Stripped (3 page)
Aaron flashed Brandon a cocky grin. “Got it, boss. That was the plan.”
“Right.” Brandon tapped a fist on the brass rail. “We open in four hours. I’ve gotta interview this dancer. She’ll be here any minute.”
The last thing he wanted to do was interview another girl. But Kate had referred her, and Kate knew how to pick dancers that drew crowds. Crowds meant money. If Brandon intended to keep his position as manager long enough to find a killer, he couldn’t lose sight of the club’s bottom line.
With a little luck, this girl wouldn’t show up with blonde hair.
He pushed through his office door and dropped into his leather chair with a harassed sigh. This was Rachel’s job—the hiring, firing, and general needs of the girls. As housemom, she knew the right questions to ask. Where the hell was she?
Pulling his phone off his hip pocket, he tapped the screen to try her apartment again. He dialed from memory, having not yet figured out how to set up his address book.
Her voice mail answered. “This is Rach! Leave a message!”
“Where the fuck are you, Rach?” He tossed the phone on the desk with another muttered oath.
Before the last syllable escaped, a bright electronic tune issued from his phone. He snatched it up, not bothering to look at the display. “Rach! Where are you? Are you okay?”
“Hey, Moretti.” Captain Joe Cavelli’s whiskey-roughened voice drifted through the line. “I’m sending a car out. They’re going to ask you about your liquor license. You’re not going to be able to find it. I need you downtown.”
The hair on the back of Brandon’s neck lifted. He leaned forward and crumpled a sheet of paper in his fist. “What’s up?”
Cavelli paused. The silence stretched out, mingling with the rustling of paper before concluding on a harsh sigh. “I think you better come in.”
“I think you better tell me. What’s wrong?” Brandon asked, but he already knew. The answer blared in his head. Twisted painful knots behind his ribs.
“It’s Rachel. Park ranger found her body up near the Canyon around eight this morning. Same MO as your guy.”
Brandon closed his eyes to block the sudden onslaught of grief. His team. She was his responsibility. He’d done everything according to protocol. Followed his own edicts, made sure she had an escort, and didn’t take her expert marksmanship for granted. Still, he’d failed her.
“Don’t send the car,” he murmured as he terminated the call.
The phone clattered against his desktop, and he dropped his head into his hands. Dead. What the hell was he supposed to say to Rory now? Or Aaron—Rachel was like his sister. Hell, she was like Brandon’s for that matter. A replacement for the one he’d also failed fifteen years ago. And now, like that biological sister, Rachel was just as dead.
“Fuck!” He slammed his palm against his desk, sending his chair rocketing backward. Bolting to his feet, he swiped his phone off and stuffed it into his pocket.
“I’m sorry, I guess this is a bad time?”
The husky feminine voice, heavily laden with a European flavor, drew Brandon to an abrupt halt. His head snapped up. His gaze zeroed in on an auburn-haired beauty standing in his doorway.
She offered him a hesitant smile that turned up the corners of jade green eyes. One delicate hand pointed over her shoulder. “They said you were in here. Told me to come on back.”
His dancer. Brandon groaned inwardly. He quickly pulled himself together and struggled for a welcoming, professional, smile. “No, it’s fine, come in.” With a sweep of his hand, he invited her to sit in the chair across from his. “You’re Kate’s friend?”
Impossibly long legs moved across his carpet with a queen’s grace. She seated herself, draped one lithe thigh across the other, and bounced a black stiletto. “Natalya Trubachev.” She reached across his desk to shake his hand.
Brandon fitted his palm into hers. In one sweeping glance, he took her in from head to toe. What he could see of her anyway. And what the desk didn’t hide tripped his system into unexpected awareness. A V-neck white blouse exposed creamy skin and the high swell of full breasts. Narrow hips barely took up half of the chair. But her smile…
Her smile robbed him of the ability to breathe.
Kate had said he’d be pleased. Hell, there wasn’t a man on earth who
wouldn’t
be pleased. From the tiny gold bangles in her ears, to the perfect white crescents on the end of her long nails, she radiated class. The crisp lines of her clothing hinted at designer names Brandon couldn’t hope to recognize. Yet he saw them daily amongst the elite crowds that circulated the back rooms of Vegas nightlife. Women who had more money than they knew what to do with—so they spent it on larks, voyeuristic escapades, and sometimes not-so-hands-off entertainment.
Why was a woman like this interviewing to strip?
“Brandon Moretti.” He pumped her hand, then resumed his chair. “Kate says you want to dance?” Sifting through the clutter on his desk, he searched for her application that Kate had brought in the day before.
“Yeah. I’m in between jobs right now and could use the cash.”
Her faint accent caressed his ears like fingertips might stroke his skin. The effect wasn’t all that different either. His flesh prickled, a jolt of energy thrummed down his spine. Blood raced to his groin. Just like that he was rock hard.
Shit!
Appalled by his body’s unexpected reaction, Brandon cleared his throat and shifted his weight to make a little room behind his fly. For God’s sake, Rachel was dead. What was the matter with him?
He shuffled through another stack of papers. Where had he put the damn thing? It was here somewhere… “I’m sorry. I can’t seem to find the application Kate brought in. Can you tell me if you have experience?” Looking up, he met her gaze. Mistake. His chest constricted, and for a moment, he forgot what she was doing here. Visions of pulling her out of that chair and bending her over his desk, those breasts cupped in his hands, creamy butt cheeks begging him to slide his tongue over their sloping curves, invaded all rational thought.
“I danced with Kate in college. Didn’t she tell you?”
Her light laugh jerked him out of fantasy. Kate had told him that. Rachel’s disappearance, however, erased most of the memory of that conversation. Now she was dead…
A wave of sadness flooded him. Before it could root in, he shook off the news he had yet to share with his team. He couldn’t dwell on Rachel now. Couldn’t grieve until he finished business.
T
“I’m sorry. It’s been a very… long… day.” There it was again.
A softening of his gaze that wound her insides together tighter than iron mesh. Lieutenant Brandon Moretti grieved for his team member.
Dmitri and his hooligans didn’t know they’d offed a cop. Natalya, however, had made a few discreet phone calls once she and Sergei hit stateside. Though Moretti’s captain had embedded him impeccably, the CIA records easily identified the four Vegas Vice members. And this man wasn’t taking the news of Rachel Kensington’s death well at all.
Natalya cringed inwardly. Why would he? He didn’t suffer the same insensitivity that she’d become accustomed to. Softening her voice, Natalya reached for the compassion she’d left behind long ago. “I could come back later tonight. Tomorrow.”
“No.” Sitting forward, Brandon folded his hands on the stack of papers atop his desk. “You worked with Kate. That was when? Ten years ago? Have you danced since then?”
“Fifteen, and no. But I’m quite capable.” Only because Dmitri made her dance for him. She supposed she could consider that a benefit. If he hadn’t insisted on private pole dances, her body would have forgotten how.
The reproachful arch of a dark eyebrow hinted at doubt. “What makes you certain you can compete with the girls who’ve been doing this for years?” His gaze dropped to her breasts, then slid slowly back up to lock with hers. “Beyond the obvious.”
Natalya’s body flushed with heat. She crossed the opposite leg over her opposite knee, unsettled by the blatant appreciation in those tawny eyes. How many times had Dmitri looked at her with the same suggestion in his gaze?
How long had it been since she’d
liked
being stripped bare with a mere glance?
The sudden tingling of her skin disturbed her. Moretti could very well be one of Dmitri’s faithful—he had more than one cop on the take. While Dmitri understood her job required a bit of… feminine finesse… he’d only grant her so much leeway. If she gave him a reason
to suspect her allegiance, he’d slice her throat before she could see the knife glint. And the way her body was warming beneath Brandon’s heated stare spelled trouble.
Determined to ignore his blatantly sexual gaze, she focused on the small white scar across Moretti’s chin and dredged up every reason she could think of to convince him into giving her the job. “I danced well. Was the crowd favorite for a while. I held the job all through college, and two years in, the girls were coming to me for dance suggestions, costuming, on-the-spot fixes for breakdowns. Advice on how to handle the more exuberant customers.” She took a breath and began counting items off her fingers. “I hired. I fired. I kept the drugs out of the dressing rooms. I trained the girls on the pole—Kate said you needed someone strong with the pole. My core body strength—”
“You’re hired.”
Natalya snapped her mouth shut. Slowly, she blinked. “What?”
“You’re hired.” Moretti stood, stretching out his muscular thighs that even his loose denim jeans couldn’t disguise. He shoved his left hand into his hip pocket. Against her will, Natalya’s gaze dropped to his crotch. Her breath caught at the tightening of his fly, the hard ridge that evidenced arousal.
When she yanked her gaze back to Brandon’s, his eyes flashed dark gold, telling her he knew exactly where she’d been looking. His voice, however, belied his awareness. “We open in three hours. I’ll need you here early to help get the girls settled in.”
“The girls?”
He fished a set of keys out of the top right desk drawer and held his fist over her hand. “These are to the dressing rooms. I have a copy, you have a copy. No one else. Kate’s our star. She goes on at ten, and every two hours after. Jill follows. Beyond that, you’ll have to talk to the girls.”
Natalya moved her hand beneath his, palm up, waiting for the keys. “And me?”
“I need a housemom more than I need a dancer.” His fingers brushed the base of her wrist.
Ignoring the chill that raced to her shoulder, she blinked again. “A housemom?” He had to be kidding! She needed to be onstage. Scoping out the crowd. Looking for Iskatel´, as he was bound to be looking for potential targets.
Brandon lifted his hand a fraction. “A housemom.”
Or the job wasn’t hers.
The hard line of his chiseled jaw voiced what he didn’t.
Hell, not if she had anything to say about it. She was here to crack a case, and she couldn’t do that locked away in the back of the house.
Throwing Brandon a sultry smile, she slowly eased to her feet. As she rounded the corner of his desk, she slid her fingertips from beneath his, around his wrist, and let them rest against the back of his hand. Her gaze held his, offering promises she wouldn’t let tumble off her tongue. She dropped her voice deliberately, assuming the same husky tones she used to appease Dmitri. “You sure that’s the only use you have for me?”
To her delight, Brandon’s gaze darkened again. Chips of molten brass fringed the tawny browns and sent another damning shiver down her spine. The man had simply gorgeous eyes.
Her shiver intensified as those breathtaking eyes trailed down the length of her body, slowly wandered up her legs, lingered at her waist, and came to a dead stop at the deep V in her blouse. Appreciation glinted like hot embers. “I’m not sure I grasp your meaning.”
Oh, yes he did—the sudden gravel that roughened his voice told her loud and clear he understood her implication. She gave him another slow, sexual smile and trailed one nail up his forearm to the bend in his elbow. “I’m just saying it would be a waste of talent to keep me backstage.”
He dropped his arm, the keys jangling in the heavy tension that settled around them. Turning, he faced her fully. Natalya took a bold
step forward, close enough she could catch the hard fall of his breath, see the sudden bounding of his pulse in the thick vein that ran alongside his neck.
“Oh? That convinced of your… talent… are you?”
Deliberately she bit her top teeth into her lower lip and took another step forward. She didn’t realize the error in her judgment until it was too late. His body heat assaulted her. The scent of spice, blended with something sweet she couldn’t describe tempted her to close her eyes, breathe in, and let the warmth in her veins take over.
As a gnawing ache stirred between her legs, she blinked and forced the uncomfortable sensations aside. This wasn’t about pleasure. This was about a job. A job she needed to land to get the hell away from Dmitri’s dark world.
Natalya traced the thick strip of leather around his waist with one fingertip. She felt him stiffen, recognized the instantaneous tension that lodged into his spine. “Yeah.” Keeping her smile at one corner of her mouth, she closed the remaining distance between them and flattened her palm against the firm ridge of his cock. “I would be…”
Holy crap—Brandon Moretti hit her like a landslide, completely eradicating her ability to form words. His cock was hard as stone beneath her palm. Searingly hot even through the denim. It wasn’t the first time she’d used seduction to get her way—hell, she manipulated Dmitri daily. But it was the first time an aroused man had rendered her thoughtless.
She swallowed, tipped her head up to look at his face, and struggled to remember what she was saying. But she’d moved too close. Too far into the powerful, intimidating frame of his muscular body. His mouth hovered near hers. His breath stirred the fine hairs alongside her temple. Chills rolled through her. Beneath her lightweight blouse, her nipples beaded. Forget remembering what she intended to say—she was having a hard enough time remembering to breathe.