“You’re hired.”
Natalya snapped her mouth shut. Slowly, she blinked. “What?”
“You’re hired.” Moretti stood, stretching out his muscular thighs that even his loose denim jeans couldn’t disguise. He shoved his left hand into his hip pocket. Against her will, Natalya’s gaze dropped to his crotch. Her breath caught at the tightening of his fly, the hard ridge that evidenced arousal.
When she yanked her gaze back to Brandon’s, his eyes flashed dark gold, telling her he knew exactly where she’d been looking. His voice, however, belied his awareness. “We open in three hours. I’ll need you here early to help get the girls settled in.”
“The girls?”
He fished a set of keys out of the top right desk drawer and held his fist over her hand. “These are to the dressing rooms. I have a copy, you have a copy. No one else. Kate’s our star. She goes on at ten, and every two hours after. Jill follows. Beyond that, you’ll have to talk to the girls.”
Natalya moved her hand beneath his, palm up, waiting for the keys. “And me?”
“I need a housemom more than I need a dancer.” His fingers brushed the base of her wrist.
Ignoring the chill that raced to her shoulder, she blinked again. “A housemom?” He had to be kidding! She needed to be onstage. Scoping out the crowd. Looking for Iskatel´, as he was bound to be looking for potential targets.
Brandon lifted his hand a fraction. “A housemom.”
Or the job wasn’t hers. The hard line of his chiseled jaw voiced what he didn’t.
Hell, not if she had anything to say about it. She was here to crack a case, and she couldn’t do that locked away in the back of the house.
Throwing Brandon a sultry smile, she slowly eased to her feet. As she rounded the corner of his desk, she slid her fingertips from beneath his, around his wrist, and let them rest against the back of his hand. Her gaze held his, offering promises she wouldn’t let tumble off her tongue. She dropped her voice deliberately, assuming the same husky tones she used to appease Dmitri. “You sure that’s the only use you have for me?”
To her delight, Brandon’s gaze darkened again. Chips of molten brass fringed the tawny browns and sent another damning shiver down her spine. The man had simply gorgeous eyes.
Her shiver intensified as those breathtaking eyes trailed down the length of her body, slowly wandered up her legs, lingered at her waist, and came to a dead stop at the deep V in her blouse. Appreciation glinted like hot embers. “I’m not sure I grasp your meaning.”
Oh, yes he did—the sudden gravel that roughened his voice told her loud and clear he understood her implication. She gave him another slow, sexual smile and trailed one nail up his forearm to the bend in his elbow. “I’m just saying it would be a waste of talent to keep me backstage.”
He dropped his arm, the keys jangling in the heavy tension that settled around them. Turning, he faced her fully. Natalya took a bold step forward, close enough she could catch the hard fall of his breath, see the sudden bounding of his pulse in the thick vein that ran alongside his neck.
“Oh? That convinced of your… talent… are you?”
Deliberately she bit her top teeth into her lower lip and took another step forward. She didn’t realize the error in her judgment until it was too late. His body heat assaulted her. The scent of spice, blended with something sweet she couldn’t describe tempted her to close her eyes, breathe in, and let the warmth in her veins take over.
As a gnawing ache stirred between her legs, she blinked and forced the uncomfortable sensations aside. This wasn’t about pleasure. This was about a job. A job she needed to land to get the hell away from Dmitri’s dark world.
Natalya traced the thick strip of leather around his waist with one fingertip. She felt him stiffen, recognized the instantaneous tension that lodged into his spine. “Yeah.” Keeping her smile at one corner of her mouth, she closed the remaining distance between them and flattened her palm against the firm ridge of his cock. “I would be…”
Holy crap—Brandon Moretti hit her like a landslide, completely eradicating her ability to form words. His cock was hard as stone beneath her palm. Searingly hot even through the denim. It wasn’t the first time she’d used seduction to get her way—hell, she manipulated Dmitri daily. But it was the first time an aroused man had rendered her thoughtless.
She swallowed, tipped her head up to look at his face, and struggled to remember what she was saying. But she’d moved too close. Too far into the powerful, intimidating frame of his muscular body. His mouth hovered near hers. His breath stirred the fine hairs alongside her temple. Chills rolled through her. Beneath her lightweight blouse, her nipples beaded. Forget remembering what she intended to say—she was having a hard enough time remembering to breathe.
If she were smart, she’d back away. Fast. But she couldn’t bring herself to move beyond sliding her palm over his swollen erection. Visions of that weighty flesh in her bare hands, the smooth head moistening as she bent to run her tongue across it, flared to life. Steel… silk…
“You would be what?” Brandon’s lips barely touched hers, the flutter almost inconsequential, yet agonizing all the same. In a heartbeat, the aching need to taste him, to explore that sensual mouth sent moisture rushing through her pussy.
She swallowed hard. This was madness. He was a man. Nothing special, and likely someone tied into Dmitri’s sick designs. She had no business being aroused by Brandon Moretti.
Speech came back to her in a rush. “Worth it.”
A slow, lazy smile settled into the corner’s of Brandon’s eyes. Whether it touched his mouth, she couldn’t decipher—she stood too close. But if it had, she was certain it would be amused, definitely cocky.
He set both hands on her waist, the press of his fingers torture to her oversensitized nerves. But instead of pulling her close for the kiss she anticipated—the kiss she’d twist free of before his mouth ever planted on hers—he pushed her back, distancing their bodies until her hand no longer rested on his crotch.
“I’m sure you would be, Natalya. But I need a housemom. And I’m not changing my mind.”
Annoyance flickered through her, and she narrowed her gaze at his outstretched hand. The keys dangled between his thumb and forefinger. One dark eyebrow arched—Do you want the job?
Fine. If seduction wouldn’t get her what she wanted, she’d have to play by Brandon’s rules—for now. Dmitri might have been able to create the opening for her to move into the club by killing Rachel, but he could only intervene so far without calling attention to the Bratva connections. A link the Nevada Gaming Commission would devour. Then they’d spit out the St. Petersburg casino, along with Fantasia, like the bad meat it was.
Hell for that matter, if Brandon worked for Dmitri, this was exactly what she should have expected. Her fiancé would never let her strip in public. And Brandon’s steely resistance to her attempts to convince him otherwise only reinforced her suspicions.
“Fine.”
Brandon dropped the keys into her palm. As she closed her fingers, they caught his. His gaze jumped to hers, hot and full of promises she didn’t dare consider. She swallowed again to relieve the sudden dryness of her throat and politely pulled her hand away. Her legs felt jittery nonetheless.
“We aren’t attached to the casino, so you don’t need a gaming license, and you can use St. Petersburg as you want. We’ll talk payroll later.”
“Okay.” She flashed him a coolly detached smile. “I’ll run home and change. See you soon, Moretti.”
“Brandon.”
She stopped at the door, fingers resting on the brass handle. Not Brandon. First names were too personal. He was a job. Part of a bigger scheme. His eyes might convey invitation to a world of intimate splendor, but she couldn’t give in to the strange, unexpected desire that had infiltrated her composure and let him become familiar.
Glancing over her shoulder, she opened the door. “Boss.”
One corner of his mo
uth pulled with a satisfied smirk. “Welcome aboard, Natalya.”
Aboard—if he only knew.
She squelched a brimming laugh and sauntered into the darkened bar where Sergei waited at the door.
Three
B
randon’s gaze followed the gentle swish of Natalya’s long auburn ponytail as she walked away. It grazed the top of her hips, accenting a waist he had easily captured between his hands. Long, confident strides carried her across the floor, the height of her heels as insignificant as if she walked barefoot. That woman was trouble—he had the evidence in his jeans. He was so fucking hard walking was near impossible. If it hadn’t been for his gut-deep suspicion her tactics were merely a ruse, he’d have had her splayed out on his desk. He’d have had her on the damn floor. But he hadn’t survived twelve years of vice work by being naive. Natalya was playing him.
She also hadn’t been entirely immune to her little game. The flush in her cheeks, the catch in her voice, the way her eyelashes weighed closer to her cheekbones—he’d almost given in then. Almost surrendered to the blistering heat in his veins. Somehow, though, he understood that allowing Natalya to strip would scar in him ways even bullets couldn’t. He couldn’t take that risk. Sticking her behind the stage to deal with the unending needs of thirty strippers would mean he’d never have to face the torment of watching those damnable legs strut across his stage. Nor would he have to confront the unexplainable urge to possess her that had invaded his common sense when she cupped his cock in her sweet little palm.
Brandon came to an abrupt halt as the front doors swung open and Natalya slid an arm around a man’s waist. A few inches taller than her five-nine-ish height, the man cut an imposing figure. The way he bent his head to kiss the top of hers sent a bout of unexpected fire swirling through Brandon’s gut. Seconds ago, she’d had her hand on his dick, toying with him like she meant business. Now she sauntered casually into another man’s embrace as if holding on to his cock was an everyday routine.
Yeah, he’d made a good decision, both in keeping her clothed and keeping her backstage. The last thing he needed was a boyfriend causing trouble.
Boyfriend.
The word held a bitter taste that he damn sure couldn’t explain. He didn’t want her. Well, not beyond the idle fantasy of what it would be like to bend her over his desk. He didn’t want anyone. Women were meant for the moment. Clearly, Natalya was not his moment. Didn’t bother him—one less headache to deal with and one more reminder he didn’t do strippers. Not after Jill.
He’d made the mistake of dallying with Jill a couple months back. A few nights, a few intense orgasms, and she’d glued herself to his side. Back then, she’d been reasonably safe. She worked here. He worked at Sadie’s. Now though, it was all he could do to keep her at arms’ distance. Literally.
Definitely not a situation he wanted to duplicate.
“That, my friend, is one perfect piece of art,” Aaron commented at Brandon’s left.
Brandon pinched a frown. “With one perfect piece of boyfriend.” He gave his best friend a stiff smack between the shoulder blades. “Wake up, Mayer. Your dick’s staring at a keep out sign.”
“Nothing it hasn’t stared at before.” The same self-assured, cocky grin spread over Aaron’s boyish face. Despite his twenty-nine years, his face had failed to mature. It drew the women, but made his sparse goatee look like a high school teen’s.
“Shave that thing off.”
Aaron stroked the wispy hairs on his chin. “I’m getting around to it.” He jerked his head toward the closed entrance doors. “You didn’t put her onstage. We were looking forward to it.”
The grim reminder of why he had hired Natalya thumped Brandon in the chest. His good humor drained out through his toes, and he gritted his teeth. “She’s not dancing.”
Aaron’s jaw dropped. Recovering from momentary stupor, he blinked twice and exclaimed, “Why the hell not?”
“Yeah, why not? I could’ve gone for a bit of entertainment.” Rory stabbed a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the mirrored wall behind the main bar. “Beats the hell out of counting these bottles.”
Rory’s voice sent Rachel crashing through Brandon’s thoughts. He braced both hands on the table in front of him, bent over, and sucked in a deep, fortifying breath. He’d lost a teammate once before. But there was something drastically different about losing a buddy who owned a pair of testicles, than a woman who, despite her competence, he felt compelled to protect.
He’d also never had to stand before someone’s significant other and break the news he’d never see her again.
“Moretti, spit it out,” Aaron ordered in a low rumble.
“It’s Rachel. She’s…” Dead. The word lingered on his tongue, but his throat closed. He couldn’t say it. If he voiced the truth, his heart couldn’t stay in denial.
“Fucking bastard!” Rory’s explosion shattered the stillness.
Before Brandon could turn around, the bottle of Scotch Rory had been holding hurtled across the room. It smashed into the wall, raining shards of crystal onto the carpeting.
From the entrance, a feminine squeak chorused the tinkling of glass. As Brandon whipped toward the doors, Rory shouldered past a wide-eyed Jill, nearly knocking her on her ass.
She threw a scalding glare at Rory’s back. “What’s his problem?”
Brandon shoved his fingers through his hair. He couldn’t hide. Duty dictated he stand up and face his faults. He beckoned Jill to join Aaron at the table. He couldn’t tell her about Rachel’s death, but he’d have to explain why Natalya had suddenly assumed Rachel’s duties.
With more calm to his voice than he’d ever believed possible, he answered, “There’ve been some… changes, Jill.”
T
he vibration in Dmitri’s pants pocket drew him from the comfort of his couch and to his feet. Pulling his phone out, he checked the display, recognizing the number. He dipped his chin at the men who had gathered to renegotiate the terms of their involvement with Sheik Amir and the Dubai Project. “I must take this call.” As he shouldered through the heavy mahogany doors that barred his household from his private meeting room, he answered, “Dmitri.”
“She’s hired.”
Iskatel´’s brittle American attempt at Russian made Dmitri cringe. The words were right. The accent all wrong. Nothing like the melody of Natalya’s sweet words or the way the mother tongue should be spoken.
He moved to the window and stared at his manicured front lawn, now in full fall color. “She’s safe?”
“Yes. As beautiful as ever.”
As a vision of Natalya’s green eyes leapt to life in his mind, Dmitri couldn’t help but smile. He ran a hand down the curtains, fabric she’d chosen when he’d invited her to move in. Then, he had never imagined he could come to care so much for a woman who’d once been no more than a hired gun. But her eyes, like the heavy silk between his fingers, made him think of summer, of happiness. Of life. Not the death that surrounded him.
Now, he wondered how he’d ever believed she could be just a temporary pleasure. Though he possessed many diamonds, she was the flawless gem amidst uncountable imperfections.
“You’ll keep her that way.” He glanced at the billowing white clouds in the sky. “If you don’t, I will personally escort you to your grave.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t let her out of my sight.”
“And the girl? This Kate Slater? Nothing has changed there?”
“No. Twelve days. Yakov has the papers in order. Once the boat’s returned, we’re ready to go.”
Dmitri nodded absently. “You’ll find Natalya invaluable. I hope you’ll learn from her. I don’t intend to move to Las Vegas to ensure your incompetency doesn’t become an issue again.”
A pause drifted through the line, punctuated with an unsteady laugh. “No. That won’t be necessary. I’ll learn. I won’t disappoint you again.”
Deference. Good. It was more than Dmitri had expected. They were m
aking progress already. “Very well. I believe our business is finished for now.”
“I’ll keep you updated.”
Dmitri closed his phone and stared out at a pair of swans circling the pond. Forgetting the men in the other room, he conjured the memory of the last night he’d spent with his fiancée and closed his eyes to the tightening of his body. “Moya lyubov´.”
N
atalya sat on the edge of her sister’s secondhand couch, grateful for the strong arm Sergei had looped around her shoulders. Not more than ten feet away, the nephew she hadn’t seen since the day he’d been born played with a fire truck on the kitchen floor. To say he resembled his father, the love of Kate’s life, was an understatement. Looking at Derek Slater was like staring at Erik’s ghost. She couldn’t take her eyes off the adorable little boy. Each laugh that interrupted their conversation tugged the same string that had knotted around her stomach when Brandon Moretti’s tawny brown eyes filled with sadness.
Too much unwanted, unexpected, emotion for one day. For that matter, a lifetime. Between the sympathy he managed to wrench from her and the shocking way her body responded to his, if she survived the next handful of days without cracking it would be a miracle. When this was all over, she intended to take some serious R&R on a desolate island where she could regroup with uncomplicated trees. Maybe she’d coerce her partner in Russia, Alexei, into joining her. Spend a little frustrated sexual energy with a guy who actually did something for her. Someone she didn’t have to fake it with.
Like Brandon Moretti.
Natalya blinked as the wayward thought flitted across her brain. With it came the fantasy of Brandon’s mouth settling over hers, the heat of his body enveloping her. An uncomfortable ache stirred between her legs. Before the fleeting image could take root and balloon into the train wreck it promised, she jerked her gaze off Derek and honed in on the way her sister’s hands fidgeted with her wire-rimmed glasses.
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