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In For The
Kill
McClouds & Friends # 11
McClouds & Friends # 11
By: Shannon McKenna
Releasing January 27th, 2015
Kensington
The risks
ex-cop Sam Petrie has taken have turned his life into a train wreck. So he has
nothing to lose by doubling down as the elusive Svetlana Ardova’s unwanted
bodyguard on a potentially deadly trip to Italy.
Ever since
the McClouds rescued Sveti from certain death, her crusade against modern
slavery has blazoned a bulls-eye on her chest, but when one of the threats
against her almost hits the mark, Sam’s protective instincts go into overdrive.
Every lethal obstacle and trap they encounter ups the stakes—and the undeniable
heat between them.
Now
they’re spiraling in on a deadly and explosive secret—one that could either
redeem them or destroy them . . . and the closer they get, the shorter the fuse
. . .
Sam Petrie leaned
against the wall, arms folded. He stared into the dance floor, careful not to
meet anyone’s eyes. He wasn’t here for chitchat. Against every last lingering
instinct for self-preservation, he was at another no-holds-barred McCloud Crowd
wedding, trolling for a chance to scope out the elusive Svetlana Ardova. She of
the big, tragic eyes, the high, pointed tits. And the obscure, inexplicable
prejudice against him.
It was almost two
years since that kiss in Bruno’s studio. But that event had transformed his
schoolboy crush into a full-out obsession.
Which was why he’d
snookered himself into accepting the invitation to Aaro and Nina’s wedding.
Nina’s pregnancy had derailed it last year, but their twins, Julia and Oksana,
were six months old now, so wedding plans had finally gone forward, and the
gang was all there. Great food and booze and music. Squealing kids. Everyone
dancing, having a good time, being curious about shit that was not their
business. While he lurked in the corner, hot-eyed. Staring at Sveti like a
panting perv-weasel. It was humbling. He’d locked up many specimens of the kind
of obsessed asshole he was now, and rejoiced to see them off the streets.
Sveti was talking
to a bevy of hotties in evening gowns, all holding stringed instruments. The
Venus Ensemble, aka the eye candy orchestra. Trafficked from Eastern European
conservatories, lured by promises of green cards, subsequently embroiled in a
deadly scheme involving mind-control drugs and other crazy shit that Sam still
didn’t quite believe. Kev McCloud had saved them from an unspeakable fate, and
the news coverage had given the group awesome publicity. They’d formed a hot
string ensemble and were making money hand over fist.
Hurray. Chalk one
up for the good guys.
The Venus Ensemble
were stunners, yes, but Sveti blew them away. She was the smallest, even in
killer heels, but so perfect. Vivid, in that crimson dress. His eyes hurt from
the hyper-stimulation. Tilted hazel eyes over Slavic cheekbones. Full, soft red
lips calculated to invoke impure thoughts, and a regal attitude that instantly
rebuked said impure thoughts. High, perfect tits. Taut nipples. The sight made
his hands tingle. Her hair was twisted into a complicated knot. It looked
great, but he liked it better loose. His fingers clenched, remembering that
silken floss. He wanted to kiss the heart-shaped port-wine birthmark on her
neck. Trace its borders. Study it like a map.
He sidled closer.
She was talking in Russian or some dialect thereof. It turned him on, hearing
her speak her native language. Then again, it turned him on to hear her talk at
all, period.
Aw, fuck it. Even
her sullen silences turned him on.
He wrenched his
gaze away and stared out at swaying couples. There was Sveti’s date, Josh
Cattrell—tall, prosperous, and flushed with champagne. Might or might not be the
reason Sveti blew off Sam’s phone calls, texts, e-mails. Any comparisons
between Josh and Sam would not be in Sam’s favor at the moment. He’d been too
lazy and rebellious to cut his hair lately, and had resorted to yanking his
brown mane into a ponytail. He’d shaved last week, for the psych eval, but the
shrink’s conclusion had pissed him off so much, he hadn’t bothered since. And
he was too thin for his suit, everywhere but the shoulders, which strained at
the seams as a result of obsessive workouts. His face looked grim and sunken
when he caught it reflected in glass.
Nah, he didn’t
stack up well next to Cattrell’s stylish haircut, fresh shave, charming
dimples, fake tan. The perfectly cut suit.
Empty-headed
dickface. Sam hated him on sight.
Sveti had known
Cattrell since she was thirteen. He’d briefly shared her imprisonment, before
they’d been rescued from the organ thieves. Most episodes involving McClouds
and their pals had an off-the-charts weird factor. Weird usually turned him
off, but not when Sveti was involved. It was wrist-thick iron cables, yanking
him in.
Josh Cattrell was
an ass-bite, flashing his overly whitened teeth at every babe he saw. Sam
watched him punch the number of one of the catering staff into his smartphone,
whisper in her ear, pat her ass.
This piece of shit
was his competition?
The guy turned
without missing a beat and held out his arms to Sveti. He pulled her onto the
dance floor and dropped his hand to her hip, like he hadn’t just been fondling
another woman’s booty. The singer crooned a slow tune as the hand crept lower.
Fuck this shit.
Fuck it into lightless oblivion.
The feeling built
like steam, hot and dangerous. He didn’t recognize it, or have a strategy for
dealing with it. He played it cool with the ladies, as a long string of
disgruntled would-be girlfriends would attest. He’d heard plenty about his
“commitment issues” over the years. “Man slut” was another phrase they tossed
around.
Out, out, out. Get
your deranged, unhinged ass out before you do something pointless and stupid.
Just fuck off. NOW.
Sveti was too young
for him, anyway. Josh was closer to her in age. Not a lot closer, though. Maybe
five years younger than Sam’s thirty-three. Maybe only four. Four fucking
measly years. Four.
He barreled into
someone on his way to the coatroom and mumbled an apology, but the person
grabbed his arm. “Hey, Sam.”
It took a few
moments to place the guy. Tall, tanned, closely shorn dark hair. It was the
nose that finally pegged him. “Oh. Miles.”
The man partly
responsible for derailing Sam’s career as homicide detective. Not that he held
any grudges. Miles had just been trying to keep himself and his girlfriend
alive. But Sam’s involvement in Miles’ bizarre adventures, however slight, had
not helped his career prospects.
“I’ve, uh, been
meaning to talk to you,” Miles said.
Not. Miles had been
busy rolling around on sugar sand beaches with his adoring bride on their
protracted, well-deserved honeymoon.
The weirdness of
their tale had made the higher-ups nervous and uncomfortable. Which made people
want to blame someone. Punish someone. Step right up, Sam. At the ready.
The woo-woo factor
had sealed his doom. They’d put him away. Using the excuse of last year’s
gunshot wound and the psych evaluations that followed. PTSD, the shrinks said,
but that was bullshit. His symptoms weren’t that bad. Sure, he was twitchy and
depressed, but so were a lot of people who were out there working. That
diagnosis had far more to do with some discreet phone calls from his father to
various local politicians who were tight with the police commissioner.
He pushed on past
the guy. “Gotta go, Miles. See you around.”
Miles grabbed his
arm. “Wait. I just wanted to say, uh, that I appreciate your giving me that
heads-up, back when I was fighting for our lives. I haven’t said that to you
directly, being out of town so long, and I’ve been wanting to. And you, uh . .
. weren’t at our wedding.”
“Yeah.” He’d been
in the hospital. Gut shot. Miles looked just too fucking relaxed, tanned, and
sexually fulfilled. Choffing all those ripe mangoes, boinking his true love on
all those beaches. It stuck in Sam’s craw. “Where have you guys been?” he
asked, just to torture himself.
Miles had the grace
to look sheepish. “Bali, most recently. We rented this tree house, in a banyan
jungle.”
“Sweet,” Petrie
said.
“Pretty much. We
only came back because Lara, well . . . we’re expecting.” His large Adam’s
apple bobbed nervously. “So we wanted to settle into the house. Get ready for
the new arrival.”
“Great.” Sam
coughed it out like a hair ball. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” Miles
said. “We’re really excited. But if there was anyone I could talk to, you know,
to explain how things really went—”
“God, no. Thanks,
but no,” he said hastily.
“Okay.” Miles looked downcast. “Just wish I
could help. So what are you doing with yourself these days, anyhow? Still on
medical leave?”
Wow, where to
begin. Loafing like a slob, when he wasn’t sprinting through the park as if
flesh-eating zombies were chasing him. Day trading. Reading Sveti’s anti-trafficking
blog. Watching the flesh-crawling adventures she sometimes live-streamed on her
viral v-log, following every peep of her Twitter feed. Watching her TED talk,
about her own personal journey into anti-trafficking activism. On his computer,
tablet, smartphone. Obsessively. Or staring at her Facebook photo gallery. Not
that she’d friended him. He’d hacked her account.
“I’ve been
evaluating my options,” he hedged.
“I hear you’re
getting pressure to join the family business. Some big hedge fund, right?”
Sam was startled.
He’d mentioned it in passing to Kev, weeks back. Now here was Miles spouting it
back at him. He hadn’t thought they were so interested in his life. Hell, he
himself wasn’t that interested in his life. “Yeah, some,” he admitted. “I’d
rather slit my own throat.”
Miles’ eyebrow went
up. “Why? Do you suck at it?”
“No, I’m good at
it. But just because you’re good at something doesn’t mean you should be doing
it.” He’d gotten dangerously skilled lately at high-tech stalking, for
instance.
“I hear you. I’ve
got a few unspeakable skills myself these days.”
Shannon
McKenna is the New York Times bestselling author of numerous romantic thrillers
and several novellas. After a bizarre assortment of jobs, from singing cocktail
waitress to medical secretary to strolling madrigal singer, she decided that
writing hot romantic suspense suits her best. She lives with her husband and
family in a small seaside town in southern Italy.
Write
to Shannon at her website www.shannonmckenna.com
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