Sasha & Andriena #1 (Lovers & Sinners) (16 page)

“Bianca is rather overprotective of me,”
he said.

“Bianca? Doesn’t that mean white?”

“
Sì.
You know my language?”

“Other than Bianca and pizza, oh, and
pasta,
no
.” I turned back to my drink, not wanting to look at him, the
man way too beautiful for my senses to handle. It made me want to punch him, to
kick him, to do anything to take away that beauty, because he didn’t deserve
it, not like my husband, who’d been beautiful both inside and out.

I took another sip of my drink, trying
my best to appear disinterested in Jagger. From all the intel I’d been given on
the sex trafficking case, I knew the women he’d kidnapped were all tough nuts,
beautiful but feisty, and on the camera footage I’d watched two of them do the
unthinkable—turn Jagger down, both of those women married.

“I’m Jagger D’Angelo,” he held out a
hand for me to shake.

I ignored the offering, instead taking
another sip of my drink.

He removed his hand. “What is your
name?”

“Margarita Petrov,” I said, needing him
to know.

“That’s an unusual mix: Mexican and
Russian. I thought you said your husband is Italian.”

“He is.”

“Then why do you have a Russian surname?
Or are you one of those modern women who find it insulting to take a man’s
name?”

Because I would be an idiot to use my
real name, not to mention that I have to be sold to the Russian, so I can bring
him down along with you
. My boss had told me that the
D’Angelos weren’t the main target, that they were only a means to get to the
Black Russian, the man at the center of the world’s biggest sex trafficking
operation. Still, Frano D’Angelo was my target, the Russian just a bonus.

“I have a married name,” I finally
answered Jagger, “but I’m throwing it away for the night, like my husband threw
away our vows, and by the way, it’s rude to eavesdrop.”

“It was hard not to with the description
of your husband.” He placed his hand on my knee, making me hold in everything I
had not to break his fingers, although I imagined doing it anyway. “And he’s a
fool to cheat on such a beautiful lady as yourself.”

“Which is why I’m not interested in you.
You look just like him, so kindly remove your hand from my knee.”

“Are you certain about that?” he said,
his cocky smile too sure of himself.

“One-hundred percent certain.”

He removed his hand, the smile not
leaving his face. He appeared to be enjoying himself, the man unusual, but with
his looks my rejection was probably a novelty for him, and most definitely a
challenge.

I turned back to my drink, willing
myself to ignore him.

Jagger leaned into me. “Take your
frustrations out on me, pretend I’m your husband. Hit me, whip me, even kick me
in my balls, I can take it.”

I almost choked on the drink. I hit my
chest and coughed, trying to get myself under control.

“Did I shock you?” he asked, his voice
telling me he knew the answer.

“I’m not into BDSM,” I spluttered out.

“I was only referring to SM, because I
won’t allow anyone to tie me up, that involves trust and I trust no one.”

“Sadomasochism is just as bad.”

“Have you tried it?”

“No, and I don’t ever intend to.”

“You won’t know if you like something if
you don’t try it.”

“I don’t like pain, and I certainly
don’t like hurting someone who I’m having sex with, because I only have sex
with people I care for, not a random man who asks me silly questions. Hence, I
won’t like SM
or
having sex with you.”

He snorted out a laugh. “You really are
a strange woman.”

“Why? Because I’m turning you down.”

“Not many women do.”

“Well, when you hit on a married woman
what do you expect?”

“Your husband cheated on you.”

“Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

“Does that mean you’re going back to
him?”

“I don’t know what I’ll be doing.”

“You’ll be doing me.”

“I don’t have the right
equipment for the job.”

“What do you mean?”

“A wiener.”

He straightened, looking
like I’d slapped him. “Obviously, I’m not gay,” he said.

“I don’t know what or who
you are, and you need to learn English better. Men do, women receive.”

“If that’s your view then
you’re inexperienced in sex.”

“I am not!”

“Then don’t say things that
suggest you are, because women
can
do men without penetrating them: they ride
them, like I want you to ride me,” he leaned closer, “they suck
cazzone
like I want your pretty mouth to
do
right now.”

“You’re vulgar.”

“Do you know what
cazzone
means?”

“I can take an educated
guess with
suck
next to it.”

He glanced down at his
crotch then back up at me with a cheeky grin, his eyes sparkling. “But do you
know how
grande
it is?”

“An exaggeration—I’m sure.”

“You really should stop
being a tease.”

My eyebrows shot up, my
hand aching to slap him. “I am
not
a tease! You’re just an arrogant,
chauvinistic pig who thinks women should grovel at your feet.”

He leaned back against the bar with a
smirk. “True. But if you weren’t interested in me, why did you sit so close?”

“It was a free spot.”

“There were, and are, other free spots
in the room, like the one that
Americano
actor was sitting next to, the
same man who approached you, but you turned him away so you could sit near me.”

I stared at him, taken aback that he’d
noticed, because I hadn’t seen him looking. That was bad, because it was my job
to see and hear everything.

“Which means you’re playing hard to
get,” he said, looking smug. “I don’t mind that game, just as long as the
outcome is the same.” He leaned closer, brushing my ear with his lips. “You
doing
me—like you were born to.”

I yanked my head away from his mouth,
again willing myself not to hurt him, but for the love of God, I wanted to so
badly it hurt
me
.

“I’m. Not. Interested,” I ground out.

“I beg to differ, because you are
definitely attracted to me as I to you.”

“I only looked at you because I thought
you were my husband for a moment, your resemblance uncanny, and I almost left
because of it, but decided I wasn’t going to let another man rule my world.”

He smiled. “You’re a masochist then.”

I scowled at him. “How the hell am I a
masochist?”

“You’re tormenting yourself by turning
me down, when obviously all you want to
do
is me.”

“You’re crazy. I don’t want anything to
do
with you.”

He laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“I have never come across a woman who’d
rather insult me than bed me.”

“I’m sure there are plenty others.”

“
Sì
, they’re called lesbians. So,
would you rather do Bianca or me?”

I threw my hands up in the air. “You’re
impossible!”

“I have been told that many times.” His
smile widened even more, displaying a perfect set of pearly whites, although
the two at each end were sharper than the rest, like they were made to rip into
me. “And I’ll be quite happy to watch you two...” he cocked his head to the
side. “How do you Americans say it? Going at it.”

I glared at him. “Fuck off.”

He sighed. “Such unladylike language,
and I must say, you really are taking this too far. We both know you want me,
yet you persist on pretending you don’t.”

“I’m not pretending.”

“I don’t believe you. However, since I
can see you’re going to play me all night, and not in the way I want, I will
leave you in peace,
bella
, and find a more honest woman to bring to
ecstasy.” He blew me a kiss then left, stopping for a moment to speak to the
bartender.

I breathed out, hoping that I hadn’t
overdone things. But from what I’d seen on the surveillance footage, his last
victim, a married woman, had slapped him, then walked out of the bar alone,
never to be seen again. Maybe I should’ve slapped him too, because he more than
deserved it. I imagined my finger marks on his cheek, tainting his beauty. I
wondered whether he truly meant it when he’d offered himself up to be whipped,
because I would do it, using it to punish him, not to turn him on. I frowned,
not liking where my thoughts were heading.

The bartender came over a minute later,
handing me another margarita.

“What’s this for?”

“An apology from Mr. D’Angelo,” he said,
then left to serve someone else.

I picked up the glass, wondering whether
it had been drugged, then took a sip. It didn’t taste any different from the
other one, although I knew that meant nothing, that it very well could contain
something that could knock me to my ‘unladylike’
ass. I drank it down
fast, then stood up and headed past the bartender, giving him a glance. The man
looked like he was watching me out of the corner of his eye, maybe assessing
whether the drinks were affecting me. Again, I wondered whether he was involved
in the kidnapping.

I walked out of the bar, purposely
swaying a little as I headed for the elevator. Jagger was standing in the
reception area talking to a gorilla of a man, who had his back to me. Jagger’s
gaze shifted to me, then he turned to the receptionist. I pressed the elevator
button, continuing to watch him, hoping he would come up to me. Or maybe he was
getting my room number. After all, I did give him the false name I’d booked
under.

He said something to the man next to
him, then before I knew it he was gone, heading up the sweeping staircase. The
elevator door pinged open, my nerves telling me that he hadn’t asked for my
room number, because I had a sick feeling in my stomach that I had failed, and
it wasn’t the margaritas. I should’ve ignored my boss’s instructions to play
hard to get, should’ve said yes to Jagger, making things easier. No, I couldn’t
have done that, because the footage had shown that all the women who’d gone
with him willingly hadn’t been snatched, which we knew because we’d traced
every one of them, only the two who’d turned him down vanishing. I wondered how
many more women had been taken, and how many hotels Jagger had used as personal
hunting grounds.

I stepped inside the elevator.

“Hold the door please!” a man called
out.

I placed a finger on the hold button as
the gorilla who’d been standing next to Jagger lumbered inside. I pressed my
floor number as the door closed, my heartbeat and hopes now picking up, because
the man was Alberto D’Angelo: Jagger’s cousin and Frano’s brother. Alberto’s
file was even bigger than Jagger’s. The man was notorious, a true
mafioso
who’d
clashed with the law on many occasions, the first time during his teens when
he’d killed a man with one punch. But he’d avoided jail due to a
technicality—the judge being in the mafia’s pocket.

Alberto stood still, not pressing any
floor numbers, again making me think he was here for me, plus it made sense:
follow me to my room, wait until I opened it, then bundle me inside, wrap me
up, and post me off to the human yard sale.

I stared straight ahead, both nervous
and excited, wanting this to happen, but also wanting to rearrange his already
busted-up nose for even considering taking me. The elevator stopped on my
floor, the door opening with a ping.

The man swept a hand out, “You first,
signora
.”
His Italian accent was gravelly, the voice of heavy smoker.

I forced myself to smile. “Thank you,” I
said, then headed for my room, again purposely swaying as I walked. His
footsteps followed, heavier, threatening, the thud, thud, thud echoing my
heartbeat. Willing myself not to fight back, I stopped outside my room and
pulled out the keycard from my evening purse, dropping it with a ‘drunken’
giggle. I bent down and picked it up, then unlocked my door, going still as he headed
past to the room next to mine. He opened the door with his keycard, then
disappeared inside. I stared in confusion, because I knew where the D’Angelos
were staying, and that wasn’t their room, the penthouse booked under their
name. My eyes widened, things finally clicking into place. I was in a
conjoining room where a door connected the suites. Still, how did they arrange
the room so quick? Had someone warned them about me, told them I was a FBI
agent? I looked down at my purse, wondering whether I should use the ninja star
hidden inside, something I’d taken without permission. My boss had wanted me to
appear helpless. But I never went into a job without a backup plan, and if I
had been found out I would use the ninja star as a distraction, so I could get
the hell out of there.