Nightfire (12 page)

Irresistible.

Sands leaned forward and picked up a toast point with true Beluga caviar spread on it, washing it down with champagne. He pushed the plate over to Nikitin, who ignored it. Sands suppressed a sigh. Really, this would be much more pleasant if Nikitin were a friendlier person.

There was a woman’s cry, the sound of a slap, a man’s voice raised.

Trouble.

Beside him, he felt Nikitin stiffen.

Sands gestured to one of the bodyguards who unobtrusively mingled among the club members. They weren’t obvious muscle. They weren’t beefy and huge with enormous lumps under their arms. He chose his security carefully, both for their martial arts skills and their discretion. And, well, decorative value. They were attractive and graceful. He gave them an enormous dress allowance.

You only discovered they were security when there was trouble. Like now.

Consuelo. Again.

Really, Sands thought. Maybe she was more trouble than she was worth. A spectacularly beautiful woman, yes, even more beautiful than Skye, but lately quite . . . recalcitrant. And after all that he’d done for her. She’d been born Rosa Pérez and she was one of Sands’ favorite personal discoveries. He’d groomed her from the age of ten when he’d found her cowering in a corner on the backstreets of Tijuana. She’d been almost feral, barely human. He’d taught her to read and write, to dress, to speak perfect English—she’d almost forgotten her Spanish—to move with grace and to please men in every way.

It had taken all his skill to see beneath the grime and filth. He’d effected a remarkable transformation. She’d been a superb investment, but maybe her origins were starting to show through.

The club never punished in ways that showed. But perhaps being locked up, given to the male staff to use at will . . . maybe that would bring her around.

His men whisked Consuelo away and the member who’d been insulted by Consuelo was offered a bottle of Cristal and a free pass for a week.

Keep your customers happy.

This was
not
the moment for displays of insubordination. The deal with Nikitin and his backers was just beginning, not yet fully established. It was important that the Russians have the sense of a well-oiled machine, bright and smooth and profitable, ready to be taken to the next level.

Not to mention the fact that in his deepest heart, Sands was just a tiny bit afraid of his new partners. All that money, yet so far away, and the money’s emissary was frightening, beyond the temptations and weaknesses of the men in Sands’ world. As if he were dealing with an alien species he didn’t fully understand.

Nikitin turned his head, and for a moment Sands felt like he was looking into the eyes of an alien species. Cold, brilliant blue marbles, unearthly and inhuman.

“Mr. Sands,” Nikitin said, the Russian accent strong in his deep low voice, “I have watched this woman react badly three times now. You have a problem. Either you take care of it or I will.”

The room became chill, the champagne curdled sourly in Sands’ stomach. There was only one possible answer. “Yes, yes. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

The cold blue marbles held his gaze for a long moment, then Nikitin looked away and Sands gasped in a breath.

And admitted for the first time how very much Nikitin terrified him.

A
natoly Nikitin watched the American turn pale at his gaze. He turned his back. A gesture of contempt, not that the American would understand it. He found Americans almost incapable of understanding the nuances of threat.

Anatoly himself was a master. He’d grown up the son of a colonel in the KGB and he himself had spent ten years in its successor, the FSB. He knew the music of threat and violence inside out. Knew its tones and harmonies, understood them in his soul.

But then, he’d grown up in harsh surroundings. He understood full well the way the world worked. You were either strong or weak. Master or serf. Like here, the place the American pretended was a very posh and expensive “club,” but was a brothel. The American would shy away from the term. He liked to think that the men who came here belonged to some kind of fraternity of the powerful and tasteful, having found a superior way to slake their appetites.

The truth was their money bought them high-grade sex. Instead of going out into the street, where it was public and dirty, they came here, where it was private and clean. For those who wanted complete privacy, there was a separate entrance and a suite. They could get a fabulous meal and exactly the kind of sex they wanted for $10,000. Cheap at the price.

The advantages of being an oligarch. America seemed to be full of oligarchs, which was why Nikitin was here.

It was a good business and promised to become better when they could start bringing younger merchandise online, as per numerous requests.

Nikitin had studied the photographs of the goods now crossing the Pacific and was satisfied that they would suit any man’s tastes, which ran to young girls.

Nikitin frowned at the foreign sound of a commotion in this smoothest of places.

The beautiful one, Consuelo, raised her voice again, accusing her client of pinching her. The girls here were trained not to respond to pain.

However valuable a commodity she was, Consuelo was becoming a liability. It was exactly as if she had a disease. It needed to be contained before it spread to the other girls. There was no place for insubordination here, where men paid a premium price for instant and abject obedience. They got quite enough insubordination in the outside world.

The American was talking to one of his “security guards.”

Nikitin nearly snorted. The only thing those guards knew how to do was look good in a tuxedo. No, his own men knew how to deal with problems. Directly and forcefully.

He opened his cell phone and dialed a number. Nikitin had to keep his men in a separate area because the American thought they spoiled the tone of the club. But when trouble came, his men knew what to do. Nikitin spoke with the head of his men, Ivan. Tough and reliable. Ivan had fought in Chechnya. He knew how the world worked.

The American was still talking to his “security.”

Ivan appeared with no fanfare. He was dressed in black combat boots, black jeans, black T-shirt and jacket covering his shoulder rig with the GSh-18.

“Consuelo, the girl in the red dress. Find out why she’s being difficult and take care of it.”

Ivan nodded. Unlike the American’s security guards, his own men didn’t sample the wares, just like he didn’t. They operated under military discipline until the entire business machine was set up and running smoothly. Then they could relax. Nikitin would give his men ten of the girls to do with as they pleased when this was over. The girls would be useless afterwards, but his men knew what to do with bodies.

Ivan liked pain, and if this Consuelo woman was still around and not at the bottom of San Diego harbor, he’d throw her, too, to Ivan and his men for exclusive use as a bonus. No matter what she earned the club, sacrifices had to be made for the sake of discipline. “I heard she’s been talking to some outsider,” Ivan said in a low voice in Russian. “Some woman at a center. I think this outsider is stirring up trouble.”

Nikitin nodded. His masters were coming to America to oversee the first shipment and to get a firsthand look at their investment. Everything had to be perfect for the
vory
. Anything else was unthinkable. “We don’t need this, not now. Find out what’s going on and put a stop to it. Teach the woman a lesson.”

Ivan inclined his head and turned away. Nikitin could count on him. He and his men were promised a percentage of the increased business if everything went smoothly, on top of generous salaries.

“Oh, and Ivan—”

Ivan obediently turned around, big and tough and hard. Nikitin had every confidence he’d take care of this.

“Make sure this woman stays away. Don’t kill because we don’t want to deal with the authorities here, but short of that, do what it takes.”

Ivan nodded and walked off.

Nikitin looked over at where Consuelo was listening to Sands, head down, a rebellious expression on her face.

She truly was a beautiful woman, Nikitin thought dispassionately. Such a waste.

Duschka,
Nikitin thought,
your friend will learn a harsh lesson, then it will be your turn.

Chapter 10

Hopewell Shelter for Women and Children

San Diego

July 5

T
his is ridiculous,
Chloe thought. Just ask him
. What do you want from me, Mike?

How hard could it be?

She finished folding the stack of donated clothes. Many of the women who came to the shelter arrived with only the clothes on their backs. They needed everything. Clothes, food, money. Safety, above all.

Chloe remembered that. Remembered clearly not feeling safe. She’d spent her entire life with the low drumbeat of danger in her head, not knowing where it came from.

Chloe’s life now was perfect. She was totally ensconced in the warm embrace of a loving extended family. Harry was the finest brother a woman could possibly have. And Ellen and Nicole were more like sisters than sisters-in-law. Best of all, she got to have Gracie and Merry in her life. The idea that she could watch those two beautiful little girls grow up, be part of their daily lives, was an enormous joy.

San Diego was fabulous, beautiful and sunny. She’d bought an apartment in Harry’s condo and had access to an immense white beach, right outside her door. To all intents and purposes, she lived in a resort. Sam was even teaching her how to swim. Her swim instructor was a former Navy SEAL. How cool was that?

She volunteered at the shelter three days a week. The work was so important and satisfying she was seriously thinking of going back to school in the fall and getting a degree in psychology and doing this full-time. Everything was perfect except for one thing.

Mike.

That first day felt like a lifetime ago and in a way it was. Her life had changed so much. That magical day she’d thought that maybe she’d found . . . well, a new love sounded foolish. It was the first day they’d ever met, after all. But she thought that maybe she’d found someone who could penetrate her wall of loneliness.

Mike had been blatant in his desire. And that kiss at the Del. . . . And the
orgasm
!

How stupid of her to confess that it had been her first orgasm. Women don’t let men have information like that. It made them vulnerable, and if there was one thing Chloe was an expert on, it was vulnerability.

The memory of that episode at the Del still made her bloom with heat six months after the fact. How pathetic was that? How sad that she still blushed when she thought of a kiss six months ago from a man who hadn’t touched her since. At the very most he would extend a hand that hovered when he thought she might fall.

Well, she wasn’t falling these days. Mike had taken her in hand, so to speak—without ever touching her—and subjected her to his own bodybuilding program, pushing her and pushing her and pushing her to become strong. It appeared that Mike felt there wasn’t a problem on earth that couldn’t be solved by lifting weights.

And, well, he was right.

Chloe had had every form of physical rehab possible in her life, but it only served to put her on her feet, more or less.

Mike insisted on a strict regimen of weightlifting. Morning, noon and night. His theory was that she needed to strengthen the muscles wrapped around the bones and he made her train like mad.

Chloe had seen all those films where a nasty Marine shouted in the faces of the recruits, scaring them to death. Mike took the opposite tack—he cajoled her. Daily. Relentlessly. Without ever touching her.

And it worked! When she flexed her arm to make a muscle,
she made a muscle
. You could crack walnuts off her quadriceps.

She walked easily and well. A month ago she actually
ran
! To her knowledge, Chloe had never run in her life. She would have been too terrified. Once afternoon Gracie had wandered off on the beach and she found herself running after her. When she realized what she was doing, she laughed. And Mike laughed with her, sharing in her delight.

And that was the thing. Because though Mike’s rejection of her as a woman was complete and total, insulting in its thoroughness, every time she turned around, it seemed, there he was. He moved in all her new furniture, set up all her shelves, fixed everything in sight. He drove her to the shelter, picked her up after work, took out her garbage, carried in her groceries.

Her little family ate together at most meals and Mike was always right next to her, passing her things, cajoling her to eat more.

And in all that, he never touched her, not once.

He was driving her insane.

Nicole and Ellen were no help. They didn’t understand it, either. Mike had stopped, cold turkey, what Ellen delicately called his “fooling around” and Nicole crudely called his “fucking on an industrial level.”

Both of them thought he was in love with her, but by the same token were totally unable to process the fact that he never touched her. Maybe because their own husbands couldn’t keep their hands off them. For the Mike they knew, formerly known as the “man-slut,” this behavior was incomprehensible.

He now led the life of a monk.

He rarely left her side.

He never touched her.

It was driving her
crazy.

How could she get Mike out of her mind, how could she get over him, how could she move on, when he was always
around
?

And then of course there was the delicate issue of maybe dating someone else, though she found it impossible to drum up interest in the bank manager, the building superintendent, the orthopedic surgeon and the journalist for the
Union-Tribune
—all of whom had asked her out at least once.

It would be nice to want to go out with someone. But how could that happen when the sexiest, strongest, most vital man in the world was always in her face? Right next to her?

And—in the case of the journalist—glowering so menacingly the man had backed away, palms up.

Though Chloe wasn’t confrontational by nature, maybe the best thing to do would be to just say it. Tell him to stay away from her because the truth was, he was breaking her heart. Having him so close, every day, there every time she turned around, but so far away emotionally . . . well, it was almost unbearable.

He’d snared her heart that first day and he wasn’t letting it go.

The door that opened to an inner courtyard opened and she whirled, grateful for a distraction from her thoughts of Mike, stuck in her head like a burr. Maybe it was the director of the shelter, Marion. Kind, gray-haired, no-nonsense. Or maybe Consuelo, her favorite of the women who showed up for informal group therapy. She was stunningly beautiful and had a kind heart. And was being ground into dust by her job as a high-class prostitute.

But it was neither. Two big men pushed their way into the room. Very big men.

Chloe’s heart rate picked up immediately, started beating wildly, a primordial response she was trying to learn to control. Not every big man was a source of danger. Look at Sam and Harry and Mike. She had to stop this instant panic every time a larger-than-normal man stepped across her path.

She’d seen a mug shot of Rodney Lewis, the man who’d killed her mother and had sent her to the hospital for ten years. He’d weighed more than 300 pounds and he was the origin of her panic. Knowing what caused it didn’t make it abate, however.

Chloe schooled her face to blandness, wiped her suddenly wet palms down her linen shift. She had to stop reacting to big men like this.

The closer the two men came, though, the more her Alarm-o-meter dinged red. They carried themselves well, like athletes. Both blond, not badly dressed, not well-dressed. What terrified her were the eyes. Light blue and as remote as the eyes of dolls. Their body language was neutral, the only menace their utter and complete fitness. She watched them as they crossed the room to her.

Chloe planted her feet firmly and straightened.
Grow a backbone, Chloe.
She couldn’t be a slave to her past all her life.

The two men weren’t supposed to be here and she’d tell them that, after which they’d leave. A normal human transaction, the kind she’d been having for only the past six months, since reuniting with Harry. This needed to become permanent—this ability to speak to large men who weren’t Harry or Mike or Sam without being terrified.

“Miss Chloe Mason?” the taller of the two asked. He had a guttural voice and foreign accent. Only a foreigner would call a twenty-eight-year-old woman “miss.”

Chloe’s heart was thudding hard against her rib cage. Her body was sending her signals she tried to ignore.

“Yes? May I help you? Though I have to tell you that men aren’t allowed here in the shelter. The door on the wall to my left will take you directly out into the parking lot.”

The only men allowed into the shelter were Mike and Harry and Sam, since RBK was such a big supporter. Not to mention the fact that they helped women who were in immediate danger disappear.

“We’ll leave soon,” the other man said. He was slightly shorter, stockier, with the same dead light blue eyes. He, too, had an accent. “Just as soon as we clear a few things up. We have something to say to you and you better listen.”

They moved closer, right into her space. Chloe backed up and they followed. Classic aggressive behavior.

It was then that Chloe understood her body had been right all along. She was in trouble.

This was the administrative wing of the building and it was after hours. No one was around. If they knew the setup here at the shelter, they were banking on the fact that she was isolated.

“We need for you to listen to us,” Tall Guy said. His face was blank and terrifying in its lack of emotion. Chloe could smell them—a nauseating mix of unwashed male and heavy cologne. They looked wrong, they acted wrong, they smelled wrong.

Chloe sidestepped and Tall Guy grabbed her upper arm in a strong, unbreakable grip, pulling her toward him.

She was instantly paralyzed, seized by a fear so great she couldn’t breathe. Her oldest nightmare now made flesh.

There was a metallic click and suddenly a sharp blade was brandished under her nose, the wickedly sharp point right under her left eye. It was long, a lusterless black, razor-sharp and terrifying.

“We need for you to pay attention to what we’re going to say. Are you paying attention?”

Terror gripped her lungs. She couldn’t speak, she couldn’t breathe. Tall Guy shook her, put his face right next to hers, so close she could see the broken blood vessels in his eyes, so close she could see glints of gold where his shaver had missed sections of beard. Above all, so close she could smell the terrifying cold, steely scent of violence.

His voice lowered, became even more frightening. “I said—are you paying attention?” His shake hurt, his grip around her arm cutting off circulation.

She couldn’t speak. Her throat was paralyzed. She nodded.

The other man had circled around to her other side. His right hand snaked out and, shockingly, cupped her breast. “Pretty,” he said, pinching her hard. He looked at his partner, a quick reptilian glance. “Maybe she needs help in staying awake while you talk to her, eh?”

The tall man’s painful grip tightened even more as he lifted her up. She stood on tiptoe to ease the pain. She’d broken that arm twice. The shorter man’s big hand left her breast, but before she could even breathe a sigh of relief, with his forearm he cleared the desktop of the clothes she’d been folding and the tall man threw her down onto the desktop, driving all the air out of her lungs.

They spoke to each other in a language she didn’t understand, short sharp words. Finally, the taller man gave a gesture of irritation—
Okay, have it your way
—and stood to one side.

The shorter man unbuckled his belt and opened his pants, hands working fast. A huge, dark red erect penis jutted out from the dark blond hair of his groin.

Panic sang in Chloe’s head as she gasped for breath, legs uselessly kicking at him.

“Pretty,” he repeated with a grin, sliding big hands up under her dress, stepping between her legs. Oh God, this was happening so fast! Every move she made was countered by one man or the other. They were so strong, there was nothing she could do. She tried to bring her knee up to kick the man standing between her legs and he laughed, exchanging a narrow-eyed glance of amusement at his partner.

She couldn’t breathe yet. Mewling sounds came out of her throat, the strangled sounds of panic and pain.

They were enjoying this. Loving it. Loving her attempts to defend herself, knowing she could never, ever win.

A flush of rage flashed through her, like a nuclear blast, clearing her lungs. She drew in a full breath that broke the bonds of her panic and screamed as loud as she could, the sound echoing in the room.

She’d startled them. The shorter man between her legs loosened his grip on her thighs and she landed a foot straight in his crotch, reveling in the feel of his testicles crunching beneath her shoe. He doubled over in pain and she screamed again, loud and constant.