Soul Deep (22 page)

Dudaev had played the Agency and brought the
Batumi op down on their heads. Nick had been there that night. He’d
watched, wounded and pinned down by AK fire, as the son of a bitch
had emptied his Makarov into Dani’s chest, then made off with the
cache of AKs the Agency had wrested away from Chechen terrorists.
Nick had crawled over to Dani and held her body afterward, held her
until he’d passed out from blood loss.

His sole task that night had been to protect
her, and he’d failed.

But now things were about to come full
circle.

There was only one problem.

The suits at Langley had clearly made a
mistake when they’d fingered Ms. Bradshaw as Dudaev’s contact.
Okay, so it was an understandable error. The bastard’s last lover
had been an Italian journalist who’d acted as his mole and
messenger—until he’d had her killed. Analysts must have assumed
he’d recruited Ms. Bradshaw when she’d interviewed him about his
new art gallery and then begun dating him.

As understandable as the error might be,
nothing changed the fact that Nick had now wasted
three
weeks
discovering that Holly Bradshaw was exactly what she
seemed to be—an entertainment writer, a smart but shallow blonde, a
woman who loved sex, expensive clothes, and good times with her
friends. He’d explained all of this to Bauer, sharing every bit of
intel he’d gathered on her. If Dudaev was about to sell the flash
drive, the deal would go down without Bradshaw’s knowledge or
participation.

Bauer had blown him off. “Stick with her. I
swear she’s the one.”

Some people just hated to be wrong.

Nick’s time would be better spent trailing
Dudaev and hunting down the real contact—or sorting truth from
rumor on the internal investigation and the missing and dead
officers.

Trust no one.

Kramer had contacted him this afternoon,
insisting they speak face to face. He’d be passing through Denver
tomorrow and had asked Nick to meet him for lunch. Nick hadn’t
needed to ask what was on Kramer’s mind. It wasn’t unusual for an
officer to be killed in the line of duty, but it
was
strange
that Nick and Kramer had worked with all of them. Then Kramer had
ended the call with those three words—and Nick’s imagination had
taken over.

“They’re ombré crystal pumps in royal blue
with four-inch heels.”

Nick took another swig of cold coffee. In his
earpiece, Bradshaw and her friend Kara McMillan were
still
talking.

“I love them,” Bradshaw said, “but my shoe
budget is blown for the next ten years.”

Nick doubted that. Bradshaw’s daddy was a
retired brigadier general who had served with US Army
Intelligence—another reason analysts believed Dudaev had chosen
her—and Daddy had created a nice little trust fund for his baby
girl.

“How much do a pair of Christian Louboutins
cost?” McMillan asked.

Nick ran through the key facts on McMillan,
more to help himself stay awake than because he’d forgotten
anything.

McMillan, Kara. 40. Journalist, author,
journalism instructor at Metro State University. Wife of Sheridan,
Reece, lieutenant governor of the state of Colorado. No arrests. No
suspected criminal associations. Three children. Formerly employed
by the
Denver Independent
on its Investigative Team, aka,
the I-Team. Met Bradshaw through work. Close personal
friend.

“Well, it depends on where you buy them,
whether they’re on sale, which shoe you choose—that sort of
thing.”

“Holly,” McMillan said in a stern voice. “How
much?”

Bradshaw hesitated. “These were just over
three thousand.”

Nick had just taken another swig of coffee
and nearly choked.

Three thousand
dollars?
For a fucking
pair of shoes?

“Wow!” McMillan laughed. “Reece would divorce
me.”

Damn straight!

“Did you get them for your big date with
Sasha tomorrow?”

“I needed something to go with my new
dress.”

Nick rolled his eyes. The woman’s closet was
full of shoes. The last thing she needed was one more
pair—especially one that cost
three fucking grand
.

“I read in the paper that he’s a
billionaire—gas and oil money,” McMillan said.

Nick’s jaw clenched.

Dudaev had built his fortune on human lives,
including Dani’s. Killing her had been nothing more than a business
transaction to him. He could change his name, wear designer suits,
and open a dozen art galleries to make himself seem respectable,
but nothing could wash the blood off his hands.

“You should see the sapphire necklace he gave
me last week. The chain isn’t actually a chain. It’s a strand of
diamonds.”

Nick already knew from another
conversation—this time with Sophie Alton-Hunter, another friend
from the newspaper—that Bradshaw had bought the dress to match the
necklace. Now she’d gotten the shoes to go with the dress. And at
last Nick understood what a woman like Holly Bradshaw would see in
Dudaev.

Well, greed was blind.

She had no idea what kind of man he truly
was. If she wasn’t careful, he’d strangle her with that
necklace.

“Sophie told me. It sounds like he’s serious
about you. Do you think this will be it—the big night?”

Nick frowned.

What did McMillan mean by that?

“I don’t know. I mean, he’s good looking
enough.”

“Good looking enough?” McMillan laughed.
“He’s a lot better looking than that banker you went out with last
year. Where was he from?”

“South Africa.”

“He’s better looking than that Saudi prince,
too, whatever his name was. In the news photos, he looks a lot like
George Clooney. Sure, he’s got some gray, but I’ll bet he’s fully
functional.”

Ah, yes. They were talking about Ms.
Bradshaw’s love life. Again.

Nick glanced for a moment at the photos of
her he’d pinned to the wall above his desk. He could see why men
were eager to sleep with her. She
was
hot.

Okay, she was incredibly hot. Platinum blond
hair. A delicate, heart-shaped face. Big brown eyes. A full mouth,
and a body that…

Get your mind off her body.

What good were looks if they got you into
trouble? There were men who preyed on beautiful women, and Dudaev
was one of them.

“Yeah, but he’s… I don’t know… self-absorbed.
He’s probably the kind of man who makes you wish you had a magazine
to read when you’re in bed with him. You know—the kind who acts
like he’s doing you a big favor when he rams into you for two
minutes.”

McMillan was laughing now.

But Bradshaw hadn’t finished. “A lot of guys
are oblivious like that. ‘Don’t worry about getting me off, babe. I
just want to go down on you all night long’—said no man ever.”

Nick shook his head. Is that truly what she
expected?

A dude would have to have a motorized tongue
to pull that off.

Did all women talk like this about sex? Nick
couldn’t imagine his sister sharing details about her sex life with
her friends or using this kind of language. His mother, a devout
Georgian Orthodox Christian, would have had a coronary if she’d
caught her daughter or even one of her five sons talking like
this.

Not that it offended Nick. He found it kind
of sexy, actually. But then, given the things he’d seen and the
things he’d had to do, a conversation about oral sex was pretty
damned tame.

“Not all men are selfish.”

You tell her, McMillan.

“No, I suppose not. But lots of them are. It
makes me want to take out a full-page ad in the paper just to help
out womankind. ‘It’s the clit, stupid.’”

Nick let out a laugh—then caught himself.

Keep your shit together, Andris.

# # #

Holly Bradshaw glanced over her shoulder at
her living room wall. “Mr. Creeper must be watching something funny
on TV. I just heard him laugh. I never hear him.”

“You still haven’t met him?” Kara asked
through a yawn.

“He’s lived there for almost a month now and
hasn’t once come over to say hello. He stays indoors and keeps the
shades drawn. I’ve seen him outside once. He was taking out the
trash, but he was wearing a hoodie. I couldn’t see his face.”

Kara’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Maybe
he’s a serial killer.”

“You’re
not
helping.”

“Who cares about him anyway? If I were you,
I’d be so excited about tomorrow night. You lead such a glamorous
life. I’m so jealous.”

But Holly knew that wasn’t true. “You and
Sophie and the others—you spend every evening with your kids and
men who love you, while I watch TV by myself or go out to the
clubs. I think you’re the lucky ones.”

Like the rest of Holly’s friends, Kara was
happily married to a man who cherished her. Reece was one of the
kindest, most decent, and sexiest men Holly had ever met—which was
really strange, given that he was a politician. He’d bent over
backward to prove to Kara that he loved her. Now, they had three
kids and lived what seemed to Holly to be a perfect life.

The fact that all of her friends were now
married and most had children had changed her life, too. She spent
a lot less time out on the town with them and a lot more time alone
while they took on new roles and responsibilities. As much as she
loved excitement and enjoyed the city’s nightlife, a part of her
had begun to long for what they had—a family, a sense of roots, the
certainty of belonging with someone. If she hated anything more
than boredom, it was loneliness.

But Kara didn’t seem to believe her. “Are you
saying you’d be willing to trade places with me?”

“And sleep with Reece?” Holly smiled to
herself, stretched out on her sofa, and wiggled her toes.

“That’s not what I meant.”

But the question, however intended, had
Holly’s imagination going.

Reece was sexy with dark blond hair, blue
eyes and muscles he hid beneath tailored suits. How fun it would be
to peel one of those suits away from his skin.

Then there was Julian Darcangelo, Tessa’s
husband. He was the city’s top vice cop and a former FBI agent
who’d worked deep cover. Tall with shoulder-length dark hair, a
ripped body, and a strikingly handsome face, he was sex on a
stick—and crazy in love with his wife.

Then again, Marc Hunter, Sophie’s husband,
had served six years in prison and had that badass vibe Holly
loved. A former Special Forces sniper, he was also devoted to his
family—and sexier than any man had a right to be.

Gabe Rossiter, Kat James’s husband, had a
rock climber’s lean, muscular build and a daredevil attitude. He
had all but given his life for the woman he loved. Kat was a lucky
woman.

Zach McBride, a former Navy SEAL and Medal of
Honor recipient, had saved Natalie from being murdered by the
leader of a Mexican drug cartel. All lean muscle and confidence, he
had the hard look of a man who was used to taking action.

Nate West, Megan’s husband, had been badly
burned in combat, his face and much of his body disfigured. The
part of him that wasn’t scarred was extremely handsome—and he had a
cowboy charm that brought the song “Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)”
to Holly’s mind.

Javier Corbray had rescued his wife, Laura
Nilsson, from captivity in a terrorist stronghold in Pakistan,
sacrificing his career as a SEAL. With a sexy Puerto Rican accent,
dreamy, dark eyes and a mouth that—

“Are you fantasizing about my husband?”
Kara’s accusing voice jerked Holly out of her reverie.

“No, of course not. Not really. Okay, a
little,” Holly confessed. “I was just deciding which one of you I’d
most like to trade places with.”

It was just a game. Holly had never so much
as flirted with a married man. She didn’t poach on other women’s
territory. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t fantasize.

“Holly!” Kara laughed. “I’m sorry I phrased
it the way I did. Let me try again.”

Tessa, Holly decided.

She’d trade places with Tessa. She’d always
had a secret crush on Julian.

But Kara went on. “If you want to meet good
men, maybe you should quit going to the clubs. Most of the guys
there are just looking for someone to hook up with.”

It wasn’t the first time Kara had suggested
this, but she didn’t understand.

How could she?

Holly fired back. “You met Reece at a
bar.”

Okay, so it had been a restaurant. Still,
Kara had consumed three margaritas, so it might as well have been a
bar.

“Only because
someone
interfered,”
Kara replied.

Holly smiled to herself. It had been
so
easy.

“Where else can a woman meet men? If I don’t
go out, I’ll never meet anyone. It’s not like Mr. Right is going to
just walk up and knock on my front door.”

“You never know.” Kara changed the subject.
“Hey, did you hear that Tom is converting to Buddhism?”

Holly sat upright. “Tom? The same Tom Trent I
know? The one who spends his day shouting at everyone? He’s
converting to
Buddhism
?”

“That’s what my mother says.”

Kara’s mother Lily lived with Tom.

“She would know. But Tom—a Buddhist? He and
the Dalai Lama have
so
much in common, like, for example …
nothing.”

Tom was the editor-in-chief of the
Denver
Independent
, where his temper was as much of a legend as his
journalistic brilliance. As an entertainment writer, Holly didn’t
work directly beneath him like her I-Team friends did. Beth Dailey,
the entertainment editor, was her boss. Beth never yelled, never
insulted people—and she appreciated Holly’s shoes.

“I think it’s perfect,” Kara said. “If anyone
needs to meditate, it’s Tom. Gosh, it’s after midnight. I need to
get to bed—and so do you if you want to be rested for tomorrow
night.”

The two said good night and ended the
call.