Stripped

by Tori St. Claire

  “Um. Thank you,” she mumbled, unsettled by the suffocating warmth that spread all the way down to her toes. Innocence. He’d given her a glimpse of innocence. A ball of emotion lodged in the base of her throat. Oh, God.

  As awkwardness spread between them, leaving them staring at each other, both clearly wanting to escape. A knock at the door broke the budding tension. She’d never seen Brandon look more relieved as he answered. Sergei’s shadow descended in the entryway. His gaze caught Natalya’s for a fleeting moment, long enough she could give him an affirmative nod to go ahead.

  “Hey, boss. I think you better come listen to this guy against the wall.”

  Quick as lightning, Brandon’s demeanor changed. Confidence replaced the shy downcast of his eyes. He stiffened his shoulders, at immediate attention. “Problems?”

  “Maybe. He’s been getting handsy with the girls. I’d hate to have Natalya step in.”

  She shot Sergei a frown. Seeing her moment of escape, however, she gave her sack a shake. “I’m going to go back to my office. Night’s almost over.”

  “Wait a minute.” Brandon swiveled around to face her. “I had a point in seeking you out. I need to know if you could give me a lift home. I’ve got one headlight—”

  “Sure.” She’d have promised him the moon if it let her escape faster. As it was, she doubted he’d hold her to her word once he witnessed her betrayal. Aaron could give him a lift home.

  They departed his office, and Natalya took another look at the stage as Kate’s routine concluded with an uproar. Brandon and Sergei disappeared into the crowd. She backed through the heavy metal door in one giant stride. No more fooling around—time to locate Iskatel´.

  Avoiding the curious glances from the dancers who occupied the lounge, she jogged to her office and set the bag on the desk. Whimsy claimed her for a heartbeat as she pulled the lion out of the sack and smoothed its wild, fuzzy mane. A soft smile floated over her face. In a hundred years, she’d never admit how this little stuffed animal touched her. All the priceless jewelry Dmitri had given her didn’t compare to Brandon’s far simpler gift.

  She buried her nose in the soft fur, closed her eyes, and reveled in the memory of Brandon’s awkwardness. That momentary lack of confidence, the first she’d witnessed from the hardened cop, touched her deeply as well. He’d been nervous—and for him that said a lot.

  Namely that he was getting too close.

  Sighing, Natalya set the lion in the middle of her desk and fished inside the bag, producing her cell phone. A touch of her fingertip brought the Russian text message into view. It was labeled, Private.

  Her heart jumped to her throat, beating hard and fast. There’d only be one person not already in her contact list who’d communicate with her in Russian—Iskatel´. Dmitri had said to expect contact.

  She tapped the touch screen to open the message, and her heart skidded to a halt.

  Like the student observes the master teacher… I’m watching you.

  The phone slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor. She gripped the corner of her desk and pulled in short breaths to ease the constriction of her chest. Watching her. In all the times she’d coordinated with Alexei on targets, though their communications were often cryptic, this went beyond. No suggestion they meet. No implication they should discuss the plans or her role in them. Instead, he delivered a veiled warning.

  A warning that she’d screwed up.

  She clutched the desk tighter and fiercely shook her head. No, she was imagining things. Dmitri sent her here to teach Iskatel´ how to manipulate the women so the killing would end. She was just being paranoid. Nothing she’d done with Brandon in public could be construed as anything but an attempt to forge the necessary relationship with her employer that would give her the ability to do the things Dmitri desired.

  Except that kiss.

  Her stomach balled into a knot.

  She dragged in another deep breath and straightened to peel off her clothes. Iskatel´ would make contact again. Regardless of the meaning to his message, he’d armed her with one solid, unavoidable fact: If he could see her, then she could see him.

  She pulled on her bikini bottoms, more committed to her pole dance than ever.

  S

  tupid. Brandon chastised himself as he followed behind Sergei to a row of plush chairs and polished wooden tables near the front of the stage. He’d thought of a dozen ways to casually present his gift, all of which eluded his grasp as he nearly shoved the stuffed animal into Natalya’s hands with the lame excuse he’d found her phone.

  Her reaction hadn’t been comforting either. No, that hesitancy, the wavering before laughter or sincerity, downright had him questioning why he’d bought the toy in the first place. A toy, for God’s sake. Who bought a grown woman a toy?

  He ordered the nonsense in his head to stop as Sergei brought him to a halt behind a balding man wearing a thick gold chain around his neck. Sapphire wagged her ass in his face, but the rhythm of her hips was interrupted by her constant attempts to slap off the man’s wandering hands.

  Brandon eyed the clunky gold wedding ring on the man’s pudgy left hand as he once again fitted a palm around the curve of Sapphire’s smooth cheek and gave her ass a firm squeeze. She jumped forward, whipped around. “Damn it, Paul! How many—”

  Her gaze jumped up to Brandon’s scowl. Eyes wide, she took a step backward. Paul’s head swiveled around, his ample size making it impossible to twist his body more than a half an inch or so.

  More than happy to give this client the full picture of his displeasure, Brandon stepped into Paul’s line of sight. “Problem here?”

  “Uh.” Beads of perspiration broke out over Paul’s glossy forehead. “I paid her to dance. One hundred fifty dollars. I want my damn money’s worth.”

  Brandon’s gaze skidded to Sapphire, her trembling eyes questioning whether her new boss would stand behind her or throw her to the wolves for the sake of pleasing wealthy clientele. “Did she tell you her rules?”

  As Sapphire nodded, Paul answered, “I don’t remember anything but her stuffing my money in that scrap of red.” He thrust an angry hand toward Sapphire’s string-tied top.

  The slight widening of Sapphire’s eyes, followed by their abrupt narrowing, spoke anger she wouldn’t dare confess in front of the clients. Too many years on the Strip had taught her tips didn’t come from pissing off the men. Nor did job security. But the unspoken fury she wielded toward her customer told Brandon all he needed to know.

  He shifted his stare back to the double chins beneath Paul’s arrogant smirk. “Let’s get this straight, Paul. Like your wife sets the rules in your house, the girls set the rules in mine.” Bracing both hands on the arms of Paul’s chair, he leaned down until his face was inches from the smirk that now faltered. “If they tell you paws off, you keep your fucking paws off. Got it?”

  “Y-Yeah.”

  “Good. Now apologize to Sapphire before I change my mind and have Sergei escort you out.”

  Brandon stood, hating the disbelief that reflected in Sapphire’s startled stare. Damn it. Whoever had taught her strippers didn’t have rights in Vegas needed a good beating. Sadie’s had been that way too before he’d taken it over—pretty girls terrified if they stood up for their bodies they’d find their asses on the street. The whole scene disgusted Brandon on so many levels he couldn’t name them all.

  He gave her a supportive nod and turned away. Now, to finish his conversation with Natalya.

  When he reached the edge of the stage, the house lights went dark, preparing for the next girl. Becca, who was filling Chablis’ spot damn well.

  “Now, gentlemen, we have something new for you,” the DJ droned through the speakers.

  Brandon paused. Cocking his head, he looked toward the glass-encased booth where Eddie addressed the crowd. New? Becca couldn’t have developed a new routine so soon. When the girls switched up, they practiced for countless hours before opening. He’d spent a lot of time he
re with the former management during those events, witnessed the meticulous way they analyzed their costumes’ functionality and the coordination of props and lights.

  Two orange floor lights blinked on, crisscrossing each other and illuminating a thin screen that shimmied and gave the simple lighting life. Behind the veil, another set of lights blended into the action, creating the effect of fire.

  “We all have secrets. Desires, passions, sins,” Eddie intoned. “She’s there inside you all. That being who wants nothing more than escape. Wanting freedom.” The low resonating beat of drums filtered through the speakers, adding mystique to the DJ’s voice. “Wanting pleasure.”

  A third light faded in, illuminating a mock fire pit in the center of the stage, and with it, a silhouetted woman.

  “She is, the Shadow.”

  Drums exploded, and the silhouette came to life. Slowly, she gyrated around the stacked logs, her hips a matched rhythm to the pulsing beat. A hush descended over the crowd. Brandon stood transfixed, along with every other man in the room, his gaze riveted on the slow undulation of smooth hips, firm breasts. The sensual cadence of a woman who knew true seduction involved the imagination.

  The elegance of something more than skin and jiggling tits.

  It can’t be.

  Arms raised over her head, she turned a hypnotic circle, then flattened her breasts to her thighs and slid outstretched fingertips all the way down to her toes. Rising, she uncoiled like a flower opening to sunlight, only to once again shimmy hips that knew no restraint. Belly dancing. But more… something… Brandon’s heart thumped hard. Enchanting.

  A collective murmur rumbled through the crowd.

  The drums increased tempo, pounding with more intensity, and the dancer’s cadence increased. Driving. Gyrating. Slender hands, made more so by the trick of lights, skimmed up her ribs, cupped her breasts. She tipped her head back, as if she arched her back in silent ecstasy, and long hair tumbled to the backs of her knees. Hair she gathered into her hands as she swiveled her lithe body upright. She piled it on the top of her head, only to let it fall as she glided those tempting hands down supple curves once more.

  Brandon’s body tightened, his own imagination replacing her hands with his. He might have only known Natalya for a handful of days, but he recognized the natural grace in a heartbeat. Hell, she’d just arched her back the same way less than five minutes ago.

  Natalya.

  His hand clenched into a slow fist. God damn, when he should be so furious arousal couldn’t find a place to spark, let alone ignite, his body was attuned to the stage like she’d cast a magnetic field around him. She gyrated, her silhouetted form in profile, and his cock pulsed with the motion of her hips. Her whisper echoed in his head. Brandon…

  Primitive drums supercharged the smoky air with an undercurrent of electricity. Taking full advantage of her mesmerized audience, Natalya turned her backside to the crowd. Spiked heels spread two feet apart, she undulated her torso, lowering her shoulders level to her waist. Dainty hands fanned out straight, gracefully arced to the back of her thighs. Only the outline of her fingertips marred the smooth lines of her silhouette as she bent in slow motion, until one-by-one, she closed her fingers around her ankles, her hair touching the stage between her legs.

  Brandon’s body recoiled. The image came unbidden—a glimpse of moist swollen flesh, seconds before her honeyed flavor soaked into his tongue. He could smell the sweet musk of her arousal and swallowed hard. Shut his eyes to block out dewy skin even the lack of lights couldn’t hide from his mind.

  When he looked again, she moved around the fire pit, a snake dance of the deadliest kind. He swore. She was fantasy. Every man’s Jezebel. Alluring. Beckoning. Daring him and every other bastard in the room to indulge in what they wanted to see. The secret forbidden pleasure of chimera.

  On one heart-stopping crescendo of bass and tams, the stage went dark. His temper surged to the surface. She’d defied him. Natalya had ignored his insistence she stay off the stage and exposed herself to danger.

  Son of a bitch!

  Driving an open palm against the stage, he blocked out the bellows of protest, angry men taken to the brink and left unfulfilled. He shoved past one who’d surged to his feet as if he sought to climb on to the stage after Natalya and stormed toward the backstage door.

  Halfway across the room, one solitary blue light broke through the blackness, illuminating Fantasia’s seventeen-foot-tall brass pole. Brandon froze and slowly turned around. Every instinct he possessed warned him to escape backstage where he could remain ignorant of what was about to happen. He had a better chance of surviving a bullet than what came next.

  Instead, like the other lemmings in the room, he gravitated closer to the stage, his eyes riveted on the upside-down dancer at the top.

  Twenty-eight

  N

  atalya dangled from the top of the pole, legs stretched in vertical splits, the one at her head crisscrossed to secure her in place. The other stretched out behind her body. As she waited for the opening chord to 007’s The World Is Not Enough, she scanned the crowd, looking for the man who assessed from a distance, his stare unseeing, his mind focused on potential, not what lay before his eyes. Her song choice, one Sergei would surely appreciate, gave her the slow rhythm necessary to both perform and observe. At the opening crescendo, she loosened her leg grip, pushed into a slow spin, and descended head-first, rotating around the pole like a diamond on display. Three feet from the bottom, she smiled at the collective silence, hooked her right knee around the pole, and elongated into a swanlike backbend. Her hand caught the heel of her black stiletto and pulled it to her forehead. The other stretched above her dangling hair. As her muscles stretched, a slow burn spread across her belly.

  It felt good to push herself beyond the half-assed entertainment she gave Dmitri. This came from her soul, an exercise in unrestrained freedom. She’d defied Brandon. Defied Dmitri. Right now, in these few precious moments she could be herself. Not a CIA agent. No man’s lover. Just Natalya, the same girl who’d danced for tips because she loved to do so and thrived on pushing her body to abnormal limits.

  The spin came to a gradual stop, and she gripped the pole with both hands, gracefully arcing her feet to the floor. Sultry vocals kicked in, and Natalya threw her weight into a ground move, wrapping her body around the brass in synchronized time with the sensual rhythm. As the chorus emerged, and the bright strings built in strength, she gripped the cool metal in both hands, hooked her ankles, and undulated her way up the solid shaft.

  Halfway to the top, she tucked her left foot behind tight, elongated her right until it was perpendicular to her waist. Holding the pole in her right hand, she leaned back until her fingers touched, then nothing. She lowered her arms slowly, using only her abdomen muscles to drop her upper body into another tight backbend.

  This one she held only for a beat before she grabbed the metal shaft at her cheek and kicked both legs off, extending her body horizontally. She turned her smile to the crowd, looking over the faces once more as she held the position, widening her legs into splits, easing them closed over the scope of several musical bars.

  Nothing in the crowd. Only wide eyes and slack jaws. She shifted her position, bringing her breasts to the pole, one hand over, one hand under, horizontal for a heartbeat before she propelled her legs skyward and latched her ankles around the brass. Hands free, she crossed her arms over her chest and dangled in a painstakingly motionless crunch.

  Then, as the music infiltrated her veins, she threw herself into the dance, Iskatel´ forgotten as she resumed her artful ballet. Curling into her body, she grabbed on with both hands and flung herself into a sit-spin. Her toes pointed in a V toward the ceiling, head back, she focused on an extinguished light to keep from losing her equilibrium. The spiral ended as she planted her heels vertically on the pole and lowered herself into the splits, the insides of her thighs flat against the smooth brass.

  Without losing a beat, she eased
out of the trick, caught the pole under her arm, cocked one knee around the metal, and shimmied all the way to the top. Beneath the heat of the solitary blue light, she wedged herself by armpit and hipbone and kicked her feet to her head. She grabbed the tops of her ankles, arched her back, and touched the very tips of her four-inch heels to the crown of her head.

  A collective murmur rumbled through the crowd. Exhilarated by the dance, Natalya smiled as she lengthened her legs and reached one arm toward the sky. Hand-over-hand, she inched upside down. She spread her legs, eased them together again with a graceful backstroke kick. Adrenaline pumped through her veins as she prepared for her second freefall.

  Taking her legs away from the pole, she dropped into a pike, then snaked in a half circle, winding her left leg around the length of metal. Natalya pushed her upper body skyward, locked her ankles around the brass, and let herself plummet toward the stage below.

  Her palms connected, her ankles tightening to slow her fall and ease her body to the ground with an undulation from shoulder to toes. She looked up into the crowd as she let go completely to roll onto her back and gyrate against the floor. Her gaze fell on Brandon, his tawny eyes stormy, his expression a maelstrom of fury.

  B

  randon didn’t know whether to drag Natalya offstage and threaten her within an inch of her life, or whether to stand transfixed and indulge in the magic of her body. Half of him wanted to kill her. The other half wanted to yank off that sequined scrap of a bikini, bend those long legs toward her head, and ride her into orgasm. A taunting smile danced upon her lips as she sashayed around the pole, her gaze never leaving his. Damn her! She was playing him. She knew good and well he was seconds away from exploding both physically and verbally, and she was goading him.