Stripped (24 page)
Struggling for patience, she returned the phone to her ear. “No, darling, I’ve heard from no one since I arrived. I can’t very well take Kate to Yakov, if I don’t know it’s him. Or where to find him.”
Gravelly laughter filtered through the receiver. “My love, you’re priceless. I’m sorry, I thought you already knew. Yakov is Nikolai—we visit his lake house each summer.”
Nikolai Botkin. Damn! Now that he’d said it, she
should
have known. They’d openly talked about the project. But the two men did it so comfortably, using all the code words Dmitri insisted on to keep the household staff from overhearing, Natalya had even missed the conversation.
“Nikolai is here?”
“He’s been in the States since we returned to Moscow this
summer.”
“Oh.” She forced a light laugh. “Well, I feel silly.”
“Don’t, my love. It’s my fault. I should’ve told you more.”
Gingerly she tested the waters. “And… Iskatel´?”
Another round of laughter reverberated in her ear. She sat silent, waiting for his amusement to fade, all the while wanting to reach through the line and choke him to death. When he finally managed to get his humor under control, he coughed.
“It isn’t obvious?”
“No,” she grumbled.
In Dmitri’s classic, twisted sense of humor, he laughed again. She could feel his wide grin.
Damn it, Dmitri, this isn’t funny!
“I’m not going to tell you. The surprise is too good to be true. You’ll kick yourself when you make contact… and you’ll be quite pleased Nikolai chose someone so well.”
The urge to scream possessed her. She gripped her phone so tight she feared the plastic casing would crack and bit down on her tongue to stop the belligerent sound.
“Damn,” Dmitri muttered. “I’m sorry, my love, I must go. Someone’s ringing in. I’ll call you tonight, and I’ll see you in three days.”
“But—”
“I love you, Natalya.”
He disconnected, relieving her from uttering the lie.
Natalya stared at her phone, unable to believe the cruel twist of fate. Dmitri was coming to Vegas. She had three days to put the last piece of the puzzle together and stop his despicable human trafficking. Three nights before dawn gave her life or sealed her tomb.
Three days.
N
“What?” he snapped.
“Sorry to bother you.” Iskatel´’s tone was suitably apologetic.
A tiny bit of Dmitri’s frustration slipped off his shoulders. He huffed out a breath. Iskatel´ still had much to learn, but progress couldn’t be overlooked. Scolding overmuch would only reverse things. Still, the interruption warranted a correction. He tempered his tone, but left a deliberate edge in his voice. “I was talking with Natalya. What do you need?”
“That’s what I was calling about.”
“About Natalya, or about what you need?” Slowly, he sat forward, a frown gathering on his brow.
“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
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.
Brandon 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!”