Appalachian Prey (Lavender Mountain Book 1; Appalachian Magic)

by Debbie Herbert

And don’t miss

  APPALACHIAN ABDUCTION

  Available April 2018 from Harlequin Intrigue!

  Keep reading for an excerpt from SECURED BY THE SEAL by Carol Ericson.

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  Secured by the SEAL

  by Carol Ericson

  Prologue

  The sun shimmered across the water of the Black Sea, but Alexei had his Dragunov pointed at the land, specifically a patch of emerald green lawn that rolled down to the beach. Alexei’s lip curled at the deadly irony of training his Russian-made sniper rifle on…Russians.

  The boat bobbed, and Alexei widened his stance, speaking into the mic clipped to his T-shirt. “We’d better get a signal here soon before the wind kicks up any more.”

  From another boat, his team leader’s voice crackled. “We’re waiting for one more member to show up—the most important one, an old-style gangster from the Vory v Zakone.”

  A muscle in Alexei’s jaw jumped at the name of the gang that used to be the most feared and influential criminal organization in the old Soviet Union. New gangs had cropped up since the breakup of the Soviet Union, but the Vory would always be revered by the criminal world even as its relevance slipped away.

  Slade, the team member sharing Alexei’s boat, hunched forward slightly. “Why do we have to wait for him? We’re not shooting any of the mob, right?”

  “Nope.” Alexei licked the salt spray from his lips. “But he’s going to lead his terrorist friends into position on the lawn. I guess it’s his house. He’s their host.”

  Slade whistled between his teeth. “Who said crime didn’t pay?”

  “Not me.” Alexei swept his scope along the large, rambling summer mansion perched at the edge of the sea in the Bulgarian Riviera.

  Their team leader issued a command. “Get focused. We have movement.”

  Alexei tracked the new arrival through his scope. He focused and his heart slammed against the wall of his chest. A flood of adrenaline coursed through his body. He lined up the owner of the extravagant home in his crosshairs—the face older, puffier, but unmistakable.

  He swore under his breath.

  Slade shifted beside him. “You okay? You got your guy?”

  Tracking his rifle from the old gangster to the Chechen terrorist walking toward the sea, Alexei said, “I do now.”

  The countdown started. “Five, four, three, two…”

  Alexei squeezed the trigger of his sniper rifle and dropped the target. His sniper teammates had hit the other terrorists at the same time, but, as Slade had pointed out earlier, the mobsters were off-limits. They’d set up the Chechens for the US military to take out.

  Fighting terrorists sometimes led to strange bedfellows—despicable bedfellows.

  Slade crouched on the deck of the boat and began to break down his rifle. He nudged Alexei, who was still hunched forward in his sniper posture. “You didn’t get a clean shot on your target?”

  “He’s dead.” Alexei swung his rifle from the lifeless body of the Chechen in the sand and zeroed in on the old Vory v Zakone, now laughing and smacking the back of one of his fellow gangsters, celebrating their safety.

  Alexei’s pulse ticked up a notch. His breath hitched in his throat. His trigger finger contracted a centimeter.

  Slade hopped to his feet and jabbed Alexei’s back. “Let’s go, man.”

  Releasing a breath, Alexei lowered the Dragunov and rolled his shoulders.

  You escaped this time, Belkin, but next time I have you in my sights you’ll be a dead man.

  Chapter One

  Three Years Later

  “Britt, I thought you were coming out here for a visit. I’m…in a bit of trouble. Call me.”

  Britt Jansen cut off Leanna’s voice-mail message and stuffed the cell phone into her purse. Dragging the back of her hand across her nose, she blinked the tears away. She flipped down the car’s visor and dabbed her pinkie finger at the edge of her heavily made-up eyes. She couldn’t afford to lose this job before she started.

  The Tattle-Tale Club was her only link to her missing sister.

  She slid from her car, an old compact she’d bought from a private party when she got to LA. Although she’d parked outside the Tattle-Tale’s lot, she didn’t want to be tooling around in a rental car. She’d gone through too much trouble setting up a fake identity.

  In the alley behind the club, she stepped around a transient’s grocery basket to make her way to the back door beneath a red-and-black-striped awning. As she grabbed the handle of the metal door, the owner of the basket approached her.

  “You got any spare change?”

  “Sorry, no.” She held up one hand as she yanked open the door and slipped into the back hallway of the club.

  Irina Markov, the manager, had shown her the ropes yesterday, and Britt plucked her fresh time card from the rack and inserted it in the clock, stamping her arrival time. As she placed the card back in her slot, Irina bustled down the hallway, her dyed blond hair floating around her face.

  “Right on time. Go introduce yourself to the bartender, Jerome Carter. We open in thirty minutes. Once the show starts, it’ll get packed.” Irina patted Britt on the back and then disappeared inside the owner’s office—the owner, Sergei, who’d lied to the police about Leanna.

  Britt squared her shoulders and blew out a breath. She could do this—she’d put herself through college working as a waitress. The harder part would be getting into Sergei’s office after hours, but she had a plan for that, too.

  She strode up to the end of the bar and waved at the bartender setting up. “Hi, I’m Barbie Jones. This is my first night.”

  Jerome wiped his hands on the towel tucked into the waistband of his jeans and leaned forward, hand outstretched. “Nice to meet you, Barbie. Jerome.”

  “Good to meet you, too.” She grasped Jerome’s hand. “Do you need any help back there?”

  He shoved a tray of small candles and cards printed with drink specials toward her. “If you could set up the cocktail tables with these, that’d be great.”

  Britt hoisted the tray and started depositing candles and cards at the tables closest to the stage.

  Leanna had mentioned a nice bartender in her infrequent phone calls, but Britt had no intention of revealing herself to anyone—nice or not—until she could get a handle on the situation. Anyone in this club could be complicit in Leanna’s disappearance.

  The cops had just done a cursory survey
of the employees and had come away satisfied with Sergei’s explanation that Leanna—or Lee, as she was known here—had quit to take off with a boyfriend. As flaky as Leanna was, there was no way she would’ve taken off like that without telling her big sister—and there was that voice-mail message.

  As Britt moved to the second row of tables back from the stage, a woman approached her and tapped her on the shoulder.

  “You really shouldn’t put those candles on the tables ringing the stage.” The woman, outfitted in the waitresses’ uniform of short black skirt and white blouse, scrunched up her nose, shaking her head.

  “Why?”

  “Because when the show starts, those guys in the front row might start a fire when they reach for the dancers.”

  “Oh.” Britt squeezed to the front line of tables and grabbed one of the candles. “Jerome didn’t tell me that, but it makes sense.”

  The woman shrugged. “What does Jerome know? He’s stuck behind the bar. I’m Jessie Mack, by the way.”

  “Hi, Jessie. I’m Barbie Jones.”

  Jessie narrowed her heavily lined eyes. “With a name like that, are you here to be a waitress or do you wanna be one of the dancers?”

  “Oh, no, waitress only. Barbie’s my real name, and I can’t dance.”

  Jessie snorted. “If that’s what you wanna call it.”

  “Are you here to waitress or dance?”

  “I’m a waitress…for now, but I’m trying to get on the stage.” She flicked her fingers at the stage. “You make more money shakin’ your stuff, and I’m all about the dollar bills.”

  “Do you have to audition or something?” Britt transferred another candle from the front row to the second row of tables.

  “Or something.” Jessie grabbed two candles and two drink cards from the tray and placed them on the tables behind her. “There’s a vacancy for sure. One of the dancers left recently, and I know Sergei wants to replace her.”

  Britt’s heart took a tumble. Jessie couldn’t be talking about Leanna. Her sister had assured her she was waitressing, not stripping, but then, Leanna didn’t always tell the truth.

  “Have you talked to Sergei about replacing her?”

  “Have you met Sergei yet?”

  “No. I interviewed with Irina.” She’d wanted to meet Sergei, but Irina told her he interviewed the dancers only and left the cocktail waitresses to her.

  “Yeah, that explains why you think it’s so easy to talk to Sergei.” Jessie put her finger to her lips as more women entered the bar. “Just stay on his good side…or stay out of his way altogether.”

  As the waitresses and the dancers flooded the bar, their chatter filled the air. Britt noted the heavy accents of some of the women and figured them for Russians since both Irina and Sergei were Russian, too.

  When she found herself alone with Jessie again at the end of the bar minutes before opening, Britt asked, “Why do so many Russian women work here? Is it because of Sergei?”

  “Sergei’s father. He owns the place, along with a few others in the Valley. He has a Russian restaurant with a banquet hall in Van Nuys, so sometimes we work out there for events.”

  She touched Jessie’s arm. “What you said before about auditioning for Sergei. What does that entail?”

  “You mean what do you have to do for the audition?” Jessie rolled her eyes. “Use your imagination. That’s why I haven’t applied yet. I’m trying to get my courage up.”

  The bar opened for business, and Britt didn’t have time for any more conversation or snooping. The customers kept her hopping with drink orders.

  She bellied up to the bar for another order, reading off a slip of paper on her tray where she’d scribbled the drinks. As Jerome hustled to fill her order, Britt turned and wedged her elbows against the bar, watching the topless women undulate under colored lights.

  “You want chance on stage?”

  Britt jerked her head to the side, almost colliding with a dark-haired man with glittering eyes and a smirk on his lips.

  She tucked her hair behind one ear. “God, no. I’m perfectly happy being a waitress. I can’t even dance.”

  The man’s eyes tracked down her body, and Britt craved a shower. “You have body of dancer. Maybe one day.”

  A chill pressed against her spine as Britt realized the identity of the man. “You must be Sergei. I’m Barbie, the new girl.”

  “Barbie, Barbie Doll.” He touched his fingers to his forehead. “Welcome to Tattle-Tale.”

  He sauntered off toward the stage, his tight shirt clinging to his taut frame, and Britt sagged against the bar behind her, puffing out a short breath.

  With a clenched jaw, Jerome placed the last bottle of beer on her tray. “First time meeting Sergei?”

  “Yeah. He seems…okay.”

  Jerome’s fingers tightened around the long neck of the beer bottle before releasing it. “Just don’t get on his bad side.”

  “That’s the second time tonight someone has warned me about one of Sergei’s sides.” She lifted the tray. “I can handle Sergei.”

  “That’s what they all say.” Jerome turned away without further explanation.

  Britt couldn’t stay out of Sergei’s way if she hoped to discover why he’d lied about Leanna leaving her job and town with a boyfriend. Why would he say that? Unless that was what Leanna had told him.

  She needed to get into Sergei’s office, the sooner the better. She’d already discovered he left before closing time, so she’d have to figure out a way to stay behind after everyone left.

  As Britt launched into the crowd of thirsty customers, Jessie grabbed her arm. “When you’re done with those, can you hit a table in the front row at the end of the stage? Guy’s been sitting there alone for a while, and I haven’t had a chance to get to him.”

  “Sure. Which side?”

  “On the left, facing the stage.” Jessie jerked her thumb over her shoulder as she scurried to the bar.

  Britt peered over her tray of drinks at a single man reclining in his chair—long legs stretched out in front of him, head tipped back, watching the woman on the pole. She mumbled under her breath, “Great—a weirdo by himself.”

  She scurried among her tables, delivering drinks and picking up a few tips. On her way to the lone guy up front, Britt stopped at a few tables along the way, scribbling drink orders on her pad. When she reached his table, she flicked a cocktail napkin down. “What can I get you?”

  The man turned his head and pinned her with a gaze from a pair of the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. “Two shots of vodka and a glass of water, please.”

  “Hope you weren’t waiting too long. The waitress at this station is really busy tonight, and she asked me to take care of you.” Britt bit the inside of her cheek. She had no idea why she’d engaged this weirdo—maybe so she could stare into his eyes a minute or two longer.

  He shrugged, his black leather jacket creaking with the movement. “I didn’t notice.”

  Of course he didn’t notice. He’d been too preoccupied ogling the topless dancer, who was still trying to get a tip out of him.

  Without breaking eye contact with Britt, he reached into his front pocket, withdrew a bill and tucked it into the dancer’s G-string.

  Britt felt a hot flush creeping up her throat and spun around before a customer could wonder why a cocktail waitress at a topless revue would be embarrassed by a common method of tipping.

  She hightailed it back to the bar and smacked her order on the top. “I’m up, Jerome.”

  The antics of the dancers and the customers hadn’t bothered her at all. As a therapist, she’d heard all kinds of stories from her clients and had learned to keep a straight face through all of it.

  There had just been something so personal about what that particular customer had done—as if he wanted Britt to witness him touching the dance
r in that intimate way.

  She pushed her hair back from her face and fanned it with a napkin. She’d imagined it. The guy’s appearance had just taken her by surprise, since she’d expected some dweeby loser to be going to topless bars by himself. That man still may be a dweeby loser, but he was one hot dweeb.

  Jerome’s dark face broke into a smile. “It does heat up in here pretty fast, and I’m not just talking about the girls.”

  “Busy place.”

  He tapped the last order on her list. “Is this a specific vodka on this order?”

  “I forgot to ask, and he didn’t say.” She’d been too mesmerized by his eyes.

  “Okay, I’ll pour him the house brand. Ask next time, since Sergei stocks all the best vodkas. Even the house brand is decent.”

  “Will do. Thanks, Jerome.” She picked up her tray and waded back into the mayhem. She delivered the drinks and then returned to her loner, still sprawled in his seat as if he hadn’t moved one muscle.

  She dipped beside his table. “Sorry I didn’t ask you before, but is the house vodka okay?”

  “It’s fine.” He shifted his body away from the stage, making a slight turn toward her. “How much?”

  “Do you want to run a tab?”

  “No.” His long fingers were already peeling bills from a wad of cash.

  “That’s twelve dollars. The water’s free.” She giggled.

  His lips, too lush for his lean face, quirked up at one corner, and he handed her a folded twenty. “Thanks.”

  As she reached for his change, he held up a hand. “Keep it…for the added comedy.”

  “Thanks.” She backed away from his table and then spun around, nearly colliding with Jessie.

  “Whoa.” Jessie raised her tray of drinks above her shoulder.

  “Sorry, just looking after your customer. He paid for his order already.”

  “Thanks, sweetie. Although from the looks of him, I’m sure you didn’t mind waiting on him. I wouldn’t.” Jessie winked and squeezed past her.

  Okay, so her reaction to the loner hadn’t been completely out of left field—and Jessie hadn’t even experienced his magnetism up close and personal.