Stripped (13 page)

Keep talking, Katey.

“They don’t ask for her. She’s hated me since I walked in the door, pretty much.”

That or she’d already chosen her for a target and distanced herself before her job required she get close. Maybe that’s how she coped with the guilt—kept herself detached until the absolute last minute necessary. Maybe that’s also why so many girls became problematic.

“There’s something between her and Brandon. Old business, I think. I’ve never asked, but when he and I became friends, and I’d pop in at his bar for an after-hours drink, it became evident, pretty fast, she didn’t like me hanging around.”

Natalya hadn’t cared to have Alexei’s girls hanging around either. It complicated things. More than once, uninformed observers had accused her of jealousy. Only when the news about her engagement to Dmitri circulated did the eyebrows cease to lift and the whispered comments died off.

“Has she made a point of buddying up to you lately?”

Kate’s features scrunched together with a touch of disgust. “I think Brandon might have said something to her. She hasn’t been
friendly
, but she’s been… better.”

Natalya’s stomach took a nosedive to her feet. Nothing could put the pair in Iskatel´ and Yakov’s shoes better than Kate’s words. It all stacked up. Black and white, there for her to pin up on a wall and take aim. Brandon was the elusive Yakov, the supplantor; Jill the fiendish Iskatel´, the finder.

Shit.

She’d hoped. Had almost believed Sergei’s adamant insistence that Brandon couldn’t be Dmitri’s go-to guy. Lord knew she wanted to. All she needed was one solid excuse to yield to the press of his body. The insistent heat in his gaze.

One night.

Well that would never happen now. She stuffed her dismay down so deep it didn’t have a prayer of surfacing. At least she’d found out before Brandon lured her into bed and Dmitri learned she’d been unfaithful.

Damn it all!

She stabbed her fork into her salad and forced down a bite. The same uncomfortable silence gripped her sister, who pushed her spinach around the bowl as she had when they’d been kids and something bothered her. Natalya caught the habit and lowered her fork. “Is something wrong?”

Kate’s gaze slowly lifted to Natalya’s face. “Didn’t it bother you?”

A little voice told Natalya she didn’t want to ask for an explanation. But curiosity overwhelmed sense, and before she could stop the question, she heard herself say, “Didn’t what bother me?”

“The girls.” Kate lowered her voice. Her eyes took on a pleading quality. “You took away their freedom. Then you lay in the same bed with the man who
sold
them to a sheikh.”

Okay. Way too much self-reflection for a hot Vegas afternoon. Natalya choked down the lump of spinach that had wedged itself in her throat. How the hell did she answer that?

Did she start by telling her twin all the times she’d contemplated killing Dmitri in his sleep? Maybe she should tell Kate how sometimes just looking in the mirror made her want to turn her gun on herself. Would Kate understand if she confessed that she’d considered killing the girls outright to save them from the hell they’d meet across the ocean?

She blinked. What if Iskatel´ had failed intentionally? Her pulse
ratcheted up a notch. If Iskatel´
were
Jill, a woman would be subject to the same gut-wrenching emotions Natalya had suffered. Maybe she’d cracked.

Only one way to find out. Jill’s reaction to Brandon, when he wasn’t within arms’ distance, would speak volumes.

Natalya bolted out of her chair. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got to convince Brandon to put me onstage before we open tonight.” Tossing a handful of bills onto the table, she snatched up her purse and jogged out of the café.

T

Mayer stuck his head in, looked from side to side, then flashed a devilish grin. “Thought I better check.”

In no mood for his partner’s teasing, Brandon grunted. Tonight was already lining up as hell with two cocktail waitresses calling in sick, Rory gone, and Jill sulking about the housemom job she didn’t get. All he needed was for Natalya to waltz through the door to solidify the coming disaster.

Four hours, a nap,
and
a lukewarm shower hadn’t banished her from his thoughts. Now he waited on edge, torn between barring his door to keep her at a distance and locking her inside.

“I called a former CIA buddy and got those files you wanted.” Aaron tossed one thick manila folder and a smaller, narrower twin, on Brandon’s desk, then flopped into the chair.

Wanted.
A very operative word. Brandon didn’t
want
to learn anything more about that damnable redhead for fear it would just draw him to her more. But necessity demanded he discover all he could.

He sat forward and beckoned for the files. “Let me see Sergei’s first.” He’d told himself he put Natalya’s off because if he found anything incriminating he could move right on to interrogating her.

To Brandon’s surprise, Aaron passed him the thicker folder.
Brandon double-checked the name, certain his partner had grabbed the wrong one.
Sergei Khitrovo
adorned the right corner tab.

Well damn. He hadn’t expected a security guard with impeccable credentials to have a file. Not anything significant at least.

“You’ve read through them?” Brandon eyed Aaron over the folder’s edge.

“Yeah.” Folding his arms behind his head, Aaron reclined.

What lay inside the two inches of papers was a collective report of Sergei Khitrovo’s early adulthood life. Immigration papers marked him as arriving in America at the age of eighteen. Parental history, unknown. In his early twenties, he’d run with a rough crowd in the streets of East Los Angeles, collecting an assortment of misdemeanor drug charges. Possession. Possession with intent to sell. DUI. Nothing that stuck or warranted jail time.

He’d done enough college to obtain an associates degree in construction. His job history in that field spanned four years. No terminations. And his run-ins with the law disappeared. He’d obviously cleaned himself up. Pretty commendable.

Brandon scanned a list of female involvements. A couple long-term stints with women whose names didn’t trigger alarms. Then, a name jumped off the page: Amanda Colestetter. Daughter of the Silicon Valley mogul Harrison Colestetter.

Sergei had spent a year legitimately employed as a private Colestetter guard. From there, his work history contained some of the most reputable names in private security. A year at Black and Munroe—known to work exclusively with international diplomats. Another two years with Hoffman and Brandt, the premiere outfit used for political events. They answered only to the Secret Service and staffed things like presidential town meetings, senatorial rallies, and other national governmental affairs.

Last but not least, as Natalya had mentioned, he’d come off a job three weeks ago in Hollywood, working private detail for the young starlet Lynn Reede. Behind all the documentation, Brandon discovered
letters of reference, obviously supplied by the person Aaron had contacted to obtain the background check.

Son of a bitch! The guy was flawless. What hopes Brandon had nurtured about discovering a reason to not hire Sergei Khitrovo scattered like ashes on a strong wind. He couldn’t turn away someone with Sergei’s credentials when they were in need of a good eye and a strong conscience.

He grumbled to himself as he tossed Sergei’s file back onto his desk and flipped open Natalya’s.

In the first few lines, he identified her accent. He’d thought it was Ukrainian, but she’d been born in Moscow, raised with a foster family after her parents’ early death, and the summer of her seventeenth year she had come across the ocean to attend Southern California University, where she presumably met Kate.

She graduated four years later. She’d evidently returned to Moscow shortly thereafter—the records dropped off after a listed departure. Then, two years ago, she returned with green card in hand. Passed her immigration tests six months later, while holding down a secretarial job for a law firm in LA, where she’d remained employed until two months ago.

That certainly explained her impeccable taste in fashion.

Huh. She had a cat. Or did have at one time, according to the slow-pay annotation on her very brief credit statement and the accompanying copy of the veterinarian’s bill. A nine-hundred-dollar cat.

He hated cats.

Brandon scowled. Whether he hated cats or not made no difference.

“She’s clean,” Aaron commented as he spun Sergei’s report back in front of him. “They both are.”

Clean, but…

Flipping through the papers once more, Brandon searched for an explanation to why his criminal alert began to buzz. There was something very strange about this report, and something very familiar.

“Too clean,” Aaron murmured.

Brandon’s focus narrowed on her criminal history. “Not even a damn speeding ticket.” He flipped back to her school records and ran his finger down her transcript. Bs, Cs. Not one single A. No area of expertise. Completely average.

As if someone tried to blend her in.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled as the familiarity registered. If Aaron had pulled his record, the one witness protection fabricated for him, they’d be staring at a near mirror image.

Aaron reached across the desk and tugged the folder from Brandon’s hands. He flipped it open to Natalya’s personal background and stabbed his index finger on the blank page. “Someone’s been dicking with her file. Who lives in America for six years with
no
personal involvements?”

Brandon’s gaze locked on the line below Aaron’s fingertip:
No known personal involvements or political affiliations.
His heart kicked into his ribs.

Ignoring the forceful pang, he lifted his gaze to Aaron’s. “This came from the CIA?”

A smirk tugged at the corner of Mayer’s mouth. “In a roundabout sorta way.”

Which meant the file didn’t technically exist. Whoever Aaron had contacted would deny everything. Still, the data couldn’t be argued. Amazing what the government kept track of, especially since 9-11. He shuddered to think what the government had on him.

No doubt his
real
file would triple Sergei’s, particularly with his father’s mafia connections.

He closed the folder, braced his elbows on his desk, and steepled his fingers. Secrets shouldn’t exist between partners. But Brandon had learned the hard way what happened when he said too much. One drunk frat night at A&M where he vaguely remembered telling a girl that he was in witness protection had exposed his family. He’d been paying the price ever since. Nothing, or no one, would prompt him into suggesting to Aaron that Natalya might be part of the same program.

If she were, she had a damned good reason.

Yet the lack of evidence in her file did nothing to further his investigation. He knew no more about her than he had before. Sergei’s name didn’t even make an appearance in that tidy little file. And he
knew
they shared some involvement. Hell, Kate’s name didn’t even make an appearance in Natalya’s record, and if the government knew Sergei shared an apartment in 1995 with a Michael Saunders, they damn well would know Natalya’s college roommate.

The sudden closing of his office door jerked him out of his thoughts with so much force he reached for the gun atop his desk. He glanced up as his fingers closed around the grip. Aaron whipped around to face the intruder, his hand creeping toward the piece tucked into the back of his jeans.

Natalya stood stock still in the doorway. Her gaze dropped to Brandon’s curled fingers, then lifted to his face. She took a confident step forward, and a dazzling smile spread across her face. “I’ve been thinking about what you said last night.” Door open, she proceeded across the room, never once taking a wobbly step despite her four-inch black heels.

“This isn’t a good time, Natalya,” Brandon muttered as he pulled his hand away. Not now. Not in his office. Not ever again.

She blew right past his argument, lifted a slender hand to her dark green suit jacket, and popped the solitary button. The fabric that had stretched across her breasts fell open, giving him the most exquisite view of a low-cut, red lace bra. One slow roll of her shoulders sent the jacket tumbling to the floor. “And I decided I’d just have to prove my ability.”

Holy fuck!
Brandon’s gut clamped down like a vise as what was about to happen hammered into his head. He sent Aaron a beseeching glance, hoping like hell his friend would step up and ask the redheaded she-devil to leave.

Instead, Aaron jumped out of his chair, nearly knocking it over as he scrambled toward the door. “Maybe not so clean after all,” he
quipped from the doorway before he vanished into the club, leaving the door firmly closed in his wake.

Brandon’s gaze flicked back to Natalya and locked in place. In the time it took Aaron to rocket out of the room, she’d lost her skirt as well. She stood before him in a bra that could hardly be called decent and matching thong panties.

She made a slow pirouette, and his eyes swept down, all the way down, those never-ending legs. From the tops of muscular thighs, to shapely knees and toned calves, down to anklebones so delicate they looked like a doll’s and bright, pink-tipped toenails. Slowly, he made his way back up her body, across a flat, sloping waist, to her full, pert breasts, then higher, stopping at her parted pink lips.

His entire body tightened. His pulse beat so fast it buzzed in his ears. Good fucking Lord, he’d known seeing Natalya naked would be a mistake of the worst kind. Shielded behind her fastidious suits lay a seductress’s body. A man’s playground guaranteed to keep him entertained for hours. And yet, somehow, she retained her elegance. The confidence in her step as she rounded the corner of his desk and approached his chair could only be described as class.