Stripped Read online

  “Natalya. I delivered the flowers as requested. I’d intended to discuss the changes with her then. But she didn’t answer her door.”

  Dmitri rolled his eyes, finding the discussion not worth his time. He’d grown tired of the jealousy within his family, those who couldn’t accept that he’d willingly given his fiancée significant power. Everyone wanted the confidences he shared with her. Wanted to be rewarded for loyalty that surpassed hers by years.

  He couldn’t give it. She was days away from becoming his wife, the mother to his children, and he would not hear another objection about his decision to trust her with the necessary business matters. She’d beyond proven herself as a trustworthy gunman. And she’d beyond proven her loyalty as his lover.

  Annoyance crept into his response. “She probably stopped for coffee. You know very well where she was last night. You were with her.”

  “Yes.” A deep breath filtered through the receiver. “I do know where she was last night. She left with Moretti. Who also wasn’t at home at six am.”

  Dmitri shrugged, his annoyance growing with each accusing utterance. “There’s no crime in meeting with a supposed employer. Gaining trust is necessary. She’ll do what she needs to.” He picked up his Armagnac and took a drink to calm his rising temper.

  “Does that include devouring each other from across the room? Anyone in the goddamn club could have read the ‘fuck me’ in their eyes, Dmitri. I’m telling you she met him last night and it had nothing to do with her job.”

  A chill invaded Dmitri’s blood. He tightened his fingers around the brandy snifter. What Iskatel´ suggested… No. He refused to believe Natalya would betray him. Her dress hung in their bedroom closet—a fifteen thousand dollar gown that had taken her two months to pick out. Their rings were with his jeweler. She would use seduction as she needed, but she would not cross the line into betrayal.

  “I’m sure you’ve misjudged the situation.”

  “There’s no misjudging the hard-on in his pants. Or the two occasions they’ve been locked in his office for longer than necessary. You can think what you want, but after she crushed a man’s chest tonight with her knee—which in itself ought to tell you she’s not thinking about the job—Moretti lit out of here like a dog chasing a bitch in heat. I know him well enough to know what’s going on.”

  To Dmitri’s surprise, Iskatel´’s voice hardened. Confidence emerged. A touch of arrogance as well, which only pissed Dmitri off further. He slugged back another long drink, grimacing against the burn that slid down his throat and pooled in his belly.

  Natalya wouldn’t be unfaithful.

  “I’m not going to listen to you insult Natalya. She’s capable, and she knows what she’s doing.”

  “Jesus. I didn’t want to have to spell this out for you, Dmitri.”

  The silence that followed cast a shadow over Dmitri. The hairs on his arms lifted. His skin crawled. The same way it had when he’d learned his brother had betrayed him two years ago.

  “I saw them. Kissing in his car. And I tell you, she was as anxious for him to stuff his dick inside her as he was to put it there. I can send you the security video of her sucking him off in the elevator, if you really need proof.” Iskatel´ waited a heartbeat before adding in a lower tone. “Now you’ve got a problem. What do you want me to do about it?”

  Visions of Natalya’s soft mouth wrapped around another man’s cock possessed Dmitri’s mind. Not Natalya. He’d given her the world. Offered her the universe. He felt suddenly sick. Violently, desperately ill. His fiancée, the one person he trusted above all others, the woman he loved, had betrayed him.

  His fingers closed around the glass so tightly, the stubby stem snapped in half.

  He swallowed down the bitter taste of bile. As the pain inside his chest let go enough for him to draw a breath, he gritted out. “I want him dead.”

  “And her?” Iskatel´ asked quietly.

  “I’ll take care of her.”

  Dropping the phone, he stared, unfeeling, at the blood that flowed between his clenched fingers.

  B

  randon lay wide awake in his bed, hands fisted into the sheet, sunlight streaming in on his naked body. The damn dreams had to stop. After this morning, he never wanted Natalya to touch him again—not in reality, nor in his imagination. A blind man could have seen she was hiding something. Someone, his mind corrected. If she didn’t want him inside her condo, and she wasn’t concerned about an intruder, that could only translate to one meaning—she knew who was inside. She just hadn’t expected him to be there. And Brandon didn’t doubt for one second the person beyond that door was indeed a him. The evidence stared him in the face. She couldn’t begin to afford the rent on a Turnberry condominium on what she made at Fantasia. Her clothes screamed money. While she didn’t wear jewels, she might as well have been dripping in them.

  Above all else, the way she went out of her way to keep their attraction to each other disguised said everything he needed to know. He’d just been determined not to see it.

  He didn’t share. Wouldn’t share. And he damn sure didn’t want her in his head when crawled into his bed to lick his wounded pride. He lifted his hips to ease the discomfort of what she’d done to him while he tried to forget her. Instead, the sheet slid across his swollen erection, the feeling not unlike the tickle of her hair. His breath came out in a hiss.

  He sat up. Fuck this. She knew something. He’d stake his life on the assumption she was connected to the killer, and he wanted answers. Now.

  Snatching his phone off the nightstand, he stared at the blank screen debating who to call. At eight in the morning, Aaron would give him attitude certain to tailspin him into a hell he couldn’t crawl out of by the time work rolled around. After two relatively sleepless nights, Brandon needed rest, one way or the other, today. He wouldn’t find it by dragging his teammate out of bed this early.

  That left only one other person he could discuss the case with, unless he wanted to call his captain, which was out of the question. Joe’s top would blow like an M-80 if he discovered Brandon had possibly compromised the investigation by letting his dick lead him around by the nose.

  But could Rory handle it? Yeah, he could. He’d probably welcome the opportunity to contribute. Besides, Brandon had promised to call.

  He tapped out Rory’s number, leaned back against the pillows, and waited as the line rang.

  Six tones later, Rory’s voice mail answered. Brandon dropped the phone on the mattress. He raked both hands through his hair, then worked his fingers into the tense muscles at the back of his neck.

  Everything pointed to Natalya. Each day that passed, he had more reason to suspect her. Hell, Aaron knew half of what he did, and Aaron suspected her enough to suggest Brandon follow through on the insane urge to fuck her silly.

  There’s no one else.

  No matter what he’d seen, what solid fact rose in black and white, his disobedient cock wasn’t the only part of him that believed that whispered confession. His mind refused to let it go.

  It grabbed on to one insignificant chain of words the same way it had four years ago when Jon Sampson, age fifteen, swore he hadn’t killed a rival gang member. Jon had the gun that put two bullets in Ricky Suret’s head. His alibi proved false. Hell, they’d found Jon’s DNA on Suret’s clothes. The department had laughed at Brandon’s insistence Jon was telling the truth.

  Six months later, after a speedy conviction, Brandon ran into the real murderer. He’d finally landed the critical evidence to prove, and haul in, Suret’s California supplier. Turned out he’d made a trip to Vegas that afternoon, bringing Suret a fortune in heroine. He walked in on a fight. Jon brought the gun, intending to erase Suret that afternoon. When the dope showed up, things changed. All three shot up until they were out of their minds high. Jon had passed out. And Suret paid the price for stealing from his supplier when the asshole fitted the gun in Jon’s hand and used his limp finger to squeeze the trigger.

  Brando
n had known then, and he knew now, things weren’t cut and dry with Natalya. He saw the goddamn evidence in her eyes. The only time she opened those shutters was when he inadvertently disarmed her with his hands. His mouth. Whatever other part of his body came into contact with hers.

  The rest of the time, she kept everything out.

  And damned if he didn’t understand why. How many times had he locked himself up the same tight way to keep his family’s secrets from surfacing? He’d taken one person into confidence, a girl he’d been pretty hooked on when he went to college. A girl whose tongue was as fickle as her body later proved to be.

  How many times had he witnessed the same closure on his mother’s face?

  Sliding out of bed, Brandon made his way to his living room and the picture of his mom. He picked it up, studying her round cheeks for the telltale tension. He looked in her eyes, recognized the same veil that shrouded her emotions. Her smile lighted her face, but that brilliance didn’t make it to her eyes.

  Faking it.

  He set the picture down, brows furrowed in thought. Witness protection had a way of killing people, even if they physically survived. The fear never went away. The constant worry that someone might overhear the wrong words, pick up on a habit despite dyed hair, name changes, and relocation.

  There’s no one else.

  If Natalya’s agent had dropped in unannounced, that explained why she wouldn’t let Brandon inside.

  No way in hell could he believe a woman who showed such compassion to a hysterical stripper could kill another woman. Still, his instincts said Natalya knew something about the killer. Could it be possible she wasn’t his accomplice, but his victim?

  He needed to gain her trust. If he could accomplish that feat, everything else would unravel accordingly.

  The sudden erratic barking of his neighbor’s dog crashed into his ears, and he swore. While he liked dogs, that particular bundle of fur would push any dog lover into madness. The part shepherd, part elephant had sent their mailman to the hospital last winter when it got off its chain—which it did frequently.

  A flash of gray sped past his front window, and Brandon swore again. Good thing the damn dog liked him, as often as he had to catch it. One of these days he was going to get around to building that fence that he’d suggested the single mother of three erect. He just hadn’t gotten around to barring her girls from using his swing set.

  He dragged on the jeans he’d worn the night before and jogged out the back door in pursuit of the canine escapee. “Opie! Here boy!”

  Three houses down, he found the mutt under a tree, barking its infernal head off at an orange tomcat. Probably the culprit who had a habit of digging in his trash. Though he was sorely tempted to let Opie teach it a permanent lesson, Brandon dropped to a squat and clapped his hands. “Opie!”

  The dog cocked its head, wagged its tail. In one exuberant, saliva-shaking lunge, it bounded toward his outstretched hand. Brandon braced himself for the impact of a large, slimy tongue. It hit him square in the face.

  When he finally managed to get the monster to calm down, he worked his hand under Opie’s collar and found the method of escape. Three chain links still dangled from his collar, the snap still intact.

  “Breaking that chain are you now? Guess I’ll have to bring home something stronger tomorrow.” He gave the dog’s thick hair an affectionate rumple. “C’mon, boy.”

  Fifteen minutes later, he had Opie confined in his owner’s garage and a note plastered to the door to keep them from opening it without warning. As he made his way back to his front porch, a dark stain at the base of his driveway drew his attention. He bent over the spot and muttered at the iridescent sheen of oil.

  It figured. With everything else splitting apart at the seams, why should his engine be immune? Times like these, he’d give his right hand to have his brother around. Over the years, Stefan would’ve saved him a fortune in mechanics bills.

  Grumbling, Brandon retreated to the emptiness of his house. He’d blown his morning to hell, and all he wanted to do was crawl back into bed and get a few hours of shut-eye before he had to open the club. Unfortunately, Derek wouldn’t understand that, and if Brandon intended to get him to MGM to help with a cub, a brief nap was out of the question. He had just enough time to take a shower.

  He scooped up last night’s shirt from the back of his couch, and Natalya’s sweet perfume sideswiped him. Lifting the fabric to his nose, he breathed deeply. His body stirred, memories of her even sweeter flavor flooding his mind. In one strong heartbeat, he returned to the place he’d been in dreams. The exotic paradise where Natalya’s velvety tongue glided against his cock, and the intoxicating musk of her arousal blended with the springtime scent of lilacs.

  His cock filled, and Brandon dropped the shirt to his side with a mutter. Christ. He was damn tired of jacking off in the shower. One way or the other, he’d find his answers. When he did, he’d make sure Natalya understood, very clearly, she’d be spending a lot of time making up for the torture she inflicted.

  Twenty-one

  T

  hough yearning for a shower, Natalya didn’t waste time with the luxury. She dragged on the first pair of shorts she grabbed out of her dresser and yanked a tank top over her head. Two twists of her wrists had her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She glanced in the mirror long enough to make sure her black bra straps didn’t show through the lime green tank, and that the gray cotton shorts accomplished the same trick with her thong. Last night’s makeup, sparse as it was, would have to do. Kate and Sergei needed to know the changes. Now. Satisfied she didn’t resemble a blue-light Kmart special, she shoved her feet into her running shoes, jogged down the hall, and stopped at her purse for her car keys. She rummaged… and rummaged… and scowled.

  Where the hell were her car keys?

  Turning the small satchel upside down, one shake sent the entire contents clattering onto the table. Cell phone, mascara, lip gloss, gas receipt, condo key, Sergei’s condo key, Agency condo keys. No car keys.

  Natalya let out a groan and hurriedly stuffed everything except Sergei’s key back inside, this time adding her Sig to the collection. She needed to stop at Sergei’s, anyway—she’d catch a ride to Kate’s with him. She’d find her car keys later. Besides the jog to Fantasia would eat up too much time as it was.

  Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she dashed into the hall and headed for the elevators. There, one glance at the numbers above the twin cars had her groaning again. Both glowed with Ls for the lobby, and in the five seconds that she ticked off in her head, neither changed.

  She made an about-face and headed for the stairs. His condo was only two floors down. Stairs were faster, and she took them two at a time. Barging onto his floor, her pace accelerated, and her body fell into the natural rhythm of a casual run all the way to the end of the long hall, where she knocked on his door.

  Silence answered.

  “Damn it, don’t tell me you left already.”

  She banged again, a little harder. Okay, a lot harder, just in case she’d caught him in the shower.

  No dice. No footsteps moved behind the door, no voice called out demanding she hold her horses. Sergei wasn’t home.

  She glanced at the door, debating whether to let herself in. If he’d picked up her keys, she knew exactly where she’d find them—in the little box on his dresser that held his extremely out-of-fashion watch. Everything he didn’t want to lose, he kept in there.

  Instead of fishing for her keys immediately, she grabbed her phone and hit his number on speed dial. They’d exchanged keys, but only with the understanding they could enter only on emergency. While she loathed the idea of jogging four miles to Kate’s, not to mention the time it would take, she wasn’t entirely certain this qualified as an emergency. Better to ask.

  Except, as soon as the phone rang, it flipped to his voice mail, telling her he’d, once again, forgotten to charge it. He never turned off his phone intentionally, not even during sex, but
he couldn’t seem to remember to plug the damn thing in.

  To hell with it. Speed was critical, and with three days to stop Iskatel´, this qualified as emergency enough.

  Natalya slid his key into the lock. The door opened to his usual disarray, but even for Sergei, the mess seemed out of place. Dishes in front of the television, newspaper that usually occupied a quarter of the couch covered the floor, and the couch cushions themselves looked like someone had given them a shakedown. One overlapped the other, cockeyed and partially off the seat.

  A rustle in the back stopped her forward progress down the hall. At once, the disarray clicked into place. Not his usual state of organized chaos. Someone was here. Looking for something.

  Standing still, barely breathing, she listened as she reached into her purse and eased out her gun. Another rustle, followed by a muted thump, as if someone had closed a drawer. A masculine mutter.

  Chills coursed up and down her spine. Was it someone with a grudge against Dmitri? Or someone settling a debt with Sergei?

  She proceeded slowly, pistol at her side, reflexes primed for confrontation. Another thump; another drawer. Natalya gritted her teeth against a surge of anger. Screwing with Sergei came as close as it could get to screwing with her. They’d been partners too long. If Dmitri was behind this, she’d find a way to inflict physical damage before she locked him up for the rest of his despicable life.

  Using her toe, she nudged Sergei’s bedroom door open wide enough she could step through. Her gaze flicked to the mirror on the wall at the foot of his bed, its positioning perfect to give her a wide-angle view of the room and the man within. She lifted her gun, prepared to catch him by surprise… and froze.

  Eyes wide, she stared, not at some intruder digging through his belongings, but at Sergei himself. Rather, his tight, bare buttocks, and his sculptured shoulders that bunched and pulled as he strained to hold himself off the equally naked woman beneath him. The thump? Not the drawer—his headboard.