Russian Next Door Read online

  His laugh comes from deep within his body and resonates like it’s coming from a bear, or a wolf…some sort of creature that’s use to projecting it’s sounds at this late of an hour.

  And animals that are up at this of an hour are known for two things.

  Hunting and mating.

  And although I’m here with the specific purpose of hunting him, a honeypot trap so to speak, he’s already made it very clear that I’m no longer the hunter. I’m the hunted.

  And from what I saw sticking straight up in-between his legs, he’s not just hunting. He’s ready to mate.

  CHAPTER 3

  Amanda

  The next morning

  His muscles flex, tighten, and clench underneath the scorching morning sun.

  He pauses momentarily, running the back of his hand over his brow before lifting what looks to be a loveseat all by himself out of the back of a rented pick-up truck and into his new home.

  How incredibly strong is this man?

  He had the loveseat turned sideways and balanced against his thighs as he walked it in. If he can lift that thing with such ease then for sure he can lift a woman without so much as breaking a sweat, or even bending at the knees.

  He comes shooting out the front door and I lick my lips. There’s one more piece of furniture for him to take in while my eyes take in the sight of him.

  He reaches for the bottom of his white T-shirt and with his arms crossed at the wrists grabs it and slowly brings it up and over his head.

  “Oh my,” I mumble as I bite down on my lower lip.

  Men’s Health should jump on the bandwagon and run a Russian special edition issue, as it seems every other major publication of any kind has done in the past twenty-four months. And they should put him on the cover. The man looks like he could wrestle a bear. If he had hair on his body or a beard he would be a bear…a big, strong one I’d want nothing more than to wrap me up in a hug.

  He tosses his shirt into the back of the truck and I watch as sweat trickles across his thick chest and down the grooves of his chiseled abdomen.

  I fumble for my binoculars, for official purposes of course. I need to see if he has any Russian mafia tattoos that might have faded or been removed. From here his body seems to be spotless, and absolutely flawless.

  I’m supposed to be making contact with him today, but somehow my hand is sliding down the front of my pants and I’m about to make contact of another kind entirely.

  I squeeze my thighs together, trying to prevent any drippage down my legs, but oh my…it’s already too late.

  I’ll log this in my report as surveillance, but I know the truth. I’m completely perving out on this guy, creeping…stalking him.

  The logical side of my brain reminds me that this is a bad man, and the type of guy I’ve worked my entire life to bring down. I don’t have time for guys at this point in my life, but even if I did it wouldn’t be for a criminal like this.

  But why is my body telling me otherwise?

  I’ve been watching his place since sunrise, waiting to see what he’s up to today. He left in an Uber not long after the sun came up. It wasn’t hard to figure that out based on me having the app pulled up and the big Uber sticker in the guy’s window.

  I followed his little car icon and saw that he was dropped off at a car rental, from there he went to a furniture store I assume. And now here he is.

  Nothing out of the ordinary so far, except the kind of reaction I’m having to him.

  Not good.

  I’ve studied Stockholm syndrome, and this is far from that. He’d have to take me captive first. This is more like Mr. and Mrs. Smith, although we’ve never been introduced, let alone married.

  The phone rings and I jump before I close my eyes and exhale. I see the number and recognize it’s the office.

  “Recruit Andrews speaking,”

  “Answer the damn phone, Andrews! Before the fifth ring.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, not even realizing I’d missed the first four. Was I that focused on him?

  “Has the suspect arrived?”

  “Yes, sir. He arrived a day ahead of schedule.”

  “Of course. He’s trying to throw us off. Have you seen him today?”

  “I’ve got eyes on him now, sir.” My gaze rakes over his body as he picks up the last piece of furniture and hauls it in Paul Bunyan style.

  “What’s he doing?”

  Making me hornier than I’ve ever been in my life. Filling me with more desire than I thought humanly possible. Completely toying with my steadfast moral compass.

  “He’s just moving in, sir. He got some furniture.”

  “That’s what he wants you to think. There’s always an angle with those Russians. Don’t tell me you haven’t watched The Americans.”

  “Binge watched it, sir.”

  “It’s more real than people give it credit for. And we’ve got a real mess on our hands if he gets the jump on us.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m going over to make contact now.”

  “Get it done, recruit.”

  I hear the dial tone and move toward the mirror to quickly freshen up.

  I take a deep breath in, knowing I should probably wait for him to put a shirt on. That would be more professional, but then again the boss told me to get it done, and he didn’t say when I had time.

  I grab the pitcher of lemonade I made this morning and the glass I’ve had sitting in the fridge. If this guy wants to see America I’ll give him his apple pie, hot dogs, baseball and a little bit of June Cleaver to go with it.

  I put the drink down and unbutton one more button on my blouse…so the tiny camera in the button can pick up the audio better of course. It wouldn’t make sense to draw attention to my recording device, or the ample cleavage I’m sporting thanks to my best attempt to make my off-the-rack bra into a bit of a push up bra.

  Definitely not that.

  CHAPTER 4

  Vasily

  I carry the last piece of furniture into the house and look at my watch.

  I’m waiting for the electricity to turn on at any time now, but that’s not what I’m really waiting on.

  Her.

  Does she think I didn’t notice her up in that window staring at me? There’s something about her innocence, her naiveté, which makes me so damn hard.

  Yeah, I carried that loveseat all by myself. That wasn’t challenging. What was challenging was balancing it on my thighs while sporting a massive erection for her…again.

  But again is not really the right word because my need for her hasn’t gone down since last night.

  I look like hell this morning and it’s not from the flight. It’s from all the tossing and turning. All night thinking of her.

  I didn’t have electricity, which means no gadgets to distract me. I had to save my phones battery power for the morning to catch the Uber with the SIM card I bought at the airport.

  So I just laid there, wishing she’d open those blinds one more time so I could get a glimpse of her. I didn’t even care if she was clothed or not. I just wanted to see her face. Just one look.

  And now she’s giving it to me.

  But I didn’t look.

  I need to stay focused on what I’m here to do. After that I can claim her, make her mine.

  I purse my lips knowing that no matter what I accomplish it won’t mean anything if I leave here without her…wondering ‘what if’ for the rest of my life.

  Russian literature loves angst, tragedy, and unhappy endings. Not me. Not now. Not when it comes to her.

  I hear a light knock on my front door and my eyebrow raises up.

  Could that be? No.

  I move toward the door angry that I don’t have a weapon yet. I’m not scared of anyone, but when you’re on American soil and you’ve got ties as close to the Kremlin as I do you have to be safe. And I have to be safe when it comes to her. I’ve got a big reason to stay alive.

  I pull open the door without checking. My hand comes off it a
nd it swings all the way open, hitting the doorstop with a boing. The noise is cartoonish, but there’s nothing funny about her.

  “Hi. I’m Amanda,” she says, extending her hand.

  It takes all the willpower I have not to run my eyes over that body of hers. I remind myself that this isn’t Russia and she doesn’t need an excuse to wear a light colored, loose top, and short shorts.

  And my body’s not making any excuses for its reaction to the way she’s dressed this morning.

  My dick strains against the fabric of my pants as I catch her eyes twitching, trying not to move toward my exposed chest.

  Seems we’re both playing a game neither of us can win.

  We both lose the battle at the same time, our eyes scanning the other, only to lock on each other’s gaze at the same exact moment.

  “Vasily,” I reply, taking her hand and feeling her soft skin transfer a big shot of energy right through her hand and into mine.

  As I shake her hand I notice her hand is rough in some parts and soft in others. Does she do manual labor for a living?

  The thought angers me and I growly slightly. A woman like this should be on her throne all day. That’s damn sure where I’d put her.

  This beautiful creature doesn’t deserve to be working herself like that, unless maybe she’s into gardening, or building things, or some other incredibly interesting hobby or job. I do know a lot of women are making and selling really interesting handcrafted things on Etsy these days. It’s one of the best places a man can get a genuine, custom leather belt these days. Go figure.

  But the belt I have on right now doesn’t belong in my jeans. It belongs on the floor with the rest of my clothes…our clothes.

  “Can I have my hand back?”

  “Sorry,” I answer quickly, shaking my head from side-to-side not even aware how long I was shaking her hand. Then again it wasn’t moving so more accurately I was just holding it…and damn I didn’t want to ever let go.

  “I saw you carrying in some furniture and wanted to come by and welcome you to the neighborhood and ask if there’s anything I can do to help out.”

  Her smile damn near makes my knees buckle, and although Americans are known for being a friendly lot this is next level, even though something tells me she’s paying me a special visit her other neighbors might not have received.

  “You’ve lived here long?” I inquire.

  “A bit. Not too long. Maybe that’s why I want to get to know some of the neighbors.”

  Some of the neighbors, not all of them. She just told on herself.

  I think about apologizing for last night, but that will just make things awkward, which I already did with my long handshake. Then again do I need to apologize for being in my own home and looking out my own window…especially when she just might have liked it.

  I sure know I liked what I saw. More than liked if I’m being honest. I was fucking blown away like never before.

  “I think I’ve got everything under control, but thanks for the offer.”

  She looks up at the walls and then sticks her hand inside my place as if to survey the temperature. “Your air conditioning isn’t working, or you just like taking your shirt off?”

  “I’m not much of an ac guy, but I’m also not used to this level of humidity.”

  “You wanna come by for a drink?” she says, motioning over to her place. “I mean if you’re not busy.”

  “Aren’t you busy?”

  “I work from home mostly, and started early, so I’m definitely due for a break.” She pauses. “It’s almost lunchtime anyway.”

  She’s right, and is she ever right for me. It’s not because she drinks a beer at lunch or anything like that, it’s because she enjoys life first, and isn’t married to her job or making money above all else. I like this woman more and more already.

  “You’re right. I probably should hydrate after all that exercise.” I pause, trying not to look her up and down, knowing how bad I want to drink her in. “Let me grab a shower and I’ll be over.”

  “All right. See you in a few.” She steps out of my doorway and then quickly turns. “I’m your neighbor on this side,” she says, pointing toward her house.

  “Got it,” I say, as if I didn’t get a good understanding of that last night. I’m not about to be an idiot and even allude to that at all though. I don’t want to mess things up with this woman…my woman.

  She just doesn’t know it yet.

  CHAPTER 5

  Amanda

  Vasily’s deep voice didn’t surprise me, but his lack of an accent did. At first glance he has that seriousness I’ve seen from a lot of Russians, whether on TV or studying prior F.B.I. cases, but when I spoke with him he definitely seemed to have a lot of English education and is probably using it on a daily basis.

  The obstacle is I’m not entirely sure what, exactly, The Bureau is looking to charge him with. It’s above my pay grade. All I know is I have to win his trust, gather information, and I’ll be given more responsibilities the deeper I get in.

  It reminds me a lot of the Marine Corps saying, “First to go, last to know.” Now I know what it’s really like to be in the field.

  And strangely enough for the first time ever I know what it’s like to be desired by not just a man, but a real man.

  I’ve had my head in books my entire life, but even then I did receive some rare advances from time to time. They were usually clumsy and not thought out at all, and often quite juvenile.

  Vasily is so different. He didn’t come at me with advances at all. It’s just the way he looks at me. The way he squares his body up to mine, displaying his size and his dominance without even trying. It’s the way he makes me nervous and even uncomfortable. It’s all so natural with him, and completely congruent with his personality.

  But what is his real personality? Is he playing a role right now, and is part of that trying to be the equivalent of a male honeypot trying to lure me in? He can’t know who I am…can he?

  I can spot a cop from a mile away. It’s in their mannerisms and the way they carry themselves. Have I already developed something similar that would peg me as someone attached to the F.B.I.?

  Three loud raps of knuckles on my door startle me. I guess he doesn’t like doorbells.

  I move toward the door, stopping a second to flip back my hair and stand up straight.

  Pulling open the door I see the same man, but wow, does he ever clean up nice. He’s got on a pair of jeans and a clean white T-shirt that’s similar to what he had on while he was moving furniture. Does this bulky alpha male buy everything in bulk?

  His jeans are a deep shade of midnight black, as is his one and a half inch thick belt. It makes sense, as his eyes are so dark in this light I’d swear they’re black as well.

  His boots, also black, are lace-up and manly. They’re not Timberlands, but they’re not exactly casual either. They’re something like a Clarks Desert Boot, which says he can lift something at a moment’s notice, yet slide into a decent restaurant just as quickly. I’m impressed at the versatility, yet utility, with which he dresses. It’s so simple, but so ruggedly masculine.

  I just got to Florida and I’ve already seen a lot of guys wearing pastels and carrying around tote bags. No bueno. This is about as completely opposite as you can be.

  “Did you want to have those beers on the porch?” the husky notes of his baritone cords call out.

  “Oh right. Sorry, I should invite you in,” I fumble, not even realizing how long I was standing there thinking about this man’s body, while pretending I was really interested in his clothes. A T-shirt and jeans is about as basic as you can get. How he wears them is what makes all the difference. And that starts with the body he’s got underneath them.

  A body I saw just last night, and sure wouldn’t mind seeing again.

  I give him a quick tour of the house and in doing so something very obvious hits me, something I completely missed when I first arrived. The place is probably bugged.
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  “So what is it that you do?” we both say at the same time. Espionage and information gathering 101.

  “Well, I work from home as I mentioned,” I lead. “Most people don’t find it too exciting.”

  “I’m not most people,” he says. “And I can see that you’re not either.”

  I swallow hard. That was subtle.