Sliding his lips down the length of her neck, he scattered kisses as he carried her down the hall, into his bedroom, and laid her on his bed. He allowed himself a precious moment to admire the way her long lithe body sank into the heavy comforter and how her hair fanned across his pillow. No woman had ever lain in his bed before, and in one glimpse, he knew she belonged right here.
Kneeling over her thighs, he lowered himself into her waiting arms. The swollen tip of his cock brushed through feminine curls, slid through her moist folds. His body constricted.
“Brandon… please. I need this.” Natalya opened her thighs, lifted her hips.
At that ragged whisper, all thoughts of drawing out their joining vanished. He lifted himself on his hands, latched on to her beseeching gaze, and thrust into her hot, wet pussy.
Rapture washed over her delicate features. Her fingers dug into his buttocks as she slid down his cock, taking him even deeper.
Pleasure hit him so hard it ripped the air from Brandon’s lungs. He felt the instantaneous rise of his seed and ground his teeth, halting it. It was all he could do to manage a few short breaths through flared nostrils as she wriggled beneath him, moving up and down his throbbing erection. His body shook with the effort of restraint.
“Come with me,” Natalya whispered against his shoulder.
Groaning, Brandon surrendered. He pulled back, then surged in hard. At her cry, he questioned whether he might have hurt her. But in the next moment, as her body rocked against his, his worry subsided. She met his thrusts with the same wild abandon. His fleeting kisses with the same clingy recklessness. His body battered into hers, and at the clench of her pussy, ecstasy knifed through him. Their cries intermingled, his hoarse and rough, hers sharp and sweet.
Gradually, their bodies slowed, and Brandon lowered himself into her languid embrace. She kissed his shoulder, his neck, his cheek. He turned his head to offer his mouth, and she planted a soft kiss there as well.
“I—” He stopped, uncertain whether she’d welcome his confession of love. Deciding he’d rather not spoil the beauty of what had begun as a terrible night, he chose to wait. He shook his head and teasingly nipped at the tip of her nose. “I didn’t scare you off ?”
She glided her hands over his shoulders, down his back. “No.”
Knowing he must be crushing her with his weight, he found strength enough to lift himself off her chest. But to his surprise, she pulled at his shoulders, urging him back down. “Stay put.”
“I don’t want to squash you.”
“I’m fine. This feels good. I like how you feel inside me.” A smile drifted over her face as she closed her eyes and hugged him tight.
Content, exhausted, and more sated than he could ever remember being, Brandon rested his head on her shoulder. Several moments later, Natalya’s breathing evened out as sleep stole over her. He closed his eyes to the soothing fragrance of his shampoo that clung to her hair.
N
atalya woke to sunlight streaming through Brandon’s bedroom window. The quiet of the house surrounded her. She turned her head sideways to look at his handsome face. Brandon Moretti was everything she had ever wanted and hadn’t realized she needed. In his arms, her sins disappeared. In his kiss, her soul found forgiveness. His love restored her innocence. Love that she’d read in his eyes seconds before he’d stopped the words from slipping free. Love she would destroy.
As heartache constricted her chest, she eased from beneath the heavy bank of covers and leaned over the bed to give him a farewell kiss. Leaving Brandon would cut her to pieces. Losing him forever, however, would kill her.
Before her courage fled, she quietly left his bedroom and dressed in the kitchen where they’d left their clothes. At the end of the island, she stopped beside a small pad of paper and a coffee mug full of pens.
One more lie. One more necessary story to protect the case, then she’d never say another. When this was over, when Dmitri was behind bars, she’d go home to Nikolaevsk. No one would ever find her in the Old Believer village. There, she might be able to forget.
She picked up a pen and hastily scrawled a note.
Have errands to run. Will see you tonight.
It wasn’t a complete falsehood. She would see him. When she took the stage as “Kate,” she’d say good-bye.
Thirty-nine
T
he brittle tones of electronica yanked Brandon from blissful dreams of fucking Natalya atop the flat rock where they’d watched the sun set the night before. He sat up, in search of his phone. A barren spot in the bed instantly prompted a frown. Wasn’t one of the joys of taking a woman to bed supposed to be waking up with her? His phone started in again, and he tossed the covers back and grumbled to his feet. “Sweetheart, can you grab that?”
He hated nothing more than waking up to phone calls. Ringtones meant work, and he was in no mood to work before his first cup of coffee.
The cooing of the bird on his dresser hastened his pace. Dragging on a pair of clean boxers, he half-ran half-stumbled down the hall. Where the hell was Natalya?
At the next techno chord, his phone vibrated on the island. He snatched it up, grimacing at the display. No caller ID. Because he hadn’t programmed anyone in yet. Damn it. He thumbed the call button. “Yeah?”
“Brandon? It’s Jill.”
Oh, God. Anger rose again, the mere sound of her voice setting him off.
“I’m sorry to call, but I tried last night and couldn’t reach your voice mail.”
Because he hadn’t set that up yet either. Damn it. He could have avoided talking to her all together.
“I didn’t make it in to work last night. I won’t be able to come in tonight either. I’m having some… female problems.” The hesitancy in her voice slipped through with her flimsy excuse.
Brandon didn’t care. Fantasia had obviously survived without her; it would survive tonight as well. “Whatever.”
“I can give you an excuse from the ER.”
“It’s not necessary, Jill.” I don’t fucking care. “Let me know when you’ll be back in.”
A heavy pause, then, “I don’t know if I will be.”
He spied the coffeepot, full of yesterday’s coffee, and the need for caffeine possessed him. He went to the cabinet for a mug. “What are you saying? Are you quitting?”
“I really don’t know. I need some time off. Can I come in before shift and talk to you in person in a few days?”
“That’s fine.” By then, he ought to have the DNA results back and could fire her for the stupid stunt with Natalya’s car.
He poured a stale cup of coffee and popped it in the microwave.
“Okay. Thanks. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Yep.” Brandon disconnected. Now where was Natalya? Her clothes were gone, along with her purse. He frowned, noticing the piece of paper.
Ignoring the microwave’s ding, he returned to the island, a smile crossing his face as he read her handwriting. Worry tugged at him, the realization he wouldn’t have contact with her for almost twelve hours taking root. Too much time for a target to go unprotected.
He sighed, shook his head. No. He’d seen her talent with the Sig. If he intended to keep her around, he couldn’t smother her with overprotectiveness. She was beyond capable of defending herself. Time to give her a little room to build trust.
And to be honest, much as he’d like to have stayed in bed with her until the early afternoon, he needed to devote some time to his case. Mayer would have updates.
Brandon picked up his phone and his coffee and wandered to the couch. Updates came after coffee and the noon news. He tossed his phone on the table in favor of the remote and flicked the television on. Leaning back, he prepared to wake up with his normal routine.
Next on News 8 Now, breaking information on this morning’s fatal collision on the Beltway that killed one motorist and critically injured another.
Brandon sank into the cushions, nonplussed. Vegas traffic was becoming ridicu
lous. He spaced out through the commercials, then stood to refill his empty mug. Halfway to the kitchen, he caught sight of his reflection and the excessive stubble on his chin. He made an about face, turned up the volume on the news, and wandered to his bathroom where he turned on the sink and fetched his razor from the shower.
The splash of lukewarm water jolted him the rest of the way into wakefulness. With shaving cream liberally applied, he tipped his chin up and dragged his razor over his bristly skin.
It caught, halfway down his cheek. He jerked his hand away, astonished by the slow-growing crimson stain on his face. Slowly, he shifted a glare to the razor. Damn it. She’d gotten a hold of it.
The rest of the venture proved painstaking. By the time he finished, he was swearing blue streaks, but miraculously clean-shaven with only two small cuts. The one on his cheek, and one near the scar on his chin.
He eyed the toilet paper as the newscaster’s voice drifted down the hall.
Not in a million years.
Turning, he left the bathroom. Tonight, before he went into work, he was buying Natalya a razor—along with new blades for his.
And now more on that devastating wreck this morning. Authorities have confirmed one man dead and another critically injured. Tom Cunningham reportedly lost control of his car after swerving to avoid an object in the road. He collided with the white Honda Accord, causing it to spin headlong into traffic, where a third, unnamed driver struck it head on.
Brandon stopped in the doorway, frozen in place at the mention of a white Accord.
We’ve learned Natalya Trubachev was taken to Sunrise Hospital in critical condition. The extent of her injuries are unknown at this time.
His heart dropped through the floor.
Natalya?
As dread seized his lungs, he ran down the hall and snatched his phone off the coffee table. Kate. Kate would know. Fuck! They’d never let him in to see her. He wasn’t family. Shit! He didn’t have a car.
Halfway through dialing Kate’s number, his front door banged open. “Moretti!”
“Thank fucking God.” Grateful to find Mayer in the entryway, Brandon dropped his phone on the table. “I need a ride to my car. Natalya’s been in a wreck.”
“I’ll give you a lift, but you need to see this first.” He tapped a manila envelope in his hand.
“I don’t have time for that. I’ve got to go now.” Brandon shoved his feet into his shoes.
“No.”
The firm decisiveness in Aaron’s voice gave Brandon the distinct urge to knock him on his ass and confiscate his keys. He balled a fist, seconds away from lunging at his best friend.
Aaron lifted the envelope like a white flag of surrender. “Easy man. I’m not trying to be an ass. I know you’ve got feelings for her. But before you go rushing off to save your injured princess, you need to decide which side of the law you’re on.”
Brandon blinked, long and slow. “What the fuck?”
Sidestepping around Brandon, Aaron entered his living room. “I found out things you aren’t going to like. And I can’t let you go in unarmed.”
Brandon ground his teeth together. If Mayer had more of his flimsy excuses and circumstantial evidence against Natalya, he’d choke the life out of him. God only knew how badly she was injured. He needed to be there.
In other news, a gas line explosion destroyed one house and damaged four others in a quiet residential community in California. Neighbors say—
Aaron picked up the remote, flipped off the television, and dumped the contents of his folder, along with his phone, onto the coffee table. “Sit down, Bran.”
With no other choice but to listen to Mayer’s suspicious drivel, Brandon dropped into the couch. “Make it quick.”
“Okay.” He picked up an upside-down photograph and a folded news clipping. “You want this the easy way?” Aaron slid the picture in front of Brandon’s nose.
Brandon glanced down at two women easily in their twenties. Despite a complete lack of makeup, he identified Kate in a heartbeat—long blonde hair, perky smile. It was the first time he’d seen her wearing something other than ragged sweats or her stripping outfits. It was also the first time he’d witnessed her eyes free from glasses and without the dark liner that gave them an exaggerated cat-like shape.
The woman beside her, however, made him do a double take. She sported the same blonde hair, the same jade green eyes. Her bright smile he knew by heart. Natalya? It couldn’t be. Good God, they looked like twins.
He picked it up, peering more closely at the face he recognized, his stomach knotting. The all-too-familiar bump on the bridge of her nose stuttered his heart.
“Or you want it the hard way?”
The newspaper clipping floated in front of him. He swiped it off the coffee table, and his heart slowly came to a standstill. Framed between Sergei and a man he didn’t recognize, Natalya looked beyond the camera, as if she hadn’t realized her photo was being taken. Long red hair glinted in bright sunshine. Fingers he had come to adore tightly clasped the stranger’s hand.
His gaze dropped to the Russian caption that someone had translated by hand. He squinted at the ant-sized capital letters.
JURY FINDS ALLEGED SOLNTSEVSKAYA BRATVA LEADER, DMITRI GAVRIKOV (PICTURED WITH ALLEGED BODYGUARD SERGEI KHITROVO AND FIANCÉE NATALYA TRUBACHEV), NOT GUILTY ON THREE COUNTS OF MURDER AND ASSAULT WITH DEADLY FORCE.
Brandon felt suddenly, violently ill. He threw the paper aside. “What the fuck is this?”
Aaron let out a heavy sigh. Compassion filled his gaze. “Kelly, Kate’s sister-in-law, said her brother Erik never talked much about how he met Kate. She’s never met Natalya, and she didn’t know her name. But she knew Kate had a fraternal twin sister that Kate evidently didn’t talk to any more.”
The churning in Brandon’s gut intensified as two cups of coffee threatened to make a reappearance.
“After Erik’s death, Kelly found that picture in a box of his things from college. She was saving them for Kate.”
Twin sister. They didn’t look a damn thing alike until he’d seen that picture of Natalya with blond hair.
Though that alone was enough to make him nauseous, the fiancée part concerned him more. He gestured where the newspaper had landed, thankfully, facedown. “And that?”
Aaron produced a sheet of paper typed in English. “You can read it, but it’s a translation of that article. Rory made a contact over in Russia. This stuff is from her adoptive parents.”
Out of patience, Brandon snapped, “What the fuck does it say?”
“The highlights are—the Bratva is the mafia. Dmitri there, he’s like your old man. Bodyguard translates to hit man, and Natalya belongs to him. The article insinuates she moved up from a position similar to Sergei’s.”
Her ease with a gun slapped Brandon in the face. It overpowered belongs to and fiancée with titanic force. Son of a bitch! He’d been sleeping with the same kind of killer who’d murdered his family.
“I think we’ve stumbled onto our murderer, Bran. Russian mafia sure as hell explains a lot of the ends we couldn’t tie up. It explains Rachel’s death, if Natalya works for them. They’d need an in. We fell right into it.”
Not quite. Brandon heard what Aaron would never say. He’d been on guard. Brandon had fallen right into the plan. He’d bought into Natalya’s long legs and her half-truths, right up to the point he’d fallen in love with her.
But a sister leading the other to death? Did Kate know? Was she part of this sick plan too? She’d asked him to hire Natalya. She’d never said a damn word about being sisters.
He bolted to his feet and swiped up his phone. Shoving it into his pocket, he snatched his pistol off the counter and started for the door. “Come on. I need my fucking car.”
Fifteen minutes later, as Brandon approached his car, he barely noticed his front bumper no longer drooped, and the headlight had been repaired. He slid behind the wheel, gunned the Shelby in reverse, and drove like a bat out of hell
toward Kate’s. If she wasn’t there, he’d chase her down at the goddamned hospital. One way or another, he was getting answers.
N
atalya toweled off her hair and flipped it behind her head. She stared in the mirror, appraising the long blonde lengths and the odd paint around her eyes. They’d staged the accident and supplied the necessary information to the press. Stories that put her in the hospital, where Kate now lay unharmed and guarded by three nurses who were more deadly than any terminal disease. She’d “die” in a few days, when the heat from the case cooled off and the accident could be forgotten.
Meanwhile, Kate was safe, and Natalya could accomplish her job. With an hour before Fantasia opened, she’d like nothing more than to collapse on the floor and grieve for her aching heart. She missed Brandon already. Seeing him tonight, yearning to touch him, unable to follow through, would tear her into pieces. Maybe—though the thought of his worrying about her made her want to retch—her false accident would keep him at the hospital.
If there was any luck in this world, it would.
A thunderous knock on the door had her reaching behind her back to check for her gun. The feel of the cool metal against her waist soothed her agitated nerves, and she went to the door, prepared to play the part of sweet, genuine, Kate.
She answered with a bright smile.
Brandon barged inside. “What the fuck is going on, Kate?”
Forty
O
h, shit. Natalya backed up a step, giving Brandon’s temper a wide berth. She reached down deep for the lies she’d rehearsed all morning. “I can’t stay and talk, I’ve got to get to the hospital. I sent Derek next door. Do you want to ride with me?”
“No.” He took two steps closer and grabbed her by the upper arms. “I want the truth now. Why didn’t you tell me you were her fucking sister?”
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