Chapter Two
Kathleen paced the master suite as if trying to wear a hole in the carpet. She knew her husband. She’d seen the bloodlust in his eyes when he’d left the house that afternoon. There was no doubt in her mind that he was up to no good. She looked at the television and winced. A reporter was smugly reporting from the crime scene and had somehow managed to get a picture of Jim Cooper’s body, with the face tastefully blurred, of course.
She couldn’t remember ever seeing Glazov that angry. Night after night, she had seen his rage building as he watched Jim Cooper brag about his upcoming book on every talk show that would have him. The writer had created a salivating public in an effort to make his mark on the world and, of course, pad his bank account along the way. It was bad enough that the man had included her in the book, but her children too?! Even in this line of business, children were supposed to be off limits. The slime ball was no better than a tabloid reporter. In fact, rumor had it that, at one time, he had been just that.
She didn’t like any of this. She had known in her gut that Glazov had every intention of blowing the man’s head off. The men who worked for Glazov always did the killing. Glazov sated his thirst for blood by torturing and conducting grueling interrogations, but his men took care of the loose ends. In those instances, delegating the dirty work was insurance that the Pakhan wouldn’t do time and would remain at the helm, where he belonged.
She couldn’t imagine raising Nikita and Roksana alone. If Glazov went down, the brigade went down. Simple as that. No one could run the organization like he did. He was the brains behind the well-oiled Bratva machine. It wasn’t like him to put everything at risk out of anger.
The whole thing was just one more layer to the complex man she had been forced to marry. She hadn’t planned on falling in love with him, but her heart had had a mind of its own. Glazov could have had any woman in the world he wanted, but his obsession started and stopped with her. He’d been bewitched from the day he had first seen her. Little by little, he had peeled back her layers, turning her own body against her as he’d introduced her to dark pleasures she had never known existed. Now they were consumed with each other, and quite happily so.
Her head jerked around with more anticipation than she cared to admit when the bedroom door opened and slammed against the wall. Glazov was framed in the doorway, a shadowy figure in the soft light of her bedside table. Immediately, the room was consumed with her husband’s presence. She eased over toward him, her steps cautious as if approaching a skittish animal.
She gently eased his jacket over his massive shoulders and draped it over a wingback chair by the bed. His eyes roamed her face as she returned to his side. She lowered her gaze, frowning as she recognized the shadows of dark, seething malevolence that lingered behind his icy blue eyes. She unbuckled his holster and gently hung it over the chair. Her hands were unsteady as she released the cuffs of his shirt and worked the buttons that revealed his muscled torso. Her fingers were drawn irresistibly to the silky, firm skin of his chest.
His breathing shifted abruptly, becoming ragged as his wife’s fingertips trailed fire along his pectorals and her palms skimmed across his flat, brown nipples. She parted the fabric of his shirt and pushed it over his shoulders, her hands lingering on the firm, sculpted lines of his shoulders and biceps.
Kathleen knelt in front of him and removed his shoes and socks. Leaning down, she pressed a kiss to the top of each foot. As she made to get up, he extended his hand and she took it as she rose to her feet. Parting her lips, she reached down to caress the erection that strained against his slacks.
Glazov snarled low in his throat as his nostrils flared and his neck grew flushed. Sexual energy seemed to roll off him in waves, and Kathleen’s core responded to the call as a surge of liquid heat settled between her legs. She slowed her caresses long enough to lower his zipper and slide his remaining garments over his hips.
With an arrogant tilt of his chin, Glazov stepped out of the clothes, kicking them aside. She had stripped him bare. He stood looking down on her like pure perfection. Every muscle on his substantial frame was coiled tightly. His thick cock jutted out toward her as decadent streaks of precum surged from its tip.
Glazov reached up and slid his thumb across her bottom lip, moving the lush flesh roughly from side to side, his eyes ablaze with hunger. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” he said, his voice a little too quiet for her liking. She swallowed and moved to lower the straps of her nightgown, but something in his face stopped her cold.
She lowered her trembling hands and dared not move. She liked to think she knew her husband’s many moods, but tonight she wasn’t sure what she was dealing with. So she waited and tried to remember to breathe.
Glazov reached for her, grasping her upper arms. He let his hands drift over her shoulders to her throat until he was cradling her face in his hands. A long moment of silent, agonized understanding passed between them as his thumbs stroked slowly along her cheekbones. His heavy-lidded gaze held hers as his hands dropped to the neckline of her nightgown. He savagely began ripping the gossamer silk asunder until the fabric lay in pieces at her feet.
Glazov took in the sight of her lush nakedness. He cupped her breasts possessively, humming with satisfaction as her nipples hardened against his palms. He took in every magnificent inch of the woman he would die for. His obsession with her knew no bounds. He would do anything to protect her. He had proven that tonight in no uncertain terms.
At the thought of the opportunistic bastard who tried to encroach on his family’s safety, an animalistic sound rasped from Glazov’s throat. Kathleen was enthralled by this rare display of raw emotion as his eyes gleamed as if lit from within. He inhaled sharply as he tugged his bottom lip viciously between his teeth. It was as if he drew strength from the pain…or craved the taste of his own blood. Kathleen shivered as Glazov lowered his hands to his sides.
“Put me in your mouth.” His voice was so deep that it was barely audible to her as her pulse thrummed in her ears. She dropped to her knees and ran her hands up his powerful thighs, marveling as she so often did that she could touch him like this, could please him like this. Her hands curved around to clutch the sculpted muscles of his ass as she drew him into her mouth.
This was no gentle exploration, no slow pleasuring. They were both driven by the need to connect at the most primal level. Outsiders could do their worst; they were no match against the all-consuming passion that the Pakhan had found with his wife. And he would kill anyone who tried. As Glazov looked down at Kathleen’s head bobbing steadily against him, he pushed his fingers into her hair, pushing the strands away from her face.
She lifted her eyes to his and Glazov was lost. The searing pleasure of her adoring touch collided harshly with his satisfaction at eliminating a threat to his family. Glazov’s release slammed into him, stealing his breath in an agonized groan as he released hot jets of cum into her mouth.
Long moments passed as she nuzzled the soft, carefully groomed thatch of hair at the base of his shaft. The feel of him, the essence of him, was addictive and soothing to her as she caught her breath. Rising to her feet, she took his hand and led him into the next room. She left his side long enough to fill the jacuzzi with steaming water. She walked into his arms and tilted her chin for his kiss.
A short time later, he was easing into the silky water. As he leaned against the back of the tub, his icy blue eyes missed nothing. Her body was perfect. Her curves had only become more decadent and sensual after giving birth to two children.
He leaned his head back and sighed heavily. “You can’t wash the blood off my hands, Ptichka.”
“I know, my love. I know.” She’d wait to tell him that the news was already airing pictures of his latest victim. She eased down into the steaming water and twisted around, reaching over his shoulder to pull the band from his hair. He looked like a Russian god as his blond hair fell around his face. He breathed in deeply and pulled her over him, pulling her
down onto his cock.
She bit her lip, then smiled. “Again?” she teased as she rocked against him.
“All night,” he murmured. The water sloshed over the sides up the tub as she rode him, desperate for him to climb deep inside her and consume her one more time.
“God, how I love you, woman. You are the source of everything that is good and pure in my life.”
His hands slid over her breasts as she ground her hips down on him. He was entranced as he watched her find her pleasure in a climax that had her crying his name. She came all over his cock, milking his release from him with the relentless force of her need.
She wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight as he pulled her close. Glazov cradled the back of her head and pressed her cheek to his chest as the water swirled and lapped around them.
“I wish you hadn’t done it, Glazov.”
He wasn’t surprised that she already knew. She could read him like no one else had ever been able to. He stroked her hair in an effort to soothe her troubled mind. “Every time he talked about that fucking book, I felt violated. I’m nobody’s victim, Ptichka.”
She understood. He was right. He was nobody’s victim and she would never ask him to be. She hadn’t married a weak man and she damn sure didn’t expect him to be now. She leaned back and looked him directly in the eye. “Cooper’s body washed ashore. There are pictures on the news.”
“I know. I’ve already gotten the call.” He didn’t look the least bit worried. “I’m certain our favorite FBI agents were on scene.” Glazov settled deeper in the water and shrugged. “Let the games begin,” he whispered in a voice that somehow spoke louder than any shout could have.
Chapter Three
“Mr. Benzo. That’s a hell of a name for the media to give a serial killer. Seems he fancies drugging his victims with various benzos.” Rene deliberately chattered on as she and Turner sat at their desks working. He didn’t look up but his pensive frown confirmed he was listening.
Good. His mind was finally off Glazov. For now, anyway.
“I don’t know. I guess it makes sense to me,” he said. “So he’s hooked on using benzos. What intrigues me is that, as far as we know, he only kills dancers. Maybe his mother was a dancer who had left him alone a lot when he was a kid and he’s never gotten over it. Stranger things have happened.”
“Yeah, they always blame somebody else for their crazy, instead of just owning it,” Rene observed coolly. “Maybe it’s just because dancers and hookers can be easy to get away with killing. Easier to pick up, easier to kill, and easier for society to just write them off.”
She felt an unexpected tug of sadness for all the lost souls that they’d never be able to help. For every case they closed successfully, for every killer they put away, there were other cases that would remain unsolved. Rene believed in maintaining a professional distance from the individuals—living or dead—involved in a case, but every now and then someone’s story would get to her. But it would pass. She didn’t dwell on it. She didn’t let it interfere with the job.
“You ready? Let’s hit some of these clubs and talk to the ladies. We at least owe them a heads-up.” She was already up with jacket and messenger bag in hand.
“Heads-up?” He uncurled from his chair and sauntered toward her. “The whole fucking city knows there’s a serial killer on the loose.”
She took no offense at his blunt assessment of the threat facing the city of Louisville. “Humor me,” she said. “I need to know I did all I could to save one more woman.”
It was part of what he loved about her: underneath her hard exterior was a heart of gold. She took women being killed in her city seriously, even personally. If she could save one woman, she’d gladly work months of overtime to do it.
They had figured out long ago that fucking each other was the only way the two workaholics could have a relationship. Nobody else could understand what they went through on the job anyway, so it worked for them. They were professional partners, best friends, and lovers—the perfect trifecta.
Music reverberated off the walls of the bar, causing the floor to feel like it was shaking beneath Rene’s feet. The muscle-bound man behind the podium appeared unconcerned that two FBI agents were standing in the establishment. As long as they had the cover charge, he could give a fuck less. He never assumed anything. These two might be here for business, or they might be here for pleasure. He’d seen it all while working the door at Foxy’s.
“Those badges don’t mean you don’t pay,” he said dryly after both agents whipped their badges out with the unthinking ease that came from years of making the same move.
Agent Turner handed him two crisp twenties and took Rene’s hand as he led her through the throng of people in the entryway. They found a table that gave them an unobstructed view of the bar. Turner had a rule: always keep an eye on your surroundings. That meant never sitting with your back to the door. It was a running joke between them. Though they both knew how to keep it light with humor, they didn’t play any games when it came to their job. They were dealing with killers and they took each other’s safety seriously.
“What can I get you two?” the scantily dressed cocktail waitress asked with a bright smile. She was dressed in the generic attire that all the offstage female employees wore: sky-high heels, a tight black skirt that barely covered the good stuff, and a white button-down Oxford shirt that was tied at the waist and unbuttoned to reveal a whole lot more young, perky boob than you typically expected to see.
Rene took her overall appearance in with an objective, assessing eye. The waitress was a young woman who was obviously comfortable with her own body. Rene wondered why she wasn’t onstage herself, where she could be making some real money. “I’ll take a Diet Coke and he’ll take a Perrier,” Rene answered, returning the smile.
The waitress looked at Agent Turner, her eyes twinkling. “Wow. Your partner is hot.”
He cocked his head to the side, giving Rene the once over. “You picked up on that, too, huh? I figured that out on my own a long time ago. That’s why she’s my woman as well as my partner.” When he winked at the waitress, she couldn’t help but blush before directing her next words at the beautiful redhead.
“Well, if you ever need to go undercover, hon, you’ll fit right in here. If you don’t mind me sayin’, that is. Seriously, you’d probably have every girl in here hating on you because you’d be getting all their tips. Know what I mean?” She glanced over her shoulder, flicking her shoulder-length blonde curls aside. “Hell, guys are already checking you out, probably hoping you’ll surprise everybody and start taking it all off. But Amateur Night isn’t until Tuesday, so…” The waitress grinned at her wickedly. “The men in here all seem to get hot and bothered at the fantasy of the stern librarian smacking their ass. The whole ‘hot for teacher’ thing, you know?”
Turner cleared his throat and coughed as Rene smiled pleasantly up at her. “Well, if I ever need any pointers, I’ll know exactly who to ask.”
“Anytime, sweets.” The waitress turned and walked away, her heels beating a staccato rhythm on the floor as she navigated the sea of tables on her way to the bar.
“You are so bad, David,” Rene chided him as soon as the waitress was out of earshot. Rene knew he had a way with women. She also knew how to get his ass back in line when the flirting became too much.
“It’s ‘Agent Turner’ when we’re working,” he growled. Another running joke between them; at least, that’s how his partner saw things. Half the time she did it just to get under his skin. He always insisted on her calling him Agent Turner at work, so naturally she went out of her way not to.
Rene watched the waitress glide through the crowd and avoid the groping hands of drunken customers. Yeah, she was glad she was a cop. Fucking drunks. She hated what these women had to go through for a paycheck. She shuddered, hoping she’d never be called upon to go undercover in the way the waitress had described. David would have to be sedated, no doubt. He’d neve
r survive other men seeing her shaking her moneymaker onstage. She shook her head and reminded herself why they were here: to make sure no one else got killed.
“What’s your name?” she shouted over the music to the waitress, who had returned and was setting Rene’s drink down on a napkin in front of her.
“Terry. But they just call me Tee around here.”
“Can you sit for a minute, Tee? We’ll make it worth your time,” she added quickly when she saw her hesitate.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Tee said slowly. She looked around skittishly as if she was worried someone would see her, but she was unable to pass up a good tip.
“I’m certain you already know we’re cops. Well, actually, we’re with the FBI.”
“Yeah, the black suits and white shirts kind of give you away. Not to mention the gun you’ve got beneath your blazer. I can see the bulge from here.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot,” Rene smiled in an effort to take the edge off. Clearly the woman was nervous. “Anyway, we’re here to warn the girls.”
“Warn us?”
“Yeah, I’m sure you’ve seen the news.”
“Oh, that ‘Mr. Benzo’ story. Is that what you mean?”
“Yes, it is.” Rene had an almost mournful look on her face. “Have you seen anybody who looks weird or ‘off’? Maybe a little too interested in the girls?”
“In here? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I know. It’s one hell of a question but maybe somebody followed you or maybe you’ve noticed a customer from here when you were out running errands or something? Anything. Even something small could be information on the killer and you just don’t realize it.”
Tee shook her head. “Nothing. Really. Okay, I’ve got to get back to work,” she said, grabbing the small round tray she’d placed on the edge of the table.
Rene stood with her. “Thanks for the time. Look, here’s my card. If you see anything or remember anything, even something small, give me a call. I promise I’ll keep you anonymous.”
The Profilers (Born Bratva The Lost Years Book 2) Page 2
