Stripped

by Tori St. Claire

  Yanking his collar sideways, he squinted at his left shoulder, inspecting the wound. Just a scratch. Close enough to rip through several layers of skin and require a couple stitches, but a scratch all the same. When he got his hands on her again, if he got his hands on her again, that woman was going to jail. No excuses. No chance for tears. Straight to jail.

  Like he should have done when he’d discovered he wasn’t talking to Kate.

  His ego kicked in as he grabbed for his phone. She wasn’t such a good shot after all if she couldn’t manage more than a graze at close distance.

  The door thumped open before he could punch in Mayer’s number, and Brandon jerked in surprise. Pain lanced down his arm. He hissed as he eyed the intruder.

  Gun drawn, Sergei filled the doorway.

  Brandon shook his head in disbelief. First Natalya, now the hit man. Just fucking great. His days were numbered after all. Only he’d been too focused in the wrong direction to recognize the real threat.

  “I suppose you’re here to finish me off?” Inching one hand behind his back, he reached for his gun. He might lose this one, but damn it, he refused to roll over and die.

  “No.” Sergei released the chamber and set his pistol on the table by the door. “I came to see how much of you she left behind.” He extended a hand.

  Warily, Brandon accepted the offered aid and allowed Sergei to hoist him to his feet. Movement sent another rush of white-hot fire shooting down to his fingertips, and he grimaced.

  “I’ve been tailing her since she decided to follow through on this hair-brained plan this morning. Heard the shot, saw her leave, figured you’d tried to talk her out of the idea.”

  Brandon heard the words, but his mind couldn’t process their meaning. Tailing Natalya? Helping him? He took a seat on the couch, pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and index finger, and tried to stop the racket in his head. “Who’s side are you on?”

  Sitting on the couch opposite, Sergei shrugged. “Hers, I guess. Which puts me on yours. A little tip—don’t try to talk her out of something she’s got her mind set on. Work around her.” He gestured at Brandon’s shoulder. “It’ll save you skin in the long haul. She’s too damn good with guns.”

  At the jest, Brandon’s mind conjured a picture of the silver sedan’s flat tire. Fifty yards at least. Two bullets. Luck couldn’t be that accurate.

  He glanced at his elbow, where blood pooled in the crease between bicep and forearm. She could have killed him. If she’d wanted to, she could have aimed a little lower and stopped his heart.

  Brandon groaned as understanding settled in. She’d hit him exactly where she’d meant to. An insignificant wound designed to slow him down.

  “Now you believe. Funny how bullets can do that.” Sergei smirked. “So what did she tell you?”

  “Everything. I think.” He pushed his right hand through his hair.

  “Good. How about I patch that up for you real quick, and we go over to Jill’s and put this to an end before Natalya does something else she’s going to regret.” He barked a short laugh. “That’ll really piss her off, but it’s a great way to get even.”

  Brandon frowned. Something didn’t feel right. Sergei was her partner, and partners didn’t let one member of the team go in without backup. He shouldn’t be here. He should be at Fantasia with his eye on Natalya.

  A chill invaded his veins. What if Natalya had it all wrong? What if the threat was sitting right in front of him? Sergei knew where Brandon lived, had access to the back rooms, and if he’d been Dmitri’s bodyguard, he could easily be last night’s gunman. Further, Brandon couldn’t bring himself to believe Jill was capable of shooting a gun at all, much less a dog. She was… Jill.

  He regarded Sergei with a lifted brow. “Why are you here? Why aren’t you with her?”

  The humor drained from Sergei’s expression. He sat forward, suddenly deadpan serious. “First, because Natalya’s in no danger until ten after ten when she finishes Kate’s dance, receives the message, and leaves the building.”

  “Second?”

  Sergei’s stare held Brandon’s as if he struggled to find the right words. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Let out a sigh. Then, his smile returned to restore the glint of humor in his eyes. “I figure Ma would claw her way out of the grave and kick my butt if I let you walk away from the one woman who can keep your ass in line.”

  Before the words could fully penetrate Brandon’s brain, Sergei stood and pulled his shirt up, exposing a long scar that began near his waistband and curved around his right side. “You didn’t kill me, Bran. Agent Kramer stopped by the shop and pulled me out before he tried to tell Ma and Gina. Fact is, Ma made us. She stood out a little too much.”

  Dumbstruck, Brandon could only stare at the remaining evidence of the day his brother, Stefan, had run through the glass patio door.

  I

  t was a dream. Maybe a nightmare—Brandon couldn’t decide which. He’d fallen in love with a CIA agent, and his brother sat in the seat beside him, navigating the Vegas traffic as they headed for Jill’s apartment on the west side of town. He’d been shot. Stitched up with dental floss, no less, and the woman he had been fucking was a serial killer. Just how fucked up could one day get?

  He glanced sideways at Stefan’s shaggy hair. Brandon had worn his long through junior high, but Golden Boy Moretti wouldn’t have been caught dead with long hair. They’d switched places somehow in life.

  Shaking off the strange sense of disorientation, he trained his thoughts on the situation. He had time to navigate Stefan’s return and the unbelievable news that their mother had brought about the murders, not his loose tongue. Right now, Natalya took priority, and Brandon couldn’t shake the feeling they were on the wrong track.

  Something she’d said. But she’d said so much. He’d been so angry too. He drummed his fingers on the armrest, feeling the answer on the tip of his tongue but unable to put it into words.

  “This it?” Stefan pointed at a small stucco house with turquoise trim.

  “Yeah.”

  They pulled into Jill’s driveway and climbed out of the car. The house looked empty. No television flashing in the front room, windows and doors closed—no hint Jill might be at home. More evidence to support Natalya’s theory that Jill was Iskatel´.

  Damn it, what had Natalya said?

  “You go to the door. I’ll stay back here and come in behind you.” Stefan urged Brandon toward the stoop with a jerk of his head.

  “It’s not Jill. We’re working the wrong angle.”

  “You know she vandalized the car, right?”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “How much more evidence do you need, Bran?”

  “Fine.” Brandon bounded up the two stairs in one stride and rang Jill’s doorbell. As he waited for her to answer, he glanced at her mailbox, noting several envelopes poked from beneath the metal flap. She hadn’t retrieved her mail in weeks.

  Odd. He pushed the bell again.

  From deep within the house a faint voice rang out, “Coming.”

  A few seconds later, she cracked open the door and stuck her head out. Puffy red eyes widened. “Brandon. What are you doing here? I said I’d come in and talk to you later this week.”

  As she closed the door, Brandon braced against it. A stronger push opened it wide enough he could see into her dark house. No lights on anywhere. In one sweeping glance, he took in her disheveled dark hair, terry cloth robe, and bare feet. “I need to talk to you.”

  “About?” She pulled her robe tighter across her breasts.

  “Can I come in?”

  “This isn’t a good time.”

  “Come off it, Jill. It’s not like I haven’t seen it all before. We need to talk now.” Not giving her room to argue, he gave the door another push and stepped inside. Taking her by the elbow, he escorted her into her living room and flipped on a lamp. The clutter of her usually tidy place took him by surprise. Dishes sat on the table, half-eaten food left to r
ot. A pile of rumpled blankets covered the couch. On the floor, he spotted an empty bottle of tequila.

  Stefan’s appearance in the entryway stopped Brandon from commenting on the disarray. “How’s Nikolai, Jill?”

  “What?”

  The shaky way Jill’s hand lifted to pull her robe even tighter bothered Brandon. She either knew exactly why they were here, or as he suspected, she had nothing to do with Iskatel´ and something else was the cause. He took command of the conversation. “I’m going to cut to the chase. I want to know about the car, the birds, and Iskatel´.”

  Her eyes went wide, and her ashen complexion grayed even more. “The car?”

  “Yes, the car.”

  She sank into a nearby chair. “I wanted you. But that’s insignificant now. I’m sorry. Tell Natalya that too. I won’t be seeing her again, I don’t think.”

  Apologies? From Jill? Something definitely wasn’t right. What had Natalya said? He gritted his teeth, searching for the out-of-place memory.

  “See, told you, Bran.” Stefan braced his hands on the armrests and brought his face close to Jill’s. “It’s not just the car, is it? You couldn’t stand the fact Brandon chose Natalya so you ratted her out. You told Dmitri. And you’ve been terrorizing her since. You even shot at her last night. Was screwing up kidnapping seven women not enough? Did Dmitri give you the orders, or did you take it upon yourself?”

  “Shot?” Jill scooted into the back of her chair as if she thought she could crawl out the other side. “I didn’t shoot anyone last night! I’ve been sick. I told Brandon that on the phone.”

  With a derisive chuckle, Stefan pushed away from the chair. “Great act. Not buying it. Last night you felt good enough to take a drive in the desert and shoot a dog. You’ve got plans tonight. We know about them, Jill. Or would you prefer Iskatel´?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Her voice rose an octave as she shot to the edge of her seat, her usual vigor restored with a burst of anger. “I haven’t gone anywhere since yesterday morning when I found out I have ovarian cancer. Stage four. That’s why I’m not coming in to work! You don’t believe me, the file’s on the counter in the kitchen.”

  Brandon recoiled like he’d been kicked in the gut. Cancer? Guilt crashed around his shoulders, and he swore. He was standing here drilling someone he knew wasn’t responsible while she was clearly falling apart.

  “That’s also pretty convenient,” Stefan countered. “Dmitri could have any one of his doctors fabricate a report.”

  Convenient. Brandon’s mind locked on Stefan’s remark. He’d said the same thing to Natalya when she accused Jill the first time. Later, amidst the tears, she cited what had led her to the conclusion. One of which was Opie—Opie had to know who’d killed him, or Opie would have ripped off the gunman’s arm.

  Jill had never set foot in Brandon’s house. Never met Opie.

  “She’s telling the truth.” He grabbed Stefan by the shoulder and propelled him to the door. “Jill, I’m sorry.” It was all he could think to say, given the circumstances. Later, when he could process everything, when Natalya was out of danger, he’d come by and see if he could do anything.

  “What the fuck?” Stefan jerked his shoulder free.

  “She’s never been at my house to meet Opie. Natalya did tell you how the dog was shot, right?”

  Stefan’s expression turned as hard as stone. “Then who the hell is it?”

  “Hell if I know. Let’s get Aaron in on this. He can keep an eye on Natalya in the club.”

  At Stefan’s nod, Brandon pulled his phone out of his pocket. Out of habit, he punched the button to access his address book. A screen full of names and addresses flashed in front of his face. “Damn it.”

  “What?”

  “I picked up Mayer’s phone by accident. I can’t call him. He’s probably figured it out, and he won’t answer mine.”

  “Try anyway.”

  Brandon struck off for the car, waiting for the ringing in his ear to flip to his voice mail. As predicted, the generic voice answered, announcing the mailbox wasn’t established. He hung up and slid into the passenger seat. Mayer might not answer, but he’d see a text message. The incoming messages overrode the interface and displayed automatically. A feature Brandon hadn’t given second thought, since he rarely ever received or sent texts.

  He typed out, Call me. Natalya in Fantasia as Kate. Needs your protection. She’s not the killer, she’s CIA.

  When Stefan shut the driver’s-side door, Brandon voiced his thoughts. “Natalya’s going in blind. We’ve got to get to Fantasia. We can pull in Mayer, and we’ll be another man strong. He knows all the exits and who’s guarded them on what shift of what night. It’ll be—”

  The phone in his hand vibrated with an incoming text message from Rory. Rory who’d supplied Mayer with Natalya’s Russian background information. Brandon’s heart skipped several beats. Rory had been gone last night. Hell, no one had heard from him since Brandon insisted he take a few days.

  Brandon read the message to call and pressed the connect key.

  Rory answered on the second ring. “Hey, I got your message from yesterday morning. Sorry man, I’d have gone with you, but I’ve been with Rachel’s mom. I think that house you were at blew up last night, by the way.”

  Brandon nearly choked. “This is Moretti. What do you mean you think it blew up?”

  “I heard it on the noon news. Right after I heard about that girl you interviewed being hit by a car. Gas main leak took out a couple houses in that neighborhood.”

  Brandon grimaced as his stomach took a nosedive to the floor. “Rory, when’s the last time you talked to Mayer?”

  “I haven’t talked to him since you took me off the case. Why?”

  The churning in Brandon’s gut rose to violent levels. He clenched a hand around the door handle. “So you didn’t give him a bunch of translated Russian documents about Natalya?”

  “Huh?” Rory laughed. “Hello? I barely passed English. Where’d you get the idea I could translate Russian?”

  “Son of a bitch!” Brandon slammed his fist into the armrest before thrusting his index finger at the road. “Drive!”

  “Bran?” Rory asked in his ear.

  “I’ll explain later.” Brandon hung up and took a deep breath to stop the racing of his heart. Eyes riveted on the road, he didn’t dare look at his brother for fear he’d read his failures in Stefan’s expression. “It’s Mayer. And he knows she’s CIA.”

  “How?”

  Brandon gritted his teeth against a mountain of self-loathing. “I fucking told him.”

  Forty-two

  N

  atalya sat in the dressing room, fiddling with her hair. She’d survived an hour as Kate. She had three more to accomplish before she took the stage. Any time after that she could expect Jill to fulfill her role and make contact. If Jill chose the same methods Natalya had used, the request would come as an opportunity to earn extra money, with no house cut, for a wealthy client. And it would be made in private, so no one could hear the message and relay it to the authorities when the dancer turned up missing. Or in Jill’s case, often dead. Sapphire sauntered in and plopped down at the mirror beside Natalya. “Where’s your friend?”

  “Hm?” She fastened Kate’s bright smile onto her face and willed the tension out of her voice. “Who?”

  “Natalya. This is the second night she and Brandon haven’t been in on time. I think there’s something going on there.” She smacked her gum and reclined in the chair, throwing one long leg over the other. “Lucky girl. I bet he can make a girl come for hours.”

  Definitely. Natalya rummaged through a drawer full of hair accessories to hide the heat that leapt to her face. “How’s the crowd tonight?”

  “Eh, I’ve seen better.”

  “Kate?” Aaron’s voice echoed in the girls’ lounge. “You back here?”

  Natalya resumed fiddling with her hair. “I’m back here.”

  Sapphire
gave Natalya a wink and lowered her voice. “I tried that one out the other night. Let me tell ya, he ain’t nothing to complain about.”

  “Hey.” Aaron leaned in the doorway. “Oh, hi, Sapphire.” His gaze roamed appreciatively down the waist-deep gap in Sapphire’s robe before meeting Natalya’s eyes through the mirror. “Have you seen Becca?”

  “Not since you sent her down to props for toilet paper a little while ago.”

  He let out a harassed sigh. “Would you get her? She’s probably down there flirting with Harvey. I’ve got guys asking for her in VIP, a problem with the waitresses, and I can’t leave the floor too long. Have you heard from Brandon?”

  “No. He doesn’t usually make it a habit to check in with me.” She set her hairbrush down and stood up, glad for an excuse to be free of Sapphire’s company. “I’ll go fetch Becca.”

  Ducking under Aaron’s arm, she made her way to the back stairs. Her heels clicked against the metal stairs, a hollow metallic sound that echoed through the concrete stairwell. At the bottom, the door blew inward as she reached for the handle, nearly knocking her backward. Harvey and two other men bustled through, their arms laden with the heavy black trunks Mercury used for her stage set.

  “Oh, sorry, Kate,” Harvey mumbled. His immediate blush stained the tips of his ears.

  Natalya chuckled. “It’s okay. Is Becca down here?”

  “She was.” He set down a box to scratch his head. “She might still be in the storeroom. I’ve been so busy I haven’t paid attention.”

  “Okay. VIP wants her. I’ll go look.”

  Mumbling something Natalya couldn’t understand, Harvey picked up his boxes and followed the other two up the stairs.

  She entered the vast maze of storage shelves, doorways, and corridors that comprised Fantasia’s basement. As Kate, she couldn’t ask for directions, so she chose the hall on her right. The first door she encountered opened into Harvey’s kingdom of colored cardboard, fabrics, and hunks of metal that somehow became the fantastic sets Fantasia was known for.