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  “Katerina Slater. I hear she’s commanding Fantasia’s stage.” His low chuckle rasped through the room. “You should bond easily. She’s an Ivanov, of all ironies. Born in an Old Believer Russian village in Alaska. Her parents immigrated from St. Petersburg. You can tell her about Mother Russia.”

  Kate! By God, she hadn’t heard him wrong.

  It took every bit of Natalya’s willpower to pull her hand away from the Sig and reach behind her neck to unfasten her pearl necklace. As she laid it in the jewelry box, she willed her hands not to shake. Though they cooperated, her stomach rebelled with a vicious upside-down-sideways twist.

  There were only so many wrongs she could commit in the name of US Intelligence. Turning her fraternal twin into a rich bastard’s heroin-addicted whore wasn’t one of them. She’d put a bullet between Dmitri’s eyes and willfully blow her cover before she’d risk a single hair on Kate’s head.

  With a sugary-sweet smile, Natalia pulled her sweater over her head and caught Dmitri’s smoldering gaze. “When do I leave, darling?”

  A

  s Natalya approached the bed, the sway of her full pert breasts obliterated all thoughts of whether she wore green or blue or even purple. Need launched through Dmitri. All he could think about was how good she would feel around him. How nothing in this world compared to how she felt in his arms. He rose to his knees, interrupting her path to her dresser for the negligee he’d requested. One hand latched on to her narrow wrist. One tug brought her to her knees on the bed. “Tomorrow. You leave tomorrow.” He caught her hair in his hand, tugged her mouth to his, and drank from the softness of her full lips. The slide of her tongue against his was enough to strip a man to the bone. A shudder rolled through his body, the week he’d spent away from her a torture unto itself.

  The sudden violent need to possess her completely had him dragging her closer. With his free hand he cupped her bottom, urged her hips hard against his erection, and let out a hoarse groan. What he would give to indulge in all the things he really wanted to do to her—his belt would serve nicely tonight. Latch it around her wrists, fasten those delightful hands to the headboard, and take her from behind—ride her hard into oblivion. Thrust inside her glorious ass where she would be even tighter. Ah, fucking heaven.

  But Natalya didn’t know the meaning of submit, and Dmitri had witnessed her expertise with her gun one too many times to push. Though he trusted her implicitly, a tiny, almost insignificant part of his soul feared what might happen if his beautiful fiancée lost control.

  Instead of following through with his fantasies, he tore his mouth from hers to stare into her eyes. “Tonight, though, I will make sure you cannot help but miss me.”

  Indeed, he would take her so many times that when she boarded the plane tomorrow, she could still smell him on her skin.

  Her shiver unraveled him. Unable to form any conscious thought beyond how desperately he needed the feel of her, how he yearned for this closeness they alone shared, he withdrew and kicked free of his trousers. Her soft laughter danced over his skin, pleasantly scraping raw nerve endings as she aided in the removal of his shirt.

  He gave in to a smile. How he had missed fucking her. Missed the love that radiated through the pressure of her hands. “Tell me what you want, czarina.”

  “You,” she murmured.

  For this he could deal with the idiots who failed him. For this he would tolerate the fact her duties required her to flirt a line of seduction to make the contacts she would require in America.

  This singular moment, where the two of them knew no greater paradise than the pleasure of their bodies, was more priceless to Dmitri than any wealth, any power. Struck by momentary tenderness, he lifted up to brush his lips against hers. “Moya lyubov´,” he whispered.

  Yes, love her—the only woman he had ever loved. For that matter, the only thing. What he would do without her, he didn’t know. She made the duties he must carry out possible, and the next few days apart, after so many already past, would be impossible. Yet it was necessary. She alone could teach Iskatel´ how to smoothly make the women subservient. But if Iskatel´ didn’t cooperate with Natalya, or Iskatel´’s ineptitude put her in harm’s way, Iskatel´ would join the murdered women in the grave.

  For Natalya, Dmitri would kill even his own Bratva family.

  He sealed his lips to hers and reclined into the pillows, taking her with him.

  Two

  LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

  T

  hree brand-new, state-of-the-art, boxed cell phones toppled onto the bar, along with three Bluetooth earpieces and a trio of identical black protective cases. Lieutenant Brandon Moretti pushed the jumbled stack across the polished oak and grinned at his gathered team. “I don’t want to hear anymore bitching about outdated technology.” Two pairs of hands shot forward to snatch up the high-tech toys. Cardboard ripped open, instructions fluttered to the floor, and the dim light brightened as LCD touch screens lit up.

  Brandon avoided looking at the untouched packages. A pair of feminine hands should be digging in as well. The fact they weren’t stirred twelve years of undercover instincts and made his gut shift with unease.

  “Shit, Moretti, what the hell am I going to do with this?” Aaron Mayer dangled the earpiece between his thumb and forefinger.

  Brandon gave him a one-shoulder shrug. “You wanted the damned things, you figure it out.” He’d been lucky enough to figure out how to turn his on. A plain-Jane flip phone suited his needs perfectly. But the team had a point—they couldn’t integrate with their new upscale clientele without upgrading. Fantasia was a far cry from Sadie’s, where they’d been for the last year.

  And their new assignment, stopping a serial killer, was a far cry from busting drug rings. The phones weren’t all that needed upgrading—the whole team had adjustments to make.

  He glanced back at the untouched boxes. Where the hell was Rachel? He’d even stopped by her house, only to find it as cluttered as it had been two nights before when they’d all celebrated his acceptance as Fantasia’s manager with too much beer and bad pizza.

  Looking up, Brandon caught Rory Neal’s unblinking stare. Behind a day’s worth of dark stubble, a muscle in Rory’s jaw ticked. Gray eyes hardened, then dropped to the untouched phone and accessories. Scarred knuckles drummed on the bar’s mirror-smooth top.

  Brandon expelled a harsh breath. They all worried. No one would mention it, least of all Rory, but the question loomed in all their minds: What had happened to her? Ten years of exemplary service. Eight spent with the team. And out of the blue she’d failed to show last night, their first night on the job in their new club. With a serial killer on the loose, targeting women who matched Rachel’s blonde hair and china-fair skin, the warnings screamed like sirens.

  “Well.” Brandon pushed away from the bar. Focus them on work. Keep their minds from drifting to the possibilities. “Let’s go over this again. Mayer, what’s the pattern?”

  Aaron hands stilled over his cell phone’s display. “Every two weeks. Cyclical through the clubs. Unless he changes up, Fantasia’s next, and he’ll hit on the twenty-fourth. Always a Friday. Always a blonde. Always the best dancer of the bunch.”

  “Christ,” Rory muttered.

  Brandon’s gaze slanted to where the lanky detective sat. Worried fingers shoved through cropped hair, then grazed down his forgotten whiskers.

  He needed to say something. That’s what friends did—looked to the positive even when all factors pointed to disaster. Brandon pulled in a deep breath. Beyond friendship, he was their lieutenant, and he had to keep his team focused. “Rachel didn’t dance. She doesn’t match the profile.”

  Which made her unexplained disappearance more odd. If Brandon’s suspicions were correct, her boyfriend was sitting at the bar in front of him right now. Her family lived in Vegas—if there’d been an emergency she’d have let her team know. Rachel wouldn’t just bail on a murderer she’d linked to the drug ring they’d been investigating for two ye
ars.

  Rory answered with a jerk of his head that could almost be considered a nod.

  Keep ’em focused.

  Brandon cleared his throat. “Rory, I want you behind the bar. You’ve got four guys who’ve been slinging drinks here for over a year. Use them. Get a feel for the regulars.” He shifted his attention to Mayer. “You’ve got security. No one goes in or out of the VIP rooms without you knowing.” He rounded the bar to retreat into the quiet of his office. At the corner, the frown he’d been fighting all morning wrinkled his brow. He turned it on Mayer. “Stick to Kate Slater like her fucking shadow. She’s got a kid. I’m not letting that bastard touch her.”

  Aaron flashed Brandon a cocky grin. “Got it, boss. That was the plan.”

  “Right.” Brandon tapped a fist on the brass rail. “We open in four hours. I’ve gotta interview this dancer. She’ll be here any minute.”

  The last thing he wanted to do was interview another girl. But Kate had referred her, and Kate knew how to pick dancers that drew crowds. Crowds meant money. If Brandon intended to keep his position as manager long enough to find a killer, he couldn’t lose sight of the club’s bottom line.

  With a little luck, this girl wouldn’t show up with blonde hair.

  He pushed through his office door and dropped into his leather chair with a harassed sigh. This was Rachel’s job—the hiring, firing, and general needs of the girls. As housemom, she knew the right questions to ask. Where the hell was she?

  Pulling his phone off his hip pocket, he tapped the screen to try her apartment again. He dialed from memory, having not yet figured out how to set up his address book.

  Her voice mail answered. “This is Rach! Leave a message!”

  “Where the fuck are you, Rach?” He tossed the phone on the desk with another muttered oath.

  Before the last syllable escaped, a bright electronic tune issued from his phone. He snatched it up, not bothering to look at the display. “Rach! Where are you? Are you okay?”

  “Hey, Moretti.” Captain Joe Cavelli’s whiskey-roughened voice drifted through the line. “I’m sending a car out. They’re going to ask you about your liquor license. You’re not going to be able to find it. I need you downtown.”

  The hair on the back of Brandon’s neck lifted. He leaned forward and crumpled a sheet of paper in his fist. “What’s up?”

  Cavelli paused. The silence stretched out, mingling with the rustling of paper before concluding on a harsh sigh. “I think you better come in.”

  “I think you better tell me. What’s wrong?” Brandon asked, but he already knew. The answer blared in his head. Twisted painful knots behind his ribs.

  “It’s Rachel. Park ranger found her body up near the Canyon around eight this morning. Same MO as your guy.”

  Brandon closed his eyes to block the sudden onslaught of grief. His team. She was his responsibility. He’d done everything according to protocol. Followed his own edicts, made sure she had an escort, and didn’t take her expert marksmanship for granted. Still, he’d failed her.

  “Don’t send the car,” he murmured as he terminated the call.

  The phone clattered against his desktop, and he dropped his head into his hands. Dead. What the hell was he supposed to say to Rory now? Or Aaron—Rachel was like his sister. Hell, she was like Brandon’s for that matter. A replacement for the one he’d also failed fifteen years ago. And now, like that biological sister, Rachel was just as dead.

  “Fuck!” He slammed his palm against his desk, sending his chair rocketing backward. Bolting to his feet, he swiped his phone off and stuffed it into his pocket.

  “I’m sorry, I guess this is a bad time?”

  The husky feminine voice, heavily laden with a European flavor, drew Brandon to an abrupt halt. His head snapped up. His gaze zeroed in on an auburn-haired beauty standing in his doorway.

  She offered him a hesitant smile that turned up the corners of jade green eyes. One delicate hand pointed over her shoulder. “They said you were in here. Told me to come on back.”

  His dancer. Brandon groaned inwardly. He quickly pulled himself together and struggled for a welcoming, professional, smile. “No, it’s fine, come in.” With a sweep of his hand, he invited her to sit in the chair across from his. “You’re Kate’s friend?”

  Impossibly long legs moved across his carpet with a queen’s grace. She seated herself, draped one lithe thigh across the other, and bounced a black stiletto. “Natalya Trubachev.” She reached across his desk to shake his hand.

  Brandon fitted his palm into hers. In one sweeping glance, he took her in from head to toe. What he could see of her anyway. And what the desk didn’t hide tripped his system into unexpected awareness. A V-neck white blouse exposed creamy skin and the high swell of full breasts. Narrow hips barely took up half of the chair. But her smile…

  Her smile robbed him of the ability to breathe.

  Kate had said he’d be pleased. Hell, there wasn’t a man on earth who wouldn’t be pleased. From the tiny gold bangles in her ears, to the perfect white crescents on the end of her long nails, she radiated class. The crisp lines of her clothing hinted at designer names Brandon couldn’t hope to recognize. Yet he saw them daily amongst the elite crowds that circulated the back rooms of Vegas nightlife. Women who had more money than they knew what to do with—so they spent it on larks, voyeuristic escapades, and sometimes not-so-hands-off entertainment.

  Why was a woman like this interviewing to strip?

  “Brandon Moretti.” He pumped her hand, then resumed his chair. “Kate says you want to dance?” Sifting through the clutter on his desk, he searched for her application that Kate had brought in the day before.

  “Yeah. I’m in between jobs right now and could use the cash.”

  Her faint accent caressed his ears like fingertips might stroke his skin. The effect wasn’t all that different either. His flesh prickled, a jolt of energy thrummed down his spine. Blood raced to his groin. Just like that he was rock hard.

  Shit! Appalled by his body’s unexpected reaction, Brandon cleared his throat and shifted his weight to make a little room behind his fly. For God’s sake, Rachel was dead. What was the matter with him?

  He shuffled through another stack of papers. Where had he put the damn thing? It was here somewhere… “I’m sorry. I can’t seem to find the application Kate brought in. Can you tell me if you have experience?” Looking up, he met her gaze. Mistake. His chest constricted, and for a moment, he forgot what she was doing here. Visions of pulling her out of that chair and bending her over his desk, those breasts cupped in his hands, creamy butt cheeks begging him to slide his tongue over their sloping curves, invaded all rational thought.

  “I danced with Kate in college. Didn’t she tell you?”

  Her light laugh jerked him out of fantasy. Kate had told him that. Rachel’s disappearance, however, erased most of the memory of that conversation. Now she was dead…

  A wave of sadness flooded him. Before it could root in, he shook off the news he had yet to share with his team. He couldn’t dwell on Rachel now. Couldn’t grieve until he finished business.

  T

  he flash of sorrow behind Brandon’s tawny eyes strained Natalya’s smile. Worse, it threatened to break through the wall around her emotions. That pile of rock and mortar had been crumbling for the last three days. First Tatiana. Then Kate. Now grief over a loss Natalya’s employment necessitated. If she didn’t get this infernal sympathy under control, she’d get herself killed. “I’m sorry. It’s been a very… long… day.” There it was again. A softening of his gaze that wound her insides together tighter than iron mesh. Lieutenant Brandon Moretti grieved for his team member.

  Dmitri and his hooligans didn’t know they’d offed a cop. Natalya, however, had made a few discreet phone calls once she and Sergei hit stateside. Though Moretti’s captain had embedded him impeccably, the CIA records easily identified the four Vegas Vice members. And this man wasn’t taking the news of Rachel Kensingt
on’s death well at all.

  Natalya cringed inwardly. Why would he? He didn’t suffer the same insensitivity that she’d become accustomed to. Softening her voice, Natalya reached for the compassion she’d left behind long ago. “I could come back later tonight. Tomorrow.”

  “No.” Sitting forward, Brandon folded his hands on the stack of papers atop his desk. “You worked with Kate. That was when? Ten years ago? Have you danced since then?”

  “Fifteen, and no. But I’m quite capable.” Only because Dmitri made her dance for him. She supposed she could consider that a benefit. If he hadn’t insisted on private pole dances, her body would have forgotten how.

  The reproachful arch of a dark eyebrow hinted at doubt. “What makes you certain you can compete with the girls who’ve been doing this for years?” His gaze dropped to her breasts, then slid slowly back up to lock with hers. “Beyond the obvious.”

  Natalya’s body flushed with heat. She crossed the opposite leg over her opposite knee, unsettled by the blatant appreciation in those tawny eyes. How many times had Dmitri looked at her with the same suggestion in his gaze?

  How long had it been since she’d liked being stripped bare with a mere glance?

  The sudden tingling of her skin disturbed her. Moretti could very well be one of Dmitri’s faithful—he had more than one cop on the take. While Dmitri understood her job required a bit of… feminine finesse… he’d only grant her so much leeway. If she gave him a reason to suspect her allegiance, he’d slice her throat before she could see the knife glint. And the way her body was warming beneath Brandon’s heated stare spelled trouble.

  Determined to ignore his blatantly sexual gaze, she focused on the small white scar across Moretti’s chin and dredged up every reason she could think of to convince him into giving her the job. “I danced well. Was the crowd favorite for a while. I held the job all through college, and two years in, the girls were coming to me for dance suggestions, costuming, on-the-spot fixes for breakdowns. Advice on how to handle the more exuberant customers.” She took a breath and began counting items off her fingers. “I hired. I fired. I kept the drugs out of the dressing rooms. I trained the girls on the pole—Kate said you needed someone strong with the pole. My core body strength—”