The gravelly male voice invaded Brandon’s ears and dragged him to a stop. He tore his eyes off Natalya and cocked his head as he turned toward the sound.
“Ben, you know I can’t do that,” Becca answered with a laugh. Standing over a middle-aged dark-haired man in an expensive Italian suit, she shimmied up his body, wagging her crotch in his face. “I’m too tired after work.” Her hands glided over her thighs, then dipped between her legs as she pantomimed sliding down on his cock.
The man hissed. His hands inched toward her hips.
Becca noticed the flutter of movement, gave him a sultry smile, and batted his hands away. “Now, Benny Boy, I don’t like men who break the rules,” she purred as she bent forward, bringing her rather large breasts beneath his nose.
“Then come with me where there aren’t any. The other girls haven’t complained.”
Brandon’s instincts stood at attention. The other girls. How many other girls? Eleven maybe? He memorized the face. Hawk-like nose, deep-set beady eyes, salon haircut. A lift of a tailored cuff exposed a Rolex. Money, yes. Not just nice clothes.
“I’ll make you feel good, Becca.” Ben grabbed her ivory ass and squeezed. “Real fucking good.”
Before Brandon could step in and remind Benny Boy that if the girls didn’t want to be touched then hands stayed off the goods, Becca smacked Ben’s hand hard enough the slap echoed over the music. She threw her leg over his knees, gave him one saucy wag of her ass, then sauntered away, leaving Ben grumbling and rubbing the back of his wrist.
Brandon backed into the shadows. As much as he wanted to continue on his path to Natalya, he couldn’t. Ben might be put off enough he’d leave, and Brandon needed Aaron to do some fishing. He went to the bar; Aaron’s preferred station was the stool closest to the door.
Aaron took one look at Brandon’s face, set down his beer, and slid to his feet. “Who?”
“Guy at table twelve. Dark hair. Nice suit. Name’s Ben. Why don’t you offer him some VIP benefits and see what you can find out. He’s hot to trot over Becca.”
Becca, who fit the physical description and whose talents onstage made her the next candidate to fill Kate’s time slots, should Kate disappear. They’d already figured out the killer marked his targets well in advance. The strategy made it possible to rotate methodically through the clubs. Another several months, and Becca just might rise to the top of the bastard’s list.
“On it.” Aaron drained his bottle, grabbed another that he’d nurse for the next couple of hours, and meandered toward Ben’s table.
Feeling like he’d finally accomplished something worthwhile, Brandon gave himself permission to indulge in Natalya. Anticipation buzzed through his blood. He took a deep breath and wove through the crowd, murmuring silent prayers she’d returned to her office and he wouldn’t have to hunt her down.
H
ungry. It was the only way Natalya could describe how Brandon had looked at her when she’d taken a few minutes to herself and decided to survey the crowd. The harsh lines on his face that she’d become accustomed to had disappeared. The intensity in his eyes was feral and breathtaking. She’d stood frozen in place, captivated by the realization he looked at her, while simultaneously wanting to run.
Run far and fast, because she knew where that look led.
She hadn’t though. Not until his attention had diverted and she could flee without looking like a coward.
Natalya pushed away from her office door and sank into her chair. The low sensual bass thumped through the walls, seeping into her veins and filling her with the same restless energy that ebbed off the men gathered before the stage. Anticipation.
It made her twitchy.
Although the when eluded her, she knew what was coming. One way or the other, what had begun in Brandon’s office would find satisfaction. The primitive part of her composition, that animalistic remnant of early mankind buried in her soul, shared the same hunger that burned in Brandon’s eyes. It begged her to submit. To spread her legs and let him mount and rut until the ache subsided and they collapsed together panting.
The woman who’d spent the majority of her life fighting to survive, however, knew the danger of yielding to Brandon. The assignment. Her life. Kate’s. His. She’d seen, and brought, enough death she didn’t often consider consequence. Work was work. The casualties—insignificant. This time, the stakes were higher. Casualties weren’t names she could unlearn or faces she could forget. Kate was her only living family, and Kate had a child who needed his mother. Not to mention, if Brandon didn’t work for Dmitri, she exposed him to danger all of his years of undercover work couldn’t prepare him for.
Precisely why all of her lovers had been operatives. Men who understood the risk and made choices knowing guilt killed good agents. They never looked back. Never assigned blame. And if they happened to meet again on the barrel end of the other’s gun, sex was sex, but duty came first. Sayonara—may the best shot win.
Brandon Moretti might have run in the trenches with scumbags and cutthroats, but if she allowed herself to believe what Sergei wanted her to, he was still a good man. He lived. He breathed. He felt. He existed.
She didn’t. Physically, maybe. But one press of a delete key, and who she was today vanished. With the next assignment she became someone else. She assumed another role and embraced the reality everything could end at any given moment.
In good conscious, she couldn’t drag Brandon into that world.
Bemused, Natalya chuckled. In good conscious—since when had that ever mattered?
A knock issued from her door. She dragged herself out of her thoughts, plastered a smile on her face, and called, “It’s open.”
Jill sauntered inside, her disheveled hair and askew robe announcing she’d just returned from the front of the house. She closed the door behind her and perched on the edge of Natalya’s desk.
Too close for Natalya’s comfort. She rolled her chair back a couple of feet. “What can I help you with, Jill?”
Twirling a thick lock of black hair around her index finger, Jill studied Natalya’s face. She shifted her weight, changing the tilt of her head. “You know, you’re not a half-bad housemom.”
The compliment took Natalya by surprise. Since when had Jill decided to be friendly?
“I’d be careful though, if I were you.”
Maybe not so friendly. Natalya resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Why’s that?”
“There’s a lot of things that can happen if a girl makes too many enemies on the Strip.”
Definitely malicious. Just the kind of discussion Natalya wanted to have with an inevitable confrontation with Brandon looming in her near future. She sifted through the possible ways she could cut the conversation short, then decided the least likely way to send Jill into a tailspin of ranting would be to pretend interest. She lifted her eyebrows. “Oh?”
“Yeah, take Kate for instance.” Jill rocked her slight weight onto her other hip, tipping her head back to its original slant. “There’s a lot of girls here who can’t stand the bitch. She prances around like she owns the place. I’ll be glad when she’s gone.”
An icy chill crept into Natalya’s blood. Was that a signal? Some sort of attempt at contact to tell her she worked for Dmitri? Frankly, that Iskatel´ hadn’t made contact surprised Natalya. Alexei never hesitated to keep the line of communication open when he prepared to ship a girl off to Dubai. Was this Jill’s icebreaker?
She tested the waters, hoping a small reveal would grant her something more definite. “I heard she might be leaving. I suppose when she moves on someone will be glad.”
Jill shrugged and flipped her hair behind her shoulder. “I guess. One man’s trash, another’s treasure, and all that BS.”
So much for definites. Natalya held in a sigh.
Sliding off the edge of the desk, Jill flashed a smile. She righted her robe, smoothed the back of it over her butt. “Since you’re new, I guess I better clue you in on something else.”
“There’s a loyalty that runs through here. Through St. Petersburg, for that matter. We’re all kinda a family.”
Natalya flinched inwardly. Didn’t she know it. If the Gaming Commission had any idea how many people were linked to Dmitri, St. Petersburg’s doors would be closed and barred in a heartbeat.
“We don’t take too kindly to sticks being dipped where they don’t belong. Tends to lead to… problems with the management, if you get my meaning.” With a saucy wink, she reached for the doorknob. “There are eyes everywhere. Don’t make the mistake of thinking things go unnoticed.”
As Natalya’s skin pricked with goose bumps, Jill sauntered into the hall. The door closed with a foreboding snick.
Clearer than any warning she’d ever heard, Jill’s veiled remarks sent Natalya’s pulse into a staccato beat. Despite the fact that the only public exchanges Natalya and Brandon had shared were those of professional disagreement, Jill knew. She might as well have said, Keep it up, and I’ll tell.
Fine. Warning understood. Point taken. No more Brandon. Period.
Before Natalya could fully thaw the blood running in her veins, another knock sounded on her door. She cleared her voice to rid the cobwebs from her throat and answered in a shaky voice, “Come in.”
The door burst open on a pitiful wail. Tears streaming down her face, Nightingale held up a shredded veil. “It got caught on the hanger! I can’t wear it, and Summer and Kitty are dressed and ready.”
The harem routine—one of the crowd’s favorites, if last night was any indicator. Natalya glanced at the veil Nightingale held in one hand, and the mask it was supposed to attach to that she held in the other.
Metallic coins on Nightingale’s belly chain clinked as she let out another hysterical sob.
“Here, let me see it.” Natalya reached for the sheer scrap of nylon. “How long do we have?”
Swiping at a fresh rush of tears, Nightingale sniffled. “Ten minutes, max.”
Sixteen
B
randon’s steps slowed as the sound of female sobbing drifted to his ears. In the dressing room off the girls’ lounge, two women argued, presumably about whatever had reduced the third to tears. He frowned, perturbed. Strippers could be so damn touchy. Strike that. Women in general could be damn touchy. As he took another step closer to Natalya’s open door and realized the crying came from within, he questioned the logic of intruding. Tears didn’t bother him—he’d grown rather immune after hauling junkie moms away from their neglected children. But Rachel had never been very good with hysterical dancers. Like a sponge, she soaked up their upset, channeled it into annoyance, and spit out crankiness at anyone who bothered her post-crises.
Sounded like a good enough reason to see how Natalya navigated hysterics, to him. He crossed the hall and leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb.
The scene within stunned him.
Nightingale sat cross-legged on the floor, a box of Kleenex propped in her lap and several wadded tissues scattered beside her. She sniffled and dabbed like she’d lost a body part, typical drama for the rather plain, rather flat-chested brunette. For her, everything was the end of the world. Everything. Brandon could recall at least six occasions where she’d broken down in tears when she’d stopped into Sadie’s for after-hours drinks. A spilled drink on her skirt, a broken fingernail she’d just spent too much to have pierced, a girl accused her of flirting with a boyfriend—the reasons spanned the gamut.
No, the hysterics didn’t surprise him. What had him cocking an eyebrow was the way Natalya applied needle and thread to Nightingale’s malfunctioning veil. Pocket-sized scissors grasped in her teeth, she bent over the fabric, her fingers moving fluidly.
He’d never pictured her as the sewing sort of Home Ec girl. Strange how such a simple thing gave legitimacy to her tailored black suit. Like he’d discovered a tiny piece of her that suddenly made sense. Something that filled a gap in the puzzle she was.
A natural aspect of the overconfident seductress who seemed bent on pushing him to the ends of his limits.
She glanced up, and their gazes met. A pleasant burn rippled through Brandon’s body. He caught himself smiling.
Natalya turned back to her mending, a similar upturn gracing her mouth. She pulled the needle through again, this time drawing it fast and tight. Then she spit out the scissors, lifted the whole thing to her mouth, and put her teeth to the string, neatly gnawing it off. Swiveling her chair to face Nightingale, she extended the repaired veil. “All finished. All better. Right?”
As Nightingale gingerly accepted her costume piece, another sob broke from her throat.
With astounding patience Brandon had only ever witnessed when Kate tended to Derek, Natalya plucked a Kleenex out of the box and dabbed it against Nightingale’s wet cheeks. “It’s not the end of the world,” she encouraged. “You’re all fixed up, good as new. Now dry your eyes before you make a bigger mess of your makeup.”
In the same way Derek obeyed his mother, Nightingale eerily followed Natalya’s directive. She took the tissue from Natalya’s hands, blew her nose like a man, and nodded.
“Here.” Spinning back toward her desk, Natalya picked up a clear plastic shoebox. She set it on her lap, opened the top, and rummaged through a collection of cosmetics that could have easily taken up a full shelf at Walmart. She passed Nightingale a tube of mascara and a circular compact. “Fix your eyes, then you’d better finish dressing.”
“Thank you,” the dancer sniveled.
Natalya slid out of her chair and helped Nightingale to her feet.
Another smile spread across Natalya’s full mouth, lighting up her entire face. Brandon’s breath caught. He’d swear the woman who offered comfort to a high-maintenance dancer was a completely different woman than the one who’d waltzed into his office and taunted him with a striptease that would make any man beg. He’d never dreamed she possessed such a beautiful smile, nor had he ever imagined she nurtured such… motherly… instincts.
His eyes raked down her slender shoulders, along the elegant line of her waist, and down the gentle slope of her hips to the legs she wielded to her advantage. Slowly he took her in as he lifted his gaze back to her face. Savored the picture.
She wore suits like a Wall Street exec. Anyone who hadn’t experienced the comfortable way she wore her skin would never guess mere hours ago she’d straddled his lap and pushed her breasts into his face. That she’d slid those elegant hands, with those perfectly manicured nails and their half-moon white polish, all over her body, knowing full well she had him hard as a rock, straining against the urge to bend her over and slam so deep inside her that she screamed his name for the whole club to hear.
They’d never believe Miss Prim and Proper had almost come against his palm.
His body tightened uncomfortably. He gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to be aroused. He simply wanted to observe this new, surprising facet of her personality.
While Nightingale reapplied her mascara, Natalya tucked loose wisps of hair into the dancer’s thigh-length braid. They finished the chore of re-outfitting together, and amazing Brandon further, briefly embraced.
“Go make some money,” Natalya encouraged.
With a shy dip of her head, Nightingale slipped out of the room, leaving Brandon alone with Natalya. He reached behind him, shut the door, and turned the lock. Not because he intended anything he didn’t want another pair of eyes observing, but because he wanted these few minutes for himself alone.
“You must have kids.” The remark slipped off his lips before he could stop it. Mentally, he kicked himself. Getting personal crossed boundaries. And yet, he couldn’t stop this insatiable need to know where the woman he just witnessed had come from. What made her tick? Which one was she really—nurturer or vixen?
Natalya blinked, the remark taking her with equal surprise. “Um. No. Why?”
What can it hurt?
Nothing. It did absolutely no damage to l
earn a little bit about her, or to let her learn a little bit about him. “You were pretty good with those tears. I just assumed…”
Her smile returned with the shake of her head. “I think you’re the first person who’s ever used mother and me in the same sentence.”
A thread of unexplainable disappointment pulled through him. “Kids aren’t your thing, huh?” He shrugged off the foreign sensation with the reminder he didn’t care. Kids weren’t his thing either. Derek was the closest he’d ever allow himself to parenthood.
“Well, no…” She resumed her seat and plucked at the hem of her skirt. “I just don’t have much occasion to be around them.” Smoothing her already-smooth skirt, she tried for another smile. It pulled thin. “I’m busy. Work… and work… and… Well, you know how it goes.”
“Haven’t met the right person?” Damn. Why was he pushing? What difference did it make whether she’d given children consideration, or what stopped her from entertaining the notion? She obviously didn’t want to talk about it. He should back off, before this conversation became any more awkward.
Just say, I know the feeling, man, and let it go.
“You could say that.”
“Right person wrong time, or wrong person all the way around?”
Natalya lifted her eyes to his, and in that moment Brandon knew whatever image she presented outwardly, a far different person lived beneath the shell. He stared into the clearest, greenest eyes he could ever recall seeing, and for an endless passing of mere seconds, he witnessed fragile, unguarded, truth.
“I’ve never been in a position to consider having children.” In a blink, her confidence returned. She folded her hands in her lap and crossed her left leg over the right. “What about you?”
“Right time, I’m the wrong guy.” He clamped his mouth closed, having not even realized that he’d reached that point in his life where he felt his mortality and the need to leave a piece of himself behind.
He supposed it was true enough—why else did he gravitate to Derek? The little boy filled that void. But he’d never given his attachment to Kate’s son consideration long enough to reach the obvious conclusion.
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