A smile that faded as he once more caught her shoulders, wrenching her away. His eyes blazed in stormy black and brown; a wild intensity that ratcheted tension through her as he stared into her own.
Her heart leapt into her throat. “I—”
“They’ll know if I don’t,” he muttered hoarsely, but more as if he spoke to himself than to her. Without warning, he pulled her hard against him. Caught her face between his palms and tipped her face up with impatient fingers.
Katya gasped.
He covered the sound with his lips, pulled the air from her lungs on a low, angry noise that did nothing to dull the sudden heat flushing her chest. Her stomach, and lower.
His lips were warm, firm against hers. Demanding. He didn’t coax, he didn’t wait; Katya had long since learned never to expect it. He tilted her face up, thumbs at the corners of her mouth, and swept his tongue inside to taste her.
Her breath shuddered. The sensation seemed to light a fire in him; he dragged his tongue across hers. Teased it, coaxed it to follow back into his own mouth. The world simmered around her, danced wildly as if caught in a heat wave.
His eyelashes were black, she realized. The skin across his high cheekbones was taut, flushed with control and arousal and his body against hers was rock solid and—Oh, God.
For one moment, Katya forgot about her situation. She forgot about the other girls she was so desperately trying to protect; forgot about their jailer somewhere in the small house.
She forgot about the plans to escape this hellhole and the police who had turned her away.
There was only Nigel Ferris; dirty cop with a mouth to die for.
She closed her eyes. His hands left her face and she fisted her fingers in his shirt, hauling him closer. Begging him wordlessly to continue feasting from her lips. Tasting her soul. He groaned again. His arms came around her, dragged her off the floor. Wild, wanton, she wrapped her legs around his hips and tangled her fingers into his short, wavy hair.
He sank his teeth into her lower lip and she arched. The thick length of his erection ground against the front of her jeans and her skin caught fire. Gasping for breath, she could only moan helplessly as he held her as easily as if she were made of feathers, ground himself against her, devoured her identity and her willpower with a bruising kiss that would be sure to leave her lips swollen when he was done.
Arousal filled her so hard, so shockingly hot and fast, that she reeled.
It had been too long.
Why? Why a cop? A bad cop, even?
And then his hand crept under her shirt and she forgot that, too. Her world was suddenly comprised of the feel of his callused palm against her naked waist. Her ribs. And then hard and warm over the soft pink cup of her bra. She thrust herself into his hand, her fingers tight at the back of his neck.
“Not a good idea,” he groaned against her mouth, each syllable a throaty curse. “Wait, stop, I—The hell!” He staggered, jarring Katya out of her reverie as somewhere beyond that door, girls screamed.
Her eyes snapped open.
“Shit!” Nigel dropped to his knees, still cradling Katya against his chest. “Get down!” He dropped her, and arousal flipped over to utter confusion, total fear. A raid! Were they being shot at? Was that—
“The floor,” she gasped, struggling to push herself to her hands and knees. “It’s moving!”
He didn’t say anything, flattening a hand on her back. Katya grunted gracelessly as he pushed her to her stomach, and yelped as he covered her body with his. She felt dwarfed. Smothered.
Sick to her stomach.
He pushed her head down, folded his arms over her. The house shook and trembled around them. Plaster cracked, dingy white dust sifting to the floor as it rolled. Her stomach pitched and yawned; one ear plugged abruptly, and vertigo slammed into every nerve still trying to find mental footing.
Through the vee between his protective arm and the floor, she watched the mattress shimmy and vibrate its way to the other wall. Plaster fell in clumps, and she felt him tense over her. Heard him grit out something hard and painful.
He was protecting her. The dirty cop, the man who’d bargained with a Russian pimp for an hour of sex, was protecting her.
Katya’s hands fisted as the room shuddered.
Who the hell was this man?
And why did she suddenly feel that she’d seen this earthquake coming?
Chapter Two
Detective Nigel Ferris shot out of that filthy little house like a bat out of hell. The brothel warden unlocked the bolts only reluctantly after he explained impatiently that the station would know if he didn’t respond after an earthquake like that.
An earthquake, for God’s sake. Talk about a sign from God.
The big Slavic muscle, Ivan—though Nigel would eat his badge if that was actually his name—had kept the money.
Nigel wrote it off. He was a man on a mission.
He rarely wasn’t, but this time, as he navigated the busier-than-usual traffic of Seattle’s midnight streets, his mission felt personal. It wasn’t, of course, but damn it, it sure as shit felt like it was.
Ekaterina Mikhailovna Zhuvova. A mouthful even on a good day, and today wasn’t a Goddamned good day. He’d done what he had to in order to put Ivan at ease. Hauled the petite blonde into that cramped room with its thin mattress and steeled himself to screw her and get out.
Ivan would have known if he didn’t. Maybe there were cameras. Maybe the prostitute would have told her pimp the dirty cop hadn’t done anything but ask her questions.
Nigel had expected to hate every second.
He didn’t expect to lose himself in her mouth. To stare into her wide, summer blue eyes and feel the wrenching need to see those eyes cloud with lust. For him.
Shit. Him and God only knew how many other men before him. That earthquake had saved his ass.
Even as he’d hated to leave her. Leave them. Every drop of his blue-as-the-uniform blood sizzled at the necessity. He wanted to bust in, kick Ivan’s ass and free the girls held captive, but he couldn’t yet.
Not until he got to the bastard at the top of the prostitution ring. Nigel was looking forward to burying Mikoyan for life.
Maybe, just maybe, it’d make up for leaving those women behind.
The cell phone in his hand buzzed loudly as the unit tried to connect to busy landlines.
Nigel wrapped both hands around the wheel of his black SUV and cursed as the device in his ear chirped, “Seattle Police Department, hold.”
The line clicked to static-filled classical music, and he swore as he disconnected. He wanted answers. Who was Ekaterina Zhuvova? Why had she really been at the station, and why the fuck hadn’t he been told? This was his case. His.
A horn blared, and he wrenched his attention to the streets. That earthquake had taken them all by surprise. As far as he could see, the worst of the damage was a dark traffic light and the occasional debris scattered about already debris-clogged streets. Much like the plaster fragments that had rained down in that dingy, cramped room.
His nerves still recalled the feel of Katya’s curves beneath him.
His brain still painted the terror in her eyes.
“Damn it,” he muttered, downshifting as traffic slowed. He frowned at the short line of red brake lights. An accident? No, he realized as the line slowly sped up again. A large crack in the road.
He whistled as he carefully maneuvered around the broken asphalt, already reaching for the radio affixed to the underside of his dashboard. He’d report the treacherous fracture before—
The cell in the seat beside him burst into a funky, retro beat.
He snatched it up, clicked it on. “May Day, what’s wrong?”
“God, Dad, why do you have to call me that?”
Annoyed as it was, the sullen tones of his daughter’s exasperation cleared a knot from his chest. He exhaled with relief. “Right, right. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, sure. Why?”
“No earthquakes up in
Bellingham?” The line cracked noisily, and he grimaced. “Don’t pop your gum in my ear,” he added mildly.
“Sorry.” She didn’t sound like she meant it, but at fourteen going on twenty, he’d take what she could give. “There was a small one,” she added. “Like, nothing big. Nothing even broke.”
Another edge of anxiety loosened. “You sound disappointed,” he teased. “Tell me it at least opened up a crack and swallowed your grandmother’s taco meat terrier.”
She laughed before she remembered she was supposed to be too cool for Dad. “Nope. Boring.”
He grinned. “What are you doing up so late, anyway?”
“Movie night at Gram’s,” she replied. “We watched a zombie flick.” Oh, great. Like she didn’t have nightmares already. He winced. “We just saw the news and Mom said I should call. She wants to talk to you.”
Son of a bitch. “Okay,” he said calmly. “Sure. Hey, May Day?”
She groaned. “Dad.”
“Love you. See you this weekend, okay?”
“Yeah, whatever.” She hesitated. “Hey.”
“What’s up, kiddo?”
“Um . . . Love you, too, Dad.” A sudden feminine voice behind Maylene’s cut in, and she added quickly, “Here’s Mom.”
He guided the car through the thinning traffic as he registered the muffled sound of voices on the other end of the line. Finally, Laura Granger said, “Nigel?”
It didn’t matter how long ago they’d separated. Her pretty Southern twang was a kick to his still bruised heart. “Hey, Laura,” he said easily. “How’s Bellingham?”
“Rattled,” she said. “But it’s in one piece. I heard Seattle got hit pretty hard. It’s all over the news. Are you all right?”
“Everything’s fine.” He turned into the station parking lot, slowing dramatically to skirt around a scattered mass of old concrete. “There’s a little damage, but it’s not nearly as bad as they get.”
“Right. Okay, well.” She trailed off.
Nigel bypassed rows of police cars and navigated into a parking space. “I’ll be over around ten on Saturday,” he said, stepping out. “Can you get Lene packed in time?”
“About that.”
“Don’t you—”
Laura spoke quickly. “I want to stay up here for a few more days. Mom’s doing much better and I want Maylene to have some extra time with her.”
He slammed the door. “Damn it, Laura, you know how much I’ve been looking forward to this.”
“Really?” Her tone sharpened. “Is that why you canceled the last three weekends?”
His fist clenched around the cell’s metal frame. “That wasn’t my fault. I’m in the middle of a case—”
“Well, what do you know? Life goes on even when Detective Ferris is on a case,” Laura cut in. Her melted butter Southern accent turned to acid real quick. He’d learned that, too. But then it gentled with a sigh. “Look, I know it’s not ideal, but I . . . I really think Lene should say good-bye to her grandmother before it’s too late. And I don’t like the fact that Seattle’s rockin’ like that.”
“It was a tiny earthquake, Laura,” he said from between his teeth. The parking lot lights flickered as he strode towards the station. “And your mom isn’t that old. Come on, don’t punish Lene because you’re trying to get one up on me.”
She sighed again. “That’s just it,” she said quietly. “This isn’t about you at all.”
“Laura—”
“Good-bye, Nigel.” The line went dead in his ear. He snapped the case shut, jammed it into his pocket, and lengthened his stride.
Fuck it. He’d call back at a decent hour, when they both had time to simmer.
The station house was five stories of old mortar and brick, and his floor was on the fourth. Vice shared space with homicide, given the two usually went hand in hand in Seattle.
Maybe it said something that he could easily school his features away from looking angry. It seemed anger was all he ever felt after talking with the mother of his child.
He nodded pleasantly to the desk officers he passed, even managed a little small talk in the stairwell. Not that it mattered. Everyone was talking about the quake. Or, more precisely, the elevator that no one dared to risk with the tremors fresh in everyone’s mind.
He pushed the doors open to a cacophony of phones ringing, voices chattering, radios squawking. Stepping into the fourth floor maze of desks, he made a face as a telephone exploded into a wild flurry of bells beside him.
The pretty desk clerk picked it up with a harried look. “Seattle Police, Vice. How can I help you?” He watched Stacey Burke put a hand to her forehead as she added, “No, ma’am, this is the Vice department. You’ll need to contact the front desk . . . Yes, ma’am, I’m aware, but the Paris storm was two years ago. No, I don’t think it’s the same thing.” She shot him a helpless grimace as he passed her desk.
“What the hell?” Nigel shrugged out of his jacket, draping it onto his desk chair. “Since when did Vice and Homicide cover the front desk?”
“Since the earthquake scared half the city stupid.” Officer Jake Leigh slid a cup of black coffee onto Nigel’s desk. “All the doomsdayers are comparing it to Paris and Florida.”
Nigel shook his head at the lanky, clean-cut patrolman. Jake could have been the poster boy for the force, with his sandy blond hair and clear blue eyes. Not only was he happily married—the schmuck—but he’d managed to hang onto his wife long enough to get one kid in kindergarten and have another on the way.
“A few cities take a hit and it’s the end of the world,” he said, grumpy as hell. “What’s the damage out there?”
“The usual, after something like this. We all got put on double shifts, too.” Jake rubbed at his face. “To be fair, that storm practically swept Paris off the map.”
“One disaster years ago doesn’t make a trend,” Nigel countered evenly.
“Florida?”
“Hurricane central,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Give me something we haven’t been watching for centuries. Hey, have you heard from Nancy?”
It was like turning on a fucking switch. Jake’s whole face lit up at the mention of his wife. “She’s shaken, but as they say, no stopping Mother Nature. That baby’s due any minute, so Lydia’s staying with her mom at the hospital.”
“Does she have someone to watch her?”
Jake nodded. “Nancy’s sister is there. Good thing, too. Lydia’s been having nightmares for the past week, she refuses to sleep alone now.”
Sympathy flickered. “Bad ones?”
“I think she’s worried the house is going to burn down while we’re all sleeping,” Jake admitted, rubbing at his forehead. “She keeps saying that the walls are going to fall down. The kid’s six and already worrying herself into gray hair, I swear to God. Did your kid go through this?”
Nigel laughed. “Lene’s got an imagination worthy of a horror show. I go through it every time she stays over. Try getting Lydia a nightlight? They make some great colorful ones.”
“Once the baby’s born,” Jake said with a rueful grin. “We promised her she could pick out any kind she wanted. Should be any day now, anyway. Doctors are talking induced labor if the kid doesn’t ante up soon.”
Nigel glanced down at the cup still in his hand. “Hell, just give her some of the station brew,” he said wryly. “It’ll do all the work at a fraction of the cost.” He took a shot of the bitter coffee. It scalded the roof of his mouth. “Son of a—Hot!”
“Yeah,” Jake said on a crack of laughter. “Right out of the pot.” He paused. “By the way, Chief said to send you in when you showed up.”
“Why?”
Jake shrugged, already setting his uniform cap over his combed back hair. “I’m out. I’ve got all the dispatchers aware to let me know the instant my wife sends out the alert.”
“We’ve got your back.” Nigel waved at the cacophony around him as if he could make it disappear. “Come hell or high water.”
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The officer grinned. Nigel carefully balanced his coffee cup and strode for the far offices.
“Anyone seen the chief?” he asked.
Detective Anderson Waters, one half of Vice’s second team and four years away from retiring to a golf course for the rest of his life, gestured down the hall. The phone glued to his ear, he mouthed, “Bitch,” and rolled his gray eyes.
The veteran wasn’t calling the chief a bitch—though Waters wouldn’t have been the first. Nigel scowled as he nodded his thanks.
Bitch without any context could only mean one thing.
He rapped smartly on the chief’s office door, waited all of half a second and pushed in.
The tableau was easy to decipher. Station Chief Shannon McClintock sat at her desk, her black hair pulled into a severe knot and her spine ramrod straight. Looming over her, and practically screaming bitch from the top of her no-nonsense brunette bob to the tips of her plain black pumps, Sergeant Bethany Simmons leaned her weight on her splayed palms and did her level best to stare down the toughest woman Nigel had ever met.
A lady didn’t get to be a police station chief by looking pretty.
Then again, he’d always suspected Simmons had more to offer Internal Affairs than an ice bitch complex. Maybe it had something to do with her terrier-like tenacity.
“Am I interrupting?” he asked, and didn’t bother waiting for the answer. He shut the door behind him. “Sorry I’m late, Chief, but there’s a hole in my usual route.”
Chief McClintock’s lips twitched. A smile she hid as she said quietly, “Detective Ferris, I’m sure you’ve met Sergeant Simmons.”
“Never on formal grounds.” He gave the Internal Affairs sergeant a smile made of teeth. “Sergeant.”
She didn’t bother wasting her breath. “We’re having a private conversation, detective. If you’d—”
“Right, sure. But my appointment precedes yours,” Nigel cut in. He set his cup down on the chief’s desk, straight-faced, and added, “There’s your coffee, ma’am.”
“You are late for your appointment,” Simmons pointed out coolly.
“Yup.” Nigel met her green eyes. They narrowed. “That’s what happens when you go out and do real police work. Life gets in the way. Give it a try some time.”
Before the Witches Page 2