Stripped (36 page)

I

n an otherwise dark room, Dmitri sat beneath the glow of the Vegas Strip. From his position in the far corner, he possessed the perfect view of Natalya’s door. He glanced at his watch, smiling as he noted she would soon be home. Would she be surprised to find him here?

Or had her traitorous heart come to expect he’d arrive?

He ground his teeth together, leaned forward, and picked up the black-and-white photograph of his beloved tucked beneath another man, fast asleep, her bare legs twined intimately with Moretti’s.

Unfaithful bitch.

He ripped the picture in half. Then in half again and again and again… until all he held were tiny pieces. Opening his fingers, he let the scraps scatter to the floor.

He crossed one ankle over his knee and settled into the thick stuffing of his leather chair. Even if Natalya didn’t know about Moretti’s near-collision with Iskatel´ this afternoon, the chocolates would send the clear message he’d arrived. When she came through the door, she’d grovel. Like the blind, besotted lover he’d allowed himself to become, he’d accept her apologies.

Hold her close. Breathe in the flowery scent of her hair. Fuck her in this chair, then carry her to the bed and make her come again. Cradle her close. Shower her in love.

And then, while his dick was still inside her, he’d wrap his fingers around her delicate neck and choke the life out of her unfaithful body.

The last thing Natalya Trubachev would know in this world was
how it felt to have him possess her. Not her lover,
him
, the man she’d vowed to marry. The man she had sworn eternal devotion.

The temptation to keep her alive, to watch as the drugs claimed her senses and led her into a delirious haze, ran deep. He could still travel to Dubai and enjoy her as he wished. Make her his slave. Listen to her beg. Laugh when she shed tears over the future they could have had together. But the fleeting concern she might
enjoy
one of her Johns kept him from committing her to the same fate that she’d bestowed upon two dozen women.

His lip curled at the bitter taste of bile that rose to the back of his throat. How long had she fucking misled him? How many other men had fucked her when he’d left her at home, convinced she loved him as deeply as he loved her?

Dmitri shoved the vivid images aside and clenched his jaw as his hands curled into tight fists. He glanced down at his watch again. Four fifteen. Any moment now, her keys would rattle in the lock. Maybe he’d get lucky enough to find Moretti at her side. From this angle, he had a clear shot. What pleasure it would be to watch the bastard fall at her feet.

No, Natalya wouldn’t be foolish enough to bring her lover home after receiving the warnings. Moretti wouldn’t die tonight, but his time was limited. Dmitri’s perfect princess would unwittingly lead her lover to his death.

At the thought, warmth overtook the chill in his veins. Maybe he’d keep Natalya alive long enough to deliver the news.

Or maybe, he’d have Iskatel´ fuck with Moretti until Natalya was dead and gone. Watching that man suffer would be almost as satisfying as ensuring Natalya would never again betray him.

Yes. His smile broadened. He’d keep Natalya here tonight. Enjoy her in ways he’d only dreamed of, ways only a whore could be enjoyed. Tomorrow he’d drug her into silence. Wait until she awakened and take his fill of her again. Moretti would worry. His concern would make
him careless. Recklessness Iskatel´ could use to make Moretti disappear. But before that bastard took his last breath, he would lie beside Natalya’s lifeless body. The last thing he’d see was her vacant stare.

Nice. Tidy.

Just the way Dmitri preferred things.

Thirty

W

ith Natalya’s hand firmly trapped in his, Brandon stalked through Fantasia’s empty front room. His singular purpose remained on ushering her as fast as he could to his house, where he intended to finish their argument.

He shoved open the heavy glass doors and half-dragged her into the cool night air. She didn’t particularly protest, but her resistance came with the slowness of her step. The occasional shake of her arm as she tried to dislodge his admittedly too-harsh hold. But he was done with the games. Whatever happened tonight, whether they launched into some sort of unchartered future, or whether they tailspun into solid finality, the games were over.

No more shutters, no more excuses, no more lies.

Or so he told himself as he opened her car door and waited for her to climb inside. Deep down, fingers of ice clawed at his insides, making the prospect of unveiling all his secrets to Natalya slim. He couldn’t tell her about his father, about the danger that surrounded his existence. She already feared one threat—he’d rather lie his ass off than give her reason to worry about another.

He sighed as he pushed her passenger door shut. His brain felt like mush. Too much to process. Not the least of which, this crazy turbulent feeling that pitched him off one end of the emotional scales, only to have the side he landed on toss him high in the air. A goddamned teeter-totter. Not a roller coaster—no those were smooth rides with exhilarating highs and lows and loop-de-loops. This was the teeter-totter
from hell. Every time he thought he found the point of balance and things would level out, some little thing Natalya did shoved him off-center.

He could firmly say he now understood the junkies who claimed they’d crashed and burned.

If he wasn’t careful, he predicted the same end for himself. For God’s sake, he’d put her name and
children
in the same damn thought earlier. Within an hour of leaving Kaycee, he’d found himself admitting her claims that he was toast. He hadn’t put too much protest into Kaycee’s subtle hint of permanency either. Sure, his insides had turned to ice, and his throat had closed. His brain, however, actually formed the picture of tuxedos and white dresses. Natalya—a woman he’d known for three days!

Just like the addicts he’d locked up, he knew the warning signs, understood the risk. And he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t back away from Natalya and just let her be. Treat her like the suspect she
ought
to be, not the victim he suspected.

He let himself in and keyed the engine. Holding both hands on the wheel, he stared at Fantasia’s concrete wall, hating the tension that crackled between them. He’d created it. While she might deserve every bit of his anger, he hadn’t given her the ability to understand where it came from. He’d kept that from her, and from the outside, he looked like a class-A jerk.

He licked his lips and rested his hand on the gearshift between the seats. “I’m going to get this out of the way here, but it isn’t going to change the fact we’re having a conversation when we get to my place.” Edging his gaze sideways, he met her quiet stare. “I’m sorry.”

She nodded, and Brandon mentally kicked himself. So much for smoothing things over. The hours ahead only looked more rocky.

The brush of her fingertips against the back of his hand was so faint he almost took it for accident, until he looked down and saw the deliberate way she’d positioned her hand next to his, the tip of her index finger resting on his pinkie. He curled his pinkie around her finger,
smiling when she lightly squeezed. Returning the subtle affection, hope brimmed.

Maybe he could salvage some of his decency yet. She just had a way of provoking him to extremes.

He breathed a little easier as he released her finger and slung his arm over the back of her seat, twisting to back out of the parking slot. As he turned, his foot hit the brake, and anger blistered all over again.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered as he threw the car into park and kicked open his door.

N

atalya blinked as the dome light came on. What was his problem now? She swiveled in her seat, curious what he’d seen that set him off again. Her stare riveted on a dark red heart, painted on the inside of her window. Sloppily crafted, rivulets of crimson dripped down the smooth glass.

Her eyes followed one long drip down the topmost curve, onto the top of her rental’s velour seat, and all the way into the crease where the seatbelt protruded. Several more splatters slashed the interior, the paint obvious, but the effect clearly intended to resemble blood.

Her mind raced—Dmitri? Iskatel´? Which one now?

The driver’s seat sprang forward, and Brandon ducked his head into the backseat. “Guess this explains why you couldn’t find your keys.”

“Yeah,” Natalya murmured. If Dmitri knew about Brandon, it explained the bloody heart. At the same time, something about the symbol didn’t fit. It wasn’t crude enough. Too… cheesy for her murderous fiancé. He’d be more inclined to draw the thing in actual blood, not red paint.

Which took her back to Iskatel´. Only… Her gaze moved with Brandon’s hand as he reached for something metallic in the seat. Swearing beneath his breath, he tossed aside a condom packet that had been neatly cut in half. Natalya blinked. Iskatel´ wouldn’t cut up condoms. That rang personal.

She pulled herself out of the seat and leaned over to inspect what was behind her back. Brandon’s mutterings increased in volume, his oaths sharp and bitter as he picked up a distinctly used rubber.

Natalya’s gag reflex kicked in, and she wrinkled her face in disgust. A third condom lay in a wadded-up ball, smeared with the same paint, evidently the artist’s paintbrush of choice.

“Well. This is… certainly interesting.”

Brandon shot her a look that said he didn’t appreciate her attempt at humor. Judging by the seriousness of his expression, maybe she should be more concerned about the graffiti. Her stomach rolled in on itself. Maybe Dmitri had run out of fresh bodies. He normally didn’t kill without a reason. And if he weren’t convinced she’d betrayed him, he might try something less gruesome to bring her running into his arms. Then again, if her suspicion Jill and Iskatel´ were one in the same, the heart made even more sense. It carried the distinct touch of catty femininity. Iskatel´ didn’t do violence, which explained the paint even more.

“Do you have something in your purse I can put these in?”

“Um. No.”

“Anything in the glove box?”

“It’s a rental—what do you think?”

“I think someone’s trying to express their displeasure about you and me.”

Obviously. What other message did three mangled condoms, one obviously used—recently at that—and a bloody heart convey? She slid back into her seat and let out an exasperated sigh. “Just leave it. I want to go home.”

No sooner than the words popped out, did her eyes fly open wide.
Home?
Holy crap, she’d just equated Brandon’s house with hers. She held her tongue, praying he’d slide behind the wheel and shut the door, allowing the darkness to disguise her mortification.

Muttering again, he extracted himself from the backseat, wiped his hand on his pants, and climbed behind the wheel. “Yeah. Home sounds good.”

Natalya had to admit, a certain peacefulness descended around her shoulders at his reference to home. How long had it been since she’d felt comfortable within four walls? Like she might actually
enjoy
staying awhile? The closest she’d come in as many years as she could count had been the brief excursion at Alexei’s rat-hole apartment. Even then, that had only come from the escape of Dmitri’s, not from some sense that she wanted to stay in the roach pit. Or with Alexei. He made for a good time, but the man never cracked a smile.

Her thoughts inched back to Dmitri, now more convinced than ever that Brandon was in danger. As misplaced as it might seem, no one else had reason to vandalize her car. She pulled her purse into her lap, her hands seeking security in the firm outline of her gun.

“Hey,” Brandon murmured as he eased to a stop at the edge of the parking lot. His strong fingers closed over the back of her hand, pulled it off her weapon, and tucked it firmly into his lap, where he covered it with his large palm. “You’re safe with me.”

She closed her eyes, wishing beyond all reason she could take comfort in his gentle assurance. If the circumstances were different, if she wasn’t trapped in a deadly game of espionage, she’d believe his assertive claim. Any girl would feel safe and protected with Brandon Moretti at her side. Just not her. She was in too deep. Over her head.

And if she didn’t find a way to extricate herself from Brandon, he’d pay for her crimes.

T

he way Natalya had reached for her gun twisted Brandon’s heart so painfully he wasn’t sure it would ever unwind. His thoughts cycled back to his mother, the sound of her tears when she awakened from nightmares. The muffled sobs had awakened him more than once through his teenage years. Sometimes he still heard them now, when his house was quiet and dreams he couldn’t remember jolted him awake.

He tightened his grip around Natalya’s hand, wanting nothing more than to absorb her fear and free her from that prison. Instead, he opened her to more danger. The painting in her backseat evidenced that clear enough. Smashed chocolates might have been directed at her, but this was a message to him. A personal message. One that made him question how anyone might know he’d be inside
her
car, and why that person hadn’t vandalized his.

The obvious answer lay in the supposition the mess happened sometime last night, when he’d taken her home. She’d lost her keys that night. She’d probably left them at Fantasia. Sometime between when they left through the casino and when he dropped her off at the club this evening, the culprit had seen an opportunity.

The other obvious answer screamed like a siren.
Jill
. It was beyond time to talk to her. He should’ve sucked it up and dealt with her jealousy at the first symptoms. Now, he’d let it go too far, and once again, someone paid the price for his failures.

Another reason he and Natalya couldn’t just pretend
I’m sorry
fixed everything.

He weaved through the Vegas traffic and headed west, toward his neighborhood. The silence they shared lacked the earlier tension, but it was still a far cry from comfortable. Too many things needed to be said, none of which could be resolved in the short distance to his house. So he drove, lightly holding on to her hand, willing her to find faith in him. Faith he, himself, had begun to doubt.