Hell, he wasn’t entirely certain the talk would do any good. He’d already told her as plainly as he could they were done. There hadn’t even been a they to be done. Just a couple of nights—which he’d also gone into with his cards face-up on the table.
His gaze dropped to the small green bag on his passenger seat. Tufts of a chocolate mane poked through the plastic handles, and he smiled. He’d wanted to give Natalya something significant. Something worthy of her natural class and elegance. Jewelry, however, implied a hell of a lot more than he wanted to say.
Clothes were also too personal, and he didn’t want to offend her by accidentally picking out the wrong size. Candy—way too impersonal. He’d been seconds away from giving up altogether when he’d walked past the MGM Grand’s gift store and spied the stuffed lion. Impulse handled the rest.
He grabbed for the bag, feeling more than a little foolish. What if she laughed?
Why did he care?
As his fingers looped through the plastic, something metallic on the floorboard glinted in the light of Fantasia’s neon sign. He bent over to inspect the object peeking out from under his passenger seat. A phone. Natalya’s phone.
Sitting slowly upright, he ran his thumb across the darkened face. The touch screen lit up, date and time stamped against a dark blue background. Beneath, where his phone displayed the factory-issued welcome greeting, newsprint Russian crawled across the screen. The tiny words he couldn’t decipher brought the mystery of Natalya front and center.
He knew so little about her. The file gave him nothing. Their conversations even less. The only hard fact he knew came from Sergei, who swore they had no deeper involvement, and even with that, Brandon had to rely on a stranger’s words.
His thumb accidentally brushed the screen again, changing the display to a menu of icons, all labeled in Russian. He stared at the picture of a sealed envelope. What if she, like the rest of his teammates, kept her life in this little gadget? He’d never become that dependent on technology, but Aaron was constantly plugging some little tidbit into his phone. A hot girl’s number, a quick text to someone on the team, video games on the web—Aaron couldn’t function without his phone.
What if Natalya’s secrets were crammed inside this little rectangular box?
The detective inside him refused to let go of the possibility. What if she had something inside this electronic toy that helped with the case?
He punched the envelope button. The screen flashed. A little triangle in the middle slowly rotated 360 degrees as the page loaded. When it stopped, a text box prompted him to input something. Likely a password. He squinted at the background, recognizing the generic layout of an e-mail system.
Not text messages. He pressed the back arrow until the menu screen flashed once more. This time he touched an icon that resembled a torn-off piece of notebook paper. Damn it. He couldn’t read the three little folders that flashed into view.
Frustrated, he punched each one, one after another, all taking him to blank screens. Brandon muttered under his breath and scrolled back to the menu page. He piddled with several other buttons, landing on similarly useless pages of white space and title bars he couldn’t decipher.
He should have known better. For a woman who took such pains to keep things out of her expression, she wouldn’t carry her life in something anyone could get their hands on. Just like he was doing now, too much risk came in the chance someone might pry.
Giving luck one last shot, he tapped the icon bearing a silhouetted head.
A list of names flashed on the screen, along with two smaller icons, both arrows, one pointing left, the other pointing right.
Incoming. Outgoing.
Sweet!
Triumph spread through his veins. Maybe he wasn’t such a technological idiot after all. He dragged the scrollbar down, exposing her address book. To his dismay, however, only six names resided, all of them Russian. Sergei, Dmitri, Alexei, Vladimir, Ivan, and Petyr. No Kate. Odd.
He ignored the uncomfortable twist in his gut that came with the acknowledgement all six names belonged to men and tapped the incoming call icon. A quick scroll through the list showed Sergei had phoned once in the last week, and Dmitri, whoever he was, daily for the last four days, always at the same five o’clock time. Except today, when he’d phoned shortly before eight this morning.
Brandon’s mind ran through the numbers, calculating what time it had been when a phone call interrupted his thorough enjoyment of Natalya’s arousal in his office. The knot in his stomach wound down tighter as his memory supplied the intimate tone of her voice.
Another recollection slammed into his head. She’d said her parents had phoned. According to her paperwork, she still bore her adoptive parents’ name. But the last names here didn’t come close to Trubachev.
Lie.
The word surfaced swiftly. It sounded vile, and with it came a bitter taste. She wasn’t just hiding information from him, or beating around the bush as she had with her gun, never saying anything that cemented her to something she couldn’t explain. She’d flat out looked him in the eye and lied.
Why, damn it?
You know why. How many times did you do the same thing in college?
Closing his eyes, he gripped the phone more tightly. When his family had interrupted him, he’d lied to his friends, claiming someone else phoned to keep them out of the limelight. When Stefan had repeatedly asked to visit A&M, Brandon had lied through his teeth to create reasons why his little brother should stay home where it was safe—studying, dates, anything he could think of.
He’d lied left and right to protect his family and to protect himself. It hadn’t been until after his family’s murder that he’d started to tell the truth to those he was closest to. By then, he’d lost every reason to keep the secrets, and like now, he no longer cared if his father’s thugs tracked him down. He welcomed discovery.
Still, Natalya’s lies dampened his budding good spirits. He’d put himself out there, even if unwittingly, and in exchange, she threw up barriers every step of the way. Hell, he’d even been foolish enough to believe the kiss they’d parted with would keep those damn shutters cracked.
He frowned at the stuffed lion, his earlier enthusiasm now flat. If he were smart, he’d give the toy to Derek, someone who’d honestly appreciate the gift. He wouldn’t feel so foolish about buying a grown woman a stuffed animal either.
Sighing, he closed his hand around the sack. Fuck it. When it came to her, he hadn’t done a sensible thing yet. He’d bought it for her, not Derek. He’d leave it on her desk when she stepped out of her office, then he wouldn’t have to be present to witness her reaction.
Later tonight, when she took him home, he’d discover the truth about whether she genuinely appreciated the toy or not. He knew one way, and one way only, to open those damn shutters. If he died trying, he’d pry them open wide. Then he’d convince her that whatever she feared, whatever kept her running, she could trust with him.
Thank God he’d gone with his instinct to refuse to let her dance. He might not be able to offer her much protection until he knew her full situation, but he could keep the asshole who’d locked her into an emotional prison from discovering her onstage. He’d ask later—if she needed the money that came with stripping, he’d give her a raise. Not to mention, the less anyone knew about her, the less apt his own ghosts could harm her.
Nothing would happen on his watch that would put her in greater jeopardy, and as far as he was concerned, his watch encompassed twenty-four, out of twenty-four hours in the day. He’d already exposed her to too much. Duty demanded he do everything he could to negate those risks. He damn sure couldn’t guarantee her safety, or gain her trust, by staying clear of her. Distance left too much room for someone to inflict damage. He’d let down his guard with Rachel. Took her training for granted and left her wide open for attack. He’d failed his family by staying away.
Not this time.
Grimacing, Brandon shoved Natalya’s pho
ne into his pocket and exited the car. Protecting her had just become a close second to solving his case. This time, he wouldn’t fuck it up.
Twenty-seven
U
nder the guise of refilling Kate’s second, and final, allotted drink for the night, Natalya hurried through the dancers’ lounge, empty glass in one hand. With Kate taking the stage in twenty minutes, and another ten for the props guys to overhaul the stage, time had come for Sergei to implement whatever diversion he’d concocted. Although she began to doubt the necessity of her ploy. Gossip put Brandon at the club over four hours ago, and he’d not made an appearance backstage. Maybe he’d stay away. She shook her head as she reached for the door. Better safe than sorry. One screw up here tonight, one tiny assumption that backfired, and she’d never find an opportunity again. Brandon would lock her in his office if he got wind of her plan to take the stage. She and Kate had worked too hard coordinating music, planning a brief script, and coaching Harvey, to ruin everything.
A firm push sent the door swinging outward. False smile in place to cover up the nervous quiver in her belly, Natalya entered the dark, smoky main house. She glanced at the stage, looked to the bar. Where had Aaron stuffed Sergei?
“Hey, you.”
The warm wash of air against the base of her ear accompanied a voice she’d begun to know too well. Rich and husky, full of assertive masculine confidence, Brandon’s low murmur kick-started her heart. That sound was all it took to filter arousal through her veins. God, what was wrong with her? She couldn’t get enough of this potent man.
She turned as his strong fingers closed around her bent elbow. He inclined his head toward his closed office door. “Got a second?”
Natalya glanced up at Brandon, her brows drawn into a tight line. Thirty minutes—she didn’t have time to spend a single one chatting with him. “Is something wrong?”
His slow, sensual smile amped up the intolerable racket behind her ribs. “Just wanted to say hello, beautiful.”
Oh, Lord, the endearment stirred memories of the fantastic way he fit inside her. She swallowed, knowing she should refuse, unable to stop from nodding. “I’ve got a minute.”
He steered her through the crowd, his grip on her arm firm yet comfortably familiar. “Sorry I’ve been tied up most of the night.”
She managed to loosen her tight throat. “That’s okay. The girls have kept me busy.” More aptly, his absence backstage gave her time to step through her routine. An act she now had twenty-nine minutes to prepare for. She looked over his shoulder, scouring the room for Sergei’s unruly dark hair. Instead, she found Jill not more than five feet away, rooted in place as if she’d stopped mid-trajectory. Narrowed eyes glinted with sheer malice.
Natalya glanced back at Brandon. “Ms. Overachiever is throwing daggers at the back of your head. Any particular reason why?”
His smile vanished. With a mutter, he released Natalya’s arm and shoved his fingers through his short hair. “Just a disagreement on job description.”
Uh-huh. Brandon could dance around the subject all he wanted—Jill wanted him. Natalya couldn’t help but grin at his obvious attempt to keep the truth disguised. “Let me guess, she wants benefits.”
The instantaneous widening of Brandon’s eyes turned educated guess into solid proof. Natalya laughed, the surprise on his face priceless.
“Yeah, well…” He shifted his weight and opened his office door, gesturing for her to enter. When she did, he shut the barrier, the snick of the lock ominous and, damn it, exciting. Desire hit her like a fist to the gut, making her forget everything except how incredibly hot he looked in dress pants and a tailored shirt.
She cleared her throat, uncomfortable with her body’s inability to behave. “I just have a few minutes.”
He closed the distance between them, his arms winding around her waist, his mouth nuzzling at her neck. “I think we can make do with a few minutes.” His voice had assumed a husky tone, and he palmed her breast, squeezing as he rolled her nipple beneath his thumb. “Sit on the desk.”
This was insanity at its finest. But God help her, she couldn’t say no. Her body was already humming, the promise of what came next an aphrodisiac she couldn’t resist. Natalya perched on the edge of Brandon’s desk. As he stepped between her thighs, he tugged her tank top over her head and dropped it on the floor. Those large, fantastic hands of his slipped beneath the sheer fabric and cupped her breasts. Talented fingers knew just how to squeeze to elicit enough pleasure-pain that desire arced through her body, filling her with the sudden need to touch him as he touched her.
She yanked at his shirttail, pulling it free from his pants, and slid her hands over the corrugated muscle beneath.
“Damn, I love it when you touch me,” he murmured against her lips. His kiss branded her, the wild tangle of his tongue as addictive as the rest of him. She scooted closer to the edge of the desk and wrapped her legs around his waist, yearning for the feel of his cock aligning with her softness.
Lifting her hips to stroke that hard ridge, she smiled. “I’m pretty fond of your hands on me too.”
He grunted softly. Seduction was over, replaced by ferocious, mutual need. Brandon hauled her off the desk and eased her shorts and panties down her legs. When they caught on her heel, she kicked them aside. His mouth kept her busy, searing a path of ecstasy down her throat, across the swell of her breasts, and his fingers worked magic between her legs. She let out a groan and reached for his belt.
Natalya couldn’t get him undressed fast enough to satisfy the deep hunger that awakened as he flicked his thumb over her clitoris. The jangle of his belt as his pants dropped to his knees clanged over the music that drifted through the locked door. She ran her hands around his waist, dipped her fingers into his firm buttocks, and urged him closer.
He hesitated only long enough to grab a condom from his desk drawer and slide it on. Then Brandon fastened his hands on her hips, lifted her onto the desk again, and holding her in place, edged past her damp folds to slide easily into her slick sheath. His chest expanded as he dragged in a deep breath. Eyes flashing with dark intensity, he held her gaze. “You feel so fucking good. That’s it beautiful, squeeze me tight.” His fingers bit into her hips and he inhaled sharply. “Damn. Just like that.”
Natalya couldn’t have controlled her reaction if she wanted to—her body moved of its own accord, her vaginal walls clamping around the thick intrusion, needing to feel him deeper. Needing the slide of his flesh against hers. “Tell me you want me.” She didn’t know why, but it was suddenly imperative Brandon say the words.
“God, yes,” he ground out roughly. “I want you. Like this. Every time I turn around I think of it. Of how I can’t get enough of you.”
“I do too,” she murmured, awestruck.
“Close your eyes,” he whispered. “Feel, sweetheart. Feel the bliss.”
Natalya leaned on her hands and let her head fall back. She lifted her hips higher, taking him deeper. But his firm hold on her forbid her to do much more. He held her in place, pistoning in and out of her body like a well-oiled machine. The sound of their slapping skin blended with his soft grunts and her even softer moans. Passion funneled through them, ebbing off him, into her, then out of her and into him until they knew nothing but the dance, the pleasant, thought-stealing friction.
Ecstasy slammed into Natalya, carrying her to that strange, unidentifiable place Brandon created. The haven where feeling ruled, and for one brief moment in time she was nothing but a simple woman being loved by a powerful man. She arced forward, desperate to ground herself against Brandon’s solid body. He guided her legs around his waist, crushed her against his chest, and pumped once more. His groan filled her ears as his cock filled her body. Deep inside, she felt him pulse, felt the hot wash of his seed beneath the condom barrier.
Gently, Brandon lowered her to the desk and eased himself from within her sensitive tissues. His gaze flicked to hers, darker and more intense than it had been before passi
on claimed them. Yet he remained silent, one corner of his mouth upturned with a touch of arrogance as he tied the condom off and dropped it in the trash.
He brushed a kiss against her cheek and tucked a stray lock of her hair behind her ear. “Beautiful,” he whispered. “I could do that all night long.” Backing off, he righted his pants.
So could she, but she didn’t dare admit it. Instead, she nodded as she slid to her feet and reached for her clothes. As she dressed, Brandon dropped a small green sack on the desk near her elbow. “Found your phone in my car. You got a text message about an hour ago. I’d pass it along if I could read Russian.”
He’d answered her phone. Well, almost, at least. Where did he get off? Her phone belonged to her. He might have made her come, but damn it, that didn’t give him grounds to go poking through her stuff.
As anger ignited in her veins, a glimpse of dark brown fuzz poking out of the bag stopped the slow spread through her limbs. She pulled the handles apart, revealing a small stuffed lion. Bewildered, she arched an eyebrow. “This isn’t my phone.”
Brandon shifted his weight again. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he looked to the floor. “It’s in there.”
Hell, he felt as awkward as she did. Gifts, no matter the nature, always carried meaning. A trinket to seduce, a token of thanks, an apology—no man gave presents without subtly implying something else. Damn it, the lion would have to be adorable. If it’d been ugly, or hadn’t brought the stark reminder of the memorable hours they’d spent at MGM, she’d have shoved it back at him with a refusal to accept.
This, however, took her back to days at the circus with her family. Afternoons spent cheering her teenage boyfriends on as they tried to knock over milk bottles for a prize at the summer fairs. Days her mind had forgotten, but her heart kept the memories alive. Back before she’d known how it felt to watch a man die.
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