Seduction Game

by Pamela Clare

  The fact that all of her friends were now married and most had children had changed her life, too. She spent a lot less time out on the town with them and a lot more time alone while they took on new roles and responsibilities. As much as she loved excitement and enjoyed the city’s nightlife, some secret part of her had begun to long for what they had—a family, a sense of roots, the certainty of belonging with someone. If she hated anything more than boredom, it was loneliness.

  But Kara didn’t seem to believe her. “Are you saying you’d be willing to trade places with me?”

  “And sleep with Reece?” Holly smiled to herself, stretched out on her sofa, and wiggled her toes.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  But the question, however intended, had Holly’s imagination going.

  Reece was sexy with dark blond hair, blue eyes, and muscles he hid beneath tailored suits. How fun it would be to peel one of those suits away from his skin.

  Then there was Julian Darcangelo, Tessa’s husband. He was the city’s top vice cop and a former FBI agent who’d worked deep cover. Tall with shoulder-length dark hair, a ripped body, and a strikingly handsome face, he was sex on a stick—and crazy in love with his wife.

  Then again, Marc Hunter, Sophie’s husband, had served six years in prison and had that badass vibe Holly loved. A former Special Forces sniper, he was also devoted to his family—and sexier than any man had a right to be.

  Gabe Rossiter, Kat James’s husband, had a rock climber’s lean, muscular build and a daredevil attitude. He had all but given his life for the woman he loved. Kat was lucky.

  Zach McBride, a former Navy SEAL and Medal of Honor recipient, had saved Natalie from being murdered by the leader of a Mexican drug cartel. All lean muscle and confidence, he had the hard look of a man who was used to taking action.

  Nate West, Megan’s husband, had been badly burned in combat, his face and much of his body disfigured. The part of him that wasn’t scarred was extremely handsome—and he had a cowboy charm that brought the song “Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)” to Holly’s mind.

  Javier Corbray had rescued his wife, Laura Nilsson, from captivity in a terrorist stronghold in Pakistan, sacrificing his career as a SEAL. With a sexy Puerto Rican accent, dreamy dark eyes, and a mouth that—

  “Are you fantasizing about my husband?” Kara’s accusing voice jerked Holly out of her reverie.

  “No, of course not. Not really. Okay, a little,” Holly confessed. “I was just deciding which one of you I’d most like to trade places with.”

  It was just a game. Holly had never so much as flirted with a married man. She didn’t poach on other women’s territory. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t fantasize.

  “Holly!” Kara laughed. “I’m sorry I phrased it the way I did. Let me try again.”

  Tessa, Holly decided.

  She’d trade places with Tessa. She’d always had a secret crush on Julian.

  But Kara went on. “If you want to meet good men, maybe you should quit going to the clubs. Most of the guys there are just looking for someone to hook up with.”

  It wasn’t the first time Kara had suggested this, but she didn’t understand.

  How could she?

  Holly fired back. “You met Reece at a bar.”

  Okay, so it had been a restaurant. Still, Kara had consumed three margaritas, so it might as well have been a bar.

  “Only because someone interfered,” Kara replied.

  Holly smiled to herself. It had been so easy.

  “Where else can a woman meet men? If I don’t go out, I’ll never meet anyone. It’s not like Mr. Right is going to walk up and knock on my front door.”

  “You never know.” Kara changed the subject. “Hey, did you hear that Tom is converting to Buddhism?”

  Holly sat upright. “Tom? The same Tom Trent I know? The one who spends his day shouting at everyone? He’s converting to Buddhism?”

  “That’s what my mother says.”

  Kara’s mother, Lily, lived with Tom.

  “She would know. But Tom—a Buddhist? He and the Dalai Lama have so much in common, like, for example . . . nothing.”

  Tom was the editor-in-chief of the Denver Independent, where his temper was as much of a legend as his journalistic brilliance. As an entertainment writer, Holly didn’t work directly beneath him like her I-Team friends did. Beth Dailey, the entertainment editor, was her boss. Beth never yelled, never insulted people—and she appreciated Holly’s shoes.

  “I think it’s perfect,” Kara said. “If anyone needs to meditate, it’s Tom. Gosh, it’s after midnight. I need to get to bed—and so do you if you want to be rested for tomorrow night.”

  The two said good night and ended the call.

  Holly got up from the sofa and went through her nightly routine, undressing, brushing her teeth, and washing and moisturizing her face, a sinking feeling stealing over her. Naked, she walked over to her dresser and carefully took her new Louboutins out of their red silk bag, moving them so that the light made the crystals sparkle.

  She didn’t want to spend another moment with Sasha Dudayev, but she’d already accepted and had the shoes . . .

  Just one more date and that would be it.

  She tucked the shoes carefully back in the bag, turned out her light, and crawled between her soft cotton sheets.

  * * *

  Nick fell to the concrete, pain knocking the breath from him. He looked down, saw that the round had penetrated his right side. He pressed his hand against the wound to staunch the blood loss.

  He glanced over his left shoulder, caught sight of Dani. She lay flat on the ground behind a forklift, her gaze on him, her eyes wide.

  She was safe.

  Thank God!

  She got to her knees, clearly about to run to him.

  Nick shook his head in warning. “Stay there!”

  But their attackers had already spotted her and opened fire again.

  Rat-at-at-at-at!

  AK rounds struck the forklift, ricocheting wildly.

  Dani fell flat again, panic in her eyes.

  Then Dudaev appeared, gliding down the center of the warehouse like an apparition.

  The bastard walked over to Dani.

  “No!” Nick shouted.

  Dudaev glanced his way, looked back down at Dani, and said something. Then he drew a Makarov from a shoulder holster inside his jacket.

  “Dani! No!” Nick fought to reach her, bullets raining from above, pain and blood loss making it impossible to move.

  He was too late.

  God, no!

  “Dani!”

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Nick awoke with a gasp, sweat beaded on his forehead, a hand pressed to his side. There was no blood, pain only a memory.

  Around him, the room was silent.

  Another nightmare.

  He rose, walked to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, his sense of terror slowly receding, grief taking its place.

  Dani.

  Every damned time he had one of these, it was like losing her again, the pain as real and new as it had been when he’d lain there holding her body, her lifeless eyes looking up at him, her blood and his mingling on that warehouse floor.

  God, how he wished it had been him.

  How he wished Dudaev had killed him instead.

  * * *

  “They say they’ve got more leg room, but that’s bullshit. I’m six feet. You just can’t get leg room in economy.”

  Nick nodded, took a swig of Tsingtao, his gaze on Kramer as he typed a message onto the Notes app of Nick’s phone with one finger. Nick had known Kramer since the beginning. He’d been working under Bauer when Nick had joined the Agency and had taken Nick under his wing, acted as his mentor, showed him the ropes.

  Kramer had always seemed indestructible to Nick, but today he was looking rough around the edges—older, pale, worn. There were thick bags under his eyes and a couple days’ growth of whiskers on his jaw. His hai
r was more gray than brown now and looked as if it hadn’t been combed in a few days. Then again, he’d just flown in from South Korea. But it was more than that.

  For the first time since Nick had known him, Kramer seemed shaken, worried.

  Kramer turned the phone so Nick could read it.

  We’ve got big trouble.

  As soon as he’d read the message, Nick deleted it and typed his own.

  An internal investigation. Who? Why?

  “I’m six-three, man,” he said aloud. “You’re preaching to the choir.”

  On his plate, an order of kung pao beef was growing cold, the food and conversation nothing more than cover.

  Kramer frowned, took the phone, typed.

  Daly, Carver, both dead.

  “I sat there for the last three hours of the flight wishing I could stash my legs in the overhead compartment,” Kramer went on, the tone of his voice casual, his Brooklyn accent standing out in this crowd of Coloradans and California imports.

  “I’ve had that same fantasy.” Nick deleted the words, typed his own message.

  I heard. Were they outed?

  Kramer shrugged, deleted Nick’s message, and began to type again. “They’re going to have to decrease their fares or take out a couple of rows of seats if I’m ever going to climb into one of their rust buckets again. I felt like a goddamn sardine.”

  McGowen’s dead, too.

  “Too bad you’ve still got four hours of flying time to go, old buddy.” Nick’s mouth formed words that barely registered with his mind as he did the mental math, a sense of foreboding growing in his gut.

  He typed out his reply.

  They were all part of the Batumi op. What the hell is going on?

  “Yeah, too damned bad about that, for sure.” Kramer looked Nick straight in the eyes, typed one last message, then finished his beer and stood.

  Nick turned the phone so that he could read it.

  Watch your six.

  That was it? Kramer had met with him just to tell him to watch his back?

  Nick had every intention of doing just that, of course. He erased the message, stood. “Want a ride to the airport?”

  Kramer tossed a couple bucks onto the table. “I’ll grab a cab.”

  As he watched Kramer leave the little Chinese joint, Nick felt certain that Kramer knew more about all of this than he’d just shared.

  Chapter Two

  Nick adjusted his platinum-and-diamond cufflinks, his gaze focused on the crowd, a knot in his stomach, the same knot that had been there since he’d gotten the news.

  Kramer hadn’t made it to DC. He’d stepped out of that restaurant, climbed into a cab—and disappeared. His luggage had been found in an alley in Aurora beside a couple of spent 9mm shell casings and a pool of blood that would probably test as his. But so far police hadn’t found his body.

  What the fuck was going on?

  A dozen possibilities had been running through Nick’s mind all evening, but one stood out among the rest: Dudaev must have known Kramer was in Denver and had gone after him. That meant Nick was in danger. If Dudaev had been able to identify and track down Kramer, Nick had to assume the bastard could do the same with him.

  That thought had prompted Nick to switch his cover at the last minute. Rather than showing up at the gallery opening as a member of the catering staff, he had come as a wealthy art collector, the glasses, graying hair, and mustache an attempt at a last-minute disguise.

  You look like something out of a 1970s Stasi manual, Andris.

  Maybe so. But Nick didn’t need to win a beauty contest. He just needed to get Dudaev before the bastard got him.

  He hadn’t cleared the change of cover with Bauer. If there was a leak somewhere in the chain of command, someone within the Agency who was handing officers over to the enemy, he didn’t want to give himself away. As far as everyone in DC knew, he was currently walking around the gallery dressed in black and wearing a fine apron.

  He shifted his attention back to the crowd, mental discipline pushing other thoughts aside. He had a job to do.

  It was already past nine, and Gallery Dudayev was packed. Denver’s glitterati had turned out in force to see and be seen at the grand opening—and to meet the city’s newest billionaire. By Nick’s estimate, there were almost two hundred people here, all of them dressed to kill. He had no difficulty picking Dudaev’s men out of the crowd. He’d counted five. They stood along the edges of the room, their gazes moving over the sea of faces. Compared to the gallery’s guests, they looked sullen and stiff, their suits not quite enough to camouflage the thugs within.

  Meanwhile, Dudaev was still at the restaurant with Ms. Bradshaw. He was probably planning on making a late entrance. The bastard loved drama.

  Nick accepted a glass of champagne from a young server and feigned interest in a sculpture, his gaze shifting to the other side of the room. He was here tonight to see if he could spot Dudaev’s real contact, the person who’d come to act as Dudaev’s courier and deliver the stolen intel to its buyer. He couldn’t be certain the contact would show tonight. Still, the gallery’s grand opening was guaranteed to draw some of Dudaev’s underworld contacts.

  Near the buffet table, Denver’s new mayor was talking with a city councilman about tighter regulations for the city’s private marijuana clubs. In the corner, an older man and his wife argued about whether he’d been ogling younger women. A hipster in skinny jeans kept circling back to the buffet as if he hadn’t eaten in a week. A gay couple moved from painting to painting, discussing the merit of each and holding hands.

  “What he’s trying for here is modern art with a classical aesthetic, a contemporary reinterpretation of the canon,” said one.

  Nick drew out his cell phone, thumbed in his passcode. If Ms. Bradshaw hadn’t forgotten her cell phone at home, he would be listening in on every word of her dinner conversation. Instead, he was stuck looking at the location of Dudaev’s limo on a special GPS app on his cell phone. The blip on the screen, fed to his phone by a small GPS transmitter he’d fixed to the underside of the limo, told him they were still at the restaurant. How long did it take to eat a damned meal?

  What Dudaev had in mind for Ms. Bradshaw, Nick wasn’t certain. The son of a bitch wanted to fuck her, of course. That went without saying. But if he tried to recruit her, and she had the strength of character to refuse . . .

  What’s it to you, Andris? The woman isn’t your problem.

  If she had the bad taste to get mixed up with a killer like Sachino Dudaev, that was her mistake. The Agency wasn’t there to bail her out. Then again, Dudaev wouldn’t get far, regardless of his plans for her.

  Soon, he’d be dead.

  Nick felt a sense of anticipation at the thought. Hell, no, he didn’t enjoy killing—most of the time. He was willing to make an exception in this case. The Agency wanted to terminate Dudaev because he and his organization posed a serious threat to US security. But Nick’s reasons were far more personal.

  He felt his cell phone buzz, glanced down. The green blip was moving.

  It’s about damned time.

  A few minutes later, the limo pulled up to the curb. A uniformed driver hurried around to the rear driver’s-side door and opened it. Dudaev stepped out like a conquering hero and walked behind the vehicle to the rear passenger door, where he stood, smiling, waiting for the driver to open it.

  The knot in Nick’s stomach became a ball of rage.

  It had been a little more than two years since he’d seen the son of a bitch. Dudaev had done well for himself. Dressed entirely in black—Italian shoes, Armani suit, diamond ring—he waved to his guests, acknowledging their applause, then turned and reached back to help Ms. Bradshaw.

  She emerged one long, silky, slender leg at a time.

  Holy . . . hell.

  Nick’s mouth went dry.

  He’d spent three weeks listening to her and had looked at dozens of photographs, but he hadn’t really seen her, not like this.


  Shit.

  She wore a strapless dress of beaded royal blue, its hem barely low enough to cover her ass. A sapphire the size of a robin’s egg hung from a necklace of glittering diamonds, more diamonds hanging from the end of the stone in a tassel that just touched the dark cleft of her breasts. Dudaev’s gift. She looked up at the bastard as he helped her out of the vehicle, her brown eyes warm, her red lips curving in a smile, her shoulder-length platinum blond hair arranged in tousled waves.

  A whisper moved through the crowd.

  “Those boobs have to be as fake as that necklace.”

  Fake or real, her tits were in serious danger of becoming another gallery exhibit. How the hell did that dress stay on?

  “I think she’s an actress.”

  She was certainly beautiful enough to make it in Hollywood, but an actress wouldn’t have shied away from the cameras the way Ms. Bradshaw did.

  “It figures the rich old goat would get to sleep with a chick like that.”

  Yeah. That thought sickened Nick, too.

  He tore his gaze from Bradshaw and moved casually on to the next sculpture, trying to fade into the background.

  * * *

  They reached Sasha’s hotel just after one in the morning.

  Holly watched while Kirill, Sasha’s chief bodyguard, searched her clutch, examining her cell phone, looking inside her compact, checking inside her emergency box of tampons, and opening her lipstick. “The color is called Heat Wave. I can pick some up for you if you like it.”

  Kirill glowered at her.

  “For your wife, I mean.” Holly met Sasha’s gaze. “It was a joke.”

  Sasha chuckled. “Kirill is not one for the jokes, I think.”

  Kirill motioned her forward. “Put your hands behind your head.”

  She looked up at Sasha, putting a pout on her face. “Do I have to do this?”

  “I am sorry, but Kirill is most particular about security,” Sasha answered. “I am a very powerful man. There are some who would do anything, even send a beautiful woman, to get to me.”

  “Fine, but if there’s going to be a pat-down, I want you to do it.” She smoothed her hands down Sasha’s chest.

  “He won’t touch you, my sweet. I promise.” There was a hint of steel in Sasha’s voice—a warning for Kirill.