Sasha & Andriena #1 (Lovers & Sinners)

by Marita A. Hansen

  “No one’s my lover, and you’re taking a risk being here. Alberto could walk in at any moment.”

  She reached for him again. Jagger grabbed her wrist, making her cry out, his grip no doubt crushing. I’d read he was a sadistic bastard, someone who enjoyed inflicting pain, which suited his role as a slave trainer.

  “Leave now, Bianca,” he let go of her, “before I teach you your place.”

  The woman flinched, making me wonder whether she had firsthand knowledge of his sadism. She wiped at her eyes, then turned to me. “I hope he ruins you like all the others,” she growled, then walked off, leaving me opened-mouthed, although that was only an act for Jagger’s benefit.

  My attention moved to him as he slipped into the seat next to mine. He waved the bartender over, then tapped the glass I hadn’t yet started drinking. “I’ll have the same.”

  The bartender nodded, moving back down the counter to make the margarita. It was suspected that the man was on Jagger’s payroll, possibly the person who spiked the women’s drinks, although we weren’t sure that was how they were taken. We’d managed to catch two on camera, both of them leaving straight after drinking what the bartender had given them, their gait a little unbalanced, but not enough to be certain. I looked down at my margarita, wondering whether it was spiked. I picked it up and took a sip, knowing it didn’t matter either way since I still needed to be taken.

  “I apologize for Bianca’s behavior,” Jagger said, his accent as rich as his dark olive skin.

  I turned to look at him, stealing myself for the view, because he really was breathtaking. I just needed to remind myself of the prostitute that had almost testified against him, the beating he’d given her horrific. “No need to apologize,” I finally said, wishing he looked as ugly as his soul.

  He cocked his head to the side, the light picking up the gold flecks in his hazel-brown eyes. For a second I wondered whether they were contacts, but remembered the image of the man as a boy standing next to his mother, a severe looking woman in black. His eyes were the same color, just vulnerable, not this devil in front of me now.

  “Bianca is rather overprotective of me,” he said.

  “Bianca? Doesn’t that mean white?”

  “Sì. You know my language?”

  “Other than Bianca and pizza, oh, and pasta, no.” I turned back to my drink, not wanting to look at him, the man way too beautiful for my senses to handle. It made me want to punch him, to kick him, to do anything to take away that beauty, because he didn’t deserve it, not like my husband, who’d been beautiful both inside and out.

  I took another sip of my drink, trying my best to appear disinterested in Jagger. From all the intel I’d been given on the sex trafficking case, I knew the women he’d kidnapped were all tough nuts, beautiful but feisty, and on the camera footage I’d watched two of them do the unthinkable—turn Jagger down, both of those women married.

  “I’m Jagger D’Angelo,” he held out a hand for me to shake.

  I ignored the offering, instead taking another sip of my drink.

  He removed his hand. “What is your name?”

  “Margarita Petrov,” I said, needing him to know.

  “That’s an unusual mix: Mexican and Russian. I thought you said your husband is Italian.”

  “He is.”

  “Then why do you have a Russian surname? Or are you one of those modern women who find it insulting to take a man’s name?”

  Because I would be an idiot to use my real name, not to mention that I have to be sold to the Russian, so I can bring him down along with you. My boss had told me that the D’Angelos weren’t the main target, that they were only a means to get to the Black Russian, the man at the center of the world’s biggest sex trafficking operation. Still, Frano D’Angelo was my target, the Russian just a bonus.

  “I have a married name,” I finally answered Jagger, “but I’m throwing it away for the night, like my husband threw away our vows, and by the way, it’s rude to eavesdrop.”

  “It was hard not to with the description of your husband.” He placed his hand on my knee, making me hold in everything I had not to break his fingers, although I imagined doing it anyway. “And he’s a fool to cheat on such a beautiful lady as yourself.”

  “Which is why I’m not interested in you. You look just like him, so kindly remove your hand from my knee.”

  “Are you certain about that?” he said, his cocky smile too sure of himself.

  “One-hundred percent certain.”

  He removed his hand, the smile not leaving his face. He appeared to be enjoying himself, the man unusual, but with his looks my rejection was probably a novelty for him, and most definitely a challenge.

  I turned back to my drink, willing myself to ignore him.

  Jagger leaned into me. “Take your frustrations out on me, pretend I’m your husband. Hit me, whip me, even kick me in my balls, I can take it.”

  I almost choked on the drink. I hit my chest and coughed, trying to get myself under control.

  “Did I shock you?” he asked, his voice telling me he knew the answer.

  “I’m not into BDSM,” I spluttered out.

  “I was only referring to SM, because I won’t allow anyone to tie me up, that involves trust and I trust no one.”

  “Sadomasochism is just as bad.”

  “Have you tried it?”

  “No, and I don’t ever intend to.”

  “You won’t know if you like something if you don’t try it.”

  “I don’t like pain, and I certainly don’t like hurting someone who I’m having sex with, because I only have sex with people I care for, not a random man who asks me silly questions. Hence, I won’t like SM or having sex with you.”

  He snorted out a laugh. “You really are a strange woman.”

  “Why? Because I’m turning you down.”

  “Not many women do.”

  “Well, when you hit on a married woman what do you expect?”

  “Your husband cheated on you.”

  “Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

  “Does that mean you’re going back to him?”

  “I don’t know what I’ll be doing.”

  “You’ll be doing me.”

  “I don’t have the right equipment for the job.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A wiener.”

  He straightened, looking like I’d slapped him. “Obviously, I’m not gay,” he said.

  “I don’t know what or who you are, and you need to learn English better. Men do, women receive.”

  “If that’s your view then you’re inexperienced in sex.”

  “I am not!”

  “Then don’t say things that suggest you are, because women can do men without penetrating them: they ride them, like I want you to ride me,” he leaned closer, “they suck cazzone like I want your pretty mouth to do right now.”

  “You’re vulgar.”

  “Do you know what cazzone means?”

  “I can take an educated guess with suck next to it.”

  He glanced down at his crotch then back up at me with a cheeky grin, his eyes sparkling. “But do you know how grande it is?”

  “An exaggeration—I’m sure.”

  “You really should stop being a tease.”

  My eyebrows shot up, my hand aching to slap him. “I am not a tease! You’re just an arrogant, chauvinistic pig who thinks women should grovel at your feet.”

  He leaned back against the bar with a smirk. “True. But if you weren’t interested in me, why did you sit so close?”

  “It was a free spot.”

  “There were, and are, other free spots in the room, like the one that Americano actor was sitting next to, the same man who approached you, but you turned him away so you could sit near me.”

  I stared at him, taken aback that he’d noticed, because I hadn’t seen him looking. That was bad, because it was my job to see and hear everything.

  “Which means you’re pl
aying hard to get,” he said, looking smug. “I don’t mind that game, just as long as the outcome is the same.” He leaned closer, brushing my ear with his lips. “You doing me—like you were born to.”

  I yanked my head away from his mouth, again willing myself not to hurt him, but for the love of God, I wanted to so badly it hurt me.

  “I’m. Not. Interested,” I ground out.

  “I beg to differ, because you are definitely attracted to me as I to you.”

  “I only looked at you because I thought you were my husband for a moment, your resemblance uncanny, and I almost left because of it, but decided I wasn’t going to let another man rule my world.”

  He smiled. “You’re a masochist then.”

  I scowled at him. “How the hell am I a masochist?”

  “You’re tormenting yourself by turning me down, when obviously all you want to do is me.”

  “You’re crazy. I don’t want anything to do with you.”

  He laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I have never come across a woman who’d rather insult me than bed me.”

  “I’m sure there are plenty others.”

  “Sì, they’re called lesbians. So, would you rather do Bianca or me?”

  I threw my hands up in the air. “You’re impossible!”

  “I have been told that many times.” His smile widened even more, displaying a perfect set of pearly whites, although the two at each end were sharper than the rest, like they were made to rip into me. “And I’ll be quite happy to watch you two...” he cocked his head to the side. “How do you Americans say it? Going at it.”

  I glared at him. “Fuck off.”

  He sighed. “Such unladylike language, and I must say, you really are taking this too far. We both know you want me, yet you persist on pretending you don’t.”

  “I’m not pretending.”

  “I don’t believe you. However, since I can see you’re going to play me all night, and not in the way I want, I will leave you in peace, bella, and find a more honest woman to bring to ecstasy.” He blew me a kiss then left, stopping for a moment to speak to the bartender.

  I breathed out, hoping that I hadn’t overdone things. But from what I’d seen on the surveillance footage, his last victim, a married woman, had slapped him, then walked out of the bar alone, never to be seen again. Maybe I should’ve slapped him too, because he more than deserved it. I imagined my finger marks on his cheek, tainting his beauty. I wondered whether he truly meant it when he’d offered himself up to be whipped, because I would do it, using it to punish him, not to turn him on. I frowned, not liking where my thoughts were heading.

  The bartender came over a minute later, handing me another margarita.

  “What’s this for?”

  “An apology from Mr. D’Angelo,” he said, then left to serve someone else.

  I picked up the glass, wondering whether it had been drugged, then took a sip. It didn’t taste any different from the other one, although I knew that meant nothing, that it very well could contain something that could knock me to my ‘unladylike’ ass. I drank it down fast, then stood up and headed past the bartender, giving him a glance. The man looked like he was watching me out of the corner of his eye, maybe assessing whether the drinks were affecting me. Again, I wondered whether he was involved in the kidnapping.

  I walked out of the bar, purposely swaying a little as I headed for the elevator. Jagger was standing in the reception area talking to a gorilla of a man, who had his back to me. Jagger’s gaze shifted to me, then he turned to the receptionist. I pressed the elevator button, continuing to watch him, hoping he would come up to me. Or maybe he was getting my room number. After all, I did give him the false name I’d booked under.

  He said something to the man next to him, then before I knew it he was gone, heading up the sweeping staircase. The elevator door pinged open, my nerves telling me that he hadn’t asked for my room number, because I had a sick feeling in my stomach that I had failed, and it wasn’t the margaritas. I should’ve ignored my boss’s instructions to play hard to get, should’ve said yes to Jagger, making things easier. No, I couldn’t have done that, because the footage had shown that all the women who’d gone with him willingly hadn’t been snatched, which we knew because we’d traced every one of them, only the two who’d turned him down vanishing. I wondered how many more women had been taken, and how many hotels Jagger had used as personal hunting grounds.

  I stepped inside the elevator.

  “Hold the door please!” a man called out.

  I placed a finger on the hold button as the gorilla who’d been standing next to Jagger lumbered inside. I pressed my floor number as the door closed, my heartbeat and hopes now picking up, because the man was Alberto D’Angelo: Jagger’s cousin and Frano’s brother. Alberto’s file was even bigger than Jagger’s. The man was notorious, a true mafioso who’d clashed with the law on many occasions, the first time during his teens when he’d killed a man with one punch. But he’d avoided jail due to a technicality—the judge being in the mafia’s pocket.

  Alberto stood still, not pressing any floor numbers, again making me think he was here for me, plus it made sense: follow me to my room, wait until I opened it, then bundle me inside, wrap me up, and post me off to the human yard sale.

  I stared straight ahead, both nervous and excited, wanting this to happen, but also wanting to rearrange his already busted-up nose for even considering taking me. The elevator stopped on my floor, the door opening with a ping.

  The man swept a hand out, “You first, signora.” His Italian accent was gravelly, the voice of heavy smoker.

  I forced myself to smile. “Thank you,” I said, then headed for my room, again purposely swaying as I walked. His footsteps followed, heavier, threatening, the thud, thud, thud echoing my heartbeat. Willing myself not to fight back, I stopped outside my room and pulled out the keycard from my evening purse, dropping it with a ‘drunken’ giggle. I bent down and picked it up, then unlocked my door, going still as he headed past to the room next to mine. He opened the door with his keycard, then disappeared inside. I stared in confusion, because I knew where the D’Angelos were staying, and that wasn’t their room, the penthouse booked under their name. My eyes widened, things finally clicking into place. I was in a conjoining room where a door connected the suites. Still, how did they arrange the room so quick? Had someone warned them about me, told them I was a FBI agent? I looked down at my purse, wondering whether I should use the ninja star hidden inside, something I’d taken without permission. My boss had wanted me to appear helpless. But I never went into a job without a backup plan, and if I had been found out I would use the ninja star as a distraction, so I could get the hell out of there.

  I opened the door cautiously, not wanting to be taken by surprise. When I didn’t see anyone, I closed the door and slipped the keycard into its slot, which lit up the spacious room... I froze at the sight of Jagger standing in the adjoining doorway that was meant to be locked. He was leaning against the jamb, smirking, like he’d played the world’s funniest joke on me. I had expected Alberto, but it still wasn’t a surprise, although the man must’ve run up those ten flights of stairs like a wild person to get to my room before me.

  “What are you doing in my room?!” I shouted, wondering whether I should pretend to run or demand he leave, one a natural reaction, the other not so much, but the second would give him a better chance of grabbing me.

  “I’m here to take you,” he said.

  “Take me?”

  “Kidnap, snatch, abduct, capture...”

  I remained still, although my brain was now telling me I had to run regardless of whether I needed to stay.

  He quirked an eyebrow. “Normally women scream and run when I say that; not stand still, making my job easy.”

  “I’m not a normal woman, so get out of my room before I call the cops.” I opened my purse and pulled out my cell phone.

  “That won’t d
o you any good, because we’ll be out of here before the polizia show ... off to get you primed for the auction block.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  He smiled. “No, I have nuts, and right now I’m thinking you have some too. You’re the first woman to show some balls. I wouldn’t mind keeping you for myself.” He pushed away from the door and headed around the bed.

  Even though I needed to be taken, I couldn’t let him know this. I turned for the door, Jagger not even trying to stop me. As I opened it I discovered why: Alberto was standing on the other side, blocking the exit.

  Grabbing me in a bear hug, he lifted me off the ground and entered the room, heeling the door closed. I struggled against him, but keeping it at a level where it wouldn’t help me, although I could make him let go in an instant with a stiletto heel to his shin.

  “Let me go!” I yelled.

  The man clamped a beefy hand over my mouth, but the yell was just a ruse, although my eyes still popped as Jagger pulled out a syringe from behind his back.

  “Stay still so I don’t hurt you unnecessarily,” he said, reaching for my arm.

  I pleaded with my eyes for him not to do this, because I wanted to stay awake during the ordeal, to take in as much information as I could, but the sting still happened, the needle pushing into my arm.

  “Remove your hand,” Jagger said to Alberto.

  The meaty hand disappeared from my mouth to be replaced by Jagger’s lips. He kissed me, then pulled back, his eyes going to mine, his intensity making me panic along with the drug now coursing through my veins. He could do anything to me while I was out. It made me want to fight back, regardless of my job. I tried to lift my leg to stiletto him, but couldn’t move it, my body beginning to shut down. I closed my eyes, sleep now pushing at the borders of my drug-addled mind.

  Jagger brushed my hair aside. “I hope you fight me every step of the way, because I like inflicting pain, and contrary to what you said about not being a masochist, once I’m through with you, you will beg me to hurt you, to whip you, to fuck you.” He nuzzled my ear. “I now own your body, your mind, your soul,” he whispered. “You are mine to do as I please. I’m your master, your god, your nightmare...”