by Hope Anika
“Do you recognize them?” she asked curiously.
One of his hands lifted, and he traced the characters with his index fingers. He had wide, long-fingered hands that were callused and peppered with faint scars, his nails neatly trimmed. He wore no rings, but the watch that circled his strong, corded wrist had a bunch of dials and buttons, and Ash was pretty sure it was worth more than her Jeep.
“Ruslan,” she said when he didn’t respond.
But he only stared at the symbols, silent, and alarm flared through her. She couldn’t have said why—specifically—because he betrayed nothing: no tension, no distress, no anger or fear. There was no change in his expression; he made no sound. Reading his body language was a lost cause—because there was no body language, ever—and he sat beside her utterly still, that man in bronze, withdrawn and entirely untouchable.
“We need to go to the Vault,” he said, and his voice was so distant, so cold, that she flinched, and her hands fisted, as if she could smash through the ice. “We need to inspect the scene.”
“You recognize those symbols,” she said, striving for calm.
He said nothing; with his finger, he stroked the drawing.
“Ruslan,” she said again.
Another stroke.
Goddamn it. She reached out and wrapped her hand around his; the shock of connection bolted through her, but she didn’t let go.
Even when he jerked against her hold.
“No,” he said.
“Talk to me,” she demanded, her hand squeezing his. “I’m right here.”
He turned and looked at her, and the flat, opaque surface of his eyes was like a slap. “Let go of me.”
She didn’t want to; like him, she was stubborn. But the look in his eyes was unnerving. Death staring back at her. Nothing like the look he’d caressed her with earlier; nothing like that Ruslan. And she was tough, but he could wipe the floor with her.
In a heartbeat.
And at the end of the day...she didn’t know him.
Not even a little bit.
“Sorry,” she muttered and released him. She pushed to her feet. “Won’t happen again.”
“Ashling,” he said, but she ignored him, shoving her chair under the table. She leaned over and gathered the documents, shoving them back into the file, then into the envelope, all except the picture of PN4, which she slid into her pocket. She was painfully aware of her heart pounding with sickening force, of suffused heat washing across her skin, of the profound...angst she felt churning within her.
So he didn’t want her to touch him...so what?
Get over it. But she hadn’t realized how much it bothered her. How much he bothered her. The evasions, the omissions, the trust she wanted to feel but didn’t.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, he was clearly lying to her now. Because he sure as hell recognized those symbols.
“Ashling,” he said again, but she didn’t look at him.
“My name is Ash,” she told him, her voice hard. “Only my dickhead father calls me Ashling.” She picked up the envelope and stalked toward the door. “The Vault is waiting. We should go.”
CHAPTER
-9-
The suite was everything Wylie expected: large, luxurious and loaded with liquor. That it was a corner unit with a wall of darkened windows that revealed the street below was an added bonus, enabling them to keep an eye on anyone coming or going from The Butterfly Club.
Through the front entry, at any rate.
The main room of the suite was understated in its décor: creams and pale beiges, with lots of damask and fine silks. The carpet was plush underfoot, and the small sitting couch and matching chair were covered in butter-soft, off-white leather. The bar, side tables and coffee table were all dark brown—almost black—and the lamps were brilliant, Tiffany stained glass. An enormously large bed sat in its own room just off to the left, covered in a thick, downy gold quilt and hand-woven Turkish sheets. Pillows piled high against the padded leather headboard: tasseled, velvet, silk and satin, their colors muted, staid in contrast to the rich materials of which they were made. Next to the bedroom was a large, tiled bath with a deep, jetted tub, a giant shower with five heads and a long, narrow bench, a toilet, a bidet and an enclosed sauna built of fragrant cedar. In every room, there were pictures of butterflies: some painted, some photographed, some embroidered with tiny stitches of brightly colored thread. The ceiling of the sitting room was a small dome, and in its center was a stunning mosaic of a black butterfly with brilliant turquoise and amber markings.
The Black Swallowtail Suite.
Expensive, even by Vegas standards. Of course the fee for the suite also—normally—came with entertainment included, but there would be none of that tonight.
No, tonight was all business. No matter what Wanda thought.
It is a bordello!
The horrified look on her face made Wylie grin in remembrance, but then he thought about the look on her face when the elevator doors had opened and that asshole had caught sight of her—and fucking reached for her—and the grin faded.
Secrets.
They all had secrets. Him, Ash, Ruslan—especially Ruslan—and Wanda, too.
Wanda. Nisha. Whatever the hell her name was.
Wylie knew she’d been running when Charlie found her, but that was all he knew. Charlie hadn’t shared, and Wylie hadn’t asked. Now he wished he had. Because that unknown dickhead had scared the living hell out of her. The color had leached from her face, and her eyes had gone blank. A violent tremor Wylie had felt as he stood beside her.
He wanted some goddamn answers.
Like who Wanda was—really was—and what she was running from. Like the identity of that asshole who’d tried to put his hands on her—and why he thought he could.
Like what they were up against.
Answers—when Wylie never asked questions. An explanation—when it was his policy to not get involved. An understanding—when he considered most things none of his business.
You’re losing your damned mind.
“Do you think Wanda is alright?” Eva asked from where she sat on the couch, book in hand. As soon as they’d entered the suite, she’d gone and sat down and opened her book.
As if running for her life was old hat.
Her lack of reaction to their merry little adventure seriously rattled Wylie; what was wrong with the girl? She was just a kid—being chased through the city by men with guns should have, at the very least, scared her. Hell, it scared him.
“She’s fine,” he said, but he strode over to the closed bathroom door—behind which Wanda had been hiding for the last twenty minutes—and pounded on it with his fist. “Wanda. Open the door, baby.”
Nothing; not even a whisper.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
“Wanda,” he growled.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” she said through the door, her tone defiant.
He reached down and grabbed the door handle, surprised when it turned in his grip. Silly girl. He walked through the door, thrust it shut, and then leaned back against it.
“You are an impossible man!”
Wanda glared up at him from where she sat on the closed toilet lid, her feet bare; beside her, the spike-heeled boots lay abandoned. Her hands were fisted in her lap, and she was pale, her eyes dark, her lush mouth turned down.
“We need to talk,” he told her and folded his arms across his chest so he wouldn’t reach for her. He’d already touched her too much; it had begun to feel natural. As if it was simply his right.
When he’d never wanted that right.
“Rude,” she muttered.
“Who is she?” he wanted to know, ignoring that.
“Who is who?”
“Eva,” he said succinctly. “Who is Eva?”
“Oh.” Wanda flushed. “I don’t know. Her father—Joe—came to the office today. He said he owed money to Vinnie The Bird, and he was afraid Vinnie would try to kidnap Eva over the debt. He hired th
e Firm to protect her. So Ash took her to the Vault.”
“And?”
A shrug. “Ash called and asked me to sit with Eva while she went home to shower and get food. So I did. Then the men showed up. You know the rest.”
“Those assholes aren’t Vinnie’s guys.” Wylie shook his head. “They’re professionals.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means there’s more to this than meets the eye,” he said grimly. “I need to get the Bandit up and running and try to connect with Ash. See if she got our message and make sure she’s okay.”
“Why wouldn’t she be okay?”
“She sent me a text that said there were dead men in her living room, Ruslan and Butch were in trouble, and you were in danger. I went to the Vault, and it was trashed, the door blown. I checked the passage and figured you’d used it. Finding you at the Hostel was a lucky guess.”
“Dead men in her living room?” Wanda repeated. “Dead how?”
“I don’t know.” Wylie rubbed the back of his neck, which was prickling. “But I’m guessing it wasn’t natural causes.”
She stared at him. “What should we do?”
“We stick to the plan. We head up to the cabin, and we wait.”
“But...should we call the police?”
“No.”
She frowned. “But surely they can protect Eva better than we can?”
Again, Wylie shook his head. “Until we know who is after that girl and why, we trust no one.”
Wanda went even more pale; in her lap, her hands tightened, bone pressing against her warm, golden skin.
“Don’t panic, baby,” he told her. “We’ll be alright.”
She drew herself up, straightened her shoulders. “I’m perfectly fine. And don’t call me baby.”
“What should I call you?” His brows rose. A thread of adrenaline shot through him, and he pushed off the door to take a step toward her. “Wanda? Nisha? Or some other alias I have yet to know about?”
Color burned into her cheeks. “Stop it.”
“You’re going to tell me who he is,” Wylie told her softly.
“He is my problem,” she said and looked away. “Not yours.”
“Do you really think that?” he demanded, aware that his own hands had curled into fists. Of his heart, suddenly thumping heavily in his chest. “That we would just let him take you?”
“You could not stop him,” she said quietly, and fury flared through him, joining the adrenaline flooding his veins.
“Bullshit,” he snarled.
She reached up and rubbed at her chest as if it hurt, and the memory of the thug at the fountain slamming his fist into her jolted through Wylie. He took another step toward her.
“Let me see,” he said.
“See what?” she asked, scooting back on the toilet lid.
He crouched in front of her and reached for the bottom of her shirt. “Your chest. I can tell it hurts. Let me make sure nothing is broken.”
“I’m fine,” she growled, batting his hands away. “I think we’ve seen enough chests for the evening.”
A surprised laugh escaped him. “She’s got nothing on you, baby.”
Wanda flushed, and her dark eyes flashed, and Wylie reflected that she was far more spirited than he’d ever realized. Spicy. Just like she smelled. And that hint of fire drew him. Her intelligence. Combined with the physical attraction he already felt—
Well, fuck.
“I don’t want your help,” she said, her words enunciated as if he was a dimwit.
And he wondered if that was really what she thought.
“I was a field medic in Iraq,” he told her quietly. “Let me examine you.”
She stared at him for a long, motionless moment, her scent curling around him. She was a tiny thing, fine-boned and delicate, but there was an iron will behind the fragile façade. Like Ash—which he never would’ve expected—and he wondered if Wanda had been forged by a similar fire.
The thought infuriated him. And that asshole who thought he could grab her—
Answers. He was going to get them.
“I’m fine,” she said again. “Truly.”
“Let me see.”
She glared at him, color ripe in her cheeks, but Wylie only reached once more for her shirt. She fought him, holding it down, but he just stared at her and waited.
“You’ll see I’m fine,” she muttered, but her hands fell away to grip the toilet seat beneath her, and Wylie gently lifted her shirt, revealing a smooth expanse of honey-brown skin, like silk beneath his hands. She wore a plain, unadorned nude colored bra; it should not have made his heart lunge in his chest. His cock should not have jerked.
Christ.
Her breasts spilled over the top of the bra in a generous swell, and for a minute, he couldn’t tear his gaze from them. His mouth watered. His fingers tightened around the fabric of her shirt. And then she made a sound—protest or fear or impatience, he didn’t know—and he forced himself to calm the hell down.
Get a fucking grip, man.
He pulled the shirt all the way up, but when he moved to tug it over her head, she reared back.
“No,” she protested.
“Do you think I’m going to hurt you?” he asked bluntly. He captured her gaze, held it.
“I...no. No, I don’t think that.” She looked at his hands, wrapped in her shirt, hovering just above her breasts, and her cheeks flared with color. “I just...I’ve never been unclothed before a man.”
He shouldn’t have been surprised. Or pleased. Or any fucking thing else he felt at that moment. Goddamn it. “You’re not naked, baby. Your bra is no different than a bikini top.”
She glowered at him. “I don’t wear bikini tops.”
Another soft laugh broke from him, and he pulled the shirt up and over her head, careful of the thick fall of her hair and the necklace she wore, which bore a delicate silver pendant geometric in shape with a circle in its center. She made a grab for the shirt, but he set it on the floor behind him, and when his gaze fell to the angry red imprint on her sternum, his smile faded.
A fist. Ridges where she’d been impacted by the asshole’s knuckles, finger marks that were paler, but no less infuriating. A big, ugly contusion that was just beginning to bruise.
“Christ,” he growled and raised a hand to touch her.
She inhaled sharply, and a sound worked in her throat. She squirmed atop the toilet lid.
“Easy,” he whispered and ran his fingers gently over the swollen area, probing carefully at the bone beneath. She hissed in a breath.
“Tell me about the pain,” he said.
She slid another inch backward, until her back hit the toilet tank. “What do you mean?”
Wylie only followed. “Is it an ache?” He traced the outline of the imprint, the backs of his fingers brushing the inner swell of her breasts, and she made another strangled sound while he did his damnedest to ignore the flush crawling over her skin. And his cock. “Or is it sharper?”
“An ache,” she said, her voice hushed. “A throbbing ache.”
“Good,” he said roughly, and unable to help himself, he repeated the movement. Her nipples peaked against her bra, and blood roared in his head. “I don’t think anything is broken.”
She jerked away and slammed into the toilet tank. “You see? I’m fine.” Her arms came up and crossed over her breasts protectively. “Please give me back my shirt.”
Wylie stared at her, his heart beating furiously. Hard as a fucking rock. Goddamn it.
And she wasn’t unaffected. Goosebumps covered her flesh; her cheeks were flushed, her pulse a wild flutter in the hollow of her golden throat. For a moment, he was tempted to push. To take. Just to see how far she would let him go. To ease the pressure building within him. To see if this anomalous thing he felt toward her could be soothed...but then she rubbed at the raised welt again, and he looked away, down to where his hands had fisted themselves on either side of her thighs.
Get. A. Grip.
“My shirt,” she said again.
He reached behind him and grabbed it. But he didn’t hand it to her.
“Tell me about him,” he said instead.
Wanda’s gaze narrowed. She reached for her shirt, but he lifted it out of reach.
“Give it to me,” she said.
“Tell me.”
Her mouth fell open. “That’s extortion!”
“Yes,” he said seriously. Nothing more.
For a moment, her eyes glittered and her mouth pursed, and Wylie wondered idly if she was going to try and tackle him for it. She was definitely thinking about it, and he sure as hell wouldn’t mind her trying.
But putting his hands on her would be a mistake. He knew that now.
“It’s my business,” she whispered furiously. “You have no right to demand anything.”
She was right. He didn’t give a shit. “I’m waiting.”
A growl escaped her. “His name is Ajmil Patail. He is India’s ambassador to Germany.”
Surprise shot through him. “And?”
She said nothing, her eyes burning.
“Nisha,” he said softly, and she flinched.
“I am Nisha no more,” she said.
“Why not?”
Silence.
Wylie only waited.
“Please,” she said.
“Tell me.”
“I hate you.”
He ignored that, pretty certain she didn’t mean it. “Still waiting.”
“Why do you care?” she demanded. “I’m nothing to you.”
“Tell me.”
A furious rush of Hindi burst from her. Her eyes flashed, her arms waved, her foot stomped the floor. Wylie watched her fury grow, painfully aware that his arousal was growing, as well. She would be hell on wheels in bed.
Jesus Christ.
“Wanda,” he said, very quietly. “Talk to me.”
And just like that, her anger drained. She shuddered and reached up to rub her hands down her face.
“Ajmil is the son of a man to whom my parents betrothed me when I was six,” she said dully. “A man I fled. He’s the reason I’m no longer Nishi.”