Undercover 1 - Seduced - Helena Newbury.pdf

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by Helena Newbury
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© Copyright Helena Newbury 2015
The right of Helena Newbury to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in
accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988
This book is entirely a work of fiction. All characters, companies, organizations, products and events
in this book, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious or are used fictitiously and
any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead, events, companies, organizations or products is
purely coincidental.
This book contains adult scenes and is intended for readers 18+. The serial contains a scene that may
be triggering for rape survivors.
Cover by Aubrey Rose
Acknowledgments
Thank you to:
Aubrey for the cover
My awesome street team!
Liz, my editor.
And to all my readers :)
His voice was like slate-gray rocks grinding together, immense and powerful. A voice that
commanded.
And now and again, especially when he hit a hard
k,
the rocks clashed with an
explosion of sparks that sent molten silver jetting down my spine.
When that happened, I squeezed my thighs together.
I’d been listening to his phone calls for a month.
I suspected he had a second phone. We don’t listen to just anyone’s calls and if he
really
only
ever talked to his girlfriends, we wouldn’t be interested in him. But it was the only phone tap we had
on him, so I sat there each day, back ramrod straight in my typist’s chair, and listened and pretended
to everyone around me that it was just another boring transcription.
In reality, I listened to those long, rolling
r’s
and soft, vibrating
m’s
and my fingers skittered over
the keyboard on autopilot. I was barely aware of what Elena or Svetlana or Natalia said—his
girlfriends all blended into one mess of pouting, hurt Russian-ness as he seduced them, slept with
them and rapidly spurned them.
I was only concerned with him. Luka.
I didn’t get to know anything about Luka Malakov. I didn’t even know what he’d done wrong to
come to our attention, but clearly he was a criminal of some kind and a serious, big-time one. I told
myself that meant he must be old. He was probably a white-haired, fat guy in his sixties, his nose red
from too much vodka. I tried to burn that image into my mind to stop my fantasies.
It didn’t work.
In my fantasies, that gorgeous voice had a body and a face to go with it, all close-cropped, dark
hair and Slavic cheekbones. He had gleaming white teeth that could bite softly at neck or nipple. A
wide, powerful back and big arms so that he could pick me up and—
Ahem.
I hit the foot pedal to pause the recording and took off my headphones. It was Monday and I’d
been at it for an hour straight, catching up on all his calls over the weekend. If I didn’t get some
coffee, I was going to lose myself completely in dreams of bad guys who looked like movie stars.
The stupid thing is, I’m not even into bad guys. Every boyfriend I’ve ever had has been...normal.
Respectful. When Harry took my virginity, under a tree on a warm summer evening, he asked if I was
sure so many times that I eventually kissed him to shut him up. When I broke up with Greg to come to
Virginia, it was polite and mature and utterly amicable—I think we even shook hands. I couldn’t

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