Wyatt pulled out a thick roll of cash from his pocket and showed the bouncer.
I’m just here to spend.
Like magic, the bouncer stepped aside and let him in.
Following the deep bass shaking the walls, Wyatt put his hands in his pockets and trailed down the dark dingy corridor. He emerged in a room where a stage with catwalks lined the far wall, complete with poles running to the ceiling and half nude dancers grinding, sweating, and lusting. Mirrors behind the stage doubled the dancers. Stools surrounded the catwalks, half filled with eager men already waving dollar bills and whistling. Topless waitresses served leering men under the glowing lights, oscillating from pink and blue to red and purple. What caught his attention the most was a spiral staircase that led from the end of a catwalk up to a mezzanine level guarded by a bouncer. Must be VIP.
Misha works here. Wyatt let that thought percolate until someone bumped passed him, irked that he stood in the main thoroughfare. For fuck’s sake. He moved and stood beside red velvet curtains cascading down from the ceiling.
Wyatt knew The Kremlin was a strip-joint, but he wasn’t prepared for the burst of emotion squeezing his throat. It wasn’t wrath—the only wrath he sensed was further into the bowels of the building where it spiked every so often. No, this feeling was something else… he shook it off. No time to play Dr. Phil on himself. Look for Misha. He searched the room for the tall, leggy blond. Found a few, but none were her.
Liza would have a love-hate relationship with this place. Lust would be making her feel queasy, but at the same time she’d be reveling in it. She didn’t like to reveal much about her journey with her sin, but Wyatt knew she wasn’t as innocent as she wanted the family to believe. He missed her.
Liza was a straight talker, and he respected that. She and Sloan had had his back for the two-year falling-out the family had over Sara’s integrity after she’d died the first time. Died the first time. He snorted at the ridiculous thought, but strangely, it wasn’t as crazy now that he’d seen a man turn into an enraged beast engorged with a greed-serum.
He wondered what Liza would say about this place, and Misha. Wondered what Sloan would say.
Fuck. Wyatt scrubbed his face and exhaled. He owed a lot of people an apology.
The sense of wrath he’d felt earlier approached. Alertness washed over him and, curious, he sought out the source, only to duck behind a group of men when he found it. Dimitri. And he wasn’t alone.
A tall, silver-haired lady walked with him. Something about her was both terrifying and familiar at the same time. She had an ethereal quality about her and seemed to glide through the filthy club without getting a stain on her white leather outfit. White… the color of the Syndicate.
It hit him. She was the silver-haired woman who had shot Sara from a distance, executing her. His gaze snapped back to the woman, tracking her movements across the club and out of sight. It was the same woman. He knew it.
Rage bubbled in his blood. His fists clenched at his sides. For a chilling moment, all he wanted to do was chase her and put his fist through her chest, to see how she liked being executed. But he couldn’t shake the feeling there was something else he should be remembering about her. He filed her away for later investigation. Misha was his priority now.
The music died down and a man came on stage announcing the next dancer for the evening—The Duchess.
Air solidified in his lungs. No fucking way.
What did you expect you idiot? She worked in a strip club.
Misha strode on stage wearing a skimpy skirt suit, heels and a feather in her neatly styled hair—all those incredible curls were flattened. With bright red lipstick on her lips, and thick fake lashes framing her eyes, he was looking at a new woman. Every horny male in the room drooled over her. And she hadn’t removed her clothes yet.
Fuck.
He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t watch her—she took off her jacket. No, babe. Put it back on. Nothing but a black string bikini underneath, glued to the curves of her beautiful breasts. Wyatt’s mouth went dry. Then her skirt went and she strutted down the stage, perfect taut ass teasing the men closest to her.
He couldn't look.
But he had to. He wanted that body all to himself—needed it. It was selfish, possessive and overbearing, but if Misha was his woman—she is!—then he didn’t want her body on parade for the world. He wanted her for his eyes only.
But what if she liked it? What if this was her thing?
Christ. He was a mess.
Wyatt scrubbed his face and found a seat toward the back of the room. He parked his ass and tried not to look, tried not to hear the cheers and filthy comments the men made. His leg bounced. What kind of mess had he gotten himself into with her? He forced his fists at his side and relaxed his teeth from clenching lest he crack them from the pressure his jaw exerted. Don’t forget why you’re here.
He had to stay. Had to work out if she was linked to the white-robed fuckers loitering around the shadows, and for that, he needed time alone with her.
The music died down, the lights changed. Her show was done. Thank fuck for that.
Wyatt dared a glance at the stage. Misha walked in nothing but her heels, a tiny thong overflowing with dollar bills, and two black stars covering her nipples. She climbed the spiral staircase like a master and disappeared up the top, onto the mezzanine level.
Wyatt flagged down a passing waitress and pointed at the stairs. She began to feel him up, palms rubbing brazenly down his chest. Jesus. Take your hands off me. It took him two more attempts at removing her hands and pointing up the stairs.
“Oh, honey, that’s for the VIPs. You’ll do better down here with me. C’mon, what do you say. You want a lap dance?”
He shook his head and pointed up again, insistent.
“You’re going to need deep pockets if you want up there.”
He drew out his roll of untouched cash. Her eyes lit up like he held Christmas. He peeled two bills and held them out, then played keepy-off. Take me there, and the money is yours.
She licked her lips, practically salivating at the two-hundred. “Follow me, sugar.”
When they got to the bouncer at the base of the stairs, the woman plucked the money from Wyatt and tucked it into her thong. She whispered something in the bouncer’s ear who stared down Wyatt and folded his arms.
The stripper made a “gimme” sign.
Another two-hundred gone. Fine.
Within seconds, Wyatt was up the steps and walking onto the mezzanine level.
Scattered around the darkened area were more metal poles and plush leather seats. Velvet curtains continued the trend from downstairs, and when Wyatt looked up, he caught cameras watching over everything. Under blue lights in the corner, a topless woman collected drinks from the burly man pouring them. Two black doors were at the end of the mezzanine. Wyatt could only assume they led to rooms for other services rendered. One bouncer stood guard. He didn’t look like much, and it irritated Wyatt to know it was only him and the barman up there protecting the women from VIPs who most likely believed they had the right to do whatever their status and money allowed.
Misha had her back to him and was casually draped from a pole at a private table seating three business men.
Another stripper worked a pole in front of a group of business men.
He needed to get Misha alone. Up here, there was only one way to do that.
Nineteen
Misha arrived in the VIP area and scanned the place for the mysterious important guest, but found only two groups of patrons, and one was being seen to by Katarina. Dominika was at the bar collecting drinks, presumably serving the other group.
Thank god the Nazi wasn’t there, but maybe that was who Dimitri saved her for. A shudder wracked her body, and she had to disguise it with a lusty shimmy. Seeing the group of awaiting business men without a dancer, Misha went to entertain. The number one rule in this place was not to leave a paying customer wanting. She’d barely said hello
when Dominika returned with a tray of drinks and a stony look in her eyes. In other words, Get away from my clients, girl.
Sorry. Misha backed away and winked. Guess there was nothing for her to do there but wait. She strode to the bar.
“Wassup, Joe?” she said to the barman. “You mind if I stash my tips here until we finish?”
Chewing on gum, the man winked at her and pulled out an empty glass. “Here you go, hotcakes.”
“Thanks.” She pulled out the bills lining her thong and leaned over the bar to shove them in the glass. Usually she went back to the dressing room to safely store them in her locker, but tonight… she was hesitant to do anything against Dimitri’s wishes. He specifically said to head up to the VIP area and wait for the special client. She’d rather lose all her tips to the thieving that would no doubt occur the moment she turned her back, than to go to her dressing room now.
Someone tapped on her shoulder. It was the VIP bouncer. “Hi, Sam.”
He grunted and pointed with his thumb to one of the private rooms. He slapped a load of cash in her hands and then went back to his position, watching over the floor with complete boredom.
A private lap dance, already? She counted the money. Holy goddess… Five hundred. She eyed the patrons. All were present. This was someone new. She gulped. The important customer.
Okay, Misha. Here you go. Become The Duchess.
Five-hundred would cover another week’s rent for the studio. Since she’d had to cancel a few classes the previous week, it would be more than welcome.
She closed her eyes, imagined a stuck-up royal woman who took shit from nobody. She didn’t even like the word shit. She said defecation. I own the world. The world falls at my feet. I can handle anything.
Opening her eyes, she pasted a haughty expression on her face and glided up to Sam.
“This one, darling?” She pointed at the door on the right.
He shook his head and thumbed left.
Right, then.
“How dare you request me,” she began, fully in character as she opened the door. “Nobody makes demands of The Duch—”
Her words lodged in her throat.
Wyatt’s muscular frame squashed into the single chair in the center of the small room. His large hands were white-knuckled as they gripped the chair arms, and he watched her with a gaze burning so hot she felt it in the air. Dressed in a polo shirt, sports coat and dark jeans—he didn’t look quite himself. Even his hair was neatly brushed.
She quickly closed the door and held her hand to the flat surface, breathing deep to calm her nerves. So many thoughts crashed through her mind. It was Wyatt. He knew her family. Did that mean they all knew she worked there? What if he was actually there for a lap dance, then why the hell did he look so pissed and confrontational? What the hell was going on? Wait a minute, was Wyatt the special customer?
No. Impossible.
So, how did he know about this job?
The only other person who knew where she worked was Lilo. Shit. Lilo was dating Wyatt’s brother. That must be it. Damned Lilo and her blabber mouth.
Keenly aware of the red, steady flash of light from the ceiling camera in her periphery, she pushed down her shock, whirled around and walked up to him, snaking her legs and fingering her pearls seductively. The closer she got, the more uncomfortable he looked. That fever in his eyes melted.
You paid for a lap dance. You get one. At least for the cameras, anyway.
When she reached him, she bent seductively at the hips, pushed her ass out, and placed her palms on his knees, looking deeply into his eyes. He made a valiant effort not to stare at her sticker covered breasts, hanging perilously close to his face. It gave her great pleasure to see she unnerved him, especially when he’d just done the same.
Now the fact was sinking in, she became increasingly irritated he’d chased her down. She hated people from her normal life coming to this club, plus, his presence could piss Dimitri off. He could think she was disobeying him again. If the men he beat up at the restaurant were about, they’d recognize him.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed at Wyatt but did a shimmy for their audience.
He darted a glance to the cameras.
“It’s only a visual feed,” she explained. “Just to make sure the customers don’t get too frisky with the girls. As long as I continue to dance, they won’t know what’s going on.” Misha leaned into him, then rolled and arched her chest, undulating near his face. “What is going on here, Wyatt?”
Her breasts scraped against the rough fabric of his shirt. He hissed and tried to sit back as though burned. His reaction brought another smile to her face. Maybe this was going to be fun, after all.
She climbed on top of him and he flinched back. You’d think he was actually disgusted with her—oh, nope, there it was—the hard press of his arousal at the center of her core. She laughed softly. He was into it, he just pretended not to be. When his body heat brought the scent of spiced citrus, she went weak.
“You know,” she whispered close to his ear. “I would have done this for free.”
The chair groaned under his grip. He let go as the armrests began to crack.
“You should really come to one of my classes. I can help you with that. Meditation does wonders for self-control.”
Uncertainty crossed his expression in a wave.
She trailed a finger down his cheek to his strong jaw. God, she loved the look of him. So serious and intense and so much fun to play with. He stiffened under her touch, muscles turning rock hard. She trailed down the vein in his neck, traced his shoulder over the jacket, his bicep, then found the vein over his wrist until she ran down that big powerful hand of his. His hand would completely cover her face. He could crush her without a second thought, just like the chair. The danger of toying with him gave her a thrill, and suddenly her movements turned sultry, heavy, and full of promise.
She whispered huskily, “Don’t feel bad, darling. It happens to the best of us.”
He gripped her tightly by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length.
What are you doing here? he mouthed the words.
“I work here, silly.”
She tried grinding on him, but his eyes sparked with something not desire. Rage. And then he began to talk with no sound, so fast she could only stop and stare, trying to catch the words on his lips.
“Whoa. Hold up, buddy.” He spoke too fast, but she got the gist of it. She climbed from his lap and stood in front of him, with her back to the camera, adjusting the feather fascinator on her head. “You don’t get to judge me for this, Wyatt. You don’t know me well enough. It was the only way I could protect my family. Not all of us have the strength of ten big muscly men. Dimitri threatened to bring Roksana in if I didn’t continue to work here.”
Tears burned the back of her eyelids and she had to take a moment. Dimitri had threatened worse.
How dare Wyatt… She took a breath, swallowed and shook off the insult. In a flash, she was The Duchess again and had it together. Like nothing had happened, she began to slowly sway, getting back into the rhythm of the jazz music. She still had a job to do, and her shift had barely started.
Suddenly, she found herself against a wall, wedged by a man with furious eyes.
Are you working for them?
“Working for who? Dimitri? You already know that.”
No. He shoved her and it hurt. The Syndicate. At least she thought he mouthed that, but it didn’t make sense.
“You’re hurting me, Wyatt.”
But he wouldn’t ease off. The ferocity of his gaze told her there was more to his behavior, that there was an untold story behind those demanding blue orbs of pain. But his grip on her shoulders wouldn’t relax.
“Wyatt. You’re holding me too tight. Please let go.”
As though it were the hardest thing to do, he peeled his fingers from her shoulders. Ouch. His fingers were made from stone. She rubbed her shoulders, crossing her chest, covering her n
udity.
I’m sorry, he signed, looking genuinely apologetic.
Whoever this Syndicate was, they’d done a number on him.
“Wyatt, I don’t know who the Syndicate is, if that’s what you said. I’m just trying to keep these people away from my family. ‘These’ meaning the ones in this very building.”
Something passed behind his eyes—a revelation perhaps—because he shrugged out of his jacket and slung it around her shoulders, enshrouding her in the enormous thing. It was warm, and despite her common sense, she wanted to wrap it tighter, but any minute someone would knock on the door and warn her to keep dancing.
“I should be working,” she mumbled.
He shook his head vehemently. Not here. With the efficiency of a physician, he briskly put her hands through the sleeves and buttoned her up, but then heat flared in his eyes. He arched an eyebrow, pointed at her breasts and then tapped his chest a few times. Mine.
She snorted. Possessive much? She was about to say that the only person her breasts belonged to was herself, but then she picked up on something. His actions had looked suspiciously like sign language. “Has Alek been teaching you to sign?”
He made a fist, lifted it and made the action like he was knocking on a door. Yes.
She didn’t know what to say. She knew he taught Alek self-defense moves, but she wasn’t aware Alek instructed him in return. A warmth spread through her, still speechless.
Before either of them could speak, Wyatt tensed and titled his head as though listening to some far off sound. All she could hear was the music and her galloping heart. And, come to think of it, why hadn’t the bouncer come in yet? Surely they’d seen Wyatt accost her. Touching was against the rules.
Wyatt spun toward the door and shoved her behind him in a protective move. Someone was coming.
Twenty
Wrath (The Deadly Seven Book 3) Page 12
