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  His body tightened like a whip. The same tension edged his words. “I’m not playing any more games, Natalya. We’re already fucking involved.”

  Before she could craft something to say that would soothe his brimming anger, he blew out a hard breath and the tight muscles against her back relaxed. “How about a late-night breakfast? No pressure.”

  Natalya stared at the crinkled fabric around his bicep as reason warred with yearning. Sergei was absolutely convinced Brandon didn’t work for Dmitri, and her reasons for suspecting him were rapidly dwindling. No hired goon would think of putting limits on what she could, or could not do, much less deny her phone calls with Dmitri half a world away. Dmitri would choke the life out of the first idiot who tried.

  Which took her right back to the danger she posed to Brandon. Jill made it perfectly clear they were watching her. That she’d seen enough to, at the very least, raise her suspicions. What Brandon wanted, what Natalya wanted—forbidden fruit. They’d already gone too far. This had to stop now.

  “Natalya?” he murmured as his fingers pulled through her hair.

  A smile played at her mouth as another thought occurred. She wanted to know more about Brandon Moretti. Wanted to bask in his dominating, masculine presence a little longer. As long as a table separated them, if questions arose, she could always claim it was a working dinner. Part of her efforts to keep her true intentions—as Dmitri knew them—hidden from her employer. Breakfast was safe. The casino had eyes, but those eyes would look elsewhere if she didn’t give them reason to pry. Reasons like being locked in her office, bent over the desk, Brandon’s cock buried in her body as he worked her into a frenzy.

  She turned her head to meet his sated gaze. Her nod consented. Her words, however, set boundaries. “I don’t think it’s wise if we’re seen leaving together. There are… people… here who wouldn’t appreciate it.”

  “Fine,” Brandon grumbled. Backing off her, he eased himself out of her and bent over to pull up his pants. In seconds, he was dressed, that fantastic body cloaked from view. “Meet me at the roulette table near the Simple Kitchen.”

  Natalya eased upright and hastily buttoned her shirt. As she grabbed for her skirt, Brandon stopped at the door. The profile of his jaw worked for a handful of seconds while he chewed a thought. “I’m not into sharing. If there’s someone else…”

  Though he couldn’t see with his back to her, she shook her head. “There’s no one else.” Not anyone who mattered. Not in her heart. By the time Dmitri arrived, she’d be gone anyway.

  A short jerk of his head closed the subject. “I’ll have Aaron lock up for me. Head out when Kate takes the stage.”

  The door closed behind him. She shut her eyes and sucked in a shallow breath. If he only knew the irony of choosing roulette.

  Seventeen

  A

  s Kate glided past Natalya’s office, Natalya wiped her perspiring palms on her skirt and left her sanctuary. Thirty minutes had never passed so slowly. Each second that ticked by hiked her nerves into overdrive. Breakfast might have been the cover, but she knew she was going to give herself to Brandon—again. She couldn’t wait to feel his body sliding against hers. Although what she was about to do filled her with an emotion she’d forgotten. Fear. Pushing open the clubhouse door, she stepped into the dark, smoky lounge. Excitement ran beneath her anxiety, amping up her heartbeat to a tempo that matched the rhythm of Kate’s undulating hips. She stopped for a minute, admiring Kate’s seductive rhythm. She still had the moves. But a sliver of sadness pricked Natalya as she watched Kate spread her knees, lean back, and dry hump the air. Katey was a mom. She shouldn’t be here.

  If I’d only known…

  She shook her head. She knew now. When this was all over, Kate would never again set foot on a stripper’s stage. Derek and she would live the life Erik had intended for them—a comfortable home, good schools, security.

  Spying Sergei against the wall, Natalya sidestepped around Nightingale, whose costume adjustments had evidently served her well—the man she straddled certainly looked pleased enough.

  “How’s it going? Notice anything?” She glanced surreptitiously over her shoulder.

  Sergei grimaced. “Haven’t seen shit. Moretti’s got me tallying lap dances.”

  A roving glance down the length of his body revealed he hadn’t remained entirely immune to the floor’s display. Smirking, she patted him square in the center of his chest. “Poor thing.”

  He shot her a glare.

  “I’m going to head out early tonight.”

  “Early?”

  With a shrug she hoped came off as indifferent, she nodded. “I’m hungry. Brandon won’t let me onstage—he’d probably have a fit if he caught me out here talking to you. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  She turned to leave. That had gone smoother than planned. At least she completely hadn’t lost her talent for lying. Now to scurry into the casino before Jill’s VIP show came to an end.

  Sergei’s hand locked around her elbow. “Not so fast.” He dragged her backward a step and swiveled her around. His frown penetrated through her confidence. “One of these days you’re going to realize you can’t hide things from me. What are you up to?”

  Damn. She would have to have the most observant partner known to mankind.

  Natalya muttered beneath her breath. “I’m just having breakfast.”

  His gaze narrowed. “With Moretti.” It wasn’t a question.

  When she found sudden fascination with the neon pink light above Sergei’s head, the grip on her arm tightened. “You’re playing with a loaded gun, Natalya.”

  She freed her arm with a sharp twist. “I do that daily. Since when did it become your job to baby-sit?”

  He lifted both eyebrows and looked down his nose in meaning. She knew the reference—Dmitri sent him along to keep her safe. Right now, she chose to overlook that insignificant detail. A matter of semantics, really, given the role had nothing more to do with Sergei’s true assignment than her position as Dmitri’s fiancée.

  Sergei leaned in close and lowered his voice. “Iskatel´ is here. I can feel it. And you’re going to walk out of here with Moretti on your heels? You’re going to get yourself killed.”

  Her temper flared, and her gaze constricted to match his. To prevent the trio of men that had moved behind her from hearing, she slipped into Russian. “Don’t you dare treat me like a rookie, Sergei Khitrovo. I’ve been doing this for ten years—you think I don’t know the risks? Stick to your own job and let me do mine.”

  Joining her Russian, he shot back, “You aren’t doing your job. You’re scratching an itch.”

  “So what if I am?” Her voice rose to a furious whisper. “Three years I’ve pretended to feel. It isn’t fake this time. If I want to have breakfast, hell if I want to be breakfast, that’s my choice.”

  Sergei’s eyes blazed with fire. He snatched her by the upper arm and dragged her close with such force she stumbled into his chest. His head dipped near her ear, his low whisper harsh and scathing. “Your pussy’s booby-trapped. That’s his choice, not yours.”

  She went utterly still, her voice deadly calm as she wedged her arm between them and laid it over his. “Turn me loose or I’ll break it.”

  One finger at a time, Sergei released her. She straightened the hem of her suit jacket with a jerk and lifted her gaze to amber eyes that gleamed with equal rage. “I won’t forget that.”

  The widening of his eyes told her he’d received the deeper message that he’d just crossed a line he couldn’t easily retreat across. Brief regret passed over his face, then quickly disappeared behind a mask of indifference. He dropped his hands to his sides and quietly held her stare.

  “I’m going to breakfast now.” With a tight smile, she spun on her spiked heels and stalked through the sea of drunk and horny men.

  As she rounded the last set of tables, the casino exit a mere fifteen feet away, one overstimulated man made the fatal mistake of reaching out a
nd sliding his hand up the back of her skirt to give her bottom a squeeze. She whirled on him like a cyclone, his face millimeters away from her breasts. Before she could unleash all the rage Sergei had ignited and tell the stranger how many ways he could go to hell, he dipped his nose into her cleavage and rubbed his cheeks side to side.

  For a moment, she allowed the indulgence. Smiling, she even slipped her fingers through his hair, rumpling it, drawing him closer, before she dropped her hands to his shoulders and pursed her lips. With every bit of strength her veteran body possessed, she cocked her knee and drove it into his chest.

  The resulting crack granted bone-deep satisfaction.

  Fuck you, Dmitri.

  His yowl, however, said she’d gone too far. Before his buddies could recover from their openmouthed gaping, she turned her back on the man’s wheezing cough… and ran straight into the solid wall of Brandon’s chest.

  He looked to her, to the doubled-over man, back to her. One dark eyebrow arched in reproach.

  Natalya shrugged. “He put his hands on me.” Twisting to bypass Brandon’s wide shoulders, she maneuvered around his too powerful body and marched to the doors. One violent shove sent them clanging into the wall. Without so much as a backward glance, she abandoned the pumping bass and the rapidly gathering crowd, slowed her pace, and headed for the roulette table.

  Breakfast alone didn’t hold the same appeal. But the chances of Brandon joining her, or that he’d be anything less than enraged by her uncalled-for assault, pretty much spoiled all hope of companionship.

  Oh, well. Breakfast alone was still breakfast, and she could use a good meal. Besides, Sergei was right—she was booby-trapped. The best thing Brandon Moretti could do was stay away. Far, far away.

  I

  n twelve years on the force, Brandon had seen chest kicks knock the wind out of many people. He’d witnessed a punch stop a man’s heart—granted, that man had been on a pacemaker. He’d even seen roundhouse kicks crack ribs. But he had never seen someone break a man’s sternum with one strategically placed knee. He passed a hand through his hair as he watched the paramedics wheel the businessman out of the club. He didn’t know whether to be impressed, or whether he should fire Natalya on the spot.

  He wanted to fire her. If Fantasia didn’t end up in the middle of a lawsuit over that stunt, it’d be a miracle. But the street-hardened cop that walked the edge of the law and tended to shirk policy more often than not, couldn’t stop chuckling. The sound stayed locked inside, despite the tickle in his lungs.

  Damned impressive. He’d have to ask her where she learned that move.

  Glancing at his watch, he cursed. If he didn’t hurry, he wouldn’t be asking her anything. She’d left forty minutes ago. By now, she probably assumed he didn’t intend to show.

  She couldn’t have been more wrong. After that little display, a hurricane wouldn’t have kept him away from breakfast with the fascinating, sinfully sexy, Natalya Trubachev. Not to mention, seeing her manhandle the client had twisted his libido into overdrive. Although he’d had her less than an hour ago, his cock wanted more of that sweet treat.

  He stamped down a rush of anxious energy, reminding himself he was investigating a possible killer. Despite his current inability to control his arousal, each moment he spent with her, he became more convinced she was hiding something that pertained to his case. Breakfast had been part of his plan to draw her out. Coax her into conversation, grill her about Russia, and hopefully, find a few links.

  If he couldn’t find those links, he’d have to dig deeper. Pry her open a little more. His cock twinged at the thought. Yeah… pry her open…

  He scowled, perturbed with his body’s one-track course. Meeting up with her now had nothing to do with really wanting to get to know her better. Her body—fuck yes. The rest of it? Emotional baggage he couldn’t afford. He’d already exposed too much of himself in her office.

  No, for the next several hours, assuming she hadn’t left the casino, he’d keep her talking. When they finished talking, he’d fuck her out of his system.

  Spying Aaron near the stage, he waved a hand. “I’m off.”

  The wry twist to Aaron’s mouth stirred Brandon’s annoyance. For whatever reason, his best friend found this amusing. For God’s sake, it had been Aaron’s idea to cozy up to Natalya. He knew better than to think this little get together was anything but investigation.

  Yeah. Investigation of curves and skin and what all else would make her mewl like she had when he was fucking her.

  Brandon squelched the annoying voice in his head. Thoughts like that wouldn’t keep his focus any clearer. It was difficult enough to remember she was the lead suspect when he got within five feet of her. When he touched her—he damn sure wasn’t thinking. Period.

  “Where are you off to, baby?”

  Before Brandon could pull back from his thoughts and focus on the woman standing in front of him, Jill shimmied against his body. Still dressed in her short silk robe, the heat of her skin soaked through his lightweight dress shirt. Her thigh slipped between his, and she lifted her leg to rub the length of his cock. Strangely, he found himself completely immune. Though the woman drove him bat-shit crazy, his dick had still been aware of willing woman. Until now.

  No. Until yesterday. When Natalya Trubachev arrived wearing power suits and the most enticing, sweet, lilac perfume known to man.

  Must find out if it’s lotion.

  He stepped back, annoyed with the thought and the woman in front of him. “To eat.”

  One long red fingernail slid over the buttons on his shirt. “I know where there’s a buffet.” She dipped her chin, set her teeth into her lower lip, and looked up through unnaturally long eyelashes. “We can take turns helping ourselves to dessert.”

  How had he ever slept with this woman? Good Lord, had he really been that desperate? He set his hands on her shoulders and guided her out of his path. “I want real food.”

  A shadow fell over her face, reminiscent of the dark cloud he vaguely remembered when she’d caught him staring at Natalya. It struck him then that Jill, when her true colors showed, wasn’t the least bit pretty. She looked almost… sinister.

  Bracing one hand on her hip, she cocked her weight on one tall heel and jerked her chin toward the casino’s exit. “Running after a new piece of tail, Brandon? That one wags like all the rest, but it’ll cut you to pieces.”

  He slowed to a stop and gave her a dubious look. “What?”

  “She’s got money written all over her. If she’s working here, it isn’t her money.” A nasty laugh escaped Jill’s thinning mouth. “She’ll give you a ride. A good hard ride. Then she’ll buck you off in the mud.”

  Too many years of necessary suspicion wrenched Brandon’s gut into a knot. Had Natalya lied when she’d said there wasn’t anyone else? He’d made the mistake of forgoing all the lessons street life taught him and taken her at her word. If she was their killer, lies would come easy. Hell, he hadn’t even been looking at her face when he’d accepted her answer.

  But he’d been staring into her eyes when she’d told him she’d never been in a position to consider children. Unless this mysterious man Jill hinted at was in his eighties, or married, if she had a sugar daddy, she’d had plenty of opportunities to consider children.

  On the other hand, if her blank file indicated witness protection, as the larger part of his conscious suspected, he could relate to her position. If she was on the run, she wouldn’t put two thoughts into kids and family.

  He frowned, the clamor in his head too much after an already long and eventful night. He gave Jill his best, self-assured smile. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep it in mind.”

  With that, he left Fantasia behind and fell into pursuit of the longest legs his hands had ever had the pleasure of touching.

  Eighteen

  T

  wenty on red.” Natalya set her last four chips on the table. Forty-five minutes at the roulette table, and as odds would have things
, she’d lost everything. She ought to give up and go home. Brandon wasn’t coming, and she’d be lucky to have a job tomorrow. Which meant she’d have to tell Dmitri that Fantasia wasn’t cooperating, and the next person in a body bag would be Brandon Moretti. Her shoulders slumped.

  The press of a warm, hard chest against her back brought her upright. The scent of sweetened spice, combined with a faint touch of smoke, made her belly flutter. She knew that smell. Brandon.

  Her heart stumbled into her ribs.

  His knuckles brushed the undersides of her arms as he slid his hands around her waist to grab the table. He leaned in, aligning his body with hers, pressing his weight against her from shoulders to thighs. His cock nestled between her buttocks. Warm, moist breath caressed the sensitive skin at the base of her ear. “That’s a pretty safe bet for a woman who just cracked a man’s chest.”

  A ridiculous heat spread through her body, and she sucked in a shallow gasp. Oh, she wanted to touch him. Wanted to lean back against those corded muscles and draw his arms around her belly. Rub against that hard ridge between her cheeks and feel him deep inside her again. Turn and set her lips on his. He had such a soft, assertive mouth. She could kiss him for hours. Days.

  “No more bets.”

  The croupier’s call reminded Natalya of the unseen eyes that filled St. Petersburg’s halls. She fastened her attention on the spinning wheel and moved out of the direct heat of Brandon’s body.

  He stepped up to the table at her left, the padded rail pressing into his loose black dress pants and smoothing the fine fabric against one thick thigh. The hand that had been under her right arm slid around her waist to settle in the small of her back. In his left hand, he held a one hundred dollar bill, which he wagged at the croupier. “One black.”

  The croupier tossed him a black chip as the ball she’d bet on dropped into the red 16 pocket.

  Brandon’s grin was instantaneous, as was Natalya’s light laugh. She wrinkled her nose. “Safe paid off. I doubled my money.” She accepted two, twenty-dollar yellow chips.