Sasha & Andriena #1 (Lovers & Sinners) (15 page)

*

A Sample of

My
Masters’ Nightmare, Season 1, Episode 1
.

(Please note that
My Masters’
Nightmare
,
as a whole, is considerably darker than
Lovers &
Sinners.
Also, it takes place before
Sasha & Andriena #1
).

*

1

RITA

I walked into the hotel bar knowing
there was a strong chance that I would be drugged and kidnapped by the end of
the night. Which was
exactly
why I was there. And why I’d slipped on the
little black dress with two slits up the side, anything to encourage it to
happen. I paused to look around the room, aware I was being watched by more
than just the men in the bar. Four surveillance cameras were positioned at
strategic points, my co-workers watching from outside of the New York hotel,
where only the rich and infamous stayed.

A blond man pushed off a barstool and
headed for me, his cream-colored Versace suit suggesting he was a cut above the
rest of the patrons. He looked familiar, possibly a movie star from one of the
many films I didn’t have time to see, my job as a FBI agent all-consuming,
which was the way I preferred it, so I didn’t have time to think about my
husband. I held up my hand before the man could get a word out, showing him the
wedding ring I refused to remove, the diamond encrusted band lovingly designed
by my husband, who’d been killed by the very people I was going to take down.

To my surprise the man bowed, then
returned to his seat, allowing me to get back to my work. My gaze moved to the
end of the bar, where I hoped Jagger D’Angelo was still sitting—my predator, my
target, the bait for unsuspecting women. And he was the perfect bait, the man
so beautiful he could’ve stepped right out of a Versace catalogue, the suit
looking even better on him than the actor who’d approached me, the light material
covering him a tease to the senses. The mob certainly had picked well, because
Jagger was a work of art.

I frowned as a woman sashayed up to him.
She was drop-dead gorgeous like Jagger, but blonde instead of raven-haired. I
wondered whether she was his target for the night. She glanced over her
shoulder, giving me a better view of her stunning face, which answered my
question. She was too old, mid-thirties at a guess, and from all the data I’d
read on the case the missing women were in their early twenties. I didn’t fit
the profile either, but only on the birth certificate the orphanage gave me. I
was twenty-nine, yet looked like I’d just walked out of my teens, the parents I
never knew leaving me with good genes and nothing else.

My frown deepened as Jagger’s hand
slipped around to the woman’s behind, giving it a squeeze. Was he out with a
lover? But he couldn’t be, because he was supposed to be working tonight, our
informant telling us that another woman was going to be snatched, no one in
particular, the only criteria being that she was beautiful and within the right
age range, although from the intel gathered Jagger tended to prefer blondes,
his wayward hand confirmation of this, which was another strike against me,
considering I was a brunette.

I touched my bracelet, hoping that my
minders could hear everything clearly through the microphones in the baubles,
then headed for Jagger, easing myself between the tables. More men turned to
look at me, one of them getting a slap across the back of his head courtesy of
the woman sitting next to him. The makeup artist had certainly done a brilliant
job on me, the black kohl and gray eye-shadow around my eyes creating an exotic
look. One of the male agents had made a wisecrack that I would fit right into a
harem, but I wasn’t dealing with the Middle East here, the Italian Mafia was my
target.

A hand touched my behind. I turned and
glared at the perpetrator, or should I say pervert with the way the
sixty-something man was leering at me. He was handsome, his silver hair and
laugh lines not diminishing his looks, but the glint in his eyes told me there
was more than one predator working the room. I could read people well, and
right now this man gave off the vibe of Hannibal Lecter. Note to self: get one
of my co-workers to follow him.

“Don’t touch what doesn’t belong to
you,” I said.

“I would be a fool not to,” he replied.
“You have such a stunning body.”

I knew that, and I wasn’t being arrogant
either. I was in the best shape I’d ever been. Over the past six months, I’d
become addicted to exercise, working out until I was past exhaustion, to the
point that I could barely remember my own name let alone my husband’s. But
Matt’s sweet face always came back to haunt me, someone I would never see
again, no matter how much I cried for him, and it was all because of one
person: Frano D’Angelo – Jagger’s cousin.

The silver-haired man smiled wider,
probably because I hadn’t moved, although if he could read faces as well as I
could, he would know not to mess with me, because right now I wanted to kill.

“What is your name?” I asked for my
fellow agents’ benefit.

“Simon Harper.”

“I’m sure I will be seeing you again,” I
said, that one line relaying to my co-workers that I wanted him followed,
because he was definitely a sex offender—no doubt about it.

Not wanting to waste any more time on
him, I headed for a barstool two seats down from Frano’s cousin. Jagger turned
to look at me. Relieved that he had noticed me, I sat down on the stool and
waved at the bartender, who instantly came over. He reminded me of Captain
America with his slicked-to-the-side blond hair, square jaw, and muscles. He
just needed the star-spangled banner suit and he was ready to go.

“What would you like, gorgeous?” he
asked.

“My namesake,” I answered, hoping that
Jagger was listening in.

“And what’s that?”

“A margarita.”

The bartender leaned on the bar, his
rolled up shirt exposing muscular forearms. “I bet you taste better than the
drink.”

I wiggled my ring finger in front of
him.

“Damn,” he said, looking disappointed.

“I agree with that, which is why I
intend on spending the night with as many margaritas as I can handle, or should
I say, cannot handle.”

“Why?”

“I caught my husband in the arms of a
cliché.”

“A cliché?”

“His secretary.”

He shook his head. “What kind of crazy
man would cheat on you?”

“Someone with a taste for blonde
bimbos.” I shot a pretend glare at the blonde woman for effect, happy to find
that Jagger was now openly staring at me. “So, I’m here to drown my sorrows.”

“I can certainly help you with that.”
The bartender winked, then moved away to get my drink. I swiveled around on the
barstool, pretending to survey the room, though unsuccessfully, because
Jagger’s stare drew me straight to him. The blonde glanced behind her, giving
me the evil eye, then took a hold of Jagger’s chin, trying to get his
attention. He yanked free, snapping “
Vai via!
” which I knew was ‘Go
away’ in Italian, or with his tone ‘Beat it’. The woman started talking in
rapid-fire Italian, begging him to ignore me, that she would pleasure him until
he came in all her holes. I refrained from screwing up my face at her
vulgarity, because there was no way I wanted him to know I spoke his mother
tongue. I had learned it from my foster parents, plus my skills at picking up
languages was now legendary in the FBI, one of the reasons why I was put on
assignments relating to foreigners. I could speak French, Russian, Arabic, and
of course Italian, as well as Spanish and German, only the Asian languages
proving more difficult to master.

Jagger continued to stare, his intensity
telling me he wanted to fuck me ... no, he was
going
to fuck me. When my
boss had asked me to take the assignment, I had said yes without hesitation, my
need to make Jagger’s cousin pay all-consuming, but when I was told I was to
become a sex slave to my husband’s murderer, for the first time I was left
speechless, blinking like a stupid airhead as my boss continued to outline my
role. After his long spiel, he’d made me go home to consider every aspect of
the assignment, telling me I had forty-eight hours to decide. Then on D-day,
he’d brought in two families, forcing me to sit and listen to the parents and
husbands of the stolen women, all of them begging for their loved one to be
returned. Up to that point I was going to say no, the thought of Frano touching
me making me feel sick, but after I saw a battle-hardened father break down,
crumbling before my eyes, I knew I had to take the assignment—no matter how
much it repulsed me.

The bartender returned with my drink,
planting his elbows on the bar again. “What does your husband look like?” he
asked, probably assessing whether he had a chance with me.

“An arrogant ass of an Italian with
black hair and striking hazel eyes, far too gorgeous for my own good.”

He frowned, then glanced at Jagger, my
description a perfect reflection of the man.

I refrained from looking, Jagger no
doubt listening in. Instead, I pointed to a customer further down the bar, the
man trying to attract the bartender’s attention. “Looks like you have an
order.”

“Yes, but it’s for you,” the bartender
smiled. “One tall blond who’s getting off at—”

“Sorry, darling, I’ll take the drink but
not the man,” I said, smiling at his pun.

“I taste better.”

“I’m sure you do, but I’m likely to take
my rage out on the next man who touches me.”

Looking amused, he straightened, no
doubt thinking I was no match for his brawn, but my black belt said
differently, although I wouldn’t tell him that, nor Jagger, that talent needed
to remain hidden for the time being.

I pointed at the customer again. “You
really should serve him.”

The bartender sighed, then headed for
the man, finally getting the picture I was so clearly drawing for him.

“Jagger! Stop ignoring me!” the blonde
woman yelled.

I looked to the side. Jagger was still
blatantly staring at me. The blonde moved in front of him, blocking his view.
He placed a hand on her hip and gave her a hard shove, repeating “
Vai via
.”
The woman stumbled into another man, then spun around, giving Jagger a slap
across his face. Jagger shot up out of his stool, making the woman shriek, his
glare promising violence.

“I’m sorry, Jagger,” she said, reaching
out to touch his cheek.

He slapped her hand away, cutting her
down in Italian. The blonde started begging for his forgiveness. I glanced at
her hand, noticing the wedding band, probably the reason why he was with her,
the man obviously having an obsession with things he shouldn’t have.

“
Basta!
” he snapped
enough
.

She pulled a face. “Please, Jagger, you
don’t need her, I’ll be all you want tonight.”

He sniffed. “Leave now or I tell Alberto
what a
puttana
you are.”

“I’m not a whore, I’m your lover, and
he’d kill you if you tell him such a thing.”

“No one’s my lover, and you’re taking a
risk being here. Alberto could walk in at any moment.”

She reached for him again. Jagger
grabbed her wrist, making her cry out, his grip no doubt crushing. I’d read he
was a sadistic bastard, someone who enjoyed inflicting pain, which suited his
role as a slave trainer.

“Leave now, Bianca,” he let go of her, “before
I teach you your place.”

The woman flinched, making me wonder
whether she had firsthand knowledge of his sadism. She wiped at her eyes, then
turned to me. “I hope he ruins you like all the others,” she growled, then
walked off, leaving me opened-mouthed, although that was only an act for
Jagger’s benefit.

My attention moved to him as he slipped
into the seat next to mine. He waved the bartender over, then tapped the glass
I hadn’t yet started drinking. “I’ll have the same.”

The bartender nodded, moving back down
the counter to make the margarita. It was suspected that the man was on
Jagger’s payroll, possibly the person who spiked the women’s drinks, although
we weren’t sure that was how they were taken. We’d managed to catch two on
camera, both of them leaving straight after drinking what the bartender had
given them, their gait a little unbalanced, but not enough to be certain. I
looked down at my margarita, wondering whether it was spiked. I picked it up
and took a sip, knowing it didn’t matter either way since I still needed to be
taken.

“I apologize for Bianca’s behavior,”
Jagger said, his accent as rich as his dark olive skin.

I turned to look at him, stealing myself
for the view, because he really was breathtaking. I just needed to remind
myself of the prostitute that had almost testified against him, the beating
he’d given her horrific. “No need to apologize,” I finally said, wishing he
looked as ugly as his soul.

He cocked his head to the side, the
light picking up the gold flecks in his hazel-brown eyes. For a second I
wondered whether they were contacts, but remembered the image of the man as a
boy standing next to his mother, a severe looking woman in black. His eyes were
the same color, just vulnerable, not this devil in front of me now.