Barefoot Bay: Wild on the Rocks (Kindle Worlds) Read online

  “You already know she’s not my cousin,” he snarled while rage flooded his body and instant arousal made him hard as a spike. “She’s my wife.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Alcohol is the anesthesia by which we endure the operation of life.

  —George Bernard Shaw

  New York City

  1 week ago

  “You lost her?!”

  The two Bratva soldiers standing before Nikolai Sokolov looked anywhere but at their boss. Dima stared at his feet, a schoolboy called on the carpet. But Maksim stared over the top of Nikolai’s chair straight to the brick wall behind him.

  He let them stew in silence. He’d long ago learned that quiet bred more fear than loud bluster or overt threats. People didn’t know what to do with quiet. They fidgeted and flinched and eventually gave away exactly the thing they should’ve kept hidden out of frustration with waiting in the silence.

  All he had to do was be patient.

  And Nikolai had been patient for a very long time.

  It didn’t take long for the weaker of the two to break.

  “Boss, we had her cornered,” Dima whined.

  Nikolai trained a flat gaze on him. “If you had her cornered, how did you lose her?”

  Dima shuffled his feet. “She’s wily,” he muttered.

  “What?!”

  “Wily,” Dima repeated, more loudly.

  “Wily?! So, she is a cartoon coyote?”

  He flinched, struck by the whip of Nikolai’s uncharacteristic shout. “She’s sneaky,” Dima said. “Never seen the like in a bitch.”

  Nikolai reigned in the rare display of temper and settled in his high-back chair, arms draped over its polished arms.

  The SoHo loft was a temporary rental, already furnished in a stark, monastic theme that made him wonder if the previous tenants were members of some obscure Catholic cult. The bare bones décor suited Nikolai, especially the wood floors that meant he heard everyone who approached him long before they got close.

  He’d commandeered an antique wood table with scrollwork corners and long grooves along the edges as his desk. It was miles away from the headquarters of his predecessor in the Russian immigrant bastion of Brighton Beach, a deliberate choice on Nikolai’s part. This was a long game he played. Announcing his presence as the new Bratva leader would happen on his schedule, no one else’s.

  Which was why it was crucial to locate and eliminate that bartender.

  “She bested him.”

  Maksim’s calm statement was so unexpected, Dima visibly started. Jumpy. Any man that jumpy had something to hide, and Nikolai would bet his grandmother’s kruschiki recipe he knew what it was.

  “That’s a fucking lie,” Dima snarled. “No bitch gets the better of me.”

  “That’s not what it looked like when I found you sniffling into the sink with blood pouring from your neck and eye.”

  Instinctively, Dima touched the bandage on his throat, ignoring the ridiculous eye patch on his beefy face. “Lucky shot,” he snapped.

  “Much as I hate to agree with Dima on anything, he’s not wrong, boss,” Maksim admitted. “This one’s clever. Got past this dumbass in the ladies’ john and managed to sic the club bouncers on me long enough to get out the door.”

  “There was nothing in her profile to indicate she’d be so resourceful.” Nikolai did comprehensive checks on any of his employees, even those expected to be short term.

  “More instinct than training, I’d say. Woman with no family on record but an ex-husband in the Navy. Working her business alone. Must’ve learned how to look after herself.”

  “She certainly got the better of you two.”

  Maksim shrugged. “Dima’s instigated electronic searches with those people of his none the wiser. I got some lines I’m tugging on. We know what to expect now. We’ll get her.”

  Nikolai nodded. “You will.” He lifted his hand from behind the desk and shot Dima in the head.

  It was a neat hole from a precise weapon, the Walther PPK Nikolai kept at hand for the rare emergency.

  Calmly, Maksim took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at his cheek even though there was no visible spray. He pocketed the linen, glanced down at Dima’s dead body, and went right back to staring straight through Nikolai.

  “Guess I’m doing this one on my own.”

  Cold motherfucker.

  Nikolai suppressed a sigh as he watched Dima’s blood spread out on the wood floor. He did not like a mess. Most Bratva members might not concern themselves with such things. But Nikolai was trying to resurrect the Russian mob from the dregs of its former leader, Dmitri Vlitnik who had redefined messy before his entire organization had been taken down due to one witness, a brawler who’d turned out to be Vlitnik’s illegitimate son.

  And this thing with the missing bartender was one fucking big mess.

  Unlike Dima, executing Vasily Romanov that night in Atlantic City had been planned: a strategic maneuver to start rumors of his takeover. Like the quiet, there was more rumors could do for Nikolai’s goals than outright announcements of intent. Nikolai had run the southern Jersey territory while Romanov covered lower Manhattan and Vlitnik’s Brighton Beach. With Vlitnik and his organization destroyed, his territory was open for the taking—but Nikolai had plans to do more than that. Nikolai had been moving to control all three areas, making alliances, eliminating opponents, quietly shoring up his base to be ready for the coup. He’d invited Vasily for a sit down after an entertaining night with the busty brunette spinning her act with her drinks while Nikolai’s men pictured holding her down and shoving their dicks between her bare tits.

  Vasily’s fate had been sealed the moment he’d accepted the invitation.

  Now everything was at risk because of that woman.

  “Employing Dima was not my choice; I inherited him from the previous regime. Not all soldiers are tainted by the errors of their leaders. But among his many mistakes, Dmitri Vlitnik was incapable of employing men of character.” He placed the gun on the table before him. “Always take responsibility for your actions, whether losses or successes, and you’ll continue to rise in our new world.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “How long have you worked for me, Maksim?”

  “Two years.”

  “You came with a reference from Boston? A Guslyakov cousin from up there?” Maksim didn’t reply to information they both already knew was true. He’d reluctantly taken the man on as a family favor—there was always room for another enforcer—but there was much more to this one, and Nikolai could make use of that.

  “One lost witness was all it took to bring Dmitri Vlitnik down. I will not repeat his moronic mistakes. Contact Palach. Take him with you to search for this woman.” Now the man showed a reaction, even if it was only the mildest narrowing of his eyes to show his dislike at being ordered to take on another partner.

  “I can get her without the Hangman dogging my heels,” he objected.

  “How do the Americans say it? You’re track record is not so good. You will take Palach.” He returned to his correspondence, silently dismissing Maksim. The enforcer nodded and moved to leave, but Nikolai called him back before he reached the door. “Before you go,” he ordered, not bothering to look up as he gestured to Dima’s body with his twenty-four-karat gold pen, “clean up this fucking mess.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Lover:

  May your breasts be like clusters of grapes on the vine,

  the fragrance of your breath like apples,

  and your mouth like the best wine.

  The Beloved:

  May the wine go straight to my beloved,

  flowing gently over lips and teeth.

  —Song of Songs 7:8-9

  Nettie’s tray clattered onto the bar. “Holy shit,” she gasped, eyes fixed on the restaurant’s entrance. “Is it Christmas already?”

  Quinn glanced over her shoulder as a trio of men crossed the threshold. The last rays of sun shined thr
ough the door behind them, blinding her and making the men little more than shadows. Large shadows with broad shoulders.

  Hoo. Shah.

  She shielded her eyes and turned back to the blender. “We should send God a fruit basket.”

  “Full of gold.” Nettie nodded toward the man on the end. “That’s Luke McBain. He does the resort’s security. Very married to one of the wedding planners.”

  “So looky, but no touchy.”

  Nettie grinned. “Exactly.”

  Quinn checked the men out again from the corner of her eye. All three wore black collared shirts tucked into belted black trousers and topped with aviator glasses they removed almost simultaneously as they came fully into the bar and approached the women. As classic a uniform for their job as her black and white get-up was for hers. Standing nearly at the same six-foot plus heights—though the one on the opposite end from McBain was an inch or two shorter—they were all armed, two with weapons in hip holsters while the guy in the center sported a shoulder rig.

  To Quinn’s mind, shoulder rigs were the sexy, Mad Men version of gun holsters. In a good way. Intensely masculine but minus the infuriating sexism. Her eyes lingered on that man, skimming over his wide, muscular chest framed within the holster’s leather strips while she absently noted he alone of the three had his sleeves rolled up to the elbow. His thick throat rippled as she watched and sharp hunger spiked deep in Quinn’s belly, the likes of which she hadn’t felt in more than a year. What looked like two days’ worth of scruff covered his scarred chin, surrounding lips she’d bet were full and a shy short of too fleshy when not drawn into their current tight line. Coasting past raised cheek bones, the hair on the back of Quinn’s neck lifted and her nipples contracted into painful points as her avaricious gaze met eyes she already knew were a stunning golden hazel when not darkened with swelling rage that made his pupil expand until the color was a mere glowing rim.

  “Can you imagine having that in your bed every night?” Nettie said.

  “I can, actually.” Quinn replied on little more than an exhale. The bottle of wine in her hands trembled. She set it down on the bar with extreme care and deliberately laid her hands on either side of it before looking up into the breathtaking, hard-set face of her husband.

  Ex-husband.

  “Fuck, Roy, but you can pick ’em,” the third man said as he settled onto a stool, seemingly oblivious to the heaving tension.

  Quinn ignored him. She knew better than to look away from the seething powder keg that was Jasper. “You look like a recruitment poster for Badasses ’R Us.”

  He stepped toward the bar as though seconds from yanking her over it. “You look like you’re on your way to try out for the Coyote Ugly sequel.”

  His friend split a grin between them. “Okay, now I believe she’s your wife.”

  “Ex-wife,” Quinn and Jasper snapped simultaneously, which made the man crack up.

  “Cut it out, Twist,” Jasper growled.

  This was Twist? She risked taking her eyes off Jasper, fascinated to finally meet his closest friend, though it escaped her why it could possibly matter after all this time.

  Twist’s grin didn’t falter, but it didn’t reach his eyes, either, and the frank animosity there scorched her skin.

  Okay by her. Not like she was trying to make friends.

  “Luke McBain.” The other man introduced himself with a warm smile. She tore her eyes from Twist and reflexively accepted his proffered hand.

  “Quinn McQueen,” she replied without thinking and immediately regretted it when Jasper’s entire torso recoiled.

  The tailored shirt rippled over his muscled chest, mesmerizing Quinn so that Jasper startled her when he leaned those bare, cut forearms on the bar and got right back in her space.

  Holy crap, arm porn. She was in no way prepared for her ex-husband’s delectable arm porn.

  He glared at her hand still caught in McBain’s until she tugged it free. “Come again?” The sibilant whisper coasted over her skin. Quinn caught her breath.

  Even though his arrival right now, right here, and all that might mean scared the holy shit outta her, even after all the bone-crushing, lonely days and weeks she’d spent without him, even now, that deep rumble of his voice raised goose bumps on her arms.

  “Jasp,” she whispered with absolutely no idea what to say beyond that or how to justify being Quinn McQueen again without telling him that simply having his name was a comfort when she felt more lost than ever before in her life.

  His eyes flared with heat. They were close enough now for Quinn to see that ribbon of green gold around his pupil glow bright. She locked her knees and clutched her hands together beneath the edge of the bar to keep from grabbing him.

  “You’re using my name again? Since when?”

  “About a week ago,” she admitted, her voice small.

  “For hell’s sake, why?”

  Because I’m on the run from the Russian mob and the only place I’ve ever felt safe was with you.

  Yeah, like either of them was prepared to detonate that cans of worms.

  She forced herself to shrug. “I like the cadence.”

  His hands spread wide on the wood. She half expected him to vault right over the bar. “You like the cadence?” he hollered back, practically in her face.

  She huffed out a breath. “It’s not like I expected you to find out about it! What are you doing here anyway?”

  He tossed an incredulous glance at McBain as though the answer were obvious. And to be fair, it kinda was. “Searching for buried treasure.”

  Despite his dry tone, Quinn’s eyes went wide at the thought of such an adventure. “Really?” she breathed.

  “Jesus, no. I’m working security for the wedding.” He shook his head with familiar exasperation. “Christ, you look ready to abandon everything to go buy shovels and rent a trawler.”

  “Ah, is this gonna be a problem?” McBain asked.

  Slowly, Jasper eased back from the bar. “That remains to be seen.” Quinn could see he was already locking himself down, pulling those pesky emotions back under his control. He’d always been able to get over her so easily when she’d barely been able to let him walk out of a room without her.

  Guess nothing had changed on that front.

  “What are you doing here, Quinn?”

  Irritation quickly replaced her shock, and Quinn reclaimed her attitude along with it. “Uh, working. Obviously.”

  “And I’ve no doubt my wife would appreciate it if your impending domestic didn’t upset her high-society wedding,” McBain warned without heat.

  Quinn zoned back in on the unfinished tab before her. “Shit. Nettie, I’m sorry. Let me get you sorted.”

  The waitress eyed her with rampant speculation. Quinn expected she and Jasper would be tasty fresh meat for the locals when this got out. Say in five minutes. Or however long it took Nettie to speed dial the whole world as she knew it.

  Charity would have a cow not to have had first dibs.

  “Don’t worry about it, hon,” Nettie reassured her, but Quinn was already dumping the trio of cocktails.

  “These margaritas have settled. Take the wine out while I whip up a fresh batch.” Running the blender would hold off Jasper’s impending interrogation, too, maybe long enough for her to come up with an explanation that didn’t involve the words “Russian mob” and “murder.”

  Because there was no way he was letting it go that easily. Jasper McQueen did not quit until he got what he wanted, be it answers or his ring on her finger or her ass in his San Diego condo.

  “Queen, you and Twist stay here for the duration of the dinner. Rotate out with one of the boys in the dining room on the hour,” McBain ordered. “Time for me to walk the perimeter.”

  She threw a look at him over her shoulder in time to see him give Jasper a shoulder clasp of male solidarity.

  Great. He had reinforcements.

  “More bartenders are coming tomorrow with the catering staff for th
e wedding,” she explained needlessly after McBain exited and Nettie toddled off. “But I’m it for tonight’s dinner, so I don’t have time for a chat.”

  “I’ll wait,” Jasper promised.

  Of course he would. “Ho-kay then.”

  Since she couldn’t budge him and had zero hope of ignoring him, Quinn focused on the work. She finished the margaritas as Nettie returned with a new order, all the while feeling Jasper’s accusing gaze locked on her, his eyes tracking her every move as though she’d disappear if he blinked.

  God, he looked good enough to eat.

  Down girl. He wasn’t hers anymore, and while she might still look, not being able to touch would probably kill her before the Russian mob did.

  * * *

  “So!” Twist broke into the charged silence with his usual delicacy. “How’d you crazy kids meet?”

  “Vegas,” Jasper growled. “The last time you forced me on vacation. And no, it did not ‘stay there’.”

  Twist’s disbelieving gaze switched back and forth between Jasper and Quinn. “That was only a long weekend. You’re telling me you met and got married in four days?!”

  Said like that, it sounded as nutso as it was. But Jasper had taken one look at Quinn in the bar of the Bellagio that first night and knew there was no one else for him.

  Shockingly, she’d felt the same.

  For a little while.

  Betrayal battled with rage for dominance and beat down the fuckin’ thrill that’d ripped through his chest when he’d first realized Quinn was within reach again. He barely stifled the urge to drag her over the bar and handcuff them together before she could leave him again.

  He reached for his frayed control and found it in tatters. That had been the case with Quinn from the start. The moment he laid eyes on all that was her—tits and ass and so much infectious attitude, she nearly vibrated with it—he’d been wild for her.