He pulled into the narrow driveway and idled while Rory hauled himself out of the passenger seat. “If you need anything…”
Rory answered with a vacant nod.
“I’ll call in a couple of days and brief you.”
He dipped his chin, then punctuated his good-bye with a firm tap on the Shelby’s roof and shut the door. Feeling helpless for the first time since he’d been twenty and received the news his family had been killed, Brandon watched his friend trudge lifelessly up the dark porch steps and let himself inside an even darker house.
I should have pulled his piece.
He shook his head. No. Taking a cop’s weapon was the ultimate blow to his pride. Rory wasn’t the kind who’d consider suicide. He’d rally, in time. Find the strength that made him the decorated officer who’d devoted ten years to the force. He wouldn’t turn vigilante. He knew when to respect an order, when to sidestep around the unnecessary. Rory didn’t need to be knocked down another round by confiscating his gun.
As Brandon backed out of the driveway, a light flicked on inside Rory’s house. He expelled a worried breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Convinced he’d made the right decision to respect Rory’s wish to be alone, he navigated for home. While he drove, his thoughts meandered between the case and Natalya.
Gut instincts lumped the two together. Something about her didn’t fit. The accent, her immaculate attire, her insistence to dance. The way she played the consummate professional one minute, and the next, experienced seductress. All the while, she cloaked a tigress’ spirit. Hid a woman who wouldn’t back down when common sense said she ought to.
He’d allowed himself to be swayed into hiring her boyfriend. A man who’s references came only through words—just like Natalya’s. Two mistakes in one day. He hadn’t run either one of their records, a practice he’d made habit long, long ago.
Angry with his foolishness, he pulled his cell phone off his hip and punched in Aaron’s number. A groggy, sleep-laden voice answered on the fourth ring. “You sent me home. Now you want to talk? It’s almost dawn, man.”
“I took Rory off the case.”
“Huh?” Wakefulness crept into Aaron’s response. “What for?”
“He can’t cope. He was planning on asking her to marry him, Mayer.”
“Shit.” The whisper drifted through the phone, a ghostly echo of Brandon’s equal upset. Several moments of quiet passed through the line before Aaron let out a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”
“Nothing to realize. I didn’t know it had been going on this long either. He’s grieving. He’ll pull through. I sent him to his mom’s.”
“Probably best.”
“I need you to look into some things first thing in the morning.”
As if he welcomed the subject change, Aaron answered with more strength. “Sure. Whatcha need?”
Brandon turned the corner and pulled into his own quiet neighborhood. He drove past the houses, taking strange comfort in the porch lights that burned through the night. His glowed like the rest of them, a solitary lantern to illuminate brick steps and a small front porch. Hitting the button for his garage door, he nosed into his driveway. “Get Natalya’s file from my desk. Run everything you can on her. Find out where she picked up that accent. Find out the link between her and this Sergei guy. Hell, I don’t even know his last name.”
“Not a problem, boss. Will do.”
“Thanks. Let me know what you find out. My ass is sleeping in. I’m beat.” Pushed beyond all reasonable limitations, thanks to one felinesque redhead and her never-ending legs.
He strangled the visual of Natalya sliding on her garter before it could fully erupt from his memory. Not going there. He needed rest, not several more hours of torment.
“Will do. Can I go back to sleep now?”
“Yeah.” Brandon shut off the car, punched the garage door opener again, and climbed out. “One more thing, Mayer.”
A hint of annoyance accompanied the solitary response. “Yeah?”
“If you ever override me like that in front of someone—”
To Brandon’s absolute frustration, laughter erupted in his ear. “Get over it, Moretti.”
Still chuckling, Aaron terminated the call. Brandon stared at the silent cell phone in his hand, debating whether or not to redial and tell his best friend exactly where he could put his amusement. Deciding to reevaluate the situation in the morning, he let himself inside his house, tossed his phone on the table by the door, and wandered down the hall to his bedroom. There, he belly-flopped onto his bed, not even bothering with the chore of undressing.
The instant he shut his eyes, long auburn hair danced against his eyelids and tickled the inside of his palm. The sound of her soft cry as he suckled at her breast filled his ears.
Eight
A
s the sun broke over the horizon and cast a warm pink glow on the tops of the monstrous casinos, Natalya jogged down the wide sidewalk. Though she kept a steady enough pace that perspiration dampened her brow, inside she felt sluggish. Out of sorts. Like someone had strung her up by the ankles, spun her around three times, and then left her swaying, blindfolded, in the wind. All thanks to one Brandon Moretti who refused to give her a moment’s peace, even in sleep.
In dreams, she allowed him all the wickedness his smoldering eyes and adept mouth promised. Fantasy Brandon knew every sweet spot on her body and had discovered a few she hadn’t realized she possessed. Masterful hands left her aching for fulfillment each time she opened her eyes to toss the covers off her overheated skin. Shortly before dawn, she gave up the idea of rest and sought relief from the pent-up tension on her own. It had worked… to a degree. She’d come fast and hard, but the restlessness remained. Burning in her belly, weighting down her limbs.
Jogging became a necessity. If for no other reason than to spend the energy accumulating in her veins. When Sergei had called, asking her to meet him, she’d leapt at the opportunity to burn off a little steam.
Sighting the tall towers of the MGM Grand Signature, where the CIA had arranged a separate working residence for she and Sergei, she quickened her pace. Too many eyes and ears filled the properties Dmitri owned to chance meeting in either one of their condominiums. While she doubted Dmitri would bug her place, the possibility remained that someone would see Sergei enter, stay longer than a bodyguard should, and questions would arise. Though Dmitri understood Sergei was posing as her boyfriend, they didn’t need the resulting interrogation. Or people looking to prove the cover-up wrong.
She rounded the corner onto Harmon, feeling the burn in her thighs. Sweat trickled between her breasts, and her breath came in controlled measurements. At the Signature’s gated entrance, she stopped, tightened her ponytail, and fished into her back pocket for her ID. She passed it to the guard. “Sergei Khitrovo is expecting me.”
He inspected the laminated plastic, then glanced at her. “Morning, Ms. Trubachev. Hope you enjoyed your run.” As he spoke, the gates soundlessly opened. “Next time, I won’t forget. I’m good with faces.”
Natalya reclaimed her ID and jogged up the walk to the spacious front entry. Inside, following the marbled floor, she made her way down a narrow hallway to the elevators. She rode to the twenty-sixth floor.
Sergei answered seconds after she knocked. Looking well-rested and alert, he flashed a bright smile. “Morning.”
“How do you do that?” As she entered, she swept a hand down the length of his body, indicating his immaculate jeans and crisp white T-shirt. “I know what time you got in last night.”
Chuckling, he ushered her onto a stool at the granite-topped bar between the dining area and the kitchen. “Magic.”
“Inhuman.”
He pushed a tall mug of black coffee under her nose. “Have some caffeine.”
One thing could be said for her partnership with Sergei—he always knew how to use coffee to his advantage. She drank deeply, savoring the rich dark roast.
“Want a cinnamon roll?”
Natalya raised an eyebrow. “From the bakery? Or did you cook them?”
With a shake of his head, he scoffed. “Why buy when I have an entire kitchen at my disposal?”
Another thing about her partnership that she treasured—Sergei could cook better than Dmitri’s personal chef. Her stomach growled at the prospect of a hot, buttery, home-cooked cinnamon roll. “Sure.”
As he busied himself with preparing her breakfast, she glanced around the luxury suite, admiring the wood trim, the crisp retro furniture, and the glass accents that added elegance to what would otherwise be harsh angles and lines. Modern. Exceedingly upscale.
“HQ really put themselves out this time, didn’t they.”
Standing in front of the stove with his back to her, he shrugged. “I told ’em you’d become accustomed to the wealthy life.”
“Uh-huh. You’re in a mood. Why so chipper?”
“Why are you so crabby?”
A vivid image of Brandon’s dark head moving across her breasts, his tongue searing over her nipple flashed through her memory. In less time than it took to furiously blink the vision away, the uncomfortable ache between her legs returned. She crossed them against the deep throb. “Strange bed. I didn’t sleep so well.”
Sergei answered the microwave’s bell and slid a piping-hot roll in front of her. Cinnamon permeated her awareness, momentarily erasing Brandon from her mind. She picked up her fork, speared it into the doughy corkscrew, and took a bite. “Mm. Tell me again why we aren’t married?”
His laughter rumbled low as he dished out one for himself. “Because marriage requires sexual attraction.”
“I don’t know about that.” She pointed her fork at her plate. “I could give up sex for good food.”
As Sergei pulled up a stool beside her, he gave her thigh a pat. “I have needs, babe.”
“I have needs too. Good food. Good wine. Laughter—that’s important also.” Good sex certainly hadn’t been a part of her life. At least not until Brandon filled her head with possibilities.
She cringed inwardly, the unbidden thought spoiling her attempt at good humor. “So why am I here at the crack of dawn?”
He pulled off a hunk of roll and stuffed it into his mouth. Speaking around his food, he answered, “Because we have a case to work on. Or did you forget why we’re here?”
“I didn’t forget. I worked last night. You, on the other hand, had a whole night off.”
In typical form, Sergei ignored her attempt to rattle his easy-going demeanor. He slid off the stool, retrieved an opaque plastic bag from the corner of the kitchen entry, and plopped it on the countertop between them. Taking his seat once more, he dumped the contents out. A handful of ballpoint pens and thumbnail-sized electronic gadgets spilled free. “Wrong. I spent last night with a few of our buddies.”
Excitement thrummed through Natalya. Audio transmitters. Sometimes her partner proved useful outside of the kitchen. She flashed him a mischievous grin and picked up one of the pens. “Voice activated?”
“You betcha. Scatter some of those around the club. Other Opals are set up to monitor the various channels.”
“Won’t they override with so many?”
“Nope. There’s ten pens. Ten channels. Ten Opals monitoring.”
Holy shit. That was more resources than they’d ever been allotted. The full reality of her situation hit home as she stared at the transmitters. They’d moved beyond the child’s play of Russia. Vegas was life and death. Hers specifically. Kate’s had never been in question. But Natalya stood the very real possibility of never waking to see another morning. And anyone associated with her—like Sergei—stared down a loaded weapon far more deadly than the 9mm on the counter beside the stove.
One wrong move, and they’d cease to exist. As Dmitri disposed of their bodies, the CIA would erase every footstep they’d taken on this earth.
Natalya shivered. For the first time in her life, she considered running. She could hide Kate and Derek in a remote corner of the world where Dmitri would never find them and give up the lies, the subterfuge.
An unbidden memory of Tatiana crumpled on the cold concrete floor in the confinement room surfaced, and Natalya swallowed hard. If she ran, all the women she’d hurt meant nothing. They’d never find freedom. Never again would they know what it was like to wake each morning with a clear head and spend each night as they chose. They’d never see the families they left behind. Families she’d forced them to leave.
No. Running was out of the question. Failure wasn’t an option.
She picked up one of the circular transmitters. “And these?”
“I want you to put one of those on the main bar, one in Moretti’s office, and one backstage.”
A pang of regret pulled at her stomach. Closing her eyes, she set the transmitter back on the bar. If Sergei wanted Brandon’s office monitored, he must suspect him as well. It made sense, as much as she might wish it otherwise. Brandon had access to Kate. By her own words they’d become close. If he coerced her into an after-hours excursion, or offered her a gig at a private club where she’d make three times what one night at Fantasia brought in, she’d never question his motives.
Not wanting to hear Sergei’s response, she quietly asked, “You think he’s Iskatel´?”
Sergei barked a short laugh. “Not a chance in hell.”
His response so stunned her, she could do nothing more than blink. Half of her had wanted to hear Brandon topped the list of Sergei’s suspects. It would make it easier to distance herself from the handsome lieutenant. The other half, however, jumped up and danced at the decisiveness in Sergei’s response. It was that half that left her unable to stutter more than a surprised, “W-Why not?”
“He’s a cop, babe. A dedicated, honorable cop.”
“But he fits perfectly.” She couldn’t believe him. If she did, she’d never survive the next encounter with Brandon Moretti. The possibility he might work for Dmitri, no matter how small it might be, was the safety net between her and the unexplainable desire that flared between them.
Sergei shook his head. “I did some asking around. He’s got marks on his record. He’s been known to side-step protocol to see an investigation closed. But he’s clean.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. We’re clean on paper.”
Swiveling on his stool, Sergei fixed her with a hard look. “His father was Angelo Mancuso, a hit man for the mafia in Kansas City. Angelo didn’t take too kindly to having his wife turn him over to the feds. When she blew her witness protection, Angelo ordered the murder of his family. Moretti lived.” Sergei paused, chewed on the inside of his cheek. With a frown he continued, “He was put on narcotics undercover because he’s too eager to find his father’s men. This is his first homicide stint. He’s not going to fuck it up and lose a chance at getting a transfer he wants.”
Murdered? By his own father? A lance of sympathy sliced through her chest. Uncomfortable emotion that only complicated things further. She shouldn’t care. If she opened herself to that tug of feeling, all the rest that she’d blocked away would come crashing through. She stuffed another bite of cinnamon roll in her mouth, the flavor now dull. “He hawks over Kate.”
Long dark hair tumbled over Sergei’s face as he cocked his head and arched a scoundrel’s eyebrow. “Really? Not according to what she told me last night. Way I hear it, he hawked over you.”
Like bolts snapping into heavy doors, Natalya barred the warmth that flickered in her veins from spreading. She sat up straighter, chewed with more determination. “He did not.”
Sergei’s laughter echoed throughout the room. Shaking his head, he stood, gathered both their empty plates, and took them to the sink. “Give it up, babe. Your reaction yesterday, when Kate brought him up, says you’re done for.” He turned around and braced his elbows on the counter behind him. The amusement faded from his eyes. His smile gradually disappeared. “Use it to your advantage if you must. But get those t
ransmitters passed out.”
In no mood to be presented with reasons why she could indulge in Brandon, Natalya abruptly stood. She hastily gulped down the rest of her coffee. “You can do it when you show up for work tonight. I got you the job. You’re on the floor in the main house. Brandon won’t let me onstage—I need you there. We’ve got to find out who perks up when Kate takes the stage.”
For one suspended heartbeat, she’d have sworn Sergei stiffened. But by the time she’d blinked, he was lounging against the countertop, ankles crossed, and looking every bit the casual Vegas vacationer in his rental kitchen. She dismissed his ramrod straight posture as a figment of her imagination and went to the door.
“Natalya?”
His quiet voice brought her to a stop. Warily, she looked over her shoulder. “Yes?”
“What if it doesn’t happen? What if we don’t make the connection before the twenty-fourth?”
Icy fingers scraped down her spine. One hand on the doorknob, she stilled, her chest suddenly too tight to draw in a normal breath. “I won’t let him take her, Sergei.”
“So we pull her out?”
As her throat inched closed, she swallowed down a rising lump that threatened to choke off her already scant air. What he didn’t say boomed louder than his words: And blow everything we’ve worked toward for the last three years?
“She’s my sister. Dmitri will not have her.” Unwilling to consider the ramifications, she yanked the door open and fled. One way or the other, she’d see Kate and Derek to safety.
Failure is not an option.
Nine
S
tefan Moretti. Sergei silently tried the name on to see how it fit. He’d been Alec for a handful of years as an agency rookie. Spent another few months in Colombia as Javier. But for more years than he could count, he’d considered himself Sergei Khitrovo, and he’d never stopped to consider what might come next.
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