Stripped

by Tori St. Claire

  Sister? Uh-oh. That one wasn’t planned. How had he found out? Smile firmly lodged in place, she twisted to free her arms. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He squinted at her, his gaze searching her face. Slowly, he ground out, “I. Have. A. Picture.”

  Natalya struggled to keep her mind on explanations, not the soft contours of Brandon’s mouth that hovered inches from hers.

  “From college? We used to get that all that time. Once, when Natalya had trouble in chemistry, we even swapped places so I could take her test for her.” Truth. It hadn’t worked, but at least she wasn’t lying to Brandon. “I don’t know who’s feeding you stories, but I’ve got to go. If she wakes up, there’s no one there.”

  Way to play the guilt card.

  He flinched, but it didn’t last. He did, however, release her. Backing up, the angry color returned to his face. “I know who’s feeding me stories, Natalya. You think I don’t recognize the face I fell in love with? Damn it, what kind of idiot do you think I am?”

  In love. Oh, God. He’d said it. Out loud. As real as the fury burning in his eyes. Speechless, she stared at the tight line of white beneath his chin.

  “You’re engaged to a Russian mobster. You show up in my club, in the middle of a string of murders, and you’ve been lying to me since the day we met.” He pounded a fist on the couch’s high back. “I want the goddamn truth for once!”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Brandon. I’ve got to go. I have a job to finish.”

  Natalya took two steps toward the door and saw him reach behind his back. She moved faster, spinning on her heel, pistol drawn and level with his.

  “Put it down, Natalya. I’ve got grounds to arrest you for murder. I’m not going to let you kill another girl or help someone else do it.”

  The hard set to his features and the dull glint in his eyes told her the man who loved had stepped aside. A cop stood in his place, one who wouldn’t hesitate to fire. She might get off the first shot, but at this close range, she wouldn’t leave unscathed. She’d lost Brandon Moretti. If she’d ever truly had him.

  And now, if she intended to salvage anything from this disastrous assignment, she had no choice but to tell him everything.

  “I’m not the person you want. Jill is. Yes, I’ve lied to you. But not because I’m a serial killer. I’m a Black Opal, an elite CIA operative, and if you don’t let me go now, I can’t stop her.”

  “Bullshit. Jill’s at home with female problems. She called this morning.”

  “How convenient.” She let out a wry chuckle. “Kate said she wasn’t at the club last night either.” Her gun trained on Brandon, as his was on her, she moved across the room to the coffee table and her purse. With one hand, she fished inside for her phone and lobbed it through the air.

  It landed at his feet.

  “Dial pound fifty-six. When they answer, ask for Romanov. Ask him about the third frond on the palm. It’s the code name for a human trafficking ring with Dubai as the destination country. He’ll verify everything I have to say.”

  His glance flicked to the phone, his conviction faltering. He jerked his gaze back to her face and shook his head. “Probably staged. Put the gun down. I’m taking you in. Your agency can come drag your ass out.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Brandon! Why the hell would I make that up? You obviously know about Dmitri. You think I like the fact I’ve been fucking an international killer for the last three years?”

  A cold, calloused smirk twisted his mouth. “Which begs the question, why were you fucking me? Another job? Just part of the game, huh? At least you got a good ride.”

  “No,” she whispered as her heart cracked from the strain of all the deception. Emotion rose to choke her, blinding her with tears. She lowered her gun, no longer caring about the case or whether Brandon jumped across the five feet that separated them and wrested the pistol from her fingers.

  His pain broke her. She’d caused every bit of it. From Rachel to this… With a shaky hand, she set her Sig on the table at her back and covered her face with her hands to hide the tears she couldn’t stop. “No, Brandon, you were real.” She choked back an ugly sob. “Are real. And this is breaking my heart.”

  B

  randon’s hold on his pistol slipped at the sound of Natalya’s cracked voice. He lowered it a fraction, not yet convinced her tears were genuine, but disturbed by them all the same. The detective inside him sidestepped to the rear, and against his better judgment, he began to let her claims sink in. “CIA?” he asked quietly.

  She nodded on a prolonged sniffle. “Black Opals are undocumented. We don’t exist on paper.”

  “What happened to Rachel?”

  “Dmitri had her killed.” She dragged her hands down her face and watery eyes held his. “There’s a chain—Iskatel´ is the finder. He sights the girls and handles the capture. He delivers them to a warehouse on Nellis where Nikolai holds them until a private boat arrives in San Francisco. They’re fed meager meals, water, and heroin. When they get to Dubai they’re totally dependent on the drug.”

  “And there?” Brandon asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Sex slaves for wealthy businessmen and sheikhs.”

  “Why did Rachel have to die?” Just knowing Natalya had been associated with Rachel’s death made him ache all over. But he had to hear what role Natalya played in that murder.

  “She didn’t have to. I tried to talk him out of it, but Dmitri wouldn’t listen.”

  As incoherency attacked Natalya, her words linked together with a chain of gut-wrenching sobs, making it impossible to convince himself this was staged theatrics. Her shoulders shook violently, and her face twisted with so much pain, her suffering thumped him hard in the chest. He set his gun on the back of the couch and did the only thing he could think of. He took her into his arms and held her tight.

  “Sweetheart,” he whispered as he smoothed her hair. “Baby, shh. It’s okay.” Fists beat ineffectually against his chest, until, in defeat, her hand curled into his shirt, and she sagged into his embrace.

  He didn’t know how long he held her. Seconds spanned into minutes. Minutes dragged on until he couldn’t gauge the passing of time. Her crying cut him to pieces. That he couldn’t stop it made him bleed. Strong, confident Natalya wasn’t supposed to fall apart. But somehow, the fact that she had, that she’d allowed him to see this vulnerability, swelled his heart to painful limits.

  “Natalya.” Brandon captured her face between his hands and tipped her head up. His earnest gaze willed her to believe how sorry he was. “It’s okay, beautiful.” The salty flavor of her tears touched his lips as he bent to kiss her. Her response was faint, a mere flutter of her lips. It encouraged him. “Come on. Let’s sit down. Is Kate okay?”

  She nodded. “She’s under surveillance in the hospital.”

  “And Derek’s next door?”

  Natalya shook her head. “He’s with another Opal. He’s upset, but he knows his mom’s okay.”

  “All right. Then tell me everything.”

  “You’ll hate me.” Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks once more.

  Brandon sank onto the couch and pulled her into his lap. “Doubtful.” Using the pad of his thumb, he brushed her tears away. “Just talk.”

  F

  or the next three hours, Natalya told Brandon everything she could think of about her job, her life with Dmitri, and the crimes she’d committed in the name of US Intelligence. The sun faded lower, casting them in shadows, telling her she’d missed arriving at Fantasia at Kate’s usual time. But the truths wouldn’t stop flowing. Her role with the women, Dmitri’s insistence she take Iskatel´’s place. His expression remained impassive, giving her no clue as to what he might be thinking. He asked questions, digested her answers, pulled out confessions she’d never even considered. She revealed her plans for the switch, her intention to take Kate’s place and have Iskatel´ capture her, and her intention to corner Jill who wasn’t physically capa
ble of overpowering Natalya. She gave Brandon every opportunity to shove her out of his lap, but he never took his hands off her. Never physically withdrew no matter what direction his mind might have taken.

  When she finished, she let out an exhausted breath. Brandon studied her for several quiet seconds before he finally spit out, “I don’t like it.”

  Natalya blinked. “Don’t like what?”

  “I don’t like you using yourself as bait.”

  “I have to.”

  “I want to shadow you.”

  Horrified by the thought of Brandon putting himself in harm’s way, she vigorously shook her head. “You can’t. You don’t know these people. Dmitri is here somewhere.”

  “That’s exactly why I want to shadow you. If he’s onto you, he’s going to suspect something, and the plan you knew isn’t going to be the one he executes.” He took her chin between thumb and forefinger and lifted her face. “If something goes wrong, I’ll never forgive myself for letting you go in alone.”

  Steely determination reflected in his tawny eyes. He was so confident. So unshakeable. He just couldn’t comprehend the Bratva blew all the things he’d learned as a narcotics undercover into meaningless fluff. Hired guns were nothing like junkies with pistols. She’d been trained for these situations. Brandon didn’t possess the background.

  Yet, she also realized nothing she said would deter him. They could fight until she gave up and let him win, or she could save the effort and concede now, but slow him down. If she arrived at Fantasia before he did, the very training he believed made him qualified to stand alongside Sergei, would stop him from doing anything that might blow her cover.

  Better yet, if she could slow him down significantly, he might not make it to Fantasia until after she’d been taken.

  “Okay.” A shudder rolled down her spine. He might not hate her now, but he would after that particular lie.

  He gave her one last lingering kiss before pushing her to her feet.

  No longer in need of her phone, she left it lying on the floor. She slung her purse over her shoulder and picked up her gun as Brandon tucked his into the back of his jeans. Beating him to the door, she looked over her shoulder with a soft, wistful smile.

  He gave her a look filled with so much affection she nearly dropped her to her knees. “Go on. I’ve got your back.”

  “Ya tebya lyublyu,” she whispered thickly.

  Then, she aimed and fired.

  D

  mitri strolled down the sterile white hallway casually, as if he weren’t on the way to view his injured fiancée and snuff the rest of her life from her body. Good thing she hadn’t died in the collision. He’d have hated for her to go without seeing his face one last time. A nurse skittered out of his way as he pushed open the private ICU room door. One of his contacts, perhaps? He shrugged. It made little difference. When he’d heard of Natalya’s accident, he’d made an immediate phone call. The contacts he possessed in Vegas quickly supplied the details, including the number of her private room. No one had asked questions. No one offered complaint.

  As it should be.

  As it would be when he left her lifeless body behind.

  He glanced at the collection of tubes and wires connecting her to machines that beeped and whirred, then looked to her beautiful face. Her auburn hair tangled about her shoulders, long lashes barred the eyes he could recall at will. On seeing the purple bruises and fresh scrapes that covered her skin, something deep in his gut did a long, hard roll. His Natalya.

  He should have been sitting in that wooden chair no one occupied. Holding her hand and talking for however long it took to draw her back from the recesses of her mind. In a moment of sheer remorse, he kicked the chair near her bed and sat down. Taking her limp hand in his, he ran his thumb over hers.

  Such a beautiful woman.

  Dmitri closed his eyes to the sound of her laughter, picturing her vibrant smile. The lump in his belly worked its way up his esophagus to lodge between his lungs. Her only fault was that she hadn’t loved him.

  No, not even that she hadn’t loved him—that she’d betrayed the love he couldn’t restrain. He couldn’t forget that fact. Wouldn’t. Others, far closer to him than even her, had paid the price for such disloyalty. He would not allow her to continue to make a mockery of him. She, like his brother, would pay the according price.

  Now. Before the nurses returned to check the machines.

  Reaching over her fragile body, he pushed the hair away from her face as he stood. He drew back, willing her eyes to open and radiate with genuine feeling, knowing they never would. Quietly, he slipped his hand inside his lapel pocket and withdrew a syringe filled with a colorless substance. Though her suffering would be short-lived, her accident ironically provided the same neatness he preferred. Death could be attributed to her injuries. No one would think to schedule an autopsy. Besides, he was the only family she had. He’d claim he wanted her burial over with so he could grieve.

  A shadow in the corner of his eye gave him pause. He closed his fingers around the syringe, hiding it in his palm, as the door to her room opened.

  A petite blonde nurse strolled in. She pinned him in place with a frown. “Excuse me, are you family?”

  Damn. His contacts had promised he’d have the time he required without interruption. Clearly this nurse hadn’t been informed.

  “I am her fiancé.”

  “Then you’re not family. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave.”

  Dmitri choked down a maddening rush of outrage. He would not have this final glory taken from him. He searched for a charming smile, did his best to keep his fury beneath the smoothness of his voice. “You would not force her to wake alone, would you? She would be terrified.”

  Smug satisfaction radiated through him as the nurse’s hard frown softened. She glanced to Natalya, hesitatingly looked back at him. Her indecision was as obvious as the beeping machines. Dmitri landed the crippling blow, the words that would push her into sympathy. “Hasn’t she already been through enough?”

  “I—I…” She pursed her lips and looked over her shoulder at the partly open door. “I suppose it would be okay for a few minutes. Just while I check her vitals. Then I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave. We can put a chair outside the door.”

  He wouldn’t need the chair.

  The nurse approached the bed, her hands fluttering over the lightweight quilt, straightening it. She hummed a soft tune, her actions bringing her closer to where he stood. So close the next sweep of her palm came near his thigh. Too close. She had no cause to stand on this side of Natalya—the machines were on the other side.

  Instinct set off alarm bells in his head, the same sixth sense that had saved his ass on more than one occasion when a contact he’d been expecting didn’t show on time. This nurse was taking too long. Accomplishing nothing. She hadn’t even checked the IV tubes or taken Natalya’s pulse. Yet she’d delayed Dmitri by precious minutes. Time he didn’t have and didn’t risk in places where he didn’t hold absolute control.

  Nervously, he glanced to the partly open door and the hallway beyond. It was too quiet. Too still. Where were the beeping alerts? The bustling attendants?

  As the nurse bent over Natalya once more, Dmitri’s gaze fastened on an unnatural bulge in the small of the woman’s back. Hard. L-shaped…

  He reared back, his entire body tight. His gaze scampered once more to the hallway in time to see a shadow he hadn’t noticed before move. They weren’t alone. Someone else was out there.

  Someone who didn’t want their presence known.

  Son of a bitch—he’d been set up!

  As everything clanged into place, he snatched the nurse’s arm, drew her back against his chest, and thrust the deadly needle at her neck. “Call off the man outside. You’ll take me out of here. Then, we’ll forget about this little incident.”

  For now at least. When he was free, he’d make damn sure no one forgot anything.

  Before Dmitri could shu
ffle a step to the door, the woman in his arms drove the flat of her foot into his knee, wrenching it backward. A sickening pop accompanied the sudden explosion of pain. He stumbled, the syringe clattering to the floor. Blocking out the agony that ravaged his body, he thrust a hand inside his coat for his gun.

  An all too recognizable click ricocheted through his ears as the cold, hard press of steel met the side of his temple. “Not so fast, Dmitri. Time’s up. I’m afraid you won’t be leaving after all.”

  As a string of oaths poured free, another woman burst into the room, wearing the same light yellow scrubs and false hospital identification badge. Her gun was trained on him as well. She smiled. “Hope you’ve enjoyed Vegas. Why don’t you stick around a while.”

  With no choice but to comply, he withdrew his empty hand. Barely containing the venom that roiled in his veins, he held his arms in front of him and offered his wrists. This wasn’t over by any means, but he wasn’t stupid. He wouldn’t sacrifice his life. Someone would deal. He possessed too much information to sit uselessly behind bars.

  The first nurse looked to the second. “Did you make the call?”

  For the first time since she’d entered the room, the second woman’s composure faltered. Apprehension passed behind her eyes. “No one’s answering.”

  “What about the other?”

  “Voicemail, first ring.”

  A small degree of satisfaction blossomed in Dmitri’s chest. They might have dropped him, but something in their scheme wasn’t working as designed. He resisted the urge to smile.

  Forty-one

  B

  randon lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling. It took a moment for reality to sink in and for his brain to pick up on the message that the stinging in his shoulder wasn’t make-believe. When it did, fury boiled through his veins. She’d fucking shot him! Natalya had turned around, aimed, and without a blink pulled the trigger. He sat up, clutching at the bleeding wound. She’d played him again. Good God, when did the lies stop? He’d held her for three hours, absorbed her tears, soothed her upset—and it was fake! Again! He ought to have been shot for his sheer stupidity.