In For the Kill (5 page)

No, that had been a wake-the-dead bellow, like a maddened bull.

He shifted into reverse and backed to where she stood. She jolted into movement, wrenched open the car's back door.

“Did you forget something, miss?” he asked.

“Yes.” She slid inside before she could chicken out. “I forgot where I was going. Will you take me to 233 Hauser Street?”

The driver looked perplexed. “It'll have to be a new fare. I already zeroed out the meter.”

“That's fine.” The vehicle surged forward. Her heart was bruising her ribs from the inside. Oh, God, oh God. She was about to smash herself full-on into a brick wall. Just to see how it felt. For the pure, bloody, messy, masochistic fun of it.

What the hell. She was no stranger to pain.

 

Amazingly, Kang dared to peer out the window again, tempting Josef to kill him now before he fucked things up any further. “I told you, get
down!
”

“She won't see me,” Kang said, his voice defensive. “She's in the cab again, turning the corner. So's the van. Chan Yun's following.”

Josef bolted for the window.
Fuck.
He seized the walkie-talkie. “Chan Yun!” he barked. “You're following her cab?”

“Yes,” Yun replied. “They're a block ahead and heading north.”

“Keep on them,” he snarled. He'd been so primed to touch her.

His cell vibrated. His boss. Micromanaging, as always. “Yes?”

“Have you questioned her yet?” the vor demanded.

“Not yet. She arrived, but got back in her taxi and left again without coming upstairs.”

Cherchenko was silent for a beat. “So. You lost her. Again.”

“No, sir. I have never lost her. Chan Yun is following the—”

“And you trust that snakehead filth?”

Josef's nostrils flared. “He's competent enough to follow a cab.”

“Can it really be so difficult to subdue a little doe-eyed hundred-and-ten-pound cunt, Josef? Have you lost your touch?”

“She was up all last night with her upstairs neighbor, packing and trying on clothes,” Josef said through his teeth. “The night before, the landlord had a barbecue on his lawn and half the neighborhood was there until dawn. Before that, she was up at Steele and Janos's residence on the Washington coast, and I could not risk—”

“There's a great deal you do not risk, Josef. Because I am the one who carries the risk. I took a risk on you when you brokered that deal with the Georgians for the generators, remember? I risked twenty-eight million euros, and where is it? Have I seen it? I am the one fronting the fee for your snakehead patsies, too, so do not talk to me about risk.”

“I will earn back that money for you ten times over,” Josef said.

“Yes? And while you hypothetically multiply my cash, my sons are left unguarded. Sasha got away, Josef. He went straight to the press.”

“The press?” Josef was aghast. “But Aleksei and Andrei—”

“Are fucking fools. Aleksei barely caught him in time. He was with a journalist. We recovered an envelope. Full of photographs that would have ruined us all, including you, my risk-averse friend. He knows exactly where The Sword of Cain is hidden, that lying piece of shit. Six years, he's fucked me over. My own flesh and blood.”

Josef was startled. Sasha? He would never have thought that frail, wasted bag of bones would have the nerve. “Is he dead?”

“No, unfortunately,” the vor growled. “The journalist, yes, but Sasha is still at large. Aleksei lost him. You must come back. Hurry up with this job, Josef. It is getting less important by the minute.”

“Yes, Vor,” he said stoically. “I will take her tonight and return.”

“Get your answers however you must; but afterward, I want your snakehead goons to chew up what is left of her and spit out the bones.”

Josef relaxed. “Of course. They specialize in that very thing.”

“Film it,” Cherchenko ordered. “Record every moment. With good light. Every detail. Every scream. Every cut. Make it ugly. Make it last.”

Josef paused, mouth dangling. “Ah . . . Vor, documenting the event in that way would be extremely risky—”

“It is an absolutely necessary risk. Sasha must watch. I will set the footage to loop endlessly, tape him to a chair, and lock him in a room with it. Then he will understand the price of disappointing me.”

The implied threat hung heavy in the air after the boss hung up on him. Josef stared into space, feeling a muscle in his cheek twitch.

He had fully intended to let the snakehead thugs do the honors, both men being stupid and self-destructive enough to fill the girl's orifices with their genetic material with no thought of consequences.

But he might have to join the fun. A soft, squealing target upon which to channel his rage would ease the sting of the conversation he'd just had. Until he could make his very favorite fantasy a reality.

The fantasy that starred Pavel Cherchenko, spread-eagled, staked out. Alive, moaning . . . with all his skin removed.

C
HAPTER
3

T
he light was on in Sam's living room.

Sveti stood in the shadows of the shaggy rhododendron bushes that flanked the porch of his bungalow, feeling the seconds tick by. She could call another car, and stand shivering in the dark waiting for it, but why? The bellow that had risen up from inside her outside her apartment would just start to howl again.

She had to throw it a chunk of meat, or it would rip her to pieces.

At least he hadn't gone out drinking, or to another woman's house. He couldn't have been back for more than a half hour. Not enough time for a booty call. She propelled herself up the steps. Poised her finger over the bell. Froze, without pressing. Her finger shook.

Oh, God, this was stupid. She'd known that if Sam got her alone in a room, he would seduce her. She'd taken deliberate steps to prevent it while desperately hoping it would happen anyway. It was so confusing, so messed up. Rocks and hard places, wherever she turned.

A shadow flickered behind the curtain. The door jerked open.

Sam had changed into sweat pants and a frayed, shabby T-shirt decorated with a faded stencil of Mt. Hood. His big, thickly muscled body looked as formidable in sleep rags as it had in the elegant suit.

He looked blank. Seconds ticked by as she floundered for something to say. Her English had deserted her. It happened when she was scared. Which was to say, mostly when Sam Petrie was around.

Sam's thick, winging brows drew together. “What the fuck?”

“I . . . I . . .” She licked her very dry lips. “Can I come in?”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you here to put me out of my misery?”

She tried to parse that. “Ah . . . in what sense? I'm not sure if—”

“If you walk through this door, the only way out goes through my bed.” He paused, waited. Prompted when she didn't reply. “So?”

She goosed herself into action and floated past him into his house. Excitement clenched her lungs, her thighs, her toes. She was in a tunnel that led to his bed. Tunnels were simple. Simple was good. There were no right or left turns in a tunnel. No turning back. All decisions were already made. She could not get lost in a tunnel.

Sam slammed the deadbolt shut and turned his scorching gaze upon her.

She opened and closed her mouth, and blurted it out. “I'm leaving Portland,” she said. “I'm going to Europe in a couple of days. I got a consulting job. Helping big corporations do their bit to combat slavery and trafficking. I'll be based in London, for the next couple of years. After that, who knows.”

His face was a mask. “I see.”

“I'm flying to Rome,” she babbled. “There's a conference on modern slavery in San Anselmo this weekend. I'm speaking on the panels, as an expert consultant. They're giving me an award. For what I did last year, and the follow-up fund-raising and crowdsourcing.”

“That would be the adventure that earned you the death threat?”

She could not meet his eyes. “Ah, yes. The very one.”

He nodded. “Congratulations. Sounds like a dream job. I know San Anselmo. Spent time there when I was a kid, with family. Beautiful place, right on the coast. When did you say you were leaving?”

“Thursday,” she said. “I'm speaking on Saturday.”

His gaze was unwavering. “Okay. Help me out, Sveti. Explain why you're here. You're not here to put me out of my misery. You're here to ratchet it up as much as you humanly can, right?”

She forced air out of her chest. “No.” Her voice was a breathless squeak. “But if it's too awful to endure, you can just throw me out.”

He was shaking his head before she finished. “Too late for that,” he said. “Just tell me what's expected of me. You don't want a boyfriend. That's crystal clear. So what do you want? A sex toy?”

She winced. “No, I want . . . I want . . .” She floundered for words. “I want a friend who . . . who—”

“Who fucks you,” he finished. “You want my fucking services just for the night? Or do you want them extended until Thursday? My calendar's clear. I can fuck you nonstop until Thursday, no problem. Or is that too long term? Is a forty-eight-hour fuck commitment too scary?”

She lunged for the door. “Never mind, if you're so disgusted—”

“Oh, no.” He seized her from behind and startled warmth jolted her body. She'd been primed to shove his arms away, but instead, her fingernails dug hungrily into the thick muscles of his forearms.

As if she were punishing him. Or claiming him.

“You're not going.” His voice rasped against her throat. “Your fate is sealed. Just tell me what you want. Help me not to screw this up.”

She inhaled, hungrily. Aftershave, soap, cologne, beer, the faint, salty tang of his sweat. “I want more of what happened today,” she said. “More of what happened in Bruno's office. I thought you wanted it, too.”

His arms tightened. “Sure I do. But what happened today was me trying to seduce you into being my girlfriend, and hopefully more in the future. That was me going out on a limb. If you don't want that, the vibe changes. I can no longer afford to really give a shit. You get me?”

“Yes,” she said. “But you don't . . . want me to go?”

“No, I don't want you to go.” He pulled her closer, his breath warming her neck. “You're cold. Where the hell's your jacket?”

“I'm okay,” she whispered.

“Can I get you a beer?”

She didn't care for beer, but a drink might relax her. She nodded and followed him into the kitchen. Which was clean, for a single guy.

He pulled out a longneck bottle, popped the cap, and handed it to her. She put it to her lips, trying not to grimace at the sour taste.

He gave her a wry smile. “That good, huh? You prefer a lighter beer? I think I've got a lager in there somewhere. A Corona, maybe.”

“I'm not much of a beer person,” she said. “But it's fine.”

That smile activated the long, sexy grooves that flanked his mouth. She'd found an actual printed picture of him once, in a pack that had documented Edie and Kev's son Jon as he learned to walk. Jon was toddling adorably in the foreground while Sam grinned down at him, beer in hand, sexy eye crinkles on full display. Oh, God, that smile.

She'd stolen the picture. Sneaked it home, to pore over, like a brainless schoolgirl. To say nothing of the insanely large collection of Sam JPEGs on her cell phone. If he only knew how many there were, he would probably be afraid of her. And justly so. The crazy, obsessed girl.

Sam took a swallow of his beer, his gaze traveling over her body with the slow deliberation of a man who had every right to examine.

“A beer looks wrong with that dress,” he commented. “You should have a champagne flute, or a martini glass. You want some brandy?”

She gulped another mouthful of beer, nervously. “This is fine.”

He reached to pull out the pins that anchored her hair, and unraveled it, spreading it over her shoulders. “That's better,” he said. “I've been wanting to do that for years.”

He reached out with the hand that held his beer bottle, and with his extended pinkie, he hooked the shoulder strap and tugged it down.

They stared at her bare shoulder and the dangling strap. She couldn't breathe. He raised the bottle, condensation dripping down the brown glass, and touched her chest with it, right over her breastbone.

She dragged in a breath. “Cold,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “You've been so cold. But check this out.” He trailed the edge of the bottle over her cleavage. A merciless smile curved his mouth as she shivered. “Look what it does to your nipple. The contradictory effect of all that coldness. That's how it's been for me.” He gently tugged until the soft fabric snagged on her taut nipple.

“Please,” she said raggedly. “It's too cold.”

“Don't worry.” His voice was suede soft. “My mouth is hot. I'll fix it. Suffer a little first. God knows, I have.” He seized her hand. Kissed her palm, her knuckles. “Pull the dress down. Show me your tits again.” His deep, raspy voice sparked shivers along the surface of her skin.

She shut her eyes. “Don't turn this into a weird power game,” she begged. “I'm already so self-conscious—”

“Show me you're serious,” he said, his voice implacable. “Call it a statement of intent. I deserve one, after the way you've treated me.”

He stepped back. Lifted his beer to his lips, eyes challenging her.

Her face blazed as she pulled the straps down and worked her arms loose, extricating herself awkwardly. The bustier was skintight. She pushed the cups down over her breasts and looked up defiantly, heart thudding. Breasts bared. “Do I look serious enough to you?”

He stared at her for a long moment and then set down his beer on the counter behind her. “Yeah,” he said. “I'm convinced.”

He seized her hand, never taking his eyes from her body, and kissed it again, then drew her fingertip into his mouth.

The shocking sensation of suckling heat made her drop her beer. His hand flashed out and caught it. He set it on the counter and cupped her breast, rolling the pad of his thumb around her tight nipple. The contrast of his large, darker hand against the swell of her pale breast made her breathing ragged. Those long, graceful fingers.

“Why me?” he demanded.

She was startled by the abrupt question. It seemed so incredibly obvious. “What do you mean? Why not you? Who
but
you?”

He snorted. “Why not me, she says. I've done nothing but bug you since the moment you laid eyes on me. You bust my balls whenever I get close enough to talk to you, which is almost never. Do you subject every guy to that kind of treatment?”

“Ah, no, actually,” she admitted, abashed.

“Of course not. I knew I was special. So why me? Why not some guy you like better? That ass-bite Cattrell, for instance?”

“Josh?” She shook with a helpless giggle. “Josh is not an ass-bite!”

“They say you had a thing for him,” Sam said. “He's good looking, he has a job, he's obviously straight and has a functioning libido. Any guy with a pulse could perform for you, Sveti.”

She shook her head. Her disillusionment about Josh had seeped in so slowly, she'd never needed to verbalize it. “It would never work,” she said. “Not for me, and not for him. I'm too far behind. I always miss the beat, and people have to explain the punch line of jokes to me, because I never laugh in time, and then when I get it, it isn't funny anymore. Josh likes with-it girls who get his jokes. I'm sure if I begged him, he'd oblige me. But I don't want a mercy fuck.”

He let out a harsh bark of laughter. “Not a term I would put in the same sentence with you, Sveti.”

“I would, since we're being brutally honest,” she said. “You said it yourself. How I'm so heavy and serious, dragging my ten-ton weight around, killing everybody's buzz. I'm no fun at parties, I'm boring to—”

“You're the farthest thing from boring that I've ever met,” Sam cut in. “You rocked that party for me. First, you attack a mafiya vor. Ten minutes later, you're bare-breasted and lubing all over my hand. You're a fucking force of nature.”

“Don't. Don't make this into a joke. I'm trying to get this out, and you're not helping.” Her voice quivered with frustration. She'd tried so hard to keep her boring insecurities at arm's length, so as not to jinx this moment, but so much for that. “Men are afraid of me, just like you said. Afraid of the bolt cutters under my skirt, or afraid to say the wrong thing and make me hate them for being shallow, or else they feel guilty because their parents are still alive and they never experienced bad things like I have. They're all waiting for me to start twitching and frothing. I always know when a guy finds out about my past. I can see it in his face. It's a huge turn-off.”

“Sveti, it's not—”

“But it never seemed to be one to you,” she rushed on. She had to get the thought completely out, or it would burn a hole in her head. “You're not afraid to say the wrong thing to me. You love setting me off. The more upset I get, the more you like it. You sick, twisted bastard.”

He whistled, softly. “Wow. Intense.”

“Yes, it is,” she barged on. “That's why you, Sam. I chose you for that special, unique quality. Since you insisted on knowing.” She braced herself, for him to be angry, or disgusted, or offended.

Her gasp choked off as he yanked her into a swift, hard kiss.

His mouth tasted of beer. Sex, hunger, hot, unbridled fulfilment. His tight, fierce grip, hot skin on skin, his hardness and solidity and musky male scent. His thick erection, prodding her belly. She clenched her lower body around the shivery, melting sensation. Knees gone soft.

After a moment, he pulled back, his breathing unsteady. His eyes glittered in the dimness. His pants tented out to an alarming degree.

“Unless you want this to happen on the kitchen counter, I suggest we take it upstairs,” he said. “That's where I have the condoms.”

She nodded. He engulfed her hand in his and led her out of the kitchen. She stumbled as she tottered up the staircase. He slid his arm around her waist to steady her.

It felt good. So warm, and strong.

 

Sam bypassed the light switch by the door, leading her into the dark bedroom. That light was too bright, too harsh. It would spook her. He had to keep this cool, keep it mellow, whatever “it” turned out to be.

This development totally blew his mind, which sharply compromised its function. It was years now that he'd been mentally rehearsing getting Sveti into his bedroom. She was finally here.