The column of light suddenly dissipates, leaving the three of us in total darkness: me, my unborn son, and the mysterious, possibly lethal stranger walking slowly toward us.
My head grows fuzzy as it dawns on me that I’ve been holding my breath this whole time. My lungs are so tightly constricted in my chest that my body aches, from more than just pregnancy pain. I have to take a breath before I pass out.
So I do. One quick, sharp inhale.
And that’s all it takes.
There’s a deafening crack — the unmistakable sound of a gun firing at mid-range. In the split second following, I gasp and close my eyes tightly, wrapping my left arm around my stomach, my mind going totally blank with fear as I brace myself for the inevitable pain.
But it doesn’t come. Instead, the office window breaks with a hail of broken glass and the laptop to my right shatters in a spark of electrical light, plastic bits flying. I scream involuntarily, and in response I hear a deep, cruel laugh.
He yells something in Russian that I don’t understand.
“Leave us alone!” I cry, fumbling to get a solid grip on the gun. Everything is still totally dark — I can’t even tell what direction the voice is coming from, other than vaguely in front of me. Trembling, gritting my teeth so hard it makes my jaw ache, I lift up the gun and point it weakly before me.
“Vremya umirat!” he snarls.
I hear the distinct, horrifying sound of a gun cocking.
Before I have even a nanosecond to think about it, I pull the trigger.
The gun pops with such a powerful, loud jolt that it falls from my hand. There’s a strangled shout and then the sound of something heavy collapsing to the floor. I hyperventilate, rocking back and forth with both arms wrapped protectively around my belly. I have no idea if I have killed my attacker or if he is simply wounded and preparing to shoot at me again — but I know that I simply cannot bring myself to fire the gun another time.
Just then, the warehouse door swings open with a bang, admitting a wide column of moonlight to break through the shadows, the silhouette of a tall, broad-shouldered man in the doorway. Several yards in front of him, the dim light just barely illuminates the still, lifeless body of the intruder.
“Andrei?” I call out, my voice wavering. I am too frightened to even consider the possibility that this second person might be yet another enemy.
“Cassie!”
It’s Andrei’s voice. My heartbeat quickens and tears burn in my eyes as I struggle to get to my feet. I need to be near him, now. I need to hold him in my arms and make absolutely certain that he is real, that he’s alive.
He bolts toward me, sidestepping the dead body in front of him, bursting through the office door and sweeping me into his arms. He smells like gunpowder, like death — and yet, when he kisses the top of my head, I feel more alive than ever.
“Moya lyubova, are you alright? Oh, my sweet zhena!” he murmurs, covering my face with kisses, his hands gripping me like he is afraid I’ll dematerialize at any moment.
“I — I shot him,” I reply through a thick layer of tears.
“You did, malyshka, and you got him. You did so well, and I am so proud of you.”
“Is he — is he dead?”
“Da, angel. He’s dead.”
“And Sergei?”
“We will never see the likes of him again,” Andrei assures me, his hand reaching down to rub my pregnant belly. “Our son will be born into a much safer world now.”
“Oh, Andrei!” I gush, burying my face in his strong chest. He strokes the back of my head, gently weaving his fingers in and out of my blonde hair.
“I promise you things will be different now. We don’t have to live in fear anymore. I’m going to protect us, and I’m never leaving you again.”
We cling to each other this way for what feels like an eternity, simply soaking in each other’s presence, breathing in a shared relief. I never want to let him go.
“Ya tebya lyublyu,” I mumble into his shirt.
“I love you, too.”
Epilogue
One Year Later
“Smile, Max!”
Andrei stands in front of us holding his iPhone, the camera flash lighting up and making the ten-month-old baby in my arms blink in confusion. I beam at the camera, tickling him to make him giggle. An infectious, delighted peal of laughter comes out of his little mouth, causing both Andrei and me to burst into laughter, too.
We’re sitting on a woolly blanket in Central Park, the three of us bundled up in thick sweaters, mittens, and scarves. My little son’s chubby, cherubic face is all rosy-cheeked from the brisk cold, so I reach into the diaper bag to retrieve his knit beanie with ear flaps. He hates the hat, I know, but the last thing we need is a sick baby on our hands. Especially since we are just about to leave on a trip tomorrow!
“Oh, that’s a good one,” Andrei says, grinning. Sometimes it still catches me off-guard to see him looking this way — so happy and carefree. He used to smile only rarely, and when he did, it was a tentative, fleeting expression. Like he was afraid to be happy. But nowadays he’s almost always smiling, laughing, making silly faces and sounds to entertain baby Maxim.
I didn’t know it was possible to love anyone as much as I love my husband and son. And I never knew just how much happiness I could squish into my life.
“Was he looking at the camera this time?” I ask, coming around to lean on Andrei’s shoulder and look at the iPhone screen.
“Nyet, looking at his mama, as usual.” Andrei turns to kiss me on the cheek before doing the same to Max, who giggles again and reaches for his daddy’s face.
“You wanna go to daddy?” I coo, hugging Max close.
“Da-da,” he mumbles, his dark eyes crinkling up with delight at the mention of his father. The two of them are like two peas in a pod, totally fascinated by each other. Andrei takes Max from my arms and lifts him up, swinging him around in a circle while the baby laughs hysterically. My husband looks at Max with such tenderness and enchantment, like he’s the most wonderful creature on the planet. And Max often stares wide-eyed at his daddy, scarcely blinking, totally entranced by his every move. I can already tell that Andrei is his hero.
But he loves me, too. I’m his comfort. I’m the one he wants when he cries, when he’s hungry, when he’s scared. Andrei is the fun one, and I’m the safety blanket. We suit our roles very well, I’ve discovered. When I first met Andrei, I never would have imagined this side of him: so gentle and sweet.
Sometimes I feel like my life is too good to be true. But it’s totally real, and it’s mine.
“So what time are we leaving in the morning?” I ask, leaning forward to take a strawberry out of the picnic basket and pop it into my mouth.
“I’m thinking around eight. So we have enough time to arrive in your hometown before Isaiah’s piano lesson,” Andrei replies, retrieving a strawberry and offering it to Max. The baby takes it excitedly and starts pulling the little green leaves off the top with inexplicable glee.
“I can’t believe how fast he’s growing up,” I say, shaking my head. “Seems like just yesterday Isaiah was a baby, himself.”
“And now he’s an uncle,” Andrei says, smiling.
I grin at the idea of my eight-year-old brother being an uncle. “Crazy.”
After extensive research and intel, Andrei managed to track down my parents and Isaiah. They moved a county over from where I grew up, picking a new place to start over. Sure enough, Andrei found out through some particularly crafty sleuthing that my parents have been telling everyone that I moved to South America to be a missionary. They have no intentions of reaching out to me — I am essentially dead to them.
Honestly, even though it still hurts a little sometimes, I’ve gotten over that betrayal. My happiness with my current situation far outweighs my angst over what happened in the past. I no longer miss my mother and father. But I did miss my brother. Andrei couldn’t stand to see me suffering, and he knew how badly I w
anted Isaiah to meet his new nephew.
Last month was the first time I got to see my little brother since the day of our wedding. It took a lot of secretive planning, as well as a hefty pinch of kismet, to pull it off. It just so happens that my best friend and ballet instructor Sonya has a friend named Peter who teaches piano lessons in upstate New York. Since my old teacher retired years ago and my family was new to their area, I knew my parents would be on the hunt for a piano teacher for Isaiah.
So Andrei talked to Sonya who talked to Peter, who surreptitiously put himself forward as a private piano tutor, advertising himself as a man who specializes in hymns. It didn’t take long for Jan and Arnold to sign up for Peter’s services. And it wasn’t long after that when Peter told Andrei he would be more than happy to facilitate a secret visit.
Overjoyed at the thought of being reunited, however temporarily, with Isaiah, I said yes and jumped at the opportunity. So last month we took a drive up north to see Isaiah during his piano lesson. I made him swear not to tell our parents, and he’s old enough to know how serious the situation is, at least on some level. I think he understands that if he tells anyone about the meetings, our parents will only try that much harder to keep us apart.
Tomorrow, we are going back up there to visit him for a second time. And after that, we are catching a plane to Madrid! It will be my first time out of the country. Actually, it will be my first time ever even leaving the state of New York! We’re going on a month-long tour of Europe, hitting Spain, France, Italy, and Switzerland before jetting up to Siberia for a short visit to Andrei’s hometown of Yakutsk. It will be blisteringly cold there, of course, but he assures me that we will be perfectly fine. After all, there are lots and lots of people who live there year-round! I’m excited to see where my husband grew up. I know he will have to confront a lot of difficult memories, but with me beside him, I think it will be a cathartic experience.
Besides, Sonya will be meeting up with us there to see her mother for the first time in many, many years, and I cannot wait to see that reunion!
“Do you think we have enough winter clothes for Max?” I ask, biting my lip.
Andrei shrugs and lifts an eyebrow, a mischievous look crossing his face.
“We could always take him shopping in Europe.”
I beam at him. “Europe,” I breathe dreamily. “I never thought I would leave my hometown, much less travel the world!”
“And I never thought I would have a wife or a baby,” Andrei says. “I never thought I could possibly have this kind of life.”
“Then that makes two of us,” I add, reaching over to take his hand.
He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it, causing Max to make a delighted gurgling noise.
All three of us laugh, snuggled together under the sunny skies, a colorful life full of love and adventure ahead. I can’t wait.
Thank you so much for reading and, hopefully, enjoying this book :) If you’d like more, please make sure you’re subscribed to my newsletter. If you could leave a review or tell your friends, I’d really appreciate it!
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Description
Viktor
After 4 years of deployment, all I want is to see a sexy woman in the flesh. Then I meet a goddess. Aphrodite is her stripper name, and I can buy it. I can't believe my luck when she comes back to my hotel with me.
Then the condom breaks.
I wish that's where my run of bad luck ended, but 5 years in jail keeps me away from her. All that keeps me going is the thought of her.
I need her to give me a second chance.
Alice aka Aphrodite
He never showed up for our second date. I can't blame him, I guess. Guys freak when condoms break, even though he said he'd support me through whatever. I guess it's easier to disappear.
And I got Cierra out of it. She's my little princess, and I'll do anything to protect her.
Now that he's walked back into my life, though, do I have to protect her from the much harder and more dangerous Viktor? I don't want to believe that. I want to give him a second chance.
A full length Standalone Romantic Suspense novel. No Cliffhangers. Safe from cheating. Explicit language & swearing.
Alice
I’m a stripper. It’s a job. It’s not who I am.
And like any job, we’re here to work, make the most money we can, and go home to live our life. We wear skimpy clothes, we dance to titillate and excite the customers, but none of us is up here with the first thoughts in our mind being anything but: let’s make some cash and get home.
And I like my job. I’m good at it. I get to dress in skimpy clothes, I work hard, and I come home at the end of the night exhausted and able to pay all my bills.
Sure, every now and then, I get to see handsome men. Even dance for them. And dancing for a handsome man is nice, of course, you’d choose a handsome man over a grungy, smelly one. But all the girls in here would much rather dance for a generous man than a handsome one.
I’m not here to meet guys, after all. If I wanted that, I’d just head to a regular bar, soak up free drinks and compliments, and let the guys try to sweep me off my feet. Instead, I have to hustle and convince as many people as possible that having me dance for them is worth $20 for three and a half minutes of non-happy-ending pleasure.
I’m not looking for love in this place.
But even I can admit that the guy I spot in the audience is a hunk.
He has that natural boyish charm, but sanded and chiseled just enough to make him rugged. He’s broad in the shoulder, and he wears a nice, stylish shirt with the cuffs rolled up a bit. Though I can tell he probably bought it before he buffed up, because it clings to his bulging biceps and pecs, outlining just how beefy he really is.
That’s my first clue of who this mystery hottie might be.
From my vantage point on the stage, perched in my 6” heels, I watch him as he grabs a drink. I love being on stage. Not only does it allow me a chance to scope the room, but it gives me a thrill to know how many men are watching me in my skimpy bikini. Wanting to give me money for my time.
I’m in the zone up here, and my chosen music thrums through me. I move to the rhythm of the song, letting all the room’s good energy flood into me, but all the while my eyes are on him. I smile at him coyly as he turns to face me, and I lick my lower lip tantalizingly.
Whenever I flip my blonde hair, or touch my tanned skin, it’s titillating, to me and the crowd.
I guess that’s why I’m so good at my job. I treat it like a business, like an investment in my future, and I take it seriously, but I still have a hell of a lot of fun. I meet interesting people, I buy as many cute outfits as my budget allows, and yea, I’m a bit of an exhibitionist. I love being watched.
The mystery hunk leaves the bar and comes to the stage, shirking the other dancers that approach him for private dances.
His eyes belong to me.
That’s a powerful feeling, I’ll admit. When I’ve got a man in my tractor beam, pulling him in as I dance upon the stage. I love knowing how entranced he is by me showing everything I’ve got under the dark lights. I have nowhere to hide.
Most guys are cheap, and that goes doubly so for guys who come up to ‘pervert’s row’, the lineup of seating along the stage. After paying for cover and drinks, a lot of them just want to sit back and look. But this guy, with his broad jaw, his handsome smile, and crew cut hair holds out a twenty.
Make that the second clue as to who he really is.
I don’t often see twenties up on stage. A good tip is typically a five, maybe a ten if I’m lucky. A twenty means he really wants my attention, and I’m only too happy to oblige him.
I lick my lips as I kick my legs out, swinging around the pole before gracefully landing on my knees, right in fro
nt of him. My legs are spread, and though I’m still in my holographic bikini, it doesn’t leave much to the imagination.
“Baby,” I breathe out as my hand reaches for his jawline, caressing it smoothly. “Is this your way of asking me on a date upstairs?” I ask, motioning to the VIP lounge.
“Oh yeah,” he says in a deep, husky voice that speaks of raw masculinity. It’s the kind of voice you imagine has no trouble getting the attention of a room when raised: raw, hard, and a bit gravelly. And that moment up close as I stroke his jawline, I see the tell-tale little scars. They’re not disfiguring, in fact on a guy like him, they only add to his rugged appeal. They don’t subtract from his natural good looks, they add.
But that’s the third and final clue I need as he watches me, entranced by my show. This guy’s definitely a vet.
I’ve danced for military guys before, lots of them. I mean, that’s what Vegas was originally built for was entertaining our troops. Most of them come in with uniform on; they love the extra attention it gets them. But he tries to hide it, tries to blend in and look like a regular, handsome dude in a nice, stylish shirt. But I can tell. I’ve learned to watch people in here.
“Hope that’s enough to break the ice,” he says, his chin with an attractive cleft, his cheeks dimpled just a bit as he smiles at me.
I smile, biting on the corner of my lip seductively as my fingers go between my breasts. I grab at the string that holds my bikini together as I lean in towards him, whispering in his ear.
“What do you think?” I ask, just before I pull back and tug on my bikini string, letting the elastic fiber bounce away from my breasts, exposing myself — and my hard little nipples — to a man I don’t even know. It’s enough to send a shiver of excitement down my spine.
He’s captivated, and though he’s not the only guy at the edge of the stage tipping, he’s the one tipping far more than any other. That makes him worth my time business-wise, even if I’m frankly just enjoying looking at this tall man’s handsome face. He’s the kind of guy I’d definitely want to hit on me in a regular bar, so I might be feeling a little generous too.
Sights on the SEAL: A Secret Baby Romance Page 33