The name he’d grown his skin in had certainly never crossed his mind. Stefan Moretti brought memories of trucks, wide Texan star-filled skies, girls in cheerleading skirts, and innocence. He was so far removed from that simple life that even considering acknowledging who he really was felt like fraud. Stefan Moretti, the boy who’d known how to navigate under a car hood better than he knew how to drive, died fifteen years ago. He should stay in the grave.
Tonight, though, he just might rise from the dead. Summoned, unbidden, like a demon from the otherworld conjured by some voodoo priestess.
A priestess known as Natalya, who couldn’t begin to comprehend the layers of dirt she’d pulled him through by finagling him a job.
He’d known from the day the case file landed in his lap that he might be exposed. But when he learned Aaron Mayer had locked down hiring, with the exception of the girls, Sergei had grown comfortable with the idea of staying in the shadows, outside the club, and doing things like what he’d done the night before—meet with operatives, ask a few questions on the underground, sit in dark clubs, and do no more than listen.
Be there for his partner, the only friend he could claim. But never stand face-to-face with the brother he longed to embrace.
Pushing away from the countertop, he picked up his Glock and wandered to the living room couch, where he placed the weapon on the glass table and proceeded to take it apart. Like working with engines had served as an outlet for pent-up teenage angst, cleaning his gun gave him an outlet for adulthood frustration. The motion of his fingers stopped the unrelenting chaos in his head and allowed him to think more slowly.
Things were bad. He wouldn’t try to delude himself into believing this Dubai Project was a bed of roses with only a few thorns to navigate. The agent who’d spent too many years killing people for Dmitri Gavrikov knew pulling Natalya would be the safest way to protect both her, her sister, and the case. The man, the friend who sometimes knew his partner better than she knew herself, couldn’t deny her the satisfaction of seeing a job completed.
Working on autopilot, he maneuvered the slide back in place, then methodically took everything apart again.
Sergei didn’t doubt Natalya knew the risks. But twice now, she’d clammed up tighter than an oyster when Brandon became the topic of discussion. Unfortunately, Sergei knew that silence too well. She rarely dropped her guard, even in front of him, but when she did, he could read her cover to cover and everything in between. She’d taken risks with Alexei in Russia. Sergei could hardly blame her for that—hell, he couldn’t imagine tying himself down to someone he liked for three years, let alone someone he despised. Natalya was bound to crave a little human affection.
But she hadn’t worked side by side with Alexei. Their brief liaisons occurred on the rare times Dmitri was out of town. A few hours stolen in the house, under the guise of negotiating the next contact. Passing information between the two key players of the Russian equation. They’d passed more than information. But they parted and stayed apart. No close confines for someone to observe a heated glance. No possibility a casual touch could slip into an intimate brush of hands.
Not that either one of them would have allowed those risks. Still, distance and detached wisdom prevented disaster.
This, however…
While Sergei’s memories of Brandon came from youth, and undoubtedly his brother had changed—grown up more specifically—Brandon had never been the sort of guy to let something go when he wanted it. The red pickup he’d set his eye on at sixteen became his after an intense summer of doing every lawn job he could get his hands on. When he’d decided the captain of the cheerleading squad would be his date for the senior prom, the fact she’d been steady with someone else hadn’t even entered his brain. He’d set off after her like a hound dog on a thick trail, and a month later, that prom date was in the bag.
Sergei had made the mistake of flirting with one of Brandon’s girls too. He’d done it out of spite, with no real interest in the pretty girl. It hadn’t worked—she’d laughed at his feeble attempt at mimicking big brother’s moves and patted him on the head. Brandon, however, had walked in, seen his girlfriend’s hand in his little brother’s hair, and an hour later, when their mother came home from work, Brandon was no where to be found and she’d had to call the neighbor to pry off the thick boards nailed across Sergei’s bedroom door. Hammered in place to keep him, and his black eye, inside.
What Brandon wanted, Brandon got.
At least back then.
And from what Kate had said, all signs indicated Brandon’s sights were fixed on Natalya. The one woman on this earth who could, quite literally, kill him.
Worse, where Natalya should be contemplating the many ways she could exact said death if Brandon was indeed coming on to her, her reactions screamed the opposite. For the first time Sergei could remember, Natalya lost her cool at the very mention of Brandon’s name. Her composure cracked. She avoided the subject worse than she avoided talking about what she’d done to the girls. For God’s sake, she’d blushed.
If he were any other man, or just a simple physical attraction, she wouldn’t have hesitated to confess she envisioned orgasms and sweat. Sex for Natalya was just that—enjoyment meant to relieve a little stress. She played the game like a man. Here for a little while, there a little while longer, then gone. Excursions, she called them. She even referred to them like a man.
Blushing was entirely too feminine. Natalya couldn’t afford feminine reactions when it came to Brandon.
Sergei fitted his Glock’s loaded magazine back into place with an authoritative snick, then laid the gun on the glass.
The Natalya/Brandon factor was like adding kerosene to a pile of smoldering wood. Why then, hadn’t he allowed her to believe Brandon might be Iskatel´? He could have fed her suspicions and steered her away. But he hadn’t. He’d fostered an amicable perception of his brother.
His gut twisted uncomfortably. Maybe because the pink in Natalya’s cheeks reminded him a little bit too much of a freckle-faced girl who’d come home gushing to her brothers about a boy after a sixth-grade dance. Maybe because, despite the hell that existed around them, Natalya might have a chance at the joy their sister had been denied.
B
randon downed his second cup of coffee in the hour since he’d rolled out of bed. The caffeine hit his bloodstream, rattling his already jittery nerves. But he held on to the hope that if he drank enough Joe, he might erase the sluggishness inside his head. He ran a hand over his bristly cheek and stared out the window overlooking his backyard and the wooden play set the former owners left behind. In the late-morning breeze, a swing swayed. Rory had intended to marry Rachel. She’d have, no doubt, resigned from the force. A year or so later, Rory would have taken a desk job. Then they’d be the ones standing at their window, looking at kids playing on swing sets.
Good thing he didn’t intend to ever marry. Or produce children.
It wasn’t that he had anything against kids. He liked them well enough. Hell, Derek, Kate’s boy, filled a void Brandon hadn’t realized he’d possessed until he met the bright-eyed toddler last year. Once a week, he indulged in the role of father figure and spent the afternoon with Derek. They both needed the time together—Derek because he’d lost his father, and Brandon because he could pretend the world wasn’t such a dark place.
But intimacy wasn’t his thing. A wife, a girlfriend, a child, only gave Angelo Mancuso and the mob a target. Beyond that, women didn’t take too kindly to having their safety constantly in question. And most women he knew, or would consider getting involved with, didn’t carry guns in their back pocket. Not that he’d considered getting involved.
Nope. It was much smarter to keep things casual. No complications to divide his time. No one waiting at home to worry about. He chose his partners carefully, made sure they understood—and agreed to—the boundaries. When things cooled off, they parted with pleasant words and promises to keep in touch that never happened. Women passed
through his life without leaving so much as a fingerprint behind. As he did through theirs.
So why, why, couldn’t he get Natalya Trubachev off his mind? Why had he awakened, so damnably aware of her that he could have sworn she lay beside him in his bed? His bed, of all places! He let no woman near his bed. It was his safe harbor. The one place in this world he could count on to provide comfort, along with escape.
But sure as shooting, he’d opened his eyes to a rock-hard erection and had instinctively rolled over in search of the source and the necessary relief.
Damn it, she was worse than a hangover. He could cure that—down a bottle of Gatorade, eat some Saltines, down a second bottle, and he was good to go. He couldn’t, however, banish her out of his head. Or the suspicion that she would taste every bit as sweet as her lilac perfume.
Maybe it was lotion. Yeah. He smiled to himself. Lotion she slathered over those long legs. Massaged around rosy pink nipples while… Shit!
He set his coffee mug down with force. He didn’t have time for this, and somehow he had to make his dick understand what the smarter head knew—catching a serial killer who’d murdered Rachel was more important than fucking and orgasms.
Tugging at his cotton pajama pants, he relieved the sudden tension at his waist with a grimace and strode to the dining room table-turned workstation. He opened the case file, methodically spreading out data sheets, notes he’d collected, and the autopsy findings on all the girls. Mentally, he recited what he knew by heart: Blonde hair. Between 5’7“ and 5’9”. Fair skin, no fake tan. No bruising, no signs of struggle. All dead from a lethal injection of barbiturates. All dumped in remote places near the Grand Canyon, clothes intact. Sexual assault—negative.
They’d known their attacker. That had been the first piece of evidence that stood out to everyone. So who did Rachel share in common with them?
He groaned as he sunk his head into his hands and speared his fingers through his hair. He might as well ask who she didn’t know. Years on narcotics connected Rachel with every slime ball who frequented the Strip. The regulars were like family. Black sheep maybe, but family all the same.
Why Rachel?
She must have made the connection. Must have IDed him somehow. There couldn’t be any other explanation for a serial killer to deviate so drastically from his MO.
He dragged his hands down his unshaven face and looked out the window once more. Who is it, Rach?
On a sigh, he resigned himself to the uselessness of reviewing the file. Everything he could ever hope to know he’d already memorized. Now he had to find the missing pieces, and the only unusual circumstances came with Natalya and this Sergei guy. He needed their files. Maybe in them he’d find a link. A little fragment that put them in Vegas around the time of the murders.
No, that didn’t make sense either. Not entirely. At a time when dancers were hard to come by, she begged for a job. It was only natural she’d want someone she trusted close at all times. She wouldn’t understand that a good killer—and this one certainly fit that description—would find a way around boyfriends. He’d already done it twice. Sable from Treasures had been living with one of the security guards there. Mercury from Sapphire never went anywhere without her bodybuilding fiancé. But like clockwork, they ended up on the Grand Canyon rim.
Which all led back to the glaring fact—the killer knew the girls.
Maybe he should let Natalya dance. Her naked body would wreck havoc on his system, but if the killer approached her… No, she didn’t have blonde hair.
He could get her a wig.
The idea had merit, much as he hated to admit. New girl in town wouldn’t have the established friendships the killer claimed. The murderer would have to work at building that relationship, and he couldn’t accomplish that under Brandon’s nose without Brandon noticing.
Brandon let out a grunt and shoved the file aside. No more risks. If something happened to Natalya because he’d been desperate enough to use her as bait, he’d never pull himself out of the darkness that threatened to engulf him daily. He’d find another way.
Closing his eyes, he leaned back in his chair and stretched out his cramped legs.
Natalya’s soft, perfect breasts burst from the recesses of his mind. Tired of fighting the incredible pull of his body, he let the vision take shape. It couldn’t hurt. As long as he didn’t allow fantasy to go to his head, a dose of morning erotica might be just the cure for the itchy feeling beneath his skin.
She swung that lean, muscular leg off the chair, slipped slender fingers beneath the tight lace garter, and stalked toward him, a sultry smile on her lips. Her other hand wound into his shirt, dragged him closer. Soft honeyed lips touched his. Before his mind could control what she’d do next, he sat in her office chair and her firm bottom gyrated against his lap. Where their clothes had gone to, he didn’t know. But they were missing, and she was naked, and her pussy slicked against his cock, hot, wet, and coaxing. Slowly he lifted his hips. Slowly she slid down. He could hear the slap of their skin, feel the tightness of her sheath as she snugged him close and took him deep. Up, down… Up, down… Fucking him slowly. Then harder… faster… as those intoxicating mewls tumbled, one after the other, from her parted lips.
With a frustrated oath, Brandon bolted upright in his chair. Behind the tight constraints of his pants, his skin felt damp. He took himself in hand, the need for release something he could no longer control. One firm pump pushed him over the edge, and he tucked the head of his cock against his palm to control his ejaculation. He let out a throaty groan, coaxed himself through orgasm until the last pulse seeped from his body and left him panting. Sinking into the chair he lay still, too sensitized to move.
Wrong move, Moretti.
Several mind-numbing moments later, his gaze caught the distant picture he’d taken with him to college so many years ago. His mother, his brother, his sister smiled back. Behind them, colorful hot air balloons littered the sky. Drawn to the memory, he rose from his chair, wiped his hand off with his shirt, and picked up the framed photograph. They’d all been so happy then. Scared that Angelo might find them, but happy. Family. The only one he’d ever known, and he had nothing but one picture to hold on to.
Sighing, he set the photo down. Natalya be damned. He would not allow this crazy attraction to destroy the only chance he had at putting his father’s thugs behind bars.
Ten
N
atalya glanced up from her iced tea as a shadow descended on her table. Kate, looking tense and weary, plopped into the chair opposite and set her oversize purse on the table. “Sorry I’m late.” Natalya’s shrugged her shoulders and looked around her sister for her adorable nephew. “Where’s Derek?”
“With his sitter.”
A puzzled frown tugged at Natalya’s forehead. After yesterday, she’d looked forward to spending some time with Kate’s son. She’d missed every Christmas, and every major event in Derek’s life—all but his first birthday. While she and Kate had agreed not to tell Derek that Natalya was his aunt, she’d hoped to sneak in a few priceless memories when she could. It surprised her how his absence darkened her mood.
“Why? He could have joined us. I wouldn’t mind, you know.”
“No. He can’t.”
At the harshness in her sister’s voice, Natalya drew back. Suspicion reared its head. Warning bells tolled. Kate’s frazzled look didn’t bode well. What had her agitated now? Cautiously, Natalya asked, “Why not?”
Using her menu as a shield, Kate leaned across the table and lowered her voice to a barely audible whisper. “Because you’re a killer.”
“I am not!” Natalya slapped her napkin onto the tabletop, jarring her tea. Ice cubes rattled, mixing with the clank of silverware.
“No?” Leaning back, Kate laid her menu across her waiting plate. “I could’ve sworn that’s what you’ve been telling me the last couple of days.”
The bitter truth jammed into Natalya’s gut. Sure, she could claim a dozen justifia
ble reasons, or more, to explain why she’d taken lives. They all sounded right on paper: dispose of the leader of a terrorist sect in Jordan, make a known threat on the president quietly disappear, terminate an arms shipment and if someone got caught in the crossfire…
She sighed. When it all boiled down to outside perception, black-and-white fact couldn’t necessarily override national security. Still, the accusation stung. A great deal of difference separated her from the thugs on the street. “It’s not like that.”
“It’s close enough Derek doesn’t need to be around it.”
Indignation arced through Natalya. For God’s sake, it wasn’t like she intended to start taking out marks in front of a four-year-old little boy. On a rare occasion, she’d even left her gun in her car, just in case her nephew happened to get his hands on her purse. She scowled at her righteous twin. “I suppose it’s perfectly okay for him to be around what his mother does?”
Her barb hit the mark, and Kate’s overblushed cheeks darkened with anger. She pursed her lips, returning Natalya’s scowl. Three years away from each other, and they could still fight like they had when they were teens.
“I do what I have to do because I have no choice,” Kate ground out through gritted teeth. “You chose your path.”
“Oh, come off it, Kate.” Natalya gave a sad shake of her head. “I may have been gone most of your marriage, but I remember Erik. He had a good job. A damn good career. And he looked out for you better than Mom and Dad. You expect me to believe he left you nothing?”
Behind her glasses, Kate’s face washed white. The fire in her eyes disappeared. Like some heavy weight had just been dropped on her shoulders, she slumped in her seat. “He tried.”
Feeling a modicum of guilt over her uncalled-for attack, Natalya softened her voice. “What do you mean he tried?”
Kate’s teeth dug into her lower lip. The motion of her shoulders suggested she wrung her hands beneath the white tablecloth. In her far-away gaze, tears collected. “You’re right. He did have a damn good job. I loved it a lot. It got the house of my dreams, paid for years of infertility treatments, and I got to see a good portion of the world each summer.”
Stripped Page 9