Hating Beauty (The Vegas Titans Series Book 6) (4 page)

Chapter Six

Katja/Jana/Mystery Girl

New York City

It is the first time I have used a
gun against a man, but I do everything just the way Sandro taught me to as a
child. Back then it was fun and games, an amusement and a joke for him to teach
a little girl to shoot. Neither of us thought I’d ever use the skills in real
life.

I can almost imagine my older
cousin holding my hands steady now as I breathe deeply, weighing the balance of
the cold gun in my hand, pressing it lightly in the direction of my intentions.
Sandro would be proud that I keep both of my eyes open and level on the target,
and I remember not to put my finger on the trigger until I intend to shoot.

Sandro would be proud of my calm,
but what would he think of my choices?

This target is not straw or paper,
it is a man, a living, breathing man: whose life-breath I can feel warm and
close against my cheek, whose lips I have tasted and know to be soft, whose
desire and danger I can feel with every fiber of my being. A man whose charm
makes my body and mind enemies with each other.

And, I am a woman who cannot afford
any more enemies.

It’s been years since I’ve seen
Sandro. Years since I’ve seen home. But, every time I hold a gun, even on the
shooting range, it is his voice that I hear in my head. I’m surprised to relive
the memory again under these circumstances: with a handsome and dangerous man
pressing me against the wall, with my body almost naked and feeling every rough
inch of him pressing against me, with my insides hot…trembling…terrified.
Surely the gun and the man can sense me trembling.

Still the memory flashes and it’s
my past and my cousin Sandro holding me steady against this threat, this
temptation, this danger. I can almost hear the soft waves of the Black Sea and smell
the hay from the fields where Sandro taught me to shoot.

“
Chemo kargo
,” he’d said, “My
good one, you must not be afraid of the gun. You must be close with it, like
the best of friends. Courage.”

That is what we are, this strange
man and me: we are close, closer than friends, as close as lovers. Only the gun
is protecting me from his dangerous touch, holding me steady. I mustn’t let the
closeness unnerve me.

He’s closer than anyone has been in
years. Realizing this makes me ache, and my deep loneliness shudders. It’s as
if a dark voice inside me whispers,
“Why not? Why not let go? Why not let
yourself enjoy him, let yourself feel?”

When I remember why, when I
remember what has been taken from me and what my family has suffered, I find my
resolve again.  This is not a game; I am not a sex-crazed schoolgirl. Of course
I can shoot him. I can kill him if I have to, if he does something foolish.

If it means revenge and justice, I
can do whatever needs to be done.

I can ignore the heat building
between us.

Focus
.

There is something exhilarating in
realizing this: that I am willing to kill, that I hold the power. When I look
into the eyes of this man, this stranger, I can see that he knows it about me
too. It is like he recognizes something in me that others pass over. Yesterday
when I saw him I thought he would be simple, one of those handsome faces that
outbalances the brain. Sure, he had more charisma than a complete idiot could
possibly have, but then, he did play right into my hands. Most people cannot be
both very beautiful and very smart.

But perhaps he is not as stupid as
I first thought. After all, he did find me.

“Well, your move, darlin’. You’re
calling the shots, literally and figuratively.”

His voice is low and calm and
there’s a hint of a laugh in it. The gun against his flesh doesn’t seem to
worry him. He looks down at me just as hungrily as before, intense as a lion
about to pounce. My gaze falls on his lips.

“You’re just full of surprises,
aren’t you Katja? Or Jana. Or whoever the hell you are.”

Ah. Jana. So that is how he found
me—the diner. That stripper must have sent him there. I knew it was a mistake,
linking those two parts of my life. A foolish error on my part, stupid really,
and though I mentally kick myself I am quick to justify: not everyone can be
smart all the time.

The thought disgusts me. Who am I,
to grant myself forgiveness for what might have been a fatal mistake? As if
risking my life’s work was on par with being late for an appointment or
forgetting to return a call? Human beings are so weak, unable to face our own
weaknesses, always justifying our mistakes. Risking everything we love in spite
of our best efforts to protect.

I stare back at the man, deciding
to salvage whatever I can of the situation. Give nothing away. My lips curl
into a smile.

“I am whoever you want me to be.”

“Don’t tease me.”

His voice is gruff, as though
pained.

“But suppose I want to tease you? I
thought I was calling the shots.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say ‘shots’.
Might put ideas in your head.”

“You said it first.”

“So I did.”

All of this, so casual—as if I
didn’t have the barrel of a gun pressed against his most vulnerable spot. As if
he hadn’t a care in the world. I can’t help but admire his pluck and be amused.

“I like the hair, by the way,” he continues.
“It suits you better than black. Brings out your eye-color. Which is pretty.
Your eyes, I mean, which I am definitely looking at instead of your bangin’,
mostly naked body. Which is amazing, and the sight of you is making it very
tight and uncomfortable in my pants. Did I mention that your body is amazing? I
haven’t really stopped thinking about it, actually. God, that sounded creepy. I
didn’t mean, I mean, that’s not why –”

“You talk too much.”

This man never seems to know when
to shut up—or is it all Americans? I push the gun a little firmer against his
groin and his lips tighten a little bit with worry. I smile coldly.

“Is this what you came for tonight,
to watch me undress?”

He sputters. Doesn’t know what to
say.

“No, I wish it was. I mean, I, uh
–”

But I’m just biding time, a cat
playing with its food. I already knowing very well what he came for: me. I know
who he works for, how much he probably gets paid to carry out these little
errands. It’s nothing personal or pleasurable—just business, just an assignment
to destroy me. That is how these people think: other peoples’ lives, women’s bodies—all
are just commodities, business transactions to be deleted when convenient. Other
human beings aren’t real to them. Aren’t sacred.

Pigs.

“No,” the man grunts. “I swear I’m
not a peeping tom. That was just a happy accident.”

“Happy?”

The word makes me inexplicably
furious, like a slap in the face.

“Happy.”

I say it again, like I was
spitting, and feel my chest constrict.

“If you say so, happy. Take a good
long look, then. Is that the right word, why you said it? Happy? Go ahead. Be
happy.”

I shove him away and hold the gun
in front of me with both hands, my finger finding the trigger.

“That’s what you want, eh? This
makes you happy, doesn’t it—a woman alone in her room for you to prey upon. You
want me to be easy, to be an object, like your toy. You obviously didn’t get
your fill yesterday, so go ahead, do it now. Look at me. Finish from yesterday
your stupid game. Does that make you happy?”

He takes a few steps backward into
the middle of my tiny room, his hands raised conciliatorily in the air. He’s
staring at the gun.

“Whoa, easy Tiger. I’m not gonna
hurt you.”

As he says this lie, I caulk the
gun and he rolls his eyes at himself.

“Ok, that was a dumb thing to say,
coming from the man who was hiding in your closet.”

“Right. I suppose you just stalked
me to come over to watch TV, eat some crackers, and gossip.”

He’s looking a little frustrated,
guilty, and annoyed.

“Look Katja, yesterday was a bit
more than I signed up for to be honest. At this point, everything is more than
I signed up for. I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t really want to be here.”

“And yet here you are.”

His eyes cloud with something more
dangerous than violence, and in spite of the anger in both our voices I see his
gaze slip down. I can feel his look almost as palpable as a touch over my body.
And it’s not a touch I dislike.

No. Focus
.

“Ok, what I said before, that was
dumb. Of course I came to hurt you. You know that, I know that. And you know
why. And you know it’s not my idea. So now what?”

Now what, indeed.

“Why won’t you just go away and
leave me alone?”

His eyes flicker then harden.

“You know I can’t do that.”

My God. He is going to make me
shoot him.

“All I know,” I whisper, “Is that
everything you are here for is wrong, and that what you want is more than I can
let you have.”

“You have no idea how much more I
want.”

“Actually, I have a pretty good
idea.”

He follows my gaze down to his
crotch, where I can still see his erection through his jeans. I might be
imagining it, but it almost looks like he blushes under my scrutiny. His
self-consciousness makes me laugh in spite of myself.

“Hey!” he objects, clearing his
throat. “It’s not nice to laugh at a man’s…you know.”

“I’m not, that’s not why –”

“It’s a very serious erection! Not
a funny one. Dead serious. Though maybe I shouldn’t say dead, give you ideas
with that gun in your hands.”

“Oh really? Why don’t you show me,
then?”

“Show you what?”

“Everything.”

As soon as the words tumble out of
my mouth, I feel fire rip through my bones. I can feel the energy explode
between us as we both hear what I’ve just said. It’s too late to take it back.

“Show me,” I whisper. “It’s only
fair.”

What am I saying?

The man stares at me blankly, not
comprehending, and I take my anger with myself over this stupid whim out on
him. My voice goes harsh.

“Take them off! Your pants, your
shirt, take them off! Come on. You’ve been staring at my body. Show me yours.”

His jaw sets, and the light in his
eyes flares brighter.

“I’d be happy to, darlin’. I’ve
always believed in gender equality.”

He raises his hands slowly, like
actors in cop movies, and very deliberately begins to tug his dark t-shirt up
and over his head. Exposed is a broad chest with a healthy shock of masculine,
blondish hair unable to disguise a powerful strength. His form is modulated
with rippling muscles that slope down into a six-pack, so defined that I can
see the sharp trail of muscled ridges around his narrow hips that disappear into
his jeans. What do Americans call that line? I’ve heard the waitresses at work
giggling and swooning over it before, something blunt and sexual. Cum-gutters
maybe?

I have to say now I can see what their
excitement was all about.

Suddenly I am the one blushing. I
can feel so much heat in my face and body that it’s giving me chills. Why? I’ve
seen handsome shirtless men before. I’ve even been chased by handsome men
before. I’ve never been the type to be turned on by bad guys, by the presence
of evil. Why is this dangerous stranger making my pulse skyrocket?

He’s watching my reaction. There’s
the ghost of a grin on his face mixing with the ghost of a frown, giving him a
sarcastic and self-aware expression. He’s enjoying this.

“There’s something I should tell
you,” he murmurs, “before I take my pants off.”

Licking my lips, I try to fight
through the hot haze of lust in my brain to think and answer clearly.

“What?”

He winces, glancing at my gun.

“I’m armed.”

The room goes lethally quiet as I
digest this. What’s been stopping him, then? Why hasn’t he just pulled out his
gun and shot me?

“Now, don’t get trigger happy on
me,” he says. “It’s in my boot.”

Boot? Who keeps a gun in their
boot?

“Would you like me to get it out
myself, or would you like the honors?”

“I’ll do it.”

My brain isn’t working fast enough.
Before I think about what I am doing I am kneeling in front of him, my face mere
inches away from his hips. I try not to think about that as I’m reaching into
his left boot. My hand brushes the skin of his leg, and I feel a tremor through
my body. Glancing up, I see his eyes on me. His mouth is open, his breath
tight. My gut clenches with the knowledge that he wants me, this gorgeous
dangerous man.

And I want him. We both want it. I
can have it.
Why not?

No. No.
No
. There are so
many reasons why not.
Focus
.

I find the hilt of a knife and
carefully slide it out into my hands, its cold weight sending a thrill of dread
through me. What kind of man carries a knife like this?

It hits me that I’ve let my guard
down as I kneel at his feet. I’ve let the aim of my gun fall away from him and
onto the floor. I’m unprotected, within the range of his hands.

And yet he hasn’t moved. He’s as
still as a statue, watching me. I can feel the restraint and control trembling
through his muscles.

“There’s one on the other side
too.”

Swallowing past my sudden fear, I
reach to the right boot and find another knife, this one smaller but just as
sharp. What kind of man carries knives and works for dogs? What kind of man
lusts after a woman but gives her the control? My hands are shaking a little as
I rise slowly to stand, the reality sinking in that he could have at any moment
up until now attacked me.

And yet he didn’t.

At my full height, my eyes only
come up to his chin, and I can feel the heat and power of his body filling the
tiny space between us. He’s staring back at me, openly amused. And openly
hungry. His eyes tell me everything he wants.