Stripped

by Tori St. Claire

  As if he too shared that intense need for closeness, he moved off the wall, approaching in much the same way the cub had stalked the toy. He hunkered down in front of her, his large hand moving alongside hers in the lion’s fur. Behind him, Derek and Kaycee entertained a second cub.

  “Pretty cute, huh?” Brandon murmured. Their hands brushed.

  “Adorable.” She twined her pinkie around his.

  Brandon’s eyes never left hers as he lifted his hand, raising hers, and slowly slipped his fingers between hers. Taking advantage of the fact all other eyes focused on the laughing little boy and the growling cub, Brandon scooped up the lion in her arms and set it gently on the tiled floor. He leaned in close, his mouth hovering at the base of her ear. “I want you, Natalya. I don’t give a damn about what you think I don’t realize. I want you.”

  By sheer force of will, she silenced a whimper. She closed her eyes, swallowed hard.

  He leaned away and pulled her to her feet before she could fully recover from the chaotic trembling of her stomach. This time, he didn’t let go of her hand. His palm fit snugly against hers, his strong fingers comfortably possessive. “Derek, are you hungry? We’ve got time to go to Rainforest before I have to go to work.”

  Derek bounded to his feet. “Can we go to Sue’s now?”

  “You don’t want to go to Rainforest?”

  “No. We can go next day.”

  “You sure, buddy?”

  “Yeah.”

  Brandon extended his free hand to take Derek’s. “Okay. We’ll go to Sue’s. I have to stop at the hardware store and pick up something first though.”

  Natalya shot him a curious look.

  “Chain. Sue’s dog is a master at getting off his tie-out.”

  To Natalya’s surprise, Derek turned his nose up at Brandon’s offered hand. He passed behind them, appearing on Natalya’s opposite side. “Boys hold girls’ hands. Mommy says so.” Though it was the first time her nephew had reached out to her, Derek fitted his tiny palm against her fingers as if he had been doing it all his life.

  Oh!

  He had no idea he’d just connected with his aunt, but Natalya reeled under the casual gesture. She didn’t know what to do, what to say. If she should say or do anything at all.

  Brandon gave her other hand a tight squeeze. “You’re right, little man. Boys hold girls’ hands. Tell Miss Kaycee thank you.”

  He peeked around Natalya and waved at Kaycee. “Thank you.”

  “Anytime, Derek. Come back and see us whenever you want.”

  “Thanks, Kaycee,” Brandon called as they headed for the door. “I owe you one.”

  “Just send me an invitation.”

  Invitation? Natalya squinted at Brandon. “Invitation to what?” she asked once the door closed behind them.

  Brandon shook his head, but his face told a different story. His color paled, and his gaze held just the faintest touch of… fear? No. Couldn’t be. Must be something else. Brandon’s arrogance didn’t know the meaning of fear.

  “Nothing,” he answered a little too fast.

  It was something. Something he didn’t want to share. She shrugged it off. In a few days she’d be far from here. Where he went, with who, wasn’t her business unless it related to Dmitri, and nothing Dmitri did involved invitations.

  Outside the casino, the sun beat down, making Natalya glad she’d worn shorts. She turned her face up to the bright light and basked in the warm rays. Derek exuberantly swung her hand, half-skipping, half-walking as they made their way to Brandon’s car.

  “What time is it anyway?” she asked as they crossed the street.

  “One thirty.”

  “Ugh. I need to be getting home. I need a shower, and I’ve got to get ready for work.” She needed to check in with Kate and make sure her costume was ready. Not to mention, she needed to beat Brandon to the club, so she could talk to the props department before he had the opportunity to discover her plans.

  While Derek crawled into the backseat and buckled himself in, Brandon set both hands on the car’s frame, trapping Natalya in place. His eyes spoke intimate promises. “You can use mine.”

  “No, really, I need to get home.”

  “Chicken.”

  She squinted.

  A teasing smirk twisted the corner of his mouth. “Begawk.”

  Natalya pushed at his chest, refusing to give in to the laughter that bubbled to the surface. “I’m not chicken. I have a job that’s important. Remember?”

  “Mm. I remember I’m your boss. I won’t fire you for being late.” He leaned forward and nuzzled the side of her neck with his lips. “Especially if you’re in my shower.”

  Shivering, she pushed harder, her laughter impossible to contain.

  “Brandon, c’mon, I wanna go,” Derek complained.

  Natalya’s tormentor quirked an eyebrow and cocked his head. “Well?”

  She gave up, the temptation of Brandon’s hardening cock against her thigh too great. Yeah, she wanted that. Wanted him. Shower or otherwise. “Fine. But I’m not staying more than an hour.”

  “I’ll take what I can get.” Shrugging, he backed away, giving her room to climb into the car.

  She slid inside, buckled her seatbelt, and plucked her cell phone out as Brandon started the car. Sergei was just going to have to give up his little afternoon rendezvous and help her out. He’d have to bring the costume Kate laid out and meet her at her condo early. No way could she ask Brandon for a ride to work.

  Brandon glanced at her hand as she tapped out a text message, but he didn’t comment. He dropped the car into drive and pulled out of the lot, turning north.

  While they waited for the light to turn green, her phone vibrated with the message: Got it. Go away. Busy.

  Natalya frowned. Be nice, Sergei Moretti.

  His answer disturbed her sense of normalcy. The screen flashed with the solitary word: Stefan.

  Light green, Brandon stepped on the gas as he bent to flip on the radio. She quickly deleted the text messages and looked up in time to see a flash of movement beyond his hunched shoulder. Barreling down the east-west street, an older, silver pickup blew through the light. Impact imminent.

  “Brandon!”

  Her scream snapped him upright. “Son of a bitch!”

  He jammed his foot on the brakes. Natalya’s seatbelt snapped tight, locking her in place. The truck roared past, clipping the Mustang’s driver-side front bumper. They spun. Horns blared. Somewhere glass shattered, and a sickening thud echoed.

  As their momentum slowed, and they skidded to a halt facing the oncoming traffic, crying broke out in the back seat. Natalya glanced over her shoulder to find Derek’s attempt at buckling himself in had failed. His booster chair slid forward, tossing him into the back of Brandon’s seat. Blood flowed freely from his nose.

  She threw off her seatbelt and lunged over the seats. “Sweetie, it’s okay.” Clamping her fingers over his nose, she pinched. Solid cartilage beneath her fingertips offered relief. He hadn’t broken it. Thank God.

  Brandon’s muffled curses overpowered Derek’s tears. As best Natalya could, given her position over her headrest, she slid her other arm around Derek’s shaking shoulders, offering comfort while Brandon navigated them out of the middle of the intersection to the curb.

  His door opened, then slammed shut. Natalya hefted herself over the seat a little more, far enough she could push Derek’s hair aside to check his head for additional injury. To her immense relief, no red marks identified bruises to come, and no further blood trickled over his face. “It’s okay, buddy. You’re just fine. Some stupid idiot didn’t see the light turn red.”

  He swiped his fingers over his eyes, curbing the falling tears. An ever-so-slight nod said he understood.

  “Let’s see if it’s stopped?”

  “Okay.”

  Tentatively, she lifted her fingers. Stared at his nose. When nothing happened, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and ruffle
d Derek’s hair the way she’d seen Brandon do countless times throughout the day. “You okay, kiddo?”

  He nodded with a sniffle.

  “Don’t sniff. Breathe through your mouth.”

  Obediently he opened his mouth and took a deep breath.

  Good thing little boys were resilient. Good thing too, that Kate hadn’t been sitting beside her son. She’d be in hysterics. Blood had never been her strong point.

  Brandon’s door opened, and he slid into the seat, storm clouds on his face. He gripped the wheel with both hands, ground his teeth together, then exhaled audibly. “Are you two okay?”

  “Yeah, we’re fine. How’s the car?”

  “Banged up, but driveable. Truck bailed. No one else is involved. I’ll walk in a report later.”

  “Okay.”

  Natalya slid back into her seat, intending to retrieve a Kleenex for Derek, when she noticed blood on Brandon’s hand as well. She furrowed her brow and leaned over the console, her fingers investigating the back of his hand.

  He turned his palm up, revealing a long gash across the meaty part of his thumb. “Headlight.”

  “Let me get you a Kleenex.”

  She reached down for her purse, only to find the contents scattered across the floorboards. Her Sig lay in plain sight. She silently swore, and hurried to shove the gun back into her purse before Brandon could notice. Tissues in hand, she straightened, passing one to Brandon.

  The lift of his eyebrows said she was too late.

  Twenty-four

  T

  hirty minutes later, chain in hand, Derek bounding merrily off with three pigtailed girls, Brandon escorted Natalya into his house. His temper warred with self-disgust. He’d fucked up. Derek was his responsibility, and he’d been too preoccupied with negotiating a little alone time with Natalya to check Derek’s seat belt. He could have been seriously injured. As it was, when Kate found out, she’d chew his ass. At the same time, if that dickhead had been paying attention to the lights, Derek wouldn’t have been hurt, and the Shelby’s front end wouldn’t look like Swiss cheese.

  Then there was the matter of Natalya’s gun. He hadn’t said anything about it yet, not really wanting to hear the answers. He was pretty damn convinced she couldn’t produce a concealed carry license—that would’ve shown up on her file. Right now, don’t ask don’t tell sounded damn good.

  So did a beer.

  While she wandered around his living room, investigating the sparse knickknacks on his shelves, he went to the fridge. “You want a beer?”

  “Water would be great.”

  His hand throbbed as he reached into the fridge and grabbed a cold Corona. He glanced at the cut, disgusted. He knew better than to try to pry loose a bent fender with his bare hand, yet he’d done it anyway, losing his grip and slicing himself open on the shattered headlamp. It’d heal, but it’d hurt like a bitch for the next couple of days. Good thing he’d used his left. He used his right for everything else.

  He ran the cut under the water, his annoyance increasing when the long gash refused to stop bleeding. Out of patience, and lacking the initiative to walk to his bathroom for his first aid kit, he ripped off a paper towel, jammed it against the cut, and clamped his fingers closed. With his free hand, he filled Natalya’s glass. Beer between his teeth, her glass in hand, he returned to his living room where he set everything on the table and sank into the couch with a heavy sigh.

  The first cold swig balmed his annoyance enough his frown smoothed. He leaned back, careful to keep his injured hand away from the cream-colored cushions and hooked his right ankle over his left knee. Natalya milled around the shelves that framed his flat-screen television, her head tipped in curious interest.

  “That’s quite the baseball collection.” She picked up his favorite, an autographed Jose Canseco.

  “It’s not really anything special. There’s not much money in it.”

  “I don’t know much about baseball, but I know this name. How’d you land this one?”

  A smile drifted across his face. “I was in a frat at A&M. Bunch of us went out to the Rangers stadium, drunker than skunks, on opening day. I about fell out of the stands jumping after that thing.”

  Her soft chuckle deepened his smile. The memory of what had happened two weeks later stirred. But it stayed still for once, lulled to sleep by the lift of Natalya’s mouth. She put the ball on its tiny wooden stand and picked up the picture of his family.

  “Your family?”

  The canker that never healed gnawed at his heart. He nodded, seeing his sister’s shining face though Natalya’s back blocked his view. “Yeah. They’re gone now.”

  This letting her into his personal life reminded him of new shoes. Comfortable at first, but the longer they were worn, they rubbed blisters. He itched to distract her. To start some conversation that would draw her attention off his things, pull her nose out of his past. He didn’t talk about this crap with anyone, not even Mayer. Certainly not the women who flitted through his life.

  At the same time, while she threatened to rub him raw, a certain mysterious curiosity kept him from doing what instinct directed. Would those blisters form? Or, would taking this leap come with some sort of parachute?

  Along with the wondering came his mind’s logical reminder that if he intended to pull her secrets forth, he must forge a bridge. So he told himself he was allowing her to get comfortable. With his things. With his space. With him. Quietly, he added, “They were killed when I was twenty.”

  Her profile revealed the slow closing of long eyelashes that touched her cheeks several seconds longer than they should have. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “So am I.” It was the first time he’d allowed the honesty. On the extremely rare occasion he mentioned the tragedy, when he did, invariably someone apologized. For too long he’d dismissed the sympathy with a flippant remark. A benign comment that made a wide circle around his guilt.

  She turned around, coming to the table for her water. Her knee jostled his as she bent over to pick up her glass, jarring his hand. He jerked away with a hiss.

  “Crap. I’m sorry.” Natalya frowned at his makeshift bandage. “You should put a bandage on that. You’re still bleeding.”

  “It’s fine. I don’t really have the energy to deal with it.”

  Her delicate eyebrows dove farther down her nose, and she stuffed her fists on her hips. “Well I will then. Tell me where.”

  “It’s really not necessary. Just a scratch. I’ll live.”

  She rolled her eyes. Turning toward his dark hall, she repeated, “Tell me where.”

  “Second door on the left. There’s a first-aid kit under the sink in the bathroom.”

  The response came so naturally he didn’t realize what he’d said until he heard his bedroom door creak open. Panic turned his chest into a vise. His space—he’d just sent her into his sanctuary. Shit. He jerked to the edge of the couch, prepared to intercept her and send her back into the living room. Halfway to his feet, sense shoved him back into the couch.

  Chill. It’s the fucking bathroom.

  Pulling in deep fortifying breaths through his nose, he stared at his door, counting the never-ending seconds that it took her to find the kit and return to the hall. Thirty-eight. It took thirty-eight seconds to recover from a near-death experience.

  He exhaled hard.

  Natalya rummaged through the plastic case as she walked across the room. A gauze pad dangled from her mouth. Around her finger, she wore the reel of waterproof bandage tape. She carried a bottle of hydrogen peroxide—not found under his sink, but in the medicine cabinet above, he acknowledged with some discomfort—under her arm.

  “Okay, gimme your hand.” She held out her palm.

  He obliged with a tight chuckle.

  Her fingers were as gentle as rain. She dabbed a peroxide-saturated cotton pad against the torn flesh, bent closer, and inspected the cut for what he assumed was leftover glass. He watched, fascinated by the focus she gav
e to the menial task, enchanted by the tenderness in her touch.

  How long had it been since he’d allowed someone to see to his needs? Too damn long, if the last person he remembered was his mother. He’d been a scrawny boy the last time he could recall any but his own fingers bandaging his cuts.

  Brandon lifted his gaze to study her face. Her brow was smooth, her expression rapt. She chewed on her lower lip as she folded another gauze square just so and laid it over the torn flesh. Winced on his behalf when the tape pulled too tight, widening the gash before she could lift it with her nail and ease the sting.

  Beautiful. Not just physical beauty, but something that came from within. That woman she kept behind a shell. This one right in front of him—his chest suddenly felt tight.

  “There,” she said quietly. Straightening, she closed the first aid kit. “Now you won’t bleed all over your couch.”

  He stared at the tight hem of her shorts that accented the sharp definition of her muscular thighs. She stood less than a foot away, close enough he could smell the sweet flowery fragrance he’d come to associate with her. His gaze flicked up, resting on her narrow waist, her flat stomach. Something fierce and hungry reared in his mind, striking him with the sudden desperate need to possess her. To somehow mark her in such a way no other man would ever want to touch her.

  The power of that startling sensation unsettled him. She wasn’t an object he could own. No trophy he could display alongside his baseballs. Yet something about her twisted his thoughts into knots. Rationality vanished. Right alongside sensibility.

  He reached out and fitted his palms on her hips. Caught by the spell of everything she was, he urged her a step closer. His thumbs pushed up the hem of her tank, exposing creamy skin and the cutest belly button he’d ever laid eyes on. Scarcely aware of his actions, Brandon leaned forward and pressed a kiss to that adorable little dimple.