Sins of the Flesh

The sound of water drumming against tile led him to his right. He pushed open the door to the master bedroom. It was dark, but the door to the en suite was cracked open, letting a thin stream of light and steam escape the bathroom.

He turned away and moved through the condominium with preternatural speed, peeking behind paintings, running his fingers along the backs of cabinets and under drawers, checking for hiding spots. Nothing.

Mal returned to the master bedroom. The water was still running. Looked as though Kuznetsov liked his showers long.

Settling in the far corner, he leaned one shoulder against the wall and waited. And waited. That seemed to be his lot tonight. He heard a groan from the shower. A gasp. Then, “Yeah. Ohhhhh, fuck, yeah,” the words sounding as though they’d been forced through gritted teeth.

Aw, hell. The asshole was beating his meat.

From the panting and grunting, Mal was guessing it was near the crescendo. He could only hope.

Damn, he should have gone for a latte before heading up here. He could have done without the audio.

Mal straightened and did a quick sweep of the room. Kuznetsov would provide answers, willingly or not, but it never hurt to search for interesting things. He paused by the dresser. It was uncluttered, adorned by a single black ceramic bowl that looked very old. It gave him a split second’s pause, then he noticed it was round rather than oblong and he moved on.

He did a quick check of the drawers. Neat and organized. Maybe too neat. Then he moved to the bookshelves and finally the painting that hung as the lone focal point on the wall opposite the window. He ran his fingers around the edges. Bingo. Swinging the picture out a few inches, he peeked in behind. The perfect cliché. A safe peeked back at him.

He froze, an odd sensation crawling up his spine. Glancing back over his shoulder, he slowly scanned the room but found nothing out of the ordinary.

A loud grunt carried from the bathroom, followed by a sharp cry. Then nothing.

Looked like Kuznetsov was done.

The shower turned off. There was the shush of a towel pulled from the rack. Mal settled the painting back against the wall.

A cell phone rang. The door to the bathroom opened, leaving Kuznetsov standing there, towel in hand, wet and naked.

Mal could have done without the eyeful.

Snagging his phone, Kuznetsov answered the call then listened, his posture growing tense.

“What?” he snapped, eyes wide, nostrils flaring. “When?” His voice cracked. Then, “Dead? Are you certain?”

He waited for the answer then ended the call without another word. His hand was shaking as he tossed the phone on the bed, oblivious to the fact that he had company.

The shadows shifted and moved. Mal froze, stunned by the realization that good old Pyotr wasn’t the only one who’d been oblivious.

The woman stepped into view. She was behind Kuznetsov and a little to the right, and she was looking over his shoulder, right at Mal, as though she could see him. Which she couldn’t. He was confident of that. But this was the second time tonight that her gaze unerringly sought him. He wasn’t one to ignore the strange and inexplicable.

Green eyes—cat eyes—looked right through him. They were bright even in the shadows, almost luminescent, framed by thick lashes, accented by straight-cut bangs. He felt a split second of recognition, and then it was lost. He didn’t know her, other than having seen her get out of the cab. The white coat she’d worn earlier was gone. Now, she was clothed entirely in black, covered from neck to wrists to ankles, her catsuit so tight it might as well have not covered her at all.

Mal registered it all in a blink.

Then he noticed the long, narrow leather tube hanging against her back. The strap crossed her chest, lying between the swells of her breasts. Really nice breasts. Perfect handfuls. He stared at them for a second longer than was warranted. There was something about the shape of her body—

Kuznetsov straightened, tensed, started to turn, as though he sensed her presence.

The woman was inhumanly fast as she stepped even closer. She caught Kuznetsov’s head between her hands—

Mal leaped forward.

—and gave a sharp turn and a twist.

There was a loud crack.

Impossibly, she was almost as fast as he was. So despite his enhanced speed, he was too late to stop anything because he’d been standing just a shade too far away.

Mal froze midleap and landed lightly, close enough that he could reach out and touch her. Reach out and kill her for what she’d just done.

Pyotr’s body went rigid then relaxed. The woman stepped back, loosed her hold and let him drop like a sack of dirty laundry. Her face was smooth and composed, betraying no emotion. Not pleasure. Not remorse.

Dead. She’d killed him. She’d cracked the bastard’s neck and destroyed Mal’s one solid lead.

For an instant, he felt nothing. Then he felt too much; disbelief, anger, a sense that he’d been cheated. Robbed. That was usually his job. He was the prowler, the pirate, the thief. Yet this woman had robbed him.