the glass-enclosed office, then to the doorman who swept open the door as he neared. He had only moments to wait before the sleek Jaguar he drove pulled along the curve in front of him.

  The valet accepted his tip without glancing at the bills Ilya slid into his palm and within moments he was heading out of Manhattan on the return drive to the Resnova estate on Long Island.

  There was no enthusiasm at the thought of returning to the house Ivan and his wife, Journey, were turning into their home.

  Home.

  That sense of belonging, of peace in one’s surroundings, wasn’t a feeling Ilya believed he’d ever known. The estate had always been a home of sorts for Ivan whenever his daughter, Amara, was there. Now, with the coming babe Ivan and Journey were expecting, it was becoming more so. For Ilya, the growing discontent was only becoming worse.

  Why? Why was he doing this and not stealing at least one night with the woman haunting him?

  The question was like a nagging mistress. It refused to be silenced or to abate.

  It surely wasn’t, as Ivan suggested, an inner hu
nger for his own home and hearth, a woman he could call his own, a child to restore his belief in something. He’d scoffed at his friend when he’d said those words. Such things had never been meant to be his, and he’d accepted it long ago.

  But did the knowledge that one particular woman shouldn’t be his keep a man from craving her?

  Absently, he lifted his hand from the wheel and rubbed his fingers against the left side of his face. There the scars were hidden by an intricately curved tattoo of a dragon, complete with reddened eyes and subtle, iridescent scales. From his brow to his jaw, the sinuous lines of the dragon shadowed the scars left by the blade of Karloff Resnova, Ivan’s father, with the help of Petrov Stefanovich, the uncle charged with Ilya’s keeping.

  Now the tattoo, just like the scars, marked him, ensured he could never escape what his uncle called Ilya’s mother’s shame.

  Now, the tattoo marked him in other ways. The most significant was that of Ivan Resnova’s lethal assistant. There was no evidence of the crimes he was suspected to have committed and there were definitely no witnesses, but the tattoo ensured he could never escape suspicion.

  It marked him in another way as well. A mark that only a brother acknowledged and had sworn retribution should anyone strike against him, but more important, it marked a legacy of blood and death he could never escape.

  Not that Ilya cared much for any particular distinction, just as he refused to admit that he cared little for that brother’s life or practices. Blood bound them, whether he liked it or not. And sometimes, he actually liked the far too reckless, excessively intelligent man his brother had become.

  The miles passed, rather like life lately, far too slowly and with far more too much time to think, to reflect on a life that felt more barren and far colder than ever as he drew nearer his destination.

  Perhaps he should have never gone to the widow, but as he had, perhaps he should have stayed.

  He would have preferred facing a rabid dog, he thought with an amused grunt. Not that the widow wasn’t charming, she was and as experienced as any he’d fucked.

  And he knew he’d never join her in her bed again.

  Lowering his fingers from the scars that no amount of ink could fully erase, he watched the traffic as he drove instead. It wasn’t excessive in the early hours of the morning, but there was enough to keep his mind on his driving rather than allowing it to wander too far.

  Not that he was certain where it could wander that it hadn’t already. He’d even entertained the idea of returning to Russia and overseeing the Resnova business concerns there. There was still a lot of work to be done there to legitimize those holdings. A lot of heads to knock together.

  Blood that would have to be spilled …

  At times, he swore he could smell the scent of blood surrounding him. His own, as well as the blood he’d spilled himself. No matter that he’d never taken a life that didn’t deserve it. There had just been many that had deserved it. It didn’t change the fact that he’d made himself judge, jury, and executioner.

  Not that justice was plentiful in Russia. And, in many instances, in America either.

  Spilling blood to ensure those under his protection weren’t harmed was a small price to pay, even now. But it didn’t change the fact that the blood stained him. That he’d taken lives with cold, hard purpose.

  Perhaps he was having a midlife crisis? Not that he thought he was old enough for one, but he guessed anything was possible. If he began lusting after women far too young for him and looking for ways to be more appealing to such women, he was just going to shoot himself in the face and save his family the embarrassment.

  Not to mention himself.

  Not that he had younger women on his mind. The problem was, it was nearly impossible to keep one particular woman off his mind.

  Whatever the malady attacking the contentment he’d once so prided himself on, he was going to have to find a cure for it. Something other than interfering in the life of the one woman he truly wanted.

  Then what? the inner malcontent snarled in response.

  He’d be damned if he could answer that question. Just as he had no clue how to fix it. A fix that didn’t include pretty gray eyes filled with innocence and dreams.

  Maybe Ivan was right about a vacation. Ilya hadn’t taken one in years. Perhaps a few weeks doing nothing would help him figure this out. Working obviously wasn’t helping. He’d buried himself in work for the past months and the discontent had only grown.

  He frowned at the thought.

  When had it begun though? He hadn’t always felt this off balance, this dissatisfied. He couldn’t pinpoint a date or a time when it had begun. At first, he hadn’t realized why his temper had become so testy or why he’d found it more difficult than ever to sleep.

  As he drove ever closer to the estate where he both lived and worked, that discontent echoed stronger inside him.

  The thought of going back to work in the office didn’t appeal to him. Witnessing the emotion and easy intimacy between Ivan and his new bride, Journey, held even less appeal. Those two could make a saint curse with all their lovey-dovey crap.

  As that thought crossed his mind, the low ring of his cell phone through the car’s speakers had him checking the caller ID in the dash display. Frowning, he answered on the first ring.

  “Ivan? Is there a problem?” It was two in the morning.

  “Are you still in Maryland?” Ivan asked, his tone uncharacteristically cold.

  Ilya’s brows lifted in surprise.

  “Heading out of Manhattan actually and coming your way,” he answered.

  “Turn around.” There was nothing resembling a request in his tone, it was pure demand. “Head for Hagerstown. The safe house there has been breached and the owner’s bedroom destroyed with gunfire. The assailants ran when the sheriff arrived with her family, but from the report I was given, it was an interrupted professional hit.”

  Hagerstown.

  There was only one safe house in Hagerstown, the one he’d helped set up the year before. His Emma Jane had been attacked.

  “Did we have a client there?” Was the owner there? Was she safe? Questions he couldn’t make himself ask. Hell, that safe house wasn’t even logged into the system yet. No one should have been using it and no one should know of it.

  He turned onto an exit to turn around and head back the way he’d come.

  “No client.” Ivan’s voice was clipped, angry. “Ms. Preston followed protocol, but it was by chance she wasn’t in her bed when they began firing. The security system failed.”

  Ilya felt pure, hard fury gather within him.

  “Like hell. I installed that system, Ivan. It wouldn’t have failed unless she didn’t set it properly. And I don’t believe that would have been the case.” He hit the gas, shooting off the exit far faster than he would have normally.

  “Well, it went off quick enough when her family went through the front door. Sheriff’s deputy was caught unaware when four armed, black-clad assailants shot out the back door.” Ivan’s tone held a note of fury. “He’s recovering, but that alarm didn’t go off when they went in. I had the system’s response analyzed by our electronic security database, and it shows the system was armed and active until the assailants went through it on their way out.”

  And that sure as hell didn’t make sense.

  Dammit, he’d done the work there himself. He’d picked the home’s owner, worked up the agreement with her, and when he’d left, he’d been certain there would be no problems should trouble arise.

  “Ms. Preston is unharmed then?” he asked, gripping the steering wheel and speeding past what little traffic joined him on the highway.

  “Unharmed,” Ivan confirmed. “I have Sawyer heading out with weapons, files, and clothes for you. He’ll meet you at the safe house within hours of your arrival and stay as backup. This could be a strike against me or the work we’re doing, rather than anything toward Ms. Preston.”

  “If so, then we have
a leak!” Ilya snapped. “She’s not even on the books, nor is the house listed among our locations. We’ve yet to even use the Preston location.”

  For whatever reason, he’d delayed listing it on their location database or recording their agreement with her. All he’d recorded were the payments to the Hagerstown account each month for keeping the home available.

  Emma Jane Preston. Big haunted gray eyes, pretty pink lips that smiled even when she’d believed she would lose her home, and waves of lush thick brown hair falling just below her shoulders.

  “While he’s with you, I’ll have Sawyer begin searching for any attempted hacks into the system…” Ivan began.

  “She isn’t in the system,” Ilya gritted out. “I hadn’t placed the location within it. Those files are in the office, period, in hard copy.”

  And they’d had an intrusion into the office several months before. The same intrusion that resulted in a gunshot wound to his chest.

  Son of a bitch.

  “Get to the safe house, figure out why she’d be targeted, and I’ll work on this end to figure out who. I don’t think it was a strike against her though,” Ivan stated. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  That didn’t explain who it was a strike against then. Even had the men who shot Ilya the month before found her file, it would have no significance for them. No more than any other file would have had.

  “Tell Sawyer to call when he’s close,” Ilya bit out, fighting to hold back his anger. “I’ll contact you once I’ve met with Ms. Preston.”

  The call disconnected and as Ilya shot through the night, heading for the small town, he wondered just why in the hell anyone would strike against Emma Jane Prescott. There wasn’t a chance in hell anyone could have figured out that even now, a year later, Ilya Dragonovich hadn’t been able to forget her.

  Her name hadn’t passed his lips once those meetings with her were concluded, despite the countless times he’d spent thinking about her. Not once had he mentioned her, spoken of her, or so much as written her name as it passed through his thoughts. All he’d done was allow himself to be marked as hers alone.