Stripped Read online

  A chill wafted across his heated body.

  Innocent.

  And that touch of innocence tumbling off her lips spoke to him more profoundly than any coarse confession of physical desire.

  Where did it come from? Natalya Trubachev was not innocent. Not by a long shot. He’d bet his entire career she knew her way around a man’s body, and her striptease illustrated her comfort with her own skin. Hell, she hadn’t backed down the last two times they’d been alone. In his experience, women like her didn’t hesitate to tell a man what they wanted, and often how they wanted it.

  Yet all she’d asked for, when he obviously would have honored any request, was a simple kiss.

  He shook his head. No, not so simple. Those two whispered words had collided in his brain like train engines crashing nose to nose at full speed. They’d stopped him in his tracks, ripped his breath from his lungs, and rendered him dysfunctional for a fleeting moment. He’d been… touched, damn it.

  Affected enough that when he’d reclaimed control over his body, and the fist around his lungs let go, allowing him to breathe, all thoughts of fucking her senseless vanished under the single desire to find absolute fulfillment in the softness of her mouth.

  By the time he’d managed to recover from the shock of realizing all he wanted was that sweet kiss and had touched his lips to hers, once again, he’d been too goddamn late.

  A kiss.

  A goddamned kiss had stripped him senseless.

  How the hell was that possible?

  It wasn’t. His reaction came from too many hours of pent-up desire. In the last twenty-four, he’d experienced enough sexual frustration that he’d take whatever he could get, and if she wanted a kiss, well, it was a far cry better than walking away completely unsatisfied.

  Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that, buddy.

  If Rachel were alive and had overheard the nonsense going on inside his skull, she’d smack her shoe over his head.

  No, however ridiculous it sounded, the more he thought about it, the more he realized he’d wanted that kiss more than he had ever wanted anything. Sure, he craved where that kiss would inevitably lead, but in that moment, kissing Natalya became more important than experiencing the divinity of her pussy squeezing around his cock.

  And that emasculating discovery shook him to the core.

  He sat down before his shaky legs could give out and embarrass him further.

  What kind of killer asked for a kiss?

  He plowed his fingers through his hair. This nonsense had to stop. Tonight. Before he completely lost his mind. She wanted rules; he’d give her some. Right. Fucking. Now.

  Shoving out of his chair, he stalked into the club. The bang of his office door barely registered, along with the handful of heads that swiveled his way as he stomped toward backstage. The door clanged open with his forceful shove, nearly knocking the half-dressed dancer standing behind it on her ass.

  He spared her an annoyed glance and marched toward Natalya’s office. When he banged on her door, Jill answered.

  “Hi, baby.” Sidling up to his chest, she petted his pectorals, then glided her land lower, to his still swollen cock.

  Brandon clenched his jaw. He wrapped punishing fingers around Jill’s wrist and pulled her hand off his body. Looking over her head, he scanned Natalya’s office, only to find it empty. “Where’s Natalya?”

  Jill’s brown eyes widened for a nanosecond before a frown crept across her forehead. “I haven’t seen her. What’s the problem? Anything I can help with? You know she was late yesterday. A housemom needs to be on time.” Oblivious to the anger that ebbed off him in waves, she crept into his side once more and ran a fingernail down the length of his chest. She came to a stop at the waistband of his jeans.

  He lifted his gaze to the ceiling, praying for patience as he slowly counted to ten. In his present mood, he didn’t trust himself not to fire Jill on the spot. Once again, he grabbed her wrist and deliberately extricated himself from her pawing hands. “When you see her, tell her I want to talk to her. Immediately.”

  Brandon stopped in the doorway with a puzzled frown. Wait just a damn second. . . He looked over his shoulder at Jill. “What are you doing in her office?”

  “Me?” False innocence spread across her pert features, and an unnatural laugh burst free.

  “Yes, you.”

  “I, ah… was looking for…” Her gaze darted wildly around the room. When it landed in the corner, her worried expression brightened. She hurried to a lump of clothing piled high on a folding metal chair and dangled a pair of opaque white stockings close to her chin. “A pair of these. Mine ripped on my garter last night.”

  She hadn’t worn white stockings last night. Her first routine included fishnets, and her second dance involved nothing. While she’d circulated the clubhouse, she’d worn bare skin too. She was up to something. But his foul mood wouldn’t allow him to dissect it further. He’d pin her down for the truth when he cooled off.

  He pushed the door open wide and thumbed her toward the hall. “Out.”

  Jill demurely lowered her chin, batting her eyelashes as she pranced past his outstretched arm. “Sorry, baby, I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  Another reason he’d distanced himself from her. Cute, she might be. But the woman didn’t have the faintest concept of what pleased, or didn’t please him. She took liberties—like spreading it around the Strip that they were sleeping together—that surpassed her position.

  Thank God he hadn’t been obsessed with the notion of kissing her.

  Brandon groaned aloud. As he pulled Natalya’s office door shut, he reminded himself that as soon as he set boundaries with Natalya sanity would return. He pushed on the heavy steel to ensure the door had locked behind him, then pivoted on his heel to resume his search for the vixen who’d wiggled her bare ass in his face and pushed him over the edge into madness.

  Thirteen

  N

  atalya lowered her phone to her lap with a shaking hand. Clutching it tight, she squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to draw in deep breaths that did nothing to lessen her trembling. The insanely erotic encounter with Brandon had been enough to leave her shaken. Having to fake a conversation with Dmitri while her body still cried out for satisfaction had pushed her normally steadfast composure to the brink of total fragmentation. She ached in places that had long been neglected, and Dmitri’s unwanted affection grated on her nerves. To the point she’d had to stop herself from snapping at him at least twice.

  This had moved beyond ridiculous. Somehow, she must gain control over what she was allowing to happen to her good sense. Not to mention all the other things that were happening to her body.

  Her phone buzzed against her palm. She snapped up straight in the chair, eyes wide, breath lodged in her throat. Where she was, what she was doing, filtered through her conscious. She glanced down at her clenched hands and observed the illuminated LCD. Sergei’s name stamped an incoming text message: I’m here. Where are you? Answer your phone.

  Gathering her composure as much possible, Natalya quickly replied: On my way. Meet you out front. She checked her hastily wrapped bun, pushed a jeweled hairpin deeper, and abandoned her chair. The walk from the restroom passed in a blur, and her heartbeat picked up once more. Sergei’s arrival meant another encounter with Brandon. He’d been angry when she jetted out of his office; he wouldn’t be happy to see her now.

  Her stomach knotted so tight she doubted she’d ever fit another morsel of food into her belly. Stupid, stupid! She’d deliberately toyed with Brandon. She’d witnessed that dark spark of desire glint in his tawny eyes and strove to manipulate it to her advantage. A plan that had backfired in triplicate. Who knew when one of Dmitri’s goons would step around a corner, pistol ready, aimed at the center of her forehead?

  She had obliterated the understood boundaries Dmitri accepted. It was a matter of minutes, a matter of days—if her suspicions were correct—she could bank on a deadly shadow appearing. Lord k
new she’d done it enough times to know what happened next.

  The thick tinting on the main doors purpled the world beyond. But when she swung them open, the splash of late-afternoon sunlight warmed away some of the iciness in her veins. Her stomach unclamped by several degrees as Sergei entered the club.

  She latched on to his arm, drawing comfort from his constant, unfaltering, self-assuredness. “Come backstage. We’ll find Brandon in a few minutes.” Not nearly enough time to bring the racket in her head under control, but hopefully long enough she could quiet the trembling under her skin.

  The collective murmur of appreciation that drifted through the girls’ lounge as Sergei followed her to her office shaved off a few more layers of tension. Natalya suppressed a grin and flashed her partner a conspiratorial wink. In complete contrast to his usual cool, a touch of embarrassed color crept into his cheeks. It amused her to see him rattled.

  “What’s the matter? Too many at once?” she asked as she eased her office door shut.

  He shot her a warning look. “Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

  Tables turned, Natalya’s discomfort returned with a vengeance. Visions of the wanton way she’d stood in front of Brandon, gyrating against his hand, on the verge of melting into a puddle at his feet, set off the tremors once again. On the heels of that splendid memory, Dmitri’s raspy voice pummeled through her head. The combination discombobulated her enough she felt dizzy and nauseous all at once.

  She turned her back on Sergei and took her chair before her legs gave out. Drawing in a deep breath, she held it and waited for her stomach to stop pitching. But a glance in the mirror revealed the full effect of her mixed-up emotions. Fear, excitement, revulsion, and arousal turned her face a pasty shade of gray.

  “Hey. You okay?” Sergei appeared at her side, one hand on her shoulder.

  Unable to find words, she bit down on her lower lip as a shock of moisture touched her eyes. She shook her head, clamping her teeth until pain lanced through her lip and the coppery tang of blood touched her tongue.

  She couldn’t remember when she’d last cried. Definitely not since her arrival in Russia. Absolutely never in front of Sergei. Mortification drove her to cover her face with her hands. He’d laugh—as he should. She’d laugh, if her insides didn’t feel like she’d been ripped in half.

  “Hey,” Sergei murmured. His arm slid around her shoulder, and he drew her snug against his side. One large hand rubbed her arm, a comforting motion that helped ebb the unexpected rush of feeling.

  She turned her face into his belly, wrapped her arms around his waist, and inhaled the clean, fresh scent of laundry detergent. If this display wasn’t enough to prove she’d lost complete control, she didn’t know what would be. She’d cracked. Ten years of flawless performance, and two days in Vegas had pummeled through her constructed defenses. Forced her to confront things she’d buried deep and eradicated her ability to remain unfeeling.

  As if Sergei sensed words would only humiliate her further, he said nothing. He merely brought his other arm around her and held her close, languidly stroking her back. No lectures. No sympathy. Just silent understanding.

  The door thumped open, startling her out of the protective bubble of Sergei’s embrace. Nearly falling out of her chair, she twisted around, praying that the only person who’d seen her fall apart was Kate.

  Brandon stood in the doorway, his stormy expression darker than any thundercloud she’d ever witnessed. His jaw worked, the angle harsh, his mouth tight.

  T

  he last thing Brandon had expected to encounter when he flung open Natalya’s office door was her cuddled up to another man. Shock roiled through his system. In its wake, anger surfaced. Less than an hour ago, she’d moaned at the press of his fingertips. Yet, he’d barged in to find her face inches away from another man’s dick. He ignored the very obvious fact that if he’d bothered to knock he wouldn’t have been confronted with the startling scene. He also ignored the irony that he’d been coming here to establish rules, the first one being, no more private encounters in his office. Bottom line—she’ been putty in his hands and his primal animal instinct refused to accept he could be so easily dismissed.

  His scowl slanted toward the stranger at her side. The man didn’t flinch. He held Brandon’s gaze with all the arrogance of a man who had nothing to hide. His hand slid down Natalya’s shoulder as she eased to her feet.

  “Brandon.” A nervous hand pushed the tendrils of hair that had escaped her bun behind her ear. “This is Sergei Khitrovo.” She gave Sergei a tentative smile. “Sergei, Brandon Moretti.”

  Brandon’s gut dropped to his toes. The notorious Sergei. She’d fled his office to answer his call. No wonder he stood at her side like he belonged there. He did. Brandon was the unwanted party. The interloper who’d intruded on a private moment between two lovers. Christ!

  Fine. So be it. The guy might be big and sturdy, but a paycheck said he wasn’t man enough for Natalya. Not if she’d needed to find a little outside stimulation.

  Wanting nothing else but to demand the man’s immediate departure, Brandon reluctantly accepted Sergei’s offered hand. He’d agreed to hire him. He might be a lot of things, but he never went back on his word.

  “Pleased to meet you, Moretti.”

  Sergei’s accent slammed into Brandon. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but hearing the thick Russian accent drove another fist into Brandon’s already bruised ego. It sounded too much like Natalya’s, marking a bond between them that he could never claim.

  Mystified and uncomfortable by the thorny sensations prickling at his subconscious, his frown deepened. Damn, what was wrong with him? In thirty-five years he’d never cared to carve out a place just for him in a woman’s life. But as he stood before these two, feeling every bit the ass he was acting, a sudden sense of loss snuck over him. Yeah. He’d lost her. Only he hadn’t even known he was trying to win.

  He shook off the nonsensical thought. Lost? Hell, she hadn’t been available for the taking.

  And that was all he wanted, he told himself. Take her. Enjoy her. Fuck her senseless and move on when they both got tired of the same routine. He certainly wasn’t considering getting involved with the primary suspect in his case.

  Still, he couldn’t stop the burn that surfaced at the thought Sergei had heard that soft, throaty moan.

  Brandon gritted his teeth. Much as he didn’t want to, he needed to meet with his newest employee. And he needed to introduce Aaron to the latest man on his staff. Business called. Given his experience, Sergei might just be the best asset Fantasia possessed. Brandon took a step backward through the door and stared hard at Natalya’s lover.

  Those light brown eyes looked familiar. The way they issued quiet challenge, the chin that held just a touch of a square line. Brandon cocked his head and studied Sergei’s impassive expression. Yeah, they’d met. He felt certain of it. Too many faces filled the clubs for him to remember where, exactly. “Have we met before?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  Brandon shrugged. No, maybe not. He’d remember that accent. Not too many Russians frequented Vegas. “Meet me in front of the stage in ten minutes. You’re working the front of the house.”

  “Brandon?” Natalya asked quietly.

  He didn’t want to look at her. Wouldn’t. He’d already revealed too much of himself by storming into her office.

  His gaze slipped in disobedience and leveled with hers. That same dark color flickered in her eyes, drilling holes in his composure. In one heavy heartbeat the need to stalk across the room, yank her away from Sergei, and kiss her senseless consumed him. His dick reminded him they shared unfinished business, and his body was all too willing to finish it now. He silently swore.

  “About that dance…” She gave him a coy smile.

  “Forget it.” Not in a hundred years. “You’re a housemom, not a dancer.”

  As he turned to leave, he caught the way Natalya flashed her lover a soft, intimate smi
le. The brightness on her face set off the boiling in his blood, and he clenched one hand into a tight fist. Glancing over his shoulder, he met her cool green stare. “No personal calls on my dime. And when you’re here, it’s my damn dime.”

  Her mouth dropped, but whatever protest she intended to try, he squelched by closing her door.

  S

  ergei released a long, slow breath. Almost resurrected. How long would it take before Brandon put the similarities together with memory and discovered Stefan? It would happen—he didn’t try to hold on to the hope it wouldn’t. When it did, he better have his explanations lined up, ready to fire. Coming clean might be better in the long run. The conversation would suck. Digging through the past and confessing all the sordid things he’d not only done, but thought… He’d rather stand in front of a firing squad. But with the truth exposed, he could focus his energy on the case, as opposed to worrying about keeping his cover intact.

  Brandon was a cop. A damn good cop. He’d worked the beat for twelve years almost all of which he’d spent deep undercover. He understood the necessity of keeping identities intact. And frankly, Brandon might have information they could use.

  Still, the chance remained, no matter how dismal, that mannerisms would change. As opposed to treating Sergei like an employee, or even punishing him for standing too close to the woman Brandon wanted—like he’d just done—could fade into awkwardness, or worse, companionship. It might not even be Brandon’s slip. Sergei couldn’t fathom the idea of not kicking back a few beers with his brother once the truth came out. He might very well make the fatal slip that cracked their cover.

  Then there was the matter of Natalya. She’d sense something was off-kilter. Until he knew for certain Dmitri couldn’t, or wouldn’t, harm her, he refused to clue her in. Beyond all the logical agency reasons he shouldn’t, she had more than enough on her mind. Not the least of which was, evidently, Brandon.

  Sergei swallowed a chuckle, but his mouth twisted with wry humor. Some things never changed. Brandon still didn’t know the meaning of defeat. Or for that matter, compromise. He set his sights, and if anything stood in his way, he barreled right through, bent on obtaining what he wanted.