The Assassin's Salvation (Mandrake Company) (14 page)

“I…” A hint? A hint to who had put out that bounty? She had to have that. That was why they had come. But what if he was bluffing?

So what if he was? She spent forty-five minutes in a chair, getting massaged by Spartak?

The masseur was watching her from across the pool, spice-scented steam swirling in the air. Earlier, his gaze might have been indifferent, but it had grown sharper, and it was roaming up and down her figure now. Heat flushed her body again, intensifying in her groin, making her want… she wasn’t sure. To be admired? To be touched? Even as she acknowledged that this wasn’t like her, that she was a shy person, not a person who flaunted anything in public, she walked slowly around the bubbling pool and toward the chair. She even found herself swaying her hips like that woman in the locker room. Spartak smiled, and so did Fergusson. That made her feel good. Desirable. Hot.

“What’s the hint?” she whispered as she passed Fergusson, afraid she would forget to ask later.

He reached out and stroked the back of her thigh, and she paused, tensing at his touch, a flash of sanity returning. What was she doing? Planning to join in some orgy with these people?

The floating pitchers poured more water onto the braziers, and fresh steam flooded the room. Not just steam, but that intoxicating scent, as well. It was stronger over here in the center of the room.

Spartak appeared in front of her and took her hand. “Nothing to fear, ma’am,” he murmured. “I am a professional. You’re safe here.”

Jamie wasn’t sure if it was because of his words or the extra dose of that scent, but her body loosened, and she let herself be led to the chair. In the back of her mind, she knew she was being manipulated, but she couldn’t manage the outrage to stalk out. Why would she? It felt good having these men looking at her, and the soft groans of pleasure coming from the tables promised that the masseurs knew their art well. And the more intense groans coming from other parts of the room… well, they didn’t bother her as much as they had when she first walked in. Indeed, as Spartak sat her in the chair, which was angled so she faced the male couple licking and biting each other, she found it hard to look away. When the strong hands gripped her shoulders, kneading her muscles, she melted into the frame of the chair and all thought of leaving the room fled from her mind.

“The hint,” Fergusson murmured, “is that you’d have to find someone who loved Felgard a lot more than I did to bother with placing a bounty.”

Jamie stared at him.
That
was her hint? Did Fergusson even know anything or had he just wanted her in the chair? Not that he was getting anything out of her being there. Aside from that grope. She should have slapped him away. Been thorny. That’s what Sergei would have said.

The thought made her look for him. For a moment, she had forgotten about him. That didn’t seem right. He was still standing in the mouth of the hallway, not watching anyone in the pool this time, but watching her. His face was stony and hard again, the bodyguard returned. The
assassin
, she reminded herself. The rest was a ruse, as least when it came to her. She tried to find some message in his eyes—was he displeased that she had come over here? Should she leave? That didn’t sound agreeable at all, not with the masseur’s brilliant hands kneading the muscles of her back. Her bare back. Somehow her robe had fallen around her waist. Oh, well. Nobody else here was wearing a robe.

Sergei’s eyes didn’t give her any hints. He actually seemed to be looking slightly above her rather than right at her. Oh, maybe that glower was for Spartak.

“I’ll be interested to see how your transplants help the downsiders singled out by the government,” Fergusson said. “I have more than five thousand workers planet-side in the tropical zone. They supply all the agricultural needs of my spas.” He kept talking about his business and about how Microbacteriotherapy, Inc. could help his workers. Jamie should have been focusing, but the masseur’s hands were distracting her. Or maybe it was the fact that her brain had melted and become utterly useless.

Since Sergei was busy glaring at the masseur, Jamie took the opportunity to admire his lean, ropy frame, the corded muscles of his arms and legs, the scars on his torso. They had to evoke memories of times people had tried to kill him. She wondered at the stories behind them. Missions gone awry? Or had assassins ever stalked the assassin? She wished he wasn’t so far away. Should she invite him over? Maybe he would take Spartak’s place. She wouldn’t presume to ask, but that massage did feel good. It might feel even better from a friend instead of a stranger. Though Spartak did seem to enjoy his work. He was leaning into her now, rubbing her arms, his chest brushing her back, something pressing into her hip. His penis, she realized with a little jolt, that distant part of her brain that was so difficult to access now reminding her that she was amongst strangers and that she shouldn’t be this relaxed. She shouldn’t even be here.

Fergusson had stopped talking. She wasn’t sure when. His head was cradled in his arms and he was gazing over at her, that little smirk to his lips. A couple of new people had hopped into the pool, replacing those who had been sated. How much time had passed? Everything was so fuzzy. She wasn’t sure. Someone was breathing heavily nearby. It wasn’t her, was it? No, it was the masseur. One of his hands drifted from her shoulders to the tie of her swimming suit top.

On the other side of the pool, Sergei shook his head, like he was trying to shake off some malaise. His feet unrooted and he walked toward her. The masseur’s hands stilled.

Fergusson reached out toward Sergei as he tried to walk by. “Where are you going, hero?”

Sergei’s hand snapped out like lightning, catching the other man’s wrist. Twin
ker-chunk
sounds came from behind Jamie, and she remembered the guards. Sergei froze, looking in their direction, at laser rifles being pointed in
his
direction. He let go of Fergusson, but he kept his chin up, his eyes defiant. But his legs were bent in a crouch, and he was ready to spring away if someone decided to shoot.

“Sergei,” Jamie whispered. She didn’t know what to tell him, but she didn’t want him to get hurt.

“Meeting’s over,” Sergei told Fergusson. “You have other clients coming soon, and we need to go.”

“Your boss doesn’t look like she’s ready to go. Why don’t you wait in the hall?”

Jamie tried to push up, objecting to the idea that she was Sergei’s employer and objecting even more to the idea of him being sent away.

An inarticulate rumble of protest came from behind Jamie’s ear, and she found she couldn’t push up more than a few inches. She was pinned by a chest full of solid muscle against her back. “Stay,” the masseur said, almost a groan. He ran his hand down her side, fingers slipping beneath the band of the lower half of the suit. He rocked into her, his penis hard against her butt.

A part of her was alarmed, but another part wanted something she couldn’t quite articulate. But not from the masseur. She reached out to Sergei, hoping he would understand, that she needed his help, that her eyes would tell him something she couldn’t quite manage with words.

He had been staring at the guards, but as soon as his eyes met hers, he strode over. Spartak must have seen him coming, because he leaned back. Jamie sucked in a relieved breath when his hot sweaty chest left her back, but that air was still thick with steam. It made her dizzy, but it was intoxicating and appealing, as well.

“Get off her,” Sergei said.

“Make me, little man,” the masseur sneered.

Little? Granted the masseur would tower over just about everyone, and with those shoulders, probably had to turn sideways to walk through doors, but Sergei wasn’t small in any sense of the word—Jamie smiled as she realized he was close enough to touch now. She reached out with tentative fingers, stroking the taut muscles of his abdomen. Alas, he was busy glaring at Spartak and didn’t seem to notice.

The masseur shifted the rest of his weight off her. Sergei blurred into motion. Jamie wasn’t sure who had made the first move, but the two men came together in a sweaty flurry of punches. She sat back, but before she had even decided to get out of the chair, the battle was done. Sergei stood above the bigger man, his bare foot planted on the meaty chest, a defiant look on his face. Then with a disdainful sniff, he shoved the masseur, rolling him into the hot tub with a splash that almost drained the pool of water. More than a few drops spattered against Jamie’s warm skin.

She checked the guards. They remained alert in their body armor, their rifles pointed in Sergei’s general direction, but they were looking to their boss. Fergusson chuckled, and the men relaxed an iota.

“I knew you wanted to take his spot,” Fergusson told Sergei, then waved a hand toward Jamie as if inviting him to do so.

In the aftermath of the skirmish, more than a few gazes were locked onto Sergei, men’s and women’s. There wasn’t hatred or disdain in those faces, but lust. Spartak was climbing out and slinking away, but Jamie barely noticed him. Like the others, she struggled to look away from Sergei now that he stood in their midst, his prowess so effectively demonstrated. Granted, she had struggled to look away from him before, as well.

She was pleased when he ignored everyone else, Fergusson included, and walked toward her. He looked down at her, and Jamie realized her top had fallen away along with the robe. Sergei closed his eyes. His arms trembled slightly. He took a deep breath, as if fighting for control, and grabbed a nearby towel.

“Let’s go,” he whispered, handing it to her.

Go? Jamie peered up at him in confusion, but he was looking at the top of her head rather than down at her. She reached out, not toward the towel, but toward his waist. She slid her hand up his sleek, warm flesh.

“Jamie,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

He stepped toward her and draped the towel around her shoulders. But she didn’t want to go. She wanted to take advantage of his nearness, to touch his chest, glistening from the steam or maybe the splashed water. Delectable. She leaned closer, pressing her face to his abdomen, inhaling the scent of him. She slid her tongue out, wanting a taste, and traced the groove between his muscles, licking his warm saltiness. His muscles fluttered beneath her touch, and a groan escaped his lips.

“Mia,” Fergusson said, crooking a finger toward the cyborg woman. His voice, husky and full of need, broke through Jamie’s miasma of thoughts, reminding her they weren’t alone. “I do believe I’m going to need you again before the next appointment.” Fergusson climbed out of his chair and walked to the table where the woman turned on her back and spread her arms and legs for him.

“We need to go,” Sergei repeated. This time, his arms went around Jamie, and he picked her up.

Amenable to having his arms around her, she wrapped hers around his neck and shoulders. “Somewhere private?” she murmured, smiling into his eyes.

He stepped back from the chair as he lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around him, eager to see where he would take her. She gasped when something hard pressed against her through the swimming suit. Him. The same as Spartak, but she wasn’t nearly as alarmed at the idea of him pressing against her. She buried her face in his neck, kissing and licking at him, barely aware of the rest of the room, of Fergusson rutting with his woman, of everyone else groaning and coming together in frenzied clashes. Sergei filled her senses. She curled her fingers into his hair, rubbing her face against his neck.

Cool air whispered against her flesh, blowing away some of the heat of her passion. She hadn’t realized Sergei was walking, but they had reached the outer room. A couple of people in suits were swimming laps in the pool. An older woman padded past on the way to the changing room. Her lips pursed in disapproval when she saw Sergei carrying Jamie, or maybe it was the fact that nothing covered Jamie’s breasts. Everyone was wearing suits out here…

She let her fingers fall from Sergei’s hair. By the time he reached the changing rooms, more of the fog had cleared from her head, and she didn’t object when he set her down. A flush of embarrassment crept over her body. What had she been doing? What had all of those people been doing? That whole room… it was nuts. It wasn’t her. It was… humiliating.

“I’m sorry,” Sergei whispered, not stepping back right away. “I should have gotten you out of there right away. Your father will have every right to show up on my doorstep with a rifle.”

She looked up, though a big part of her was so mortified that she didn’t want to meet his eyes. He smiled sadly, touched the side of her face, then walked into the men’s room, the door swinging shut behind him.

Chapter 8

A soft rain fell from the dark sky, washing away the lingering scent of the spa, along with the remaining cobwebs draping across Sergei’s brain. He gritted his teeth as the sidewalk carried them back toward the docks, furious with himself. He had known as soon as they walked into that “office” that the air was drugged, and he had still gone in. And for what? Some vague hope that he might redeem a debt? Kill the man who had placed the bounty on Mandrake’s head that very night? As if he could have touched Fergusson with his men there, standing guard. And with his brain so useless, he had nearly been reduced to a rutting animal.

He never should have taken Jamie in there. What must she be thinking? He could only guess. Only Fergusson’s babbling about what had sounded like legitimate business talk, talk that might interest Jamie and her colleagues, had kept Sergei from charging over and stopping that libidinous excuse for a massage earlier. That and the fact that he had been so busy staring at her exposed flesh and struggling to rein in his hard-on from hell that he could barely think. That drug had addled his mind every bit as much as it had affected hers.

The whole night had been a disaster. His only relief came from the fact that he had gotten Jamie out of there before anything more degrading than some flesh-touching happened. If she had lost her virginity to some hulking masseur named Spartak while in the middle of an orgy… Dear God, Sergei would have had to shoot himself. Forget the father.