Undercover 3 - Betrayed - 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 :)
It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen: the human body as a moving work of art. The music
swelled and ebbed as the ballerinas jumped and floated, weightless as ghosts.
And I couldn’t concentrate on any of it because of what Luka was doing under my skirt.
“Someone will see!” I told him in a harsh whisper.
He smirked, as if that amused him. His fingers pressed a little more insistently and I groaned
under my breath. And parted my thighs.
We were in a private box. A box the Malakov family actually owned, that sat empty between
performances no matter how full the theater was. Apparently, Luka’s dad, Vasiliy, used to take his
mother here when she was alive. Now, it was used by Luka and his current girlfriend.
And now that was me. Not another willowy Russian model with laser-straight blonde hair, but a
pale, awkward girl with hair you might charitably call chestnut and a body that was too heavy on the
hips to be slender, but not curvy enough to catch a man’s eye.
Not most men’s, at least. Luka, for some reason, had claimed me for his own. And he was
currently demonstrating his ownership by means of his hand between my thighs. The tips of his fingers
were strumming up and down along the opening of my lips. I could feel myself moistening beneath my
panties.
We’d been back in Moscow just one day. I was a gangster’s girlfriend. A
moll.
If it was even
appropriate to call Luka a gangster.
Kingpin
suited him better, given that he was about to take control
of most of the gun trade into the US.
I knew I needed to contact Adam—urgently. But when we landed in Moscow, we’d gone straight
back to his penthouse apartment for more sex and then fallen asleep, tangled in the sheets. Today,
we’d lounged around the place, never apart for more than a few minutes. I didn’t dare try to call
Adam from the bathroom. If Luka overheard….
Then, this evening, he’d told me to dress up for the ballet. I was in one of the dresses I’d been
given at the boutique, a long black number with a loose skirt and tiny beads of jet glistening blackly
across the bodice. It was sexy but sophisticated and Luka had made approving noises when he saw it,
and when he’d slid his hand into the high slit that run up one side of the skirt. But then he’d shaken his
head. “It needs something else,” he told me.
And then he gave me the necklace.
It was made up of hundreds of squares of shining silver, joined at the edges to make a shimmering
snakeskin pattern that flowed like liquid as it followed the shape of my neck. It was just a few
squares wide at the sides and back, but flared out to eight wide at the front. He fastened the chain

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