Cat's Paw (Veritas Book 1) (13 page)

“Hello,” she said.

Her accent was Russian and her dress very short, making her legs seem impossibly long. Her eyes were dark and shiny, her lips bright red, and her auburn hair fell below her shoulders in thick waves. He swore she looked familiar in some way.

“Hi there,” he said. “Maybe you could help me. I’m looking for a friend of mine. His name’s Dimitri.”

The woman cocked her head. “There are many of that name. What does he look like?”

Alex described him, at least the way he remembered him from prison. His most recent encounter with the man wouldn’t make for good bar conversation.

“Ah, Dimitri Golov. Yes. That one I know.”

“Oh, good. Is he here tonight? I haven’t seen him.”

“No, he is not here,” she said, pouting.

“He told me to check this place out. I’m liking it so far.”

The redhead leaned closer now, touching his cheek. “The evening is looking much, much better now.”

He felt his blood warming. “What’s your name?”

“Anya. And yours?”

“Michael.” It wasn’t a lie—that was his middle name.

“What do you do, Michael?”

“I sell . . . pharmaceuticals.”

Her whole demeanor changed. “Like Dimitri, then?”

“Yes. Like Dimitri,” he said, hopeful.
Come on, baby, take the bait.
Maybe this way, he’d have a chance to make a significant contribution to the investigation.

Anya leaned even closer, her strange perfume filling his nose, confusing his brain. “Do you want to dance with me, Michael?”

The word took on whole new shades of meaning when it came out of those lips, and he hardened under her scorching gaze. Who said he couldn’t score tonight? He’d even stuck a couple condoms in his back pocket just in case. As long as he got the information Veritas needed, what would be the harm? He was getting there with Morgan, but this one would be one wild ride. That way, when his partner did come around, he wouldn’t be so damned desperate. He’d be the one in control.

A twitch across his shoulders reminded him that, somewhere, Morgan was probably watching him. That made him smile. Jealousy often brought a reluctant woman to her knees. Literally.

A bird in the hand.
“Yes, I’d really like to dance with you,” he said. It’d be hot and fast with no strings attached. Sometimes that was the best kind of sex.

“Then we are going to be very happy together,” Anya said, taking his hand and leading him toward the back of the club. “And after that, we can talk about Dimitri. I know many things about him.”

Better and better
.

“You should wear a dress like that more often,” a man said.

Morgan smiled at the newcomer. “Good evening, Sam. What brings you to this side of hell?”

He moved closer to her, so no one could overhear them. “Our boss wanted you to have some backup tonight. He’s feeling edgy.”

“Crispin? Edgy?”

“I’m hearing he’s not a happy camper, because the Russian in the warehouse was his man inside Buryshkin’s organization. Now we have no one.”

“What?” That, she hadn’t known. “Damn, that’s not good news.”

“No, it’s not. Anything new here?”

“Sort of. I spoke with a woman who knew Dimitri, and I mean in the Biblical way. She said he was having ‘boss problems.’ And she knows Anya.”

Sam stilled. “Would that be the Anya everyone warned me about?”

“Given the description, I’d say yes.” Morgan tipped up onto her toes to try to find Alex, then lowered back down when she couldn’t. “I wonder where Parkin is.”

“Probably getting his dick adjusted. That’s the first thing I’d be doing after all those years in stir.”

She searched the crowd for Alex again, but with no success. Was he buried inside some girl in a storage closet somewhere?

Damn you, Parkin, you better not go there.

Where the hell had that come from? Why would she care? If he scored, he’d stop trying to sweet-talk her into bed. A happy ending for everyone. Somehow that just didn’t sit right.

“Morgan?” Sam nudged her.

“Huh? Sorry. What did you say?”

“I was saying not to worry. Parkin can handle himself. His time in prison made him tough.”

“Maybe. Ask around, see if anyone saw where he went and who he’s with.”

“Another beer while I’m making the rounds?” Sam asked, indicating her nearly empty bottle.

“No, one is plenty.”

He set off on his mission, while Morgan fidgeted. Parkin had too many enemies who wanted him dead. What better way to distract him than with a willing girl and a promise of a good time?

Anya took him outside the bar into a quaint courtyard lit with flaming torchieres set at intervals along the back wall. They weren’t alone; a couple occupied a far corner, but they were oblivious to the rest of the world.

Anya led him to a darkened spot, then shoved him back against the building’s brickwork. “I’ll take that dance now,” she said.

Here?
Well, it was New Orleans.

Alex didn’t normally mind women who took charge—some of his best experiences had been that way—but his nerves were taut. It was risky being on his own with someone he didn’t know. Still, why would one of Buryshkin’s people try to hurt him? He was on the Russian’s payroll.

“So what do you have in mind?” he asked, watching her closely in the dim light. There seemed to be a bewitching fire in those dark eyes now.

Anya stepped up, took his face in her hands, and kissed him. The kiss wasn’t like he’d expected; it was one of domination more than discovery. That knowledge lit him up like a firecracker, and his groin responded enthusiastically. He was vaguely aware of the other couple leaving the courtyard, finished with their business. The door to the bar closed behind them.

“Do you know what I like most?” Anya murmured.

Alex shook his head, hoping it didn’t have anything to do with whips and chains.

“I’ll show you.”

She trailed her tongue around his chin, then down onto his neck. It was as arousing as all hell. She gripped the sides of his face and lightly nipped him with her teeth.

“Do you like that?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Then maybe you’ll like this even better,” she said.

The grip grew tighter, and right before Alex was going to pull away, she bit him, digging her teeth into his neck.

With a yelp, Alex jerked back, feeling his flesh give way.

“What the hell?” he said, touching the spot and coming away with blood on his fingers. The skin felt ragged to the touch and stung like fury. “Are you fucking crazy?”

He could see blood on her lips.
His
blood. This one was into pain.

Anya went all innocent. “You said you would like it. You lied. So many of them do.”

Bitch.
All thoughts of fucking her vanished.

Alex forcibly wrestled his anger down. If this viper knew anything about Dimitri, he had to play along. Which was proving difficult, as he felt blood running down his neck, under his collar.

“Dimitri said you liked it rough,” he said.

“He could not handle me. He could not handle a lot of things. What about you, Michael? Are you eager to taste what I can give you?” she said, running a talon-like nail down his chest, then south of his waist.

He caught her hand before it reached home.

“Here’s the deal: We talk first, then maybe we’ll get to the pain part. But you have to make it worth my while.”

Her eyes flattened, becoming cold and calculating. If the throbbing wound on his neck hadn’t told him she was dangerous, those eyes confirmed it.

Why the hell am I out here with this crazy?

“You think you dictate to me,” she said, waving a finger in front of his face as if he were a naughty child. “You have picked the wrong side. You are dead and do not know it.”

Side?
“Just tell me about Dimitri, and I won’t have your ass arrested for assault. Because believe me, I’m just about to—”

“
Zatknis
!” she shouted. She continued to swear at him in Russian, her eyes glowing black pits. He saw only madness now, and a cold sweat bathed him.

On instinct, Alex grabbed her arm as it moved toward him. She struggled, but he slapped her wrist down on his knee. An open switchblade hit the ground at his feet

He kicked it away. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

She snarled and was about to leap at him, but Alex was through the back door and into the crowd before she had a chance to stop him. Or retrieve her knife. He scooped up a few napkins from a table and pressed them against his neck to try to stop the bleeding. What if she had HIV or something?

As he headed for the front entrance, Alex shot a look over his shoulder, but the she-devil wasn’t following him. The old Parkin Luck wasn’t working any longer—the first woman he’d gotten close to banging had turned out to be a total psycho. Even worse, he’d gotten no useful information on Dimitri, and if he hadn’t been paying attention, she would have stabbed him just for fun.

Jesus.

“You’re sure?” Morgan asked, pacing outside the bar now.

Sam nodded. “He went off with a redhead. The guy said he saw them going out the rear door.”

“Dammit. Either he’s playing us for suckers, or he’s in trouble. Go around the back and see if you can find out what’s going on with them. I’ll stay here in case he comes this way.”

Sam headed around the side of the building as Morgan stared at the flow of people in and out of the club.

“Where are you?”

Alex found Morgan pacing outside the club, her expression lethal. The instant she saw him, she dialed Sam.

“He’s here. Yeah, okay. Thanks for your help tonight. I’ll talk to you later.” She stuffed her phone in her purse, then got in his face. “Where the hell have you been?”

“What?” Alex said, still trying to wrap his mind around what had just happened.

“You heard me.”

A little of the fog cleared. “I’ve been doing what you expected me to do. Asking questions. Why are you so damned mad?”

“You were with a redhead, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah, so?”

“Giving her your A game, were you?” she said.

“You’re jealous.”

Morgan set off down the street, moving at a fast pace, like she wanted to put miles between them. It took Alex half a block to catch up to her.

He caught her by the arm. “What the hell is up with you?”

She spun around to face him, and for a moment he thought she was going to sock him in the jaw. “Don’t play innocent,” she spat.

“I’m not getting the issue here. I chatted up a couple people and thought I’d found someone who had some information on Dimitri, but the cost for that information was far too high.”

Morgan shook her head. “You knew who the hell that redhead was, and that’s why you took off with her. Was it good for you? Did she scream your name when you got her off?”

“What? No. We didn’t get it on. Whoever that woman was, she’s batshit crazy.”

His companion hesitated. “You didn’t recognize her?”

“No. She said her name was Anya. I’ve never met her before.”

“Think about it,” she said.

“Think about what?”

“Russian accent? Named Anya? Would have been about sixteen when you went to prison?”

The name clicked into place as a chill swept through his bones. “Oh, God.”

Anya Vladimirovna Buryshkin
.

The Russian’s only child.

“That bitch!” he shouted. That outburst earned them a few startled looks from passersby. Alex’s stomach lurched, and he swallowed to keep from vomiting. He’d been a total fool.

Morgan stared for a moment, then touched his arm. “You really didn’t know who she was?”

“No,” he insisted. “I’d never met her. I saw a picture of her once, but she was just a kid and had brown hair. If I had known . . . Oh, God.”

Morgan reached toward the makeshift compress on his neck. “What happened?”

He pulled away the napkins, and the blood began to run again.

“The bitch bit me,” he said, quieter now.

“What?”

Morgan dug in her purse and gave him a stack of tissues. When he pushed them up against the wound, the throbbing pain grew worse.

“You’re lucky she didn’t cut out your liver,” she said, her voice hardened steel now. “Anya’s known to do that every now and then.”

“She would have if I hadn’t stopped her,” he murmured.

Suddenly, being on the street made him feel too vulnerable.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “I need a damned shower.”

Chapter Fourteen

Morgan’s worry increased with each step away from the bar. Alex had gone from scowling and furious to haunted. His shoulders were hunched, and he wouldn’t meet her gaze. Any questions she posed were ignored.

To ensure that they weren’t being followed, she kept a close watch as they took a circuitous route back to the apartment. Once inside, instead of heading directly to the shower, Alex sat on the couch, his head in one hand while the other kept pressure on the wound.

“If you let me look at it, I’ll see if it needs stitches.”

He slowly raised his head and removed the tissues. Morgan couldn’t help but wince. The bite was irregular and deeper on one end. It’d taken a lot to do that much damage.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

“Not as bad as it could have been. The issue is whether it’ll get infected. And here I thought Anne Rice was just bullshitting us about vampires in New Orleans.”

Her joke totally failed.

Morgan fetched the first aid kit from the bathroom and laid it out on the coffee table. “I’ll clean it now, then after you shower, I’ll bandage it.”

He shook his head, not looking at her.

“Alex? Come on, it’ll be okay,” she said, confused by his reaction.

“You don’t understand,” he said, his voice cracking. “She knew.”

“Knew what?” Morgan asked, sitting down next to him.

His tortured brown eyes rose to meet hers. “You saw it in the prison report. The fight, the one that damned near killed me.”

What did that have to do with what happened tonight?

“Tell me what this is all about,” she said, giving his arm a gentle squeeze.

He stared at nothing for a long time, and Morgan made herself wait him out.

“When I was attacked,” he began, “two of the guys held me down while the third . . . When he was pulling down my pants, he told me what they were going to do to me. How I was going to like it.” Alex gulped air like he was reliving the assault.

“And then he . . . bit me right on the neck, like I was some dog’s bitch. Showing me I was his for the taking. It took twenty-five stitches to get it closed.”

Morgan’s stomach rolled over. “Jesus.” She’d known about the injury, but not how it’d been delivered. It explained the wicked, curved scar.

“When it happened tonight, I was too busy trying to get away from her to realize why she’d done it. Anya
knew
what had gone down in Angola. She was showing me that I’m just as weak, just as vulnerable out here as I was in there. That she was going to make me her bitch.”

Morgan took a deep breath, ensuring that her voice didn’t reflect her murderous fury. She’d channel that rage later, when she had her hands around Anya’s neck.

“But you showed her you weren’t vulnerable. You were just surprised. Next time, you won’t be. That’s what’s important.”

He didn’t seem to believe her.

“Let’s get you into the shower. You’ll feel better. Feel less . . . ”

“Violated?” he said.

The hell this man has been through
.

His solemn brown eyes studied her. “The Russians will try to use me to assassinate your boss. You know that, right?”

“Then God help you. Because the last guy who tried to assassinate Crispin wasn’t successful.”

“You kill him?” Alex asked.

The question caught her off guard in its boldness. “Neil did. I would have, if it had come down to that,” she admitted.

“Which means that you would do the same to me, if needed,” he said, his voice hollow.

“Not if I can help it, Alex,” she said, caught by the thought that she might have to choose between her boss and this man. A day or so ago, it would have been an easy choice—she owed Crispin everything—but now . . .

Disturbed by what that might mean, she shifted gears. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up and into bed.”

Despite all her soothing words, his eyes remained haunted. Anya’s brutality, her coldly calculated mind-rape, had shaken him to the core.

You’re dead, bitch. You just don’t know it yet
.

*~*~*

There was a moment in the shower, as the water rushed across his neck and caused the pain to increase fivefold, that Alex nearly wept. He’d done so only a few times in his life: at his dad’s funeral, after his conviction, and after that fight in prison, while recovering in the infirmary. Each time, he’d made sure no one saw the tears.

Was this another one of Buryshkin’s games, sending his violent offspring after Alex to reinforce that he was just a pawn, one that could be crushed at will? Or was there something else going on that neither he nor Morgan was aware of?

A light tap came on the bathroom door. Not surprising, given how long he’d been in the shower trying to pull his head together.

“You okay?” Morgan called out.

He couldn’t hide in here forever. “Yeah. I’ll be out soon.”

He dried off and wrapped the towel around his hips. Any other time, he would have done it to entice Morgan one step closer to his bed.
Not tonight
. He found her waiting for him, bandages and ointment on the nightstand. Her eyes flickered to the towel, then away.

“Sit here,” she said, patting the side of the bed.

He did as she asked, then closed his eyes while she cleaned the wound and gently placed the Steri-Strips, one by one. Her hands were warm and caring.

“One edge is really rough, but I think it’ll heal smooth if the strips hold. If not, we can get you to a doc for a few sutures.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said.

“Yes, it does,” she said firmly. “There’s no way we’re letting this bitch win.”

It appeared that he wasn’t alone on this journey. “How’d you get so tough after what happened to you?”

“I realized I had two choices: Let that man ruin the rest of my life, or fight back. It was hell. It took me a long time before I could go back into a bar again, and they still make me uncomfortable. For a while, I was convinced every guy was a monster. Now I’m better at sorting out the evil ones from the regular folks.”

“So all guys who hit on you are monsters?” he asked, wanting to know if he fell into that category with her.

“No. It’s the ones who tell me I have no choice in the matter that are the problem.” She looked over at him and her expression softened. “Just because you want to get me into bed doesn’t make you a monster. You’re a lone wolf being reintroduced into the pack. You’ll find your place again, and then no one will jack with you because you’ll rip them apart.”

“You sound so sure.”

Morgan nodded. “I have good instincts. You’re a threat to the Russians, or they wouldn’t be effing with you like this.”

“I’m not used to having people in my corner.”

“You work for Veritas now. We’re different.”

“I also work for the Russians,” he reminded her.

“Not for too much longer.” Morgan delicately taped a bandage over the wound. “Too tight?”

“No, it’s good. Thank you.”

“Allergic to any antibiotics or pain meds?” When he shook his head, she handed him two different pills, along with a cup of water. He swallowed them, feeling the discomfort as they went down, while Morgan tidied up.

She hesitated in the doorway. “I can stay until you fall asleep. Just for moral support, you know. No threat to your manhood at all.”

He was touched by her offer. “I’d rather you be lying next to me tonight.”

“Alex—” she began.

“I wasn’t . . . Never mind. Good night, Morgan. And thank you for taking care of me.”

As she closed the door behind her, Alex stripped off the towel and crawled into bed, hands behind his head to better stare at the ceiling. He found himself replaying what had happened tonight, right up to nearly being stabbed. Doing the “what ifs,” because it was the best way to generate guilt. It was his own damned fault. He knew better than to go off alone with a Russian in this town. Once again, his dick had been doing the thinking for him.

There was a tap at the door and it opened slowly. Morgan crossed to the other side of the bed, where she placed her gun and cell phone on the nightstand. She was wearing a long T-shirt, one that hit mid-thigh.

As she pulled back the covers on her side, she hesitated. “I’m here for support, not for sex,” she said, but he heard the nervousness in her voice. Like she wasn’t completely sure of this herself.

“All right. I am not wearing anything, though.”

“It’s not the first time I’ve slept next to a naked man.”

Morgan slid into bed next to him and moved over until she could lay her head on his shoulder. She gingerly placed her arm across his lower chest.

“Is this okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, it’s good. Why are you doing this?” he asked, his voice near a whisper.

It took a while for her to answer, like she was having difficulty finding the proper words.

“After I was nearly raped, I couldn’t trust any man at that point, even those I knew really well. And asking a girlfriend to curl up with me would have been awkward. So I slept alone. I lay there staring at the shadows night after night, replaying it over and over. I was too much in my own head.”

“Doing the ‘what ifs’?”

“Exactly.”

Alex felt the need to change the subject, for both of them. “How did you get the nickname Valkyrie?”

Morgan shifted, looking up at him, her fingers featherlight on his chest.

“In Norse mythology, a valkyrie chooses who lives and dies in battle, then carries her chosen heroes to Valhalla so they can prepare for Ragnarök. The end of the world.” She laid her head back down, her sandalwood scent surrounding him, comforting him.

“So now I’m a chosen hero?”

She chuckled. “You’re getting there.”

“You know, I swore I’d never hurt a woman. But after tonight, I’d love nothing more than to break Anya Buryshkin into pieces.”

Morgan snuggled into his chest. “Lucky for you, I never made that vow.”

He looked down at her. “So . . . in battle, which is more deadly: a batshit-crazy vampire, or a valkyrie?”

“We’ll be finding that out real soon,” her voice chillier now.

For the first time in years, he felt safe. Unwilling to let the feeling slip out of his grasp, he closed his eyes, savoring the soft touch of Morgan’s hair on his skin. Her very presence soothed away the pain, the fear, the anger. Just like a valkyrie, as a warrior’s life was nearing its end.