MadetoBeBroken (2 page)

The trouble with trying to gain access to someone while he’s
shopping is that you never know when he’ll be shopping. “Spotted on Bond
Street” hardly meant Maksimov was spending all of his time in London haunting
bespoke tailors and Italian cobblers. Coco had memorized the grainy photographs
of her prey—Maksimov buying a newspaper, visiting an ATM, exiting a
double-decker bus. Neither the pictures nor the description were very useful.
“Large build, hair brown, eyes brown, facial scar.” Thanks for nothing, OSO.
When had the division gotten so vague?

The bus meant he had no car, which was too bad. Cars were
traceable. Newspaper kiosks, ATMs, both ubiquitous public spots. It would have
to be the pub then. Three Cocks, she remembered, a blush coloring her cheeks.
That would be three more than she had gotten the night before. She fought away
the flush and pushed the map back in her purse.

Templeton hadn’t even given her a legend, so here she was, a
vulnerable target for counteragents or anyone with sharp eyes and a suspicious
nose—American, traveling alone, in a sturdy jeans-boots combo that was already
too warm for the freak English heat wave, with one of her stash of fake
passports but no backstory. What would a twenty-eight-year-old woman be doing
in London by herself? Art student was probably her best bet. It was a solitary
enough endeavor that no one would tag along to prove her wrong, and it meant
she wouldn’t have to mess with business cards or fake corporate backup. Again
she chafed, thinking of how few resources Templeton had given her. Eastern Ops
would have showered her with dossiers, drivers, contacts and a plausible
legend. Cheap bastards.

Here it was, a sign with three black roosters swinging
gently in the spring wind, a warm, golden glow emanating from the windows. It
seemed like a nice place to unwind after a hard day of terrorizing Russian
farmers or whatever Maksimov was up to. She wondered whether the safe house—a
remote cabin somewhere in Scotland—would be chilly this time of year. Plenty of
time to worry about that. Right now she was ready to enforce Rule Number One.
The more info she had on him before they got to the safe house for the real
interrogation, the better.

Coco pushed open the door and was met with curious stares
from the male inhabitants. None of them belonged to her man. The only female
was behind the bar, a soft, pretty blonde who did not bother to disguise a sour
look when she caught sight of Coco silhouetted in the doorway. Might as well
settle in for a pint until he arrived. Anyway, she was used to boys’ clubs. She
put on a friendly tourist face and took a seat at the bar.

* * * * *

Score one for the Amerikanski, she had a fine ass on her.
Alexi Maksimov shook a cigarette from his breast pocket and lit it, squinting
through the pub window. He could not take his eyes off the way the American
assassin moved—languorously, as if dazed from a hard fucking—and the bright
swing of her hair.
Krahsniy
, red. Had they truly sent this delectable
little girl after him?

Alexi was no spy, but he understood the craft well enough to
know that a woman on the playing field added complications. In addition to
subterfuge and murder, he could add seduction to the list of possible avenues.
But surely they weren’t so stupid as to set a honey trap for the likes of him.
No, there was a gun in her purse, and worse. Poison, maybe, or a needle. She
would be tougher than she looked and would play rough. That was fine. He liked
a girl who could play rough.

She wouldn’t get far anyway, but he had to be wary. He had
enemies on the inside—the mess of two nights ago proved that. Someone had
derailed his work in London and he was itching to return to his beloved country
and go to war in earnest. If this girl was stupid enough to step into the
middle of it, well, that was something they called collateral damage, and he
had shut his heart against regretting that years ago.

In the meantime, why not buy a pretty girl a drink, find out
what she knew? Alcohol had extracted more information out of enemies than
sodium pentothal ever did. Of course, she would have to ask for it first. He
tossed the cigarette in the gutter and tucked the newspaper under his arm,
looking forward to drawing the little red bird’s attention. He was very fond of
his Rule Number One. He would see if she obeyed it.

* * * * *

Mid-sip into a gin and tonic, Coco almost choked on her
lime.
Holy cats,
she thought.
That cannot be the same guy.
But
here she was in the Three Cocks, and here was a tall, broad-shouldered man, his
left eye bisected by a vertical scar. The grim look she had seen in the
photograph was gone—he looked relaxed in a black T-shirt and jeans that seemed
vaguely foreign-made, something about the cut. His lips were sensually curved
and he had those lucky Slavic cheekbones, high and sharp.

No wonder he gets his suits custom-made,
she thought.
Nothing that big comes off the rack.
Maksimov clearly had a powerful
frame, but he moved with an easy grace. Beautiful posture too, she noted, like
the soldier he pretended to be. Violence would not work with this one; he would
overpower her in a split second. Coco slipped a hand inside her purse and
tapped the little vial for reassurance. Odorless, colorless, more or less
tasteless. And she had only one dose.

He took a seat in the inglenook without sparing a glance
toward her, the only woman in the pub. But he had seen her, of that there was
no doubt. Ostentatiously ignoring her was proof she’d been spotted. The guy
clearly had no finesse, which could work to her advantage. If only he hadn’t
janked her first rule. He knew what she was and she still had nothing on him
but a couple sheets of useless paper.

The barmaid slapped a towel on the bar top in front of her.
“Six quid,” she drawled.

Coco rooted inside the purse again. Fake passport, gun,
mirror, vial, lock-picking tools, tissues, handcuffs, extra bullets, secure
cell phone, syringe, lipstick, other lipstick
¼
no
cash. With a groan, she pictured the nightstand at her hotel, a pile of
tickets, pamphlets and taxi receipts weighed down by her wallet.

Fuck it. Mentally she tossed a grenade over her shoulder and
waded into battle.

“The gentleman is buying,” she said loudly, with a nod at
the cozy inglenook where a startled Alexi looked up from his paper, slashed eye
sparkling in the firelight.

Their eyes locked. The bar went quiet. She held his gaze
defiantly, noting how those sensuous lips curved slightly upward as he
acknowledged that she had won this round. Quite literally, because he made the
universal “two more” sign at the bartender then crooked a finger at her.

She slung her purse over her shoulder and approached the
table. The closer she got, the larger he looked. Even sitting down, the man was
a tower of muscle. Coco caught herself hesitating then slumped into a seat and
glared at him.

“A gin and tonic for the lady, but what I am buying for
myself, a dose of chloral hydrate, perhaps?”

He had a low, rumbling voice that she could feel in her
belly, and there was something strange about his eyes—they were a mix of brown
and almost metallic-gold, like a magical speckled egg from a fairy tale.

“You spotted me,” she said coolly. “So let’s not play
games.”

“But I like to play games.” An unexpected smile lit up his
face, showing teeth that looked too white and even for a thug. “Is that not why
we are in this business,
krahsniy
?”

“That’s not my name.”

“No, means red.” He sat back on the padded bench and
regarded her through slit eyes. “I am Alexi. How you know I spot you? I never
looked up.”

At this, Coco smirked.

“Ah, clever girl. The diva sees only the one person in the
audience who does not applaud.” He lifted his glass in a toast. “By the way, is
water.”

“Of course it is.” Dammit, he wasn’t as dumb as she’d hoped.
Water would not disguise the taste of the chloral hydrate, even if she did have
a chance to slip it into his glass. And if she did, how to haul his hulking,
slumped body out of a public place and onto the streets? She would have to keep
a tail on him. “And we’re not in the same business.”

One black eyebrow went up. “We are not? You come here with
drugs in that bag, maybe gun, yes? Tell me again how Amerikanski is good guys.”

“Tell me how bombing churches and shooting innocent people
on trains is ‘good guys’,” she snapped.

“You do not know me, or what I do.”

“I know enough.”

He laughed softly. “Enough to kill a man, a stranger? For
this, American government pay for soft leather bag? For silk T-shirt, nice and
tight, so those beautiful tits look bigger? Every man in the room will stare at
those tits, licking his lips. All but one.” He shook his head with mock dismay.
“What is it they say in your country—your tax dollars at work?”

Indignation rose inside her. She had never met anyone as
maddening and, yes, intriguing as the vicious warlord who sat before her,
relaxed and casual in a cozy pub.

“I’m not going to seduce you,” she blurted.

“I should be happy or disappointed?”

“I mean, to seduce anyone, and I’m not going to kill you. We
don’t do that.”
Much.
If she had to kill him, she would. But
negotiation, not assassination, was her strength, and this was an interrogation
mission. Western Ops would have words for her—or worse—if she offed such a precious
informant. “How did you know I was after you?”

“Many are,” he said mildly, winking at the barmaid, who
reddened prettily.

Coco felt an unwelcome stab of jealousy. “You’re actually
enjoying this.”

“I enjoy myself, yes,” he stood. “A man is busy, works hard.
He must play games as well. Already, you make first move in our game, obey Rule
Number One. I like a girl who obeys.”

“What’s Rule Number One?” So he had rules as well. She
supposed he’d have to, considering half the world wanted him dead and the other
half, if the blonde barmaid was any measure, wanted to sleep with him.

He smiled again and there was nothing pleasant in it this
time. “Make them come to you.”

She shuddered.

He slid the newspaper in front of her and tapped it with a
strong finger. “We will see each other again, little red bird.”

Coco snatched up her things off the table and dashed to the
pavement outside, but there was no sign of him. In ten minutes she had found
and lost her target, and in an unfamiliar city, no less. Silently cursing
Templeton and Western Ops, she retreated under a shop awning as a light rain
began to fall.

The newspaper had been folded open to a small item in the
international section—“In a baroque and brutal setback for the negotiation of a
peace settlement between Russia and the breakaway Chechen territories, FSB
commissionaire Ivan Kaminsky was assassinated Monday night with a device out of
a James Bond novel—a poison-tipped umbrella.
The Mirror
has learned that
Kaminsky, in London for a top-secret meeting with a Russian diplomat, was
stabbed in the throat with this unusual weapon and died not of the shallow
wound but from an unnamed poison. The assailant himself remains unnamed, but in
an official statement, Interpol vowed
¼
”

Blah, blah, blah. Coco fumed. Another body on Maksimov’s
hands, another trickle into the bloody river of death that followed in his wake.
And he was boasting about it, throwing it in her face. An umbrella, how
uncanny. Did he know her story? Was he mocking her injury by killing a man in
this way?

America does not go down so easily, you monster,
she
thought, digging out her cell.

“Seems I’m a day late and dollar short,” she snapped when
Rod picked up the phone.

He sighed as if she was the biggest pain in the ass in the
world. “We couldn’t have foreseen this assassination, Coco. Just get the drug
in the bad guy and the bad guy in the van. The checkpoint is One Markham
Place—they tell me it’s nice and secluded—but you’ll have to do the driving.”

“That’s another thing. Why don’t I have any backup? This
dude is, like, two-hundred-some pounds of solid muscle.”

“Who’s whining about lame assignments now?” he jeered.

“Dammit, Rod! I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do with
him once I get him to the safe house.”

“You will receive a text with a list of questions. How you
get the information out of him is your call. Did you try that Indian place in
the West End? Schneider said it’s the bomb.”

She fought to hang on to the phone as her high-heeled boots
slipped on the sidewalk. It was raining in earnest now. The crowd around her
thickened, dashing for drier havens.

“At least give me the name of the diplomat whom this,” she
unrolled the newspaper and squinted at the article as fat raindrops blurred the
type, “Ivan Kaminsky was going to meet. And if you tell me to call Interpol,
I’m hanging up.”

Rod’s voice was rich with amusement. “You’re the one who called
me, sweetheart. And that information is classified.”

She hung up.

Food sounded like a great idea—she realized she hadn’t eaten
since the day before, and a bottle of wine and two gin and tonics hadn’t
improved the sour state of her stomach. Back at the hotel, she changed into a
dark-blue slip dress and black spike heels. Tossing on a trench coat, she left
the hotel in search of the nearest place with a stove and an Open sign.

On the corner, a young black man stood behind a card table,
draped in a cheap clear poncho. “Brollys! Brollys for the wet masses! You need
a bumbershoot, m’lady, to keep that titian mane dry.”

She brushed by him. No more umbrellas for Coco Fiori.

The scent of garlic and rosemary wafted into her nostrils.
She paused then looked over her shoulder. Mama Irene’s would be just the thing
on a rainy spring night.

The host ushered her into a red booth and placed a bottle of
Chianti before her. The restaurant was almost deserted, but for a smattering of
couples and a dark-haired woman alone at the bar. Tension eased from her as she
tucked into a plate of gnocchi, relishing every fragrant bite. It was good to
eat normal food again. Even the mission before her seemed less impossible.

After half a bottle of Chianti, she found herself wondering
about Alexsandr Maksimov. A ruthless killer and warlord by reputation, but in
person, he was something more—a real man, with amusements, passions, a sense of
humor and worse, self-control. And he wasn’t stupid, a fact that pained her.
Could he really have committed all those crimes and still be relaxed over a
glass of water in a local pub? Or was he just a sociopath, with no conscience
whatsoever?

“I like to play games
¼
”
It had sounded so dirty when he said it. She took another swallow of wine and
let the vision enter her head—tied by the wrists to a bedpost, Alexi behind her
with his cock in his hand, his husky voice in her ear. “You’re such a good
slut,
krahsniy
. You deserve to be fucked in the ass.”

“No, god, no,” she murmured aloud.

“No?” A dark-haired woman turned with a glance, letting a
smile play over her face. More handsome than pretty, she had a presence that
was hard to ignore. “I may not sit down?”

“Oh go ahead. I was distracted.”

The woman crossed her arms on the table. “I know that kind
of distraction. I’m Amanda, by the way. American?”

“Yes.” It had been years since she was surprised by how
rarely people noticed that she didn’t give her name. She dragged up her
backstory in bits and pieces. “Art student. Study program.”

“Lovely to meet you. I believe we’re neighbors, of a sort.
Sorry for the row last night. The Fordham has thin walls for a four-star
hotel.”

So this was the woman who had been in the next room, getting
what sounded like a world-class rogering while Coco pleasured herself to the
sounds. Envy mingled with caution—small world or a trap?

“Sounded like fun,” she offered.

Amanda laughed, a rich, throaty laugh. She was not young,
but there was something sensually appealing about her. “It was fun. Don’t
worry, you’ll get a better night’s sleep tonight. It’s my job, you see.”

“It sounded more like the world’s oldest profession.” She
took another sip of Chianti.

“You’re not far off. I run a brothel, quite frankly, but
occasionally take on private clients. I have certain tastes and talents that
not all the girls share.”

“I see.” She did not see.

“If you’re at loose ends, come by. We put on shows nightly,
and only the most discerning male guests are invited.”

“You’ve got the wrong girl. I’m not a—”

Amanda put a reassuring hand on Coco’s arm. “No, no. Of
course not. I wasn’t trying to recruit you, dear. But between visiting museums
and daubing or whatever it is you do, the Palace offers a lovely break in the
routine. No charge for pretty girls, no need to do anything but enjoy a glass
of champagne and watch.” She slipped a business card into Coco’s purse. “I
think you’ll particularly enjoy tonight’s performance.”

“I told you, I’m not a whore.”

“But you would like to be treated as one, sometimes, no?”

Coco licked her lips.

“It’s all right, dear. The walls at the Fordham, as I said,
are shockingly thin. My client and I—lovely man from Warwickshire, a solicitor,
but you can’t have everything—we matched our show to your movie. I do try to
make everyone happy, even strangers.”

“Two shows for the price of one.”

“Exactly. And I sensed it was more than just a movie to you,
something closer to a fantasy, perhaps.” The woman cocked her head, her kind
eyes crinkling in a smile. “But I’m being intrusive. Do drop by. I’m always
looking for more ornaments for my parlor.” With a wink, she was out the door.

The Palace: Erotic Entertainment
, read the card. On
the back was a phone number, no address.

In your face, Rod Templeton,
she thought. After a day
of kicking international ass, a girl just wanted to wind down with some erotic
entertainment, not a mewling boy who never made a sound in bed and passed out
right after, socks on and snore deafening. She would be an “ornament” for Madam
Amanda’s sex parlor, and maybe pick up some tips in the process.

Although it occurred to her, as she pressed the numbers into
her hotel phone, that she hadn’t kicked much ass at all on her first day in
London. In fact, Alexi Maksimov had made it clear that her ass was his anytime
he wanted it.

* * * * *

It turned out that the number went to a cab company, and the
cab knew its destination—a beautiful white mansion somewhere in West London.
Coco lost her bearings as the car with the silent, unseen driver turned and
turned again, but she caught a sign here and there reading “SW1”.

The driver waved away her offer to pay but would not help
her out of the cab, so she made her tentative way to the door, careful of the
cobblestones beneath her high-heeled pumps. She had not bothered to dress up,
just blown out her hair and found some fresh panties. She wasn’t about to run
to some costume shop and dress up in a cheap vinyl miniskirt in order to pass
for a sex-club veteran. In her time with OSO, she’d run enough undercover
operations to know that amateurs who try to fit in are the first to be unmasked
as infiltrators.

Amanda looked delighted to see her.

“My dear! You look positively edible. Welcome to my humble
abode.”

Humble it was not. Between the soaring ceilings, lavish
chandeliers and lush velvet furnishings, it looked like a Victorian mansion
cleared of clutter, every surface sparkling. Dim lights cast a golden glow in
various corners of the parlor, and Coco could make out only tantalizing
glimpses—an ivory leg entwined with a chocolate-colored one, a bare breast
caressed by a hand, a head thrown back in ecstasy. The sound of moans and
panting made a soft susurration in the air.

“Some guests like to play in the parlor. I just can’t say
no,” sighed Amanda. “Generosity is my downfall.”

She was wearing a simple black gown slit up both sides, her
dark hair tumbling across her shoulders. Coco felt relieved that she had chosen
the blue silk dress—ordinary, but one she knew showed off her spectacular
curves.

“You’re just in time. Take a seat in the arena. Ace will be
along shortly with champagne.”

The arena was a small theater, its stage still curtained.
Instead of theater seats, couches, chaises longues and velvet-covered chairs
had been arranged in rows. Most of the seats were already filled, and couples
and groups were chatting cozily together. Feeling awkward, she perched on an
empty chaise far in the back, completely in shadow. A waiter shimmered to her
side, his features lost in the gloom, although the glow picked out the curves
of his muscled arms and chest and made his butterscotch hair shine.

He handed her a glass of champagne with a smile.

“I am Ace. Here to serve your every whim,” he said.

“I’m just here for the show, Ace.”

He smiled wider. Good lord, he had cheekbones like knife
blades. Who said it was hard to find good help nowadays? “Madam Amanda apprised
me of your desires. Start with the champagne and summon me should you require
further service.”

He melted into the gloom. Coco tried not to feel regret as
he left. What kind of “service” was he talking about, and what had the madam
told her servant about Coco’s deepest, darkest sexual needs? All she had done
was watch a movie, for crying out loud.

There was no time to ponder that now. She was anonymous,
ensconced in the dark, as the curtains opened and a spotlight came up on a
naked blonde splayed upon a wide chaise longue, her white skin gleaming against
the black fabric.

The audience seemed to hold its collective breath. Light
samba music emanated from some unseen source as the blonde languidly traced a
hand down her neck, lightly brushed her nipples and caressed her belly.

From one wing, a powerfully built man entered, as naked as
the woman and visibly aroused. He approached her from behind the chaise and,
without preamble, yanked her head back by the hair and thrust his cock in her
mouth. The girl seemed to choke at first, and soft noises spread through the
audience, sighs and the sound of rustling clothing.

The sight of the thick cock pumping in and out of the
blonde’s mouth as she squirmed made Coco both aroused and uncomfortable. Here
she was, watching again, alone and untouched amid a sea of fumbling, panting
people. Six long, sexless months in a hospital bed, and even after emerging
more or less healthy, she still wasn’t getting any. Not that she wanted any.
She would be tied up babysitting Alexi for who knows how long, anyway, and she
certainly wasn’t going to get anything like this from that ruffian.

Take,
she thought firmly.
I mean take, not get.

In her haze, she hadn’t noticed that two more men had taken
the stage. The blonde was now surrounded by a chocolate-box assortment of
studs—cocoa-skinned, caramel and Nordic pale. One knelt between her legs,
another caressed her breasts. The blonde writhed but kept her head still while
the dark-skinned man rhythmically fucked her mouth. They looked like an erotic
machine, pumping, hands swirling on her creamy body. Moans and the slapping of
flesh on flesh rose throughout the theater. Coco’s pussy gushed and her clit
began to throb. Breathlessly, without thinking, her hands floated to her breasts,
reaching inside the deep, draped neckline to palm her aching breasts.

Ace shimmered into her view with not only another glass of
champagne but two men in tow. Her own candy box of masculine treats. He sat on
the edge of the chaise and lifted the glass to her lips. Behind her, one of the
men had begun to stroke her hair, winding it between his fingers.

Ace favored her with a wicked smile. “If you are wet and
ready, my lady, Jean-Luc and Marcello are here to service you.” They nodded in
turn. “Unless you would prefer to service us.”

The thought of being ravished by three hot men made her
breath hitch. Yes, she desperately wanted someone to use her body as his
personal sexual amusement park, to take orders, to fight back against him and
be overpowered, but not here. Not with strangers and with witnesses around. Her
long-unfulfilled desire was too precious a secret to divulge like this.

But the caramel-skinned stud with a mane of tawny hair had
the blonde on all fours and was teasing her pussy from behind with the tip of
his straining cock. Her back was deeply arched, her white ass raised as if
begging for whatever would happen to it next. The Nordic man had taken over her
mouth. He grasped a handful of her pale hair and looked down at her, unsmiling,
as her head bobbed over his erection.

Ace was quite right—Coco was wet and ready, and this was a
chance no woman could turn down. She tightened her crossed legs to put pressure
on her clit.

“I want
¼
I want
that,” she gasped finally, intent on the stage.

The men exchanged happy smiles. Gently Ace put his arms
around her, pulling down the zipper of her dress, exposing her breasts. She
stopped his hand as he began to pull the dress off.

“No, please,” she said. “Leave it on.” Of course these three
were only hired sexual help, paid to act as if the patron were the most
beautiful, sensuous woman in the world, but she was self-conscious of her
scars. Even if they did not betray disgust at the shiny ripples on her side,
she would feel the hesitation in the fingers and be plunged back into the
hospital bed—burnt, ugly, useless.

Ace kissed her forehead softly in a gesture of understanding
then lifted her legs and arranged her lying back. Gently he stroked her feet,
her calves, his fingers trailing toward her thighs. Each stroke seemed to
ignite the flesh beneath it. Jean-Luc’s big, warm hands rubbed her breasts, the
palm brushing her nipples. Her eyes drifted shut. It was like floating in a sea
of hands.

She felt a pull on her hair and licked her lips. Just the
thought of what was going to happen next made her insanely hot. She felt her
head yanked back and, unseen, Marcello’s thick cock tip began to rub over her
mouth, teasing it open, the smell of aroused male filling her nostrils. She
flicked him with her tongue, savoring the musky saltiness. A rush of cool air
wafted over her pussy as Ace hooked her panties off, his talented fingers
returning to her thighs and upward. The hands on her breasts became a mouth,
sucking gently, nipping at the hard, pink tips. She gasped with the delicious
shock of it, and the cock that had been teasing her lips slid deeply into her
mouth just as Ace’s finger slipped on her juices and into her pussy, his thumb
busily working her clit.

Whether the group was still onstage or the rest of the
audience was watching or a lion was loose in the theater, Coco did not know or
care. All she felt was here and now—the thick cock forcing her lips wide,
bumping at the back of her throat, a tongue swirling around her nipples. And
that finger—oh god, it had become another tongue. Ace was licking her pussy
like a starving man, one slick finger lightly poised at her anus, testing the
resistance. Mingled scents of her own juices and something dark and masculine
made her lightheaded. She felt Marcello’s cock tense and begin to pulse against
the walls of her cheeks and he pulled out. She could hear the slap of skin as
he stroked himself.