Stripped (11 page)

“He’s a cop, babe. A dedicated,
honorable
cop.”

“But he fits perfectly.” She couldn’t believe him. If she did, she’d never survive the next encounter with Brandon Moretti. The possibility he might work for Dmitri, no matter how small it might be, was
the safety net between her and the unexplainable desire that flared between them.

Sergei shook his head. “I did some asking around. He’s got marks on his record. He’s been known to side-step protocol to see an investigation closed. But he’s clean.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.
We’re
clean on paper.”

Swiveling on his stool, Sergei fixed her with a hard look. “His father was Angelo Mancuso, a hit man for the mafia in Kansas City. Angelo didn’t take too kindly to having his wife turn him over to the feds. When she blew her witness protection, Angelo ordered the murder of his family. Moretti lived.” Sergei paused, chewed on the inside of his cheek. With a frown he continued, “He was put on narcotics undercover because he’s too eager to find his father’s men. This is his first homicide stint. He’s not going to fuck it up and lose a chance at getting a transfer he wants.”

Murdered? By his own father? A lance of sympathy sliced through her chest. Uncomfortable emotion that only complicated things further. She
shouldn’t
care. If she opened herself to that tug of feeling, all the rest that she’d blocked away would come crashing through. She stuffed another bite of cinnamon roll in her mouth, the flavor now dull. “He hawks over Kate.”

Long dark hair tumbled over Sergei’s face as he cocked his head and arched a scoundrel’s eyebrow. “Really? Not according to what she told me last night. Way I hear it, he hawked over you.”

Like bolts snapping into heavy doors, Natalya barred the warmth that flickered in her veins from spreading. She sat up straighter, chewed with more determination. “He did not.”

Sergei’s laughter echoed throughout the room. Shaking his head, he stood, gathered both their empty plates, and took them to the sink. “Give it up, babe. Your reaction yesterday, when Kate brought him up, says you’re done for.” He turned around and braced his elbows on the counter behind him. The amusement faded from his eyes. His
smile gradually disappeared. “Use it to your advantage if you must. But get those transmitters passed out.”

In no mood to be presented with reasons why she
could
indulge in Brandon, Natalya abruptly stood. She hastily gulped down the rest of her coffee. “You can do it when you show up for work tonight. I got you the job. You’re on the floor in the main house. Brandon won’t let me onstage—I need you there. We’ve got to find out who perks up when Kate takes the stage.”

For one suspended heartbeat, she’d have sworn Sergei stiffened. But by the time she’d blinked, he was lounging against the countertop, ankles crossed, and looking every bit the casual Vegas vacationer in his rental kitchen. She dismissed his ramrod straight posture as a figment of her imagination and went to the door.

“Natalya?”

His quiet voice brought her to a stop. Warily, she looked over her shoulder. “Yes?”

“What if it doesn’t happen? What if we
don’t
make the connection before the twenty-fourth?”

Icy fingers scraped down her spine. One hand on the doorknob, she stilled, her chest suddenly too tight to draw in a normal breath. “I won’t let him take her, Sergei.”

“So we pull her out?”

As her throat inched closed, she swallowed down a rising lump that threatened to choke off her already scant air. What he didn’t say boomed louder than his words:
And blow everything we’ve worked toward for the last three years?

“She’s my sister. Dmitri will
not
have her.” Unwilling to consider the ramifications, she yanked the door open and fled. One way or the other, she’d see Kate and Derek to safety.

Failure is not an option.

S

Sergei silently tried the name on to see how it fit. He’d been Alec for a handful of years as an agency rookie. Spent another few months in Colombia as Javier. But for more years than he could count, he’d considered himself Sergei Khitrovo, and he’d never stopped to consider what might come next.

The name he’d grown his skin in had certainly never crossed his mind. Stefan Moretti brought memories of trucks, wide Texan star-filled skies, girls in cheerleading skirts, and innocence. He was so far removed from that simple life that even considering acknowledging who he really was felt like fraud. Stefan Moretti, the boy who’d known how to navigate under a car hood better than he knew how to drive, died fifteen years ago. He should stay in the grave.

Tonight, though, he just might rise from the dead. Summoned, unbidden, like a demon from the otherworld conjured by some voodoo priestess.

A priestess known as Natalya, who couldn’t begin to comprehend the layers of dirt she’d pulled him through by finagling him a job.

He’d known from the day the case file landed in his lap that he might be exposed. But when he learned Aaron Mayer had locked down hiring, with the exception of the girls, Sergei had grown comfortable with the idea of staying in the shadows, outside the club, and doing things like what he’d done the night before—meet with operatives, ask
a few questions on the underground, sit in dark clubs, and do no more than listen.

Be there for his partner, the only friend he could claim. But never stand face-to-face with the brother he longed to embrace.

Pushing away from the countertop, he picked up his Glock and wandered to the living room couch, where he placed the weapon on the glass table and proceeded to take it apart. Like working with engines had served as an outlet for pent-up teenage angst, cleaning his gun gave him an outlet for adulthood frustration. The motion of his fingers stopped the unrelenting chaos in his head and allowed him to think more slowly.

Things were bad. He wouldn’t try to delude himself into believing this Dubai Project was a bed of roses with only a few thorns to navigate. The agent who’d spent too many years killing people for Dmitri Gavrikov knew pulling Natalya would be the safest way to protect both her, her sister, and the case. The man, the friend who sometimes knew his partner better than she knew herself, couldn’t deny her the satisfaction of seeing a job completed.

Working on autopilot, he maneuvered the slide back in place, then methodically took everything apart again.

Sergei didn’t doubt Natalya knew the risks. But twice now, she’d clammed up tighter than an oyster when Brandon became the topic of discussion. Unfortunately, Sergei knew that silence too well. She rarely dropped her guard, even in front of him, but when she did, he could read her cover to cover and everything in between. She’d taken risks with Alexei in Russia. Sergei could hardly blame her for that—hell, he couldn’t imagine tying himself down to someone he
liked
for three years, let alone someone he despised. Natalya was bound to crave a little human affection.

But she hadn’t worked side by side with Alexei. Their brief liaisons occurred on the rare times Dmitri was out of town. A few hours stolen in the house, under the guise of negotiating the next contact. Passing
information between the two key players of the Russian equation. They’d passed more than information. But they parted and stayed apart. No close confines for someone to observe a heated glance. No possibility a casual touch could slip into an intimate brush of hands.

Not that either one of them would have allowed those risks. Still, distance and detached wisdom prevented disaster.

This, however…

While Sergei’s memories of Brandon came from youth, and undoubtedly his brother had changed—grown up more specifically—Brandon had never been the sort of guy to let something go when he wanted it. The red pickup he’d set his eye on at sixteen became his after an intense summer of doing every lawn job he could get his hands on. When he’d decided the captain of the cheerleading squad would be his date for the senior prom, the fact she’d been steady with someone else hadn’t even entered his brain. He’d set off after her like a hound dog on a thick trail, and a month later, that prom date was in the bag.

Sergei had made the mistake of flirting with one of Brandon’s girls too. He’d done it out of spite, with no real interest in the pretty girl. It hadn’t worked—she’d laughed at his feeble attempt at mimicking big brother’s moves and patted him on the head. Brandon, however, had walked in, seen his girlfriend’s hand in his little brother’s hair, and an hour later, when their mother came home from work, Brandon was no where to be found and she’d had to call the neighbor to pry off the thick boards nailed across Sergei’s bedroom door. Hammered in place to keep him, and his black eye, inside.

What Brandon wanted, Brandon got.

At least back then.

And from what Kate had said, all signs indicated Brandon’s sights were fixed on Natalya. The one woman on this earth who could, quite literally, kill him.

Worse, where Natalya
should
be contemplating the many ways she could exact said death if Brandon was indeed coming on to her, her reactions screamed the opposite. For the first time Sergei could
remember, Natalya lost her cool at the very mention of Brandon’s name. Her composure cracked. She avoided the subject worse than she avoided talking about what she’d done to the girls. For God’s sake, she’d
blushed
.

If he were any other man, or just a simple physical attraction, she wouldn’t have hesitated to confess she envisioned orgasms and sweat. Sex for Natalya was just that—enjoyment meant to relieve a little stress. She played the game like a man. Here for a little while, there a little while longer, then gone.
Excursions
, she called them. She even referred to them like a man.

Blushing was entirely too feminine. Natalya couldn’t afford feminine reactions when it came to Brandon.

Sergei fitted his Glock’s loaded magazine back into place with an authoritative
snick
, then laid the gun on the glass.

The Natalya/Brandon factor was like adding kerosene to a pile of smoldering wood. Why then, hadn’t he allowed her to believe Brandon might be Iskatel´? He could have fed her suspicions and steered her away. But he hadn’t. He’d fostered an amicable perception of his brother.

His gut twisted uncomfortably. Maybe because the pink in Natalya’s cheeks reminded him a little bit too much of a freckle-faced girl who’d come home gushing to her brothers about a boy after a sixth-grade dance. Maybe because, despite the hell that existed around them, Natalya might have a chance at the joy their sister had been denied.

B

He ran a hand over his bristly cheek and stared out the window overlooking his backyard and the wooden play set the former owners left behind. In the late-morning breeze, a swing swayed. Rory had
intended to marry Rachel. She’d have, no doubt, resigned from the force. A year or so later, Rory would have taken a desk job. Then they’d be the ones standing at their window, looking at kids playing on swing sets.

Good thing he didn’t intend to ever marry. Or produce children.

It wasn’t that he had anything against kids. He liked them well enough. Hell, Derek, Kate’s boy, filled a void Brandon hadn’t realized he’d possessed until he met the bright-eyed toddler last year. Once a week, he indulged in the role of father figure and spent the afternoon with Derek. They both needed the time together—Derek because he’d lost his father, and Brandon because he could pretend the world wasn’t such a dark place.

But intimacy wasn’t his thing. A wife, a girlfriend, a child, only gave Angelo Mancuso and the mob a target. Beyond that, women didn’t take too kindly to having their safety constantly in question. And most women he knew, or would consider getting involved with, didn’t carry guns in their back pocket. Not that he’d considered getting involved.

Nope. It was much smarter to keep things casual. No complications to divide his time. No one waiting at home to worry about. He chose his partners carefully, made sure they understood—and agreed to—the boundaries. When things cooled off, they parted with pleasant words and promises to keep in touch that never happened. Women passed through his life without leaving so much as a fingerprint behind. As he did through theirs.

So why,
why
, couldn’t he get Natalya Trubachev off his mind? Why had he awakened, so damnably aware of her that he could have sworn she lay beside him in his bed? His
bed
, of all places! He let no woman near his bed. It was his safe harbor. The one place in this world he could count on to provide comfort, along with escape.

But sure as shooting, he’d opened his eyes to a rock-hard erection and had instinctively rolled over in search of the source and the necessary relief.

Damn it, she was worse than a hangover. He could cure that—down a bottle of Gatorade, eat some Saltines, down a second bottle, and he was good to go. He couldn’t, however, banish her out of his head. Or the suspicion that she would taste every bit as sweet as her lilac perfume.

Maybe it was lotion.
Yeah
. He smiled to himself. Lotion she slathered over those long legs. Massaged around rosy pink nipples while…
Shit!

He set his coffee mug down with force. He didn’t have time for this, and somehow he had to make his dick understand what the smarter head knew—catching a serial killer who’d murdered Rachel was more important than fucking and orgasms.

Tugging at his cotton pajama pants, he relieved the sudden tension at his waist with a grimace and strode to the dining room table-turned workstation. He opened the case file, methodically spreading out data sheets, notes he’d collected, and the autopsy findings on all the girls. Mentally, he recited what he knew by heart:
Blonde hair. Between 5’7“ and 5’9”. Fair skin, no fake tan. No bruising, no signs of struggle. All dead from a lethal injection of barbiturates. All dumped in remote places near the Grand Canyon, clothes intact. Sexual assault—negative.